#ofstage

[solilacquist]

for some unknowable reason the buffoon insists on breaking him from one world into the next; crudely dragging him from the pages before him into the theatre he tries to slip away from, when he’s forced requested to come around, watch rehearsals of plays he knows inside and out. marcel aymé, heartlessly abandoned, eyes that don’t blink and are far too bright fixed on the platinum blond upon the stage, while the golden blond wanders just behind, an illusion with hands folded neatly at his back, a smile curling, amused, dangerous. already waiting for louis to unravel, to lose the calm he feigns so well.

“oh, i seen the greats.” fucked the greatest, though none of the damned under this roof can ever know. it’s enough, too much, that their maître knows. the book closes slowly in louis's lap. the smile blooms slower, in spite of the cold in his eyes. for better or worse, dragged from opera house to playhouse by lestat, he does have his preferences, however grudgingly maintained.

“you? decidedly middle o’ the road.”

or : lucky for you there’s only one vampire-friendly theater in town. no mortal one with standards would take you on.

@ofstage

[stvampyr-a]

continued from here / @ofstage

one eyebrow lifts at santiago’s response. “a gradient?” he parrots, as though the word in itself has confused him, “are you wholly incapable of giving straight answers, man?” another thing tom likely shouldn’t be wondering out loud, but that happen to slip past his lips more often than not. somehow restraint fails him whenever the blond man starts talking. it turning into quite the character flaw. tom turns towards him as much as their walking allows, “here i was trying to have a real conversation with you.” 

he doesn’t want people to start paying attention to them. it’ll make their hunt so much more complicated if they cause a scene in the middle of the street. he bites back some of his anger and opts to merely roll his eyes at santiago, swallowing the bile in the back of his throat. “if that is some vague jab at me, i think it’s probably better for you that i don’t get it.” it would be a threat, but tom damn well knows he doesn’t have the upper hand. he’ll wipe away that grin and it’ll be replaced by something worse. 

“call it whatever you want. your insanity looks entirely different from mine, but is insanity nevertheless.”

[ohsunshine]

CATCHING: for receiver to catch sender staring at them. / from @ofstage to armand

the coven are a pack of wolves, chasing down their prey. tonight, a gaggle of lost tourists, bundled onto the back of their bikes and set loose on the outskirts of town, promised freedom if they could make it back to the château de versailles. when outlining the terms to them, armand had made it seem an achievable goal, even disoriented as they were. he didn't mention how many they would need to outrun, or the consequences of losing.

he tracks the eight humans easily, if only to make sure that none of them escape. the coven is a many-headed beast, but they're young, careless. armand is there to pick up the pieces if they fail.

when seven have already been dealt with, their exsanguinated corpses tipped into the seine, he finds the last cornered by santiago. he suspects the vampire has been drawing it out.

and yet, apparently aware of his presence, santiago doesn't end it. the man wriggles in his grip like a gutted fish. his heartbeat is a frantic beat in his chest, deafeningly loud. his blood will be soured by his panic; not armand's preference at all, but he is not here to feed, only to ensure proper disposal of the body.

"are you going to kill him, santiago, or merely waste his last moments staring?" impatience colours his tone. he longs for the quiet dark of his coffin. "have you forgotten how? perhaps your impotence extends to your fangs as well?"

[desiresuffering]

"I don’t play fair, remember?" / from @ofstage

only tradition and custom keep the order. what is strong with teeth might easily breath the bars of it's enclosure, might sink it's teeth into whatever is closest and softest, break bones. animals and men were of no stranger to the non-existent hierarchies that others sought to free themselves from, perhaps from social convention - trust that those who are strongest and wisest do only use the immensity of their power for good. and if not good, valid. neutral for the sake of survival. what he has done to santiago has not been neutral. the evil that's been inflicted upon him is not lost to armand, not now, not for a moment. kneeling for forgiveness does not change the fact that he took pleasure in the cruelty he inflicted upon him. and somewhere along the line, before santiago, before lestat, armand had once hated the man who took him from his maker, too; the emulation of his first night in the coven is not lost on him. it has been four hundred and fifty years since he last kneeled in this room. the femur of a boy he once loved still sits where it was left. armand dare not look. ❝ i would not begrudge you your demons. ❞

the hands on his knees curl into fists. his nails tucked into his palm, digging into the tender skin of his palm. the shoulder's come back, back straightens. armand lifts his head, but he does not meet santiago's eyes. tradition keeps him upright. tradition keeps santiago alive. armand wets his lips and stares forward. ❝ what i did to you was ugly. i expect no mercy. ❞

[1mperium]

i deny that accusation. / from @ofstage

it is a rainy night. cool and sticky. giulio dislikes the way humanity crowds the dark corners of the earth, faceless cattle drawing forward for the farmer's hand—he stays behind when the bloody spectacle is done, to enjoy the renewed quietness and the thick, syrupy stench of iron that tingles in the back of his throat. it was a mediocre show. nothing as rewarding as rows of wooden crosses hoisted along a cobbled road, meat sizzling where the iron nail enters, crows plucking at the soft edges. this is wasteful. his body responds all the same.

so much blood spilled. it sends his hunger soaring, dark as a roar. his nails dig into the fold of his palm.

