#aranostra

there's an air of trepidation about him tonight. he's almost to the building and there's that quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him to turn around. go back. it's not loud enough, however, not half as loud as the curiosity. if he didn't go, he'd wonder about it for ages to come. if it turns dangerous for him, it's not as if he can't make a quick exit. would armand set him up like that? he doesn't think so. not now and for what purpose? that was just it, wasn't it? even if he would, even if it were dangerous for lestat to slip into a niche little cafe after dusk, he'd have gone anyway because he wanted to know.

the little bell rings obnoxiously and lestat's dressed inconspicuous. fame brought new eyes and while he relished in it, he didn't want it here and now. he doesn't want it tonight. is it a little arrogant to think he might receive it? perhaps. blue eyes search the cafe for some sign, hidden behind heavy sunglasses until they fall on him.

like a doppelganger, a ghost — a phantom at a table — what kind of trick is it? some deranged prank — but if it were, he wouldn't be able to feel him. it wouldn't be so dead on, like walking into a memory where nicki wore modern clothes. nicki. nicki. he can't turn back, slip away where he came to try to gather his racing thoughts. how was he supposed to react to someone long since dead? he's too shocked for relief to well up in his chest, too confused to feel anything but rising anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

he'd like to throttle the messenger who gave him no warning, but that would take hunting him down and is no more than a distraction from who he's staring at right now. he makes his way to the table, an attempt to hold himself together, sunglasses taken off as soon as he reaches him, expression clouded in confusion. he swallows against a dry throat, feeling a deep vibration within himself. is he scared? angry? hit with a grief long ago buried? he wants to say his name, but it's dying on his tongue. it's too much disbelief. when the words do come out, they're spoken fast and broken.

❝ how — what is this? you can't — they told me you were gone. ❞ dead, the word is dead, lestat.

@aranostra for a plotted starter

he can't help the touch of wariness — as if there's a distant, looming threat in front of them ( and if past experience tells him anything, it just might be a reality ). surely, louis has his own reservations, he thinks. to most, it might seem too late. louis had already committed to the interview, after all. the invitation had already been sent and armand imagines that daniel's arrival is only days away. he's spoken out already, from the moment the idea was first raised, and by now, he doesn't think it's necessary to continue voicing his concerns.

despite feeling on edge, he maintains a sense of calm, like standing still on a cliff above the raging sea. he's stood in the doorway for several seconds, observing his companion quietly. he's not sure if he'd classify louis's quiet as peaceful, though wonders if its as apprehensive as his. finally, he crosses to him, reaching out, hand over his shoulder, offering a gentle, affectionate squeeze before he positions himself on the arm of the sofa next to him.

❝ there's still time if you're having second thoughts. you don't have to go through with this if you aren't ready. ❞

@aranostra liked for a starter !!

It was 1972 and Mina was tired. Not a sleeping kind of tired that would resolve itself with a couple days off but that sort of exhaustion that seeps in your bones and saps your soul little by little until its' everything you have to just plod forward to the next day to do it all over again.

Maybe that's why Mina made the gamble to go to the Six Vultures alone.

The myth had been floating around for some time. An ancient vampire lived there that took in abandoned fledglings. Mina thought it was a myth because there weren't many deaths that could be linked to mass vampire killings. However, a pattern had emerged and she'd abandoned the group she'd been running with and gone on her own to the city to look into it. The Vampire Alexander had been wonderful at covering his tracks, but Mina had done this since 1898. She knew very well what to look for. And she knew how to track him.

And his path led her to the Six Vultures. So Mina had three options presented to her. She could just burn the whole damn thing down and kill everyone in it (that's only if the old vampire, if he was indeed ancient didn't wake up and come out in the daylight), she could kill the vampire making killings and bring a whole bunch of angry vampires at her doorstep (including an ancient one), or she could resolve this peacefully.

Mina from 1898 would've burned it down. Mian from 1941 would've killed Alexander and risked it. but Mina from 1972 either matured or was just exhausted at the idea of the other two options and so she just blatantly walked into a lion's den to see if they could resolve this.

"Hi," Mina told the bartender, not bothering to hide her English accent. People in America found in endearing, it made them trust her more, "I'm looking for the owner."

"OH!" and she's dropping a plate back into soapy water, jumping once she sees louis in the corner of her eye. soapy water splashes on her apron (it's adorned with little FROGS IN WIZARD HATS, thank you very much!), and she turns to face him fully. uses the back of her wrist to push up her glasses. but she doesn't seem truly STARTLED, or scared. just surprised. a wide grin - and she giggles. laughing at herself.

