#featuring: armand (devourcr)

[bloodsalted]

[ 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 ] : as sender is about to leave, receiver grabs them by the wrist.

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : a little assortment of angsty and hurt/comfort action prompts for rp purposes.

bourbon street. didn't do a good job surviving that god forsaken avenue of debauchery, stale beer, trash and horse shit. did he? shoulder against the stone wall of pirate's alley--he makes his way down the corridor towards an upstairs room he managed to grab last second when he got into the city. an old, creaky french door's nudged open with a blind hand that misses twice. staggering up the narrow, wooden staircase til he gets to the entrance--the hunter shoves the key in the lock and with a few tries--realizes he forgot to lock it in the first place. fucking idiot. too in a hurry for some good freaking food and cheap liquor. maybe even a drunk tourist, like himself, to bring him for the night.

got two out of three. and as our lord and savior meat loaf says? ain't bad.

keys tossed on the kitchenette counter--fingers are shoved through hair that's grown a little longer through the years. then scratch a shadowed jawline. from inside the pocket of his too-big leather coat, he pulls out a bottle of whiskey and with a click, click, click--the metal cap's undone and tossed on the floor. he doesn't plan on it lasting long enough to save for later.

collapsing down on the bed, he takes a swig and then freezes when there's a hand on his shoulder. the bottle hits the floor, spills everywhere filling the room with a scent of expensive whiskey that smells way out of his budget. "son of a BITCH!!!" dean jerks around--comes face to face with a pair of amber eyes. breath punched out of his gut, his lips stay parted. it's been years since he came upon armand. was let go. during a hunt for a nest he planned on taking down. plans foiled--he left new orleans with his life. and ganked a no name bloodsucker on the way out. yet he recognizes him INSTANTLY and the sight seems to slap him slightly sober.

the vampire goes to pull back once their gazes lock. dean's grip on his wrist is solid. instant. strong. "how long've you been following me," comes the question with only a light slurring, "god damn smirky bastard..."

[safetypinned]

@devourcr 🤔

not kissing a vampire after they drink your blood is like not kissing someone after they give you head. Where’s your class. intimacy

[vienamoi]

@devourcr : o1﹕ sender  tucks  hair  out  of  receiver’s  face .

there is a gentleness to the action that draws a curious pause from the vampire. disarming ; distracting. reminds him that they are anything but gentle creatures. vampires are obsidian , not porcelain. armand could crumble him ( * in theory ) , yet he shows the faint touch of fingers against cheeks as he tucks a blonde curl back behind lestat's ear instead. it is loose &* damp with bloodied sweat , so it tucks easily there. a slight cant upward of his lips ; grey irises dance along armand's features there in the bright stage lighting. ❛   like old times, hm ? ❜ he conjures up memories of their time in the theater. none of the bad -- simply the romance &* seduction of the theater as a safe haven. the affair , before it became a sour mark in the history of lestat's streak of loss at this ones hands.

❛   rehearsal is not finished. ❜ everyone has gone home. only the immortal keeps practicing , his body still adjusting to the grand fluidity &* flamboyance the stage requires. he has spent too long in that hovel of a home. his body feels statuesque , even in the months since then. alone in the theater -- alone with his thoughts &* fears. perhaps that is why he does not mind armand's presence. why he tolerates the proximity. loneliness is a bitter thing. ❛   best not to fuss over appearances. ❜

[bloodsalted]

@devourcr || meme catch up || hey. you with the face? mwah!

[ SURPRISE ] — sender surprises receiver with weed when they're stressed

an invitation to an island where a bunch of vampires are roaming about? call dean death wish incarnate. or maybe a wee bit on the idiotic side for accepting it. but he's here and he's known among this circle for what he does. the winchester name has made it into their circle. kind of puts him in one sticky situation he walked into. willingly. on the other hand, though? they all gotta sleep during the day and he doesn't. it'd be like shooting fish in a barrel. by his own hand. ...or?

if he came up missing? sam and anyone else his brother'd bring along to correct the issue. goes without saying that dean is here and not going trigger happy. which means.. growth right? he's GROWING. as a person. see? sammy? he's not jumping on the fact that he could rid the world of a whole lotta blood suckers. they're not jumping on the fact they could rid the world of one more hunter looking to put them even higher on the endangered species list.

doesn't go without it's own level of stress though. he's put up in a hotel that's way too nice for someone like him. yeah, his car fits in the high end garage but his appearance? that's got him several looks when he's gone down for a shot or two at the bar before ordering way too much room service and returning to his room. which he did a handful of minutes earlier. his fingers tap against the little baggie sitting on the desk in front of a large television mounted on the wall. rolled up inside? pre-made joints. a lighter is a nice addition. neatly sat beside it. a little welcome note beside in armand's writing. a puff of laughter sparks up the life in dean's eyes.

a sparkling that last as they dart towards the open window at the motion outside. armand steps through long, partially see-through curtains. like a damn vampiric grand entrance. makes dean smirk. "you did this? course you did.. uh.. thanks. for this and," his hand rises and gestures towards the room around them, "and this. coulda put me up in way less. woulda been fine with that, too. so.. you gonna tell me why you asked me here?"

