#desiresuffering

the arms are drawn around him in an instant. armand grips lestat's head in his arms, sinking his cheek against the crown of his golden head and exhaling loudly. fingers trip themselves in hair without meaning to, the gentle squeeze only bringing him closer, inhaling the sweet smell of lestat's hair as his nose tangles in there. ❝ the thoughts i have make me feel dirty. even the innocent ones. ❞

@desiresuffering

ㅤㅤHe doesn’t outright say the Maker’s name, but an untold weight had been present within the mere utterance of the syllable when posing the question, a resonance that automatically attached a reverence from a bygone era: Him. Given Lestat’s proclivities, some could potentially argue that this was a moment of  insecurity  jealousy, the desire to assert a clear division where attention and adoration would remain squarely upon him—  But that wasn’t the case here, an inquisitiveness embroiled from a peculiar bond that had once been of utmost import between the two blonds, one that was rooted in a respect from an age where the younger had desperately sought answers regarding their kind, a time where the need for guidance had been inexorably heightened by the anguish of abandonment and loss  (  un baume pour les plaies encore fraîches  ).  The more unseemly layers are peeled back of matters of an improper nature, and the more they’re juxtaposed with a deepening fondness for the other’s fledgling, the greater the formation of a chasm, feeling far removed yet strangely beholden to such unique fetters of admiration  (  il ne peut imaginer ce que ressent Armand  ).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤThe question had tumbled from Lestat’s lips in a sudden moment of impulse  (  comme pour la plupart des pensées  ),  a transition from their ongoing conversation that seemed somewhat plucked from obscurity, the words carelessly stitched together before the malformed thought or its implications were fully coherent. An inwardly aimed admonishing wince had taken root about countenance, a consequent intake of breath with a regretful inability of retraction, painful tension descending about the space to firmly settle upon shoulders  (  presque étouffant  ) - morose line of vision remained poised upon the other’s reflection as if offering a wordless apology to the simulacra, one that was barebones at best for what had been unintentionally inflicted, time burdensome and unrelentingly constricted as if a tautly strung guitar. The blond takes in the waver upon the serene mien which could be so resolutely unshakable, scant hints of faltering fissures speaking volumes in that instant, frame sinking with the motion of hands against aureate tresses slowing, a once carefully maintained rhythm akin to the finest of orchestrations now disjointed - noting the gestures lacking in their ardency, a large palm ascends for fingertips to lightly trace at a slender wrist, the coaxing touch of the thumb curving against an outer knuckle, gingerly beckoning for Armand to stop  (  pourquoi faire semblant de continuer?  ).

ㅤㅤA buffeting crest of embittered emotion cascades, the other’s palpable discomfort tugging at the recesses of the blond’s heart, brow disquietly pinching with the thought of the elder pervading the minds of others to such an extent, a reactionary  (  et protecteur  )  spark of confrontation firmly present about Lestat’s hardened gaze.  “ Let him try. I would not allow it. ”  There’s an overt assurance within the seething remark, and despite an inability to know to the fullest extent of whether the younger would have the mettle to rebuke such an exploit, it’s borne from despair, the companion’s current state nigh intolerable to witness, the need to impart any hints of succor superseding grounding realism. They draw closer and head cants for a temple to meet with a curled mass of raven locks, the tilt of Lestat’s chin pressing a heartfelt kiss to an indistinct location amidst it all  (  une joue, un menton, une mâchoire? peu importe  ),  a reticent acknowledgement of how difficult this moment had been with no thanks to him. A hand clutches at one of the arms enveloping him, digits gliding back to settle against a shoulder, a firm hold tugging Armand closer, a gesture that doesn’t say  “ j’comprends ”  but rather  “ libère-toi de tes fardeaux comme tu le souhaites. ”

' that's cute. ' jacob scoffed softly as he looked at @desiresuffering. those tiny little fangs -- he'd seen bigger on vampires. he looked like a little kitten. it made the wolf laugh lightly , not even trying to contain it. but perhaps it wasn't wise ; not towards this one. he smelled ancient -- old. hm... ' thought you'd have longer ones. '

the modern world still seemed new despite how long he's lived. meeting new people was fairly easy, mortals were always drawn to his growing and popular establishment. music never failed; played non-stop -- wherever there was music stack was there either serving drinks, welcoming new mortals & non. poor things, they usually became meals by sunrise.

