#desiresuffering

' 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. '

she tilts her head, considering him, and there’s something almost soft in the way she holds his gaze. armand has never made her feel like she needs to explain herself ⸺ not in the way that most people do, not in the way that makes her feel like she’s performing for their approval. not in the way most, undead or alive, could not say they have experienced themselves.

“i think people aren’t uncomfortable with silence,”　she responds, her voice carries that particular flatness that isn’t disinterest but thoughtfulness, most of her attention still caught in the back of her mind as she processes the thought rather than dedicated to the performance of how the thought is said out loud.　“i think they’re uncomfortable with people. silence just forces them to sit with that reality for a moment.”

she’s curled into the corner of a worn leather armchair, knees tucked beneath her in a way that suggests she’s been there for a while, settled into the space like she belongs there. it’s a rare thing, this ease. bella swan doesn’t take it for granted.　“or maybe that’s just me projecting,”　she adds quickly after, there’s a flicker of dry humor in the words.　“hard to tell sometimes.”

her gaze drifts to the window, to the way the street light begin to filter through the glass in as the sun begins to set in the horizon, soft and golden and temporary. she’s always been good at noticing the temporary things, perhaps that’s why she’s so drawn to the people who aren’t. she lets the silence breathe for a moment, lets it become comfortable rather than awkward, before she speaks again.

“silence can be nice too,”　her voice is quieter now, almost surprised by her own honesty.　“not having to fill the space. not feeling like you have to perform just to be tolerated. if you can sit in silence with someone, that is a good sign i think.”　she shifts slightly, crossing her legs trying to find a more comfortable position. a gesture that feels natural rather than guarded. she’s not used to feeling this at ease with anyone, immortal or otherwise, but it is difficult not to feel disarmed by empathy when looking at someone whose experiences mirror her own so very closely. with armand, bella feels she doesn’t have to be anyone other than what she is. broken edges and all.

“i think that’s why i like talking to you. or not talking, your silence is cool too.”

　　⋆ ˚ ࿔ ✧ ˖ ° .　　 @desiresuffering　　／ 　　prompt.

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 ♡

“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

doesn’t matter the century, the city, the goddamn species. elders stay the same everywhere louis goes. full of wisdoms the young can’t do a damn thing with because surviving that long seems to rot out the memory of what survival actually is. creatures that old build themselves churches out of endurance, call it virtue. sit there polishing their age, like longevity’s proof of either strength or sagacity. 

and nobody wears that performance better than marius de fucking romanus.

louis remembers every piece of the man he’s ever bought or had tracked down. private collections, second-rate auction houses, dusty estates where old money didn’t even know the pieces they bragged about was made by one still walking around somewhere in the dark places of the world. he never particularly liked the paintings. too composed. too self-conscious. too aware of their own beauty. but they’re history. armand’s history. but sitting here now, watching marius cradle armand’s face like something delicate he once broke with great care, louis feels a sudden urge to gather every canvas into one room and strike a match.

among all the elders he’s crossed paths with, marius works hardest at civilization. louis knows the breed intimately. catered to them all his human life. politicians. bankers. old money men, the kind who shake your hand while deciding what parts of you they’ll consume first. marius’s got that same polished ease about him. like he’s spent two thousand years perfecting the art of sounding reasonable while saying monstrous things.

that part doesn’t even bother louis much. hell, he knows hypocrisy better than most. made an art form out of lying to himself. no. what bothers him is armand. armand, who stands in front of marius perfectly statuesque, accepting every touch, every softly spoken endearment, with a stillness louis has never seen before. and louis knows the thousand rooms of stillness that exist inside him, intimately. still to be good for louis. still to anticipate punishment, pleasure, both. still to retreat into himself to ponder, and read, and tend to the greenery in their homes. still to be lost, to be desperate. to endure the familiar pain of his own absence. but this…

this stillness feels wrong. slips beneath louis’s skin like insects burrowing. a thousand tiny legs crawling up his throat, filling his eyes with static, blurring the room at the edges.

pale fingers comb through dark curls with proprietary tenderness. my love. my boy. my beautiful amadeo. all those sweet little ribbons tied around ownership. and armand simply… lets it happen. doesn’t move. barely even breathes. it’s when marius folds him into an embrace and armand’s own arms remain hanging limp at his sides that louis finally rises to his feet. gathering his coat over one arm like he’s merely leaving dinner early instead of marching toward an execution with the axe firmly gripped in his hands. he hasn’t forgiven armand. never will. forgiving armand would require forgiving himself, and louis has never possessed that kind of mercy. but this? this is fucking grotesque.

“it’s armand now.”

his voice arrives calm once he’s near enough, borderline conversational. marius draws back just enough to look at him, hands still firm on armand’s shoulders. a flicker of curiosity in the eyes. good. curiosity means disruption, means something untrue has been pierced, enough for him to slip right in. louis smiles then, cold and sharp as broken glass.

“might still be amadeo if you fought half as good as you talk shit.”

he doesn’t linger long enough to watch the strike land. wasn’t meant for him to see anyway. he slips his coat on with deliberate ease instead, already turning away before marius can gather himself enough to answer. don’t need to hear a word he has to say. one step. two. when he looks to the side, glancing over his shoulder, he can just about see them both in the edge of his vision.