[hostiae]

#HOSTIAE — an independent & selective multimuse — featuring muses from a variety of genres, including horror, gaming, and fantasy. heavy trigger warning for violence, gore, and horror movie tropes. CARRD / RULES / MUSES .

i'm cyn, 36, she/her, currently located in the pnw. strictly 18+ and 21+ for shipping.

MOST ACTIVE FANDOMS — anne rice's vampire chronicles, baldur's gate 3, and dead by daylight

a study in the power of the human spirit, paying the price, and learning to aim for the head.

other places you can find me:

devourcr ( high activity ) | armand from tvc

prgenitor ( low activity ) | jake muller from resident evil

[bloodsalted]

enigmas to one another--dean watches with a curious spark in his eye dulled only by the emotionally dampening liquor that continuously spilled down his throat as he staggered from bar to bar. even doorway to open doorway (got to love the no-commitment of bellying up to a place that shoves drinks through a barndoor opened into the street. anonymity and plausible denial have been keeping drunks like dean in a bourbon street daze and bar owners pockets lined since before even henry winchester was a spark in his daddy's eye.

dean's come to perfect the means of sweet talking free drinks out of the easily convinced and underpaid hands of barely legal bartenders for ages. new orleans? like shooting ducks in a barrel. a barrel of whiskey or hurricanes or hand grenades. hey. easy to get a kill count tho. especially one at the bottom of a plastic glass. or obnoxious neon green tourist trap to-go cups.

huffing at the idea that he was only a couple sheets more to the wind than the girl might've liked--broad shoulders hitch in a shrug that has him smirking from ear to ear when it ends. "doesn't know what she's missin'. i'm a lot more fun when i'm drunk." look at those observational skills and the snarky little smirk that backs him up! whether or not he's correct? well. that has yet to be seen.

don't you think, for one blink, that he missed a rather important detail, though..

"..so you been watching me all night? m'gonna get a restraining order. stalker." there's an amusement in his voice that would never be given to any other vampire slash monster slash whatever telling him they were haunting him since sundown. yet armand? who made a rush of color splash over freckled cheeks with the compliment and only grew it to a darker, more prevalent hue when his touch dusts over stubble? he made himself an exception that often chases after dean's thoughts each time he lays waste to another one of armand's kindred. his grip loosens only enough that he can curl his thumb against a wrist bone that is deceivingly not as delicate as it looks.

"..why so interested? m'sure you have better things to do with your time," a huff that makes him sway and yet he rights himself right after, "..or maybe not. i am pretty freaking cool. way better than the musty, dusty usuals that you're stuck with. better lookin' too." oh he's drunk. so drunk.

finding dean in new orleans had been a welcome surprise. years had passed since he last encountered him, although the vampire had always thought they'd cross paths again. the right time hadn't presented itself, not until tonight when he'd thought to stalk him through the city, to lurk in the shadows, as the hunter took advantage of bourbon street's offerings.

he finds the audacity of calling themselves hunters endearing. they were, he supposes, until someone like armand found them. most, he doesn't bother with ( and most of who he had didn't live to talk about it ). dean is his exception. he could have sat in a room, silent, and observed him for hours — days. he'd never known a mortal man to cheat death as often as he had, to continue to fight as if fate ever thought to give him a break. when he'd first met him, he'd wanted to take him apart and inspect all of the little pieces of him.

he wants to piece him back together, watch how he crumbles, only to pick himself up again and again. he's beautiful in a million shards, more so with a grit to his teeth, blood and sweat on his brow.

eventually, he tires of watching him fill himself with alcohol and disappears into the night to find his hotel. he checks the doorknob, clicking his tongue against his teeth when he finds it unlocked. he can't determine if its reckless or thoughtless, but waits for the hunter inside. when his prize finally arrives, the exchange forces a smile to his face, the hand on his shoulder, the way dean seizes his wrist when he tries to pull away.