@aranostra asked: a kiss while slow dancing . (from louis)

In the sparse few nights of calm scattered throughout the eternal crawl of opulence, where glances shared were devoid of malice or contempt, a resurgence of the old romance stole breath from his lungs and filled his limbs with renewed vigor. The exhaustion of tip toeing through minefields melting away to give birth to the insatiable and immediate hunger for intimacy.

Louis sprawled along the chaise, fingers deep into the crevice of a book poised to turn another page in the silence, eyes lazy and dancing along word to word to word. It struck in him a chord that hummed in its plucking, resonating as if infinity had caught it's undulation and in its curiosity circulated it back upon itself until the sound could no longer be ignored.

Joy abounding, ricocheting its marching tune to the very tips of his limbs and back again, ever expounding delight upon delight until he could sit still no longer.

Lestat could no better control the impulse to jump to his feet than he could stop his mouth watering at the sound of that voice gushing as a waterfall might over a cliff's edge, drowning out the world around him, or the easeful grin in its infinite forms to curl those perfect lips and in doing so ignite the light in those eyes once more.

A moment to devour the stillness and his beauty beyond measure, and with all the languid indifference of a feline about the house he wanders to the victrola to pluck its needle from its rest and set it about the platter.

Brass croons it's buoyant melody, Louis' favorite, as he returns to offer a hand. Heart and loin alike throb in unison at the appraising grin peeling back pursed lips from their droll readings mouthed in silence for some absent audience and then...

Oh and then those hands in his.

The space between furniture reconstituted into their dance floor, the shelves and their many books their witnesses, the fire crackling through logs and coals pulsing their heat in the fireplace their spotlight.

Chest pressed to chest, breath finding it's path beneath shirt collar crashing like waves against cold skin made warm by the beating of hearts in sync. How one plus one becomes...one.

The overture fades to the next and lips wander across coarse fabric, up, over, pushing their way to buttery skin whose life had sated hunger once before and from which he sought to sate another. A kiss along veins, to ear, to jaw, where he lingered lavishing attentions to curves that sharpen in anger seeking to soften them now that he might be received blissfully.

And when he hears the pastel admission of an amiable sigh he retreats to watch the theatre of tenderness fall over gentle features, sufficiently subdued by the need in his own body.

Lestat strikes then, while the welcome is in the part of those lips and the fluttering of lashes and the way those hips press into him as if begging for a moment of bliss.

He is gentle in his consuming, chaste to begin his four course meal just a peck. For a ravenous man it is no small feat. Every limb wound ready for the feast promised him. Slathering, mad with desire, he holds back a moment longer if only for the sorrow of parting an inch of skin would bring him.

Tongue teases open a pliant mouth, tasting the evening's wine lingering on a sweetened tongue, gliding wet and devout to pry him open further. An ardent kiss embroiled in the fires of his ardor built upon by years of longing for a companion as worthy.

i still dream of him. // @aranostra ( louis ) //

armand had hardly expected things to be... easy in the time after all that had happened in that shitty little apartment in san francisco. with the weight of it all, with the intensity of harsh words exchanged, actions that had caused armand to be plunged into a state of terror even amid the detachment. no, he knew things would not be easy. but... they had said they would try, right?

armand, however, hadn't quite expected it to look as it had initially. distance. some much needed space. armand was so used to staying, to making things work by sheer force and will. but... louis had been right. if this was going to work, properly... space was needed. his heart, his love would always belong to louis. but perhaps in order to grow that and give it time to heal, distance was a good thing.

a really good thing, it appeared. because now here they were, armand's eyes dancing over familiar form... fully healed. no evidence of what had occurred time ago back in that apartment. and for perhaps the first time, honesty bloomed between them. armand had always assumed he'd offered louis truth, but he'd come to realise in their time apart that it was only a ghost of a thing. nothing of real substance and depth beneath, without a doubt down to the fact that for all that time, armand himself had such a failure to grasp ideas of who he truly was.

how could he offer someone truth, if he did not have a clear idea on that himself?

louis' words do not bring the kind of anger or ache they might have before. instead... an understanding. a calmness and thankfulness at being allowed in close... permit this truth. a piece moved into view and armand wonders if it might be the first steppingstone to building something stronger. he wants that with louis.

"i should never have made him some... blasphemous thing. something to never be spoken of. i--" a pause, a sigh and armand's head shakes. "he was too important a piece of your history, even ours. i am sorry for that. i think i might have gotten so wrapped up in trying to earn your forgiveness all these years, that i forgot how much space you needed, deserved to have. how might wounds heal if they are just ignored?"