@evilanew & @desiresuffering & @molloyed ♡

@desiresuffering [ ℒ ]

ㅤㅤThe words swarm and penetrate his mind with such clarity that Lestat falters for a moment, having to visibly shake away the distinct possibility that Armand could be standing right beside him, a stillness descending upon the frame as iridescent gaze slowly drifts about the compact constraints of the room  (  une coquille vide et une piètre excuse de chambre  ).  Clothes and belongings idly strewn about the space, the blond bemoans while dredging through the arduous process of whittling down what exactly he considered to be ‘ essentials ’ - if he takes the time to be completely truthful to himself, beyond wit and guile, none of it is necessary for their departure… but that doesn’t hinder the burden of sentimentality, the younger inevitably taking a few unnecessary keepsakes from his time in Paris, mere memories of long nights never quite enough, the tangible always preferable, a palm adoringly running over the smooth edges of a music box before it’s carefully placed into a sack. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤHovering a moment longer than expected by a bedside table, the cessation in sufficient progress elicits a sharp look from Gabrielle, a mother and fledgling’s instinct aware that something was amiss, light footsteps drawing closer for her own line of vision to follow the Maker’s glance towards dull layers of wood whose lacquer was now chipped from repeated use over the years. A discarded spool of ribbon in a muted shade of red lies atop the surface, one which had once bound raven tresses, a nearby mirror on an adjacent wall holding the ghostly semblance of Lestat placing it in Armand’s hair, the pair in joyously heated conversation while cycling through a few colours to match with garments, laughter peppered in the midst—  Her fingers deftly drag the ribbon and tuck it into the underlying drawer, hand firmly pushing it closed, the touch raising to silently brush against Lestat’s elbow in a bid to make him understand  (  questo è per il suo bene  ).  The Maker gives a resolute nod and pivots to grab a few last items in haste, a new sense of urgency encroaching as they leave the building. 

<<< Perhaps I should >>>  The telepathic response isn’t an admittance, but it doesn’t quell a decided sting to Lestat’s eyes, violet gaze skirting upwards to take in elements of fine architecture one last time, attempting to commit it to memory after years of taking it all for granted, halcyon years drawing to a close. He makes it a point to stubbornly steer the conversation away from them, voicing a disquiet thought which had been troubling him for several nights.

“don't. don’t you try and pin this on me.”

like a grave neatly dug, damp earth breathing up petrichor, and louis can’t tell which of them is the empty husk. him, with the deadened stare he’s learned, or armand, hollowed out. they orbit each other, again and again. there’s a fragile balance to it, grueling and precise, an unspoken accord: only one of us is allowed to give in to the demon on any given night.

josefstadt hums outside their apartment, oblivious. cafes glowing warm, galleries quiet and quaint. a burrow that doesn’t know the parasites it hosts by name. eight years since louis’s last victim, his last kill. abstinence doesn’t absolve him, doesn’t loosen the chains of being an accessory to armand’s own appetite, which has been voracious this month. vienna lies open to him, a banquet of soft bodies. louis hasn’t asked where it comes from, this sudden need. he isn’t sure he wants the answer. overserved, night after night. even the department of forensic medicine is starting to take fucking notice.

october rain slashes at the windows of their home, turns the streetlights into strange orange mutations, smeared and molten against the glass. oil slicks. candle wax. a painting that refuses to hold its shape. reality does the same thing in louis’s hands, slipping between his fingers like newtonian fluid. on nights like this, he isn’t sure he’d recognize the moment to reach for armand and stop the violence before it metastasizes.

there’s an ocean between them. satan glints in the boy’s eyes. louis loves him, louis hates him, louis wants him, louis fears him. armand comes back to him and something shifts, small as a splinter under the nail, a quiet, persistent ache that demands pressure, attention. louis knows the math of it by now. when louis acts reckless, careless, bodies drop. when armand does, the damage feeds itself fat to the growing, deafening sound of biblical hymnals.