‘yet you sound guilty.’

giulio drags, a flame springing from a quick snap of his fingers that licks the unlit end of his cigarette. smoke blooms. he inhales sharply, before blowing it in santiago's face. his judgment blurs for a moment—guilty does not mean repentant, and santiago wears that guilt well, with a mischievous flair. it is a mask. all actors wear one, and giulio does not hide his contemptuous smile as it flashes fleetingly across his face. the night will soon be over, and he will disappear in the glowing daybreak... no less a human, in santiago's eyes, than any other that have visited the theatre tonight. he does not mind him, or anyone, believing it. they all have their lures.

‘if you are not the one who invited me, i must presume it was a mistake.’   a pause. another drag. ‘was it?’ 

conclave.

[ohsunshine]

we're not fighting. this is playing. / from @ofstage to armand

amber eyes flick to louis, just briefly, then back to santiago. the pair are an unforseen complication, the way they clash so loudly and so often. louis complicates things alone, just like lestat had all those years ago, giving the coven ideas of a life outside of their self-contained little world. like maker, like fledgling, he thinks. isn't that always the way? the best and worst of the maker, shared in the blood to the fledgling. he wonders in what ways louis changed lestat —

— but he is getting distracted. another blonde demands his attention and armand rises to the occasion, like he always does. always must.

"you should be rehearsing," he says with as much patience as he can muster which, admittedly, isn't very much. "there is no time for playing when you are barely off-book and miss your mark seven times out of ten." he points his pen at santiago, looks him up and down. armand's expression reveals that he finds him lacking.

"perhaps i was wrong to give you this part if you are not to take it seriously?" he glances around at the ensemble gathered upstage of santiago. "perhaps you would like us to recast, just six nights away from opening? gustave can fill in for you if you'd rather spend your time fighting, apologies, playing with louis. is that what you want?"

[belladonicfangs]

for   @ofstage,       continued   from   here.

claudia’s   hands   still   on   the   velvet,       fingers   pausing   mid-brush.   in   the   mirror   her   face   does   not   change   ——   porcelain   calm.   ——   but   something   sharp   flickers   behind   her   eyes,       old   as   this   damned   theatre.   “   fleas   get   crushed,   ”   she   says   plainly,       reciting   a   line   she’s   rehearsed   too   many   times.   her   mouth   curves,       not   quite   a   smile,       nor   a   grimace.   “   people   don’t   bother   listening   for   the   bite.   they   just   scratch   until   they   bleed.   ”   once   finished   with   his   cape,       she   casts   her   pink   gaze   to   his   icy   one   through   the   glass,       giving   a   small   nod   of   approval.   she   smooths   the   skirt   of   the   dress   with   deliberate   care.   the   gesture   is   childish.   the   precision   is   not.   “   small   things   aren’t   supposed   to   have   wills.   or   memories.   or   opinions.   it’s   easier   to   forgive   cruelty   when   you   pretend   it’s   pest   control.   ”   she   steps   back,   finally   turning   to   face   him   fully.   chin   lifted.   expression   that   of   a   woman   vampire,       not   baby   lu.   “   but   you’re   right   about   one   thing,       fleas   bite. ”   a   beat.   then,   pleasantly   amused   at   the   thought,   “   and   they   don’t   need   permission   to   choose   where.   ”   the   words   linger   between   them,       settling   into   the   velvet   and   dust.   claudia   reaches   for   the   fastening   at   his   collar,       adjusting   it   with   unnecessary   care   —   a   final,   intimate   correction.   her   fingers   are   practiced.   she   does   not   look   at   him   while   she   does   it.   “   tell   me   about   that   cat   on   your   mirror.   ”

[ohsunshine]

🎲 from @ofstage to armand :) / 40: An impulsive kiss

"you talk too much." armand grasps the front of santiago's shirt and draws him in, while he himself remains in place. he unfreezes when their lips touch, santiago's burning hot against his own, which are cooler by several degrees.

armand melts against him, a well-practiced display, the proverbial baring of his throat even though they both know who holds the power here.

he pulls back just enough to speak, though their lips still touch, brushing together with each word. "focus. learn your lines, play your part." if armand can do it, surely it isn't too much to expect from santiago. it's a weary thought, one that he keeps very carefully guarded, and he pushes it away quickly.

"do you think you can manage that?" he nips santiago's bottom lip with blunt teeth, no intention of drawing blood, just hard enough to demand his attention. "answer. say 'yes, maître'. mean it."