#desiresuffering

[evilanew]

do you still think of Him? a handful of gold curls, a brush that stutters and then stop's in it's motion of detangling, devoting - does he dare to think of him now? amongst the tombstones inside armand's mind are the names of the dead, unmarked graves with rotting, wooden crosses, mounds that have yet to grow anything of note. he is there amongst them. a mound of dirt for every name that's been taken from him; a child's coffin at one end and an empty grave on the other. only a few moments have passed, but there are hours inside of his body that stretch like skin, taut and contained. armand attempts to bring the brush back to lestat's hair but it's half hearted, stuck between running it through the gold tresses and holding the bristles against his other palm while his gaze on the mirrored brat goes fuzzy, washing out like watercolor. armand retreats quietly. tiptoes away from the emotion that lestat's question brings him, but he does not evade the question itself. slight hesitation in those lips before speaking, the bottom lip glossed over with the tip of his tongue. ❝ i try not to. ❞ tries. an imprint on the heart that aches like an old burn and armand feels fifteen again, coming undone with little more than a word. ❝ he used to tell me he could read every mind on earth. ❞ he manages to run the brush through now, but armand is still trying to figure out how to move his mouth, form some semblance of an explanation that won't expose to lestat how quickly he dissolves at the thought of Him. armand gives a soft laugh, a slightly pathetic look away. ❝ sometimes i think he can still hear me. so i try very hard not to think of him. ❞ far be it from the age of his humanity, of the age where his mind could still be read by the likes of who, and what, had made him; but the specter of the intrusion still lingers. it crawls down his back, offering faux goose flesh in it's wake.

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. ”

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ Expunge yourself of such thoughts. That is not your fault. You… ”  It’s his turn to falter, a tremble to the blond’s lips pressing into a crooked line, a scant sway of temples a semblance of a shake of the head, continuing with a laboured heave of the chest, the undulation of hushed voice drawn small.  “ …you did nothing wrong. ”  It’s a thought that had been revisited over the centuries with numerous encounters and regalings, how their kind seemed to be enmeshed in such turmoil, the bond between Makers and fledglings often surrounded by such tumult—  A thought that consistently reflects outwards, Lestat’s reluctance to look inwards alleviating an undesirable burden in his commitment to endure. He takes a deep steadying breath, jaw setting in a fit of acrimony, anger having always been easier than despondency.  “ J’espère qu’il pourrira en enfer. ”

[sikvultures]

closed starter @desiresuffering

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.

he knew over the years there's plenty of his kind around, all with different stories to tell. often he caught himself being a good listener, most times he simply cared not to listen. ah, there it was that familiar scent again. it hung in the air, making one his employee's hiss. "already causing trouble -- my employee's aren't your biggest fans."

[solilacquist]

@evilanew & @desiresuffering & @molloyed ♡

ding dong, the bitch is dead.

probably blasphemous. the sort of flippant heresy that would have marius and the rest of the marbled elders descending in a spectrum of fury. louis couldn't give less of a damn if he tried. has turned his back on gods and saints so often. it becomes a little easier each time. a muscle memory of refusal. if anyone understands the tyranny of a good story, the seduction of an origin myth, it’s him. and no, he didn’t care about her, their so-called mother. if his relationship with god is strained to the point of rupture, then the notion of a mother is a wound that never scabs. he rejects it. spits it out. lets it rot with the rest of the sacred fictions.

this… this is the only altar he always returns to. the only worship that has always answered him back.

outside, night island sings. an eternal symphony of neon and salt and human want, all of it strangely reminiscent of the big easy in its decadent fever. splendor and color and vice, distractions laid out like sugared fruit. mortals feast on sensation. immortals feast on them. the cycle hums, unbroken. inside the grand bedroom, the balcony door stands ajar. thin curtains breathe in and out with the briny wind. less a feast than a reclamation, what takes place in this chamber. a reminder carved in flesh: 

they endure. she does not. armageddon brushed its teeth against their throats, came too close, far too fucking close, but the four of them remain.

from his chair in the corner of the room, louis has a fine view. the enormous bed, the obscenely expensive silk sheets, poured across the mattress like liquid moonlight. but the vulgar wealth displayed all over this place pales before the true spectacle: alabaster and bronze forms tangled together, a living painting rendered in sweat and hunger. lestat’s restlessness almost crackles in the air like a living thing, sharp and erratic, while armand moves like a river finding its slow course. every impatient breath from lestat is caught, redirected, softened by a kiss, a touch, a guiding hand. 