even now, even with his blood boiling, even when the urge to snap armand’s neck sings in his own bones, louis wants closeness. touch. connection. over sixty years of nights have braided their cord into something thick and unyielding. and even in louis’s vitriol, the distance is crossed, the hands alight, one on armand’s chest, fingers splayed wide, one on the nape of his neck, punishing, possessive still, pulling him close, louis’s voice low and soft and too kind as he spits his resentment, his disappointment, probing for whatever armand keeps barricaded, where have you been, who did you see, what's his name–

@desiresuffering [ ℒ ]

Vacation Vlogging Era

Armand plans the itinerary of their trips with such meticulous detail, and despite the best of intentions, they barely stick to it due to Lestat’s swerving attention. This often occurs right in the middle of them heading somewhere specific (pls imagine Lestat being next to him one sec, then just Gone with an empty space the next). He'll always say he just had “a feeling” to venture in the opposite direction.

On the plus side, this leads to them finding unique and interesting places that are off the beaten track. Places that they've returned to years / decades later to see how they've changed with time.

Lestat likes using the zoom function on the camera a lot, and most of the footage of Armand has some extreme closeups of his face. He likes capturing Armand's genuine reaction to things in the moment, in contrast with the poised veneer that he can sometimes maintain - he feels that that's the best part of documenting these trips.

@desiresuffering [ ℒ ]

ㅤㅤ“ And would you much rather darkness? ”  The instinctive bite of the response is instant, but it’s tempered with a goadingly playful glint in violet eyes, diminishing moonlight casting a haloed glow over aureate tresses, a light which emanates from the gaze reflected back, the scantest hint of the gift of dawn threatening to streak through the night sky. Loathe as he is to admit it, but Lestat has missed this, the company he hadn’t sought in so long eliciting an undeniable comfort, the relaxing resonance of the surf providing a blissful backdrop - gently lapping against the shoreline in its repetitive undulation, a large coat covered in dust and particles of crystalline droplets and salt had been discarded on the sand, the vampire’s bare feet buried within the soft granules simply for the pleasure of feeling them between his toes  (  orteils gigotent de joie  ).  He hadn’t seen the sea in some time… well, not up close like this, Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River adequate enough to sate the fleeting desire to ground oneself with the calming spectacle of water, but never quite hitting the spot for a variety of reasons.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤIt was so comfortably balmy in Miami despite the late hour, and while Lestat leans back to pivot upon a poised elbow to scan the sprawling beach, he imagines how such an idyllic setting could be teeming with visitors during the day, its allure apparent despite the outcome negating the initial appeal  (  n’est-ce pas toujours ainsi?  ).  Fingertips roughly dragging through straggling hair which was in need of a good comb, a brief pause ensues to pluck a downy feather nestled within, curious line of vision narrowing while twirling it within his grasp - there had been some birds present mid-flight as he neared the destination of Night Island, but the younger could have sworn he had sufficiently avoided their trajectory, taking the journey slow on account of it having needed considerable effort with a few more breaks. While the blond’s years of seclusion had resulted in a certain degree of self neglect, he was too overly prideful to ever admit to it, not quite his usual self although always quick to bounce right back when sufficiently challenged.

ㅤㅤ“ Armand Molloy... ”  The name uttered with a degree of elevated pomp behind it, there’s a slight teasing wince while trying it on for size, a ripple of confused discontent encroaching upon Lestat’s visage, not entirely sure how he feels about the new combination  (  bien qu’il admette qu’il préfère la nom à Du Lac  ).  A flutter of fair lashes blinks the unwanted thought away, unnerved in its lingering impact  (  les prochaines nuits ne seront pas au sujet de lui  ).  “ Mm, I think it will take some time to grow on me. ”  The syllables are a little clunky by his estimation, but perhaps that was merely due to Lestat’s accent, the distinctive roll of the ‘ r ’ for the prénom creating its own glottal obstacle for the subsequent parts. But in truth, the younger was somewhat surprised to receive an invitation to the wedding, the fact that it seemed to be a smaller affair making the request all the more meaningful, an occasion he wouldn’t have missed despite everchanging and conflicting thoughts on mortal customs, and a wonderfully complicated history between them.