louis has seen glimpses of it every evening since they came to this sanctuary. the way lestat both processes and refuses to process what has happened. a haunting sitting inside him like a swallowed blade, waiting to cut. the devil comes to collect. always. for now, their very own devil leaves a deliberate trail of bite marks across a pale chest, mouth pressed to skin with sinful reverence, and lestat’s head falls back despite himself, undone.

a soft whine unthreads louis from his reverie, makes him return to his own devotion with a slow smile and a sweet hushing sound. his hand resumes its rhythm, slick with semen against daniel’s thoroughly abused cock. in louis’s lap, impaled on him, their boy has the best seat in the house. gets to watch twin makers while his hole stays filled, while louis’s nail presses, slow and deliberate, inside his slit. daniel’s last two orgasms have yielded nothing but dry convulsions, tear tracks glistening down his cheeks and along his throat. and yet, louis continues, and daniel will let him, because daniel’s a good boy, and that’s what good boys do. 

every now and then louis lets his mind drift, lazy and intimate, tangles it with armand’s, the thread between them faint but unbreakable, growing stronger again with each passing night. his hands become armand’s hands. his eyes, armand’s eyes. his mouth… shared intention, shared instruction. kiss him here, touch him there, slower, yes, now, good. together they unravel their lovers with cruel tenderness, orchestrating the undoing like seasoned conductors of ruin. the night thins and stretches. waves crash somewhere beyond the glass. mortal laughter rises faint and bright. inside, softer sounds unfold, crescendo. gasps, low cries, the slick rhythm of bodies insisting on survival. sex as defiance, as endurance, as love.

later, when louis finally empties himself inside daniel, hips stuttering to a finish that feels almost violent in its relief, when armand has coaxed lestat into equally wild abandon before being fucked to the brink of his unlife, louis will move from his chair. will gently carry daniel to the bed. will lay him down between lestat and armand before following, two fledglings framed by their makers.

he’ll feel lestat press close behind him, chest familiar and solid against his back. feel an arm wrap around him, possessive and instinctive, a hand splayed over his still-racing heart, as though it can anchor the rhythm by force. and louis? louis will reach across daniel, offer his own hand to armand. his eyes will burn too bright as he watches armand lick each drop of daniel’s come from his fingers, as he watches them disappear into that beloved mouth. after, he'll keep his arm extended, palm resting against armand’s side, even as armand reaches back in mirrored instinct, shielding daniel in a two-way embrace.

then, and only then will louis allow his eyes to close. only then will he loosen his grip on the moment. because they’ve won. against death, against extinction, against their goddess.

and she? she can rot in fucking hell.

[evilanew]

❝ You hate that you want me. ❞

@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.

<<< He is more fragile than he allows to be seen. Promise you will do what is best for him >>>

[solilacquist]

i fall into your eyes like a grave.

“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–

“more than anything in the world. hm? your words, not mine. empty. empty words, empty promises, empty fucking soul. you do this to yourself, armand, arun, whoever the fuck you are tonight.”

[evilanew]

👬

@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.

There are an inordinate number of videos of Lestat approaching animals. The outcome of the encounters vary drastically with Armand half expecting things to take a turn, especially when it comes to those with a more dangerous reputation. Lestat doesn't bother them as such, he just likes to sit with them and observe. Japanese macaques have been a fave.

[evilanew]

❝ You always seem to bring me light. ❞

@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.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤSome luggage had been transported and should be awaiting him in one of the grand hotels, a present nestled within along with a suit in need of some adjustments, a certainty that he could chance upon the services of one of the various tailors in situ in this veritable playground of lights and entertainment. And yet, one matter was more pressing hence the delay in leaving the beach, a tentative pause before line of vision drifts across to seek Armand’s gaze, frame pivoting for attention to divert entirely to the other.  “ Es-tu heureux? ”  The question implies ‘ with him ’ but its relevance can be garnered from wherever the other’s heart grasps, the greater intricacies of the couple’s relationship eluding Lestat given his absence, primarily under the impression that the last seven decades were contentedly spent with he-who-shall-not-be-named.

[solilacquist]

@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. 

“you comin’?”