❝ long enough. i've watched your descent since the sun went down, before that sweet girl rejected you — gently, but i might add she would have come back with you, you were just one, maybe two drinks too late. ❞ it's said warmly, as if scooping the thoughts out of a random woman's head was of some benefit to dean. as if that aspect were far more interesting or notable than the fact that armand had been there lurking and watching, a fascinated spectator.

❝ you've aged. i like this look, ❞ dean's hand is still around his wrist as he reaches out, fingertips brushing against the bristles of facial hair over his jawline.

@bloodsalted continued from x

[esoterium]

does he want to find out? his heart. dead as he claims it to be. shatters in his chest when the smallest voice in the back of his mind begs yes! his eyes avert his gaze towards the corner of armand's mouth. as if looking there would hide that horribly cruel thought. selfish. it was selfish. his hand in condemning claudia to the fate she is forced to endure for eternity has earned him this life. this repentance for the cruelty that was bestowed upon her when she was defenseless. helpless. vulnerable in every sense of the word. and yet? he craves to have the braveness to mutter the word. one single. three lettered word. that would confirm armand's questions. that would give him the affirmation that he is seeking.

that louis wants free..

he wants him. wants to be near him. wants to spend their time together. to learn from him in the ways he could never learn from lestat. in ways that lestat REFUSED to teach him during all their years together. more than that. he wants to experience him. being his. that sense of belonging to someone who simply wants his company. not loathe him for the necessity of having it.

"the real me..," he repeats back wildly searching those chestnut colored eyes as if he could find himself, his true self, inside their reflection. a fantasy. a dream. he barely remembers who he was and yet remembers every bit of it vividly at times. when he lets those years so long ago creep back into a mind that all but buried them away in one of the tombs of the saint louis. leaving who he was back in the city that was in his blood as much as lestat. as much as his past. a lifetime ago.

"i barely know who i would be now. what i would be like without...," and it goes without saying; her. "how am i supposed to show you?" long lashes flutter with the touches. with the nearness. "how can i let her go?" there's a heaviness in his stomach at the thought of it. of severing a tie that is tethered so deeply inside of him. even if it tangles it's way in and out of his veins and forms a noose around his neck. cuts it right in half..

that heaviness in his belly twists. stirs that so skillfully suppressed hunger that's ever-present. a dull buzz that he locks away until he can't. lips part before his head turns to brush their corners against the inside of armand's palm. over the thicker meat under his thumb and, such a human gesture, he inhales deep drawing what bit of control he has back into his grip before he presses them closed and brushes them over the skin there instead before murmuring quietly. "how do we let anyone go? without shattering another piece of who we are..."

he fears louis could see through him — that he'd take his advice as selfishness instead of the wisdom of an elder vampire. is it selfishness to want him for himself? is it selfishness to love him? the theater has lost its intrigue and its purpose. even amongst the others, the loneliness had begun to overwhelm him. it seeps into everything he does, toxic, poisonous, and he wants to be rid of it. the theater may have drawn him into the world decades prior, but he wants more. he's starved for companionship, and in louis, he sees someone he could stand beside. but they'll never have the opportunity here. they'll never have it if claudia is in between.

armand wants to ease the pain away from him. his eyes are warm and open, brow furrowed in sympathy, as he watches him process his words. he doesn't mean for them to hurt. though, he knows for louis to finally let her go, it was going to be painful. but he'd stand there, ready to pick up the pieces and put them together again. he'd be stronger after. better for it. and as louis's emerald eyes open, armand breathes in deeply. trust me, he wants to say.

❝ don't you want to find out? ❞ he asks, ❝ do you not want to see yourself outside of her? on your own accord, not through her eyes. ❞ long fingers stroke the soft skin underneath, as he leans in, armand traces up from his cheek, following his hairline up and back down again, to cup his face tenderly. he could have lost himself in his beauty, eyes and hands longing to commit him to memory. if he closed his eyes, he could have painted him in vivid detail.

❝ we fear what we don't know, but you'll only be stagnant if you stay. you'll be stagnant if she comes with you. but if you let me, i'll help you. i want to meet you, louis. the real you. ❞ and he could make it so much easier for him to pry away from her. oh, it would take so little to put forth a chain reaction that would force them apart. and with all the pain it might draw from him, he'd teach him to thrive in the aftermath. and while he can't say the words out loud, while he refuses to give away how much he knows, there's no guarantee that their shared blood or experiences would bind them forever. lestat is still between them.

❝ the longer you keep her, she can't grow. ❞ and while she never would, trapped for eternity as no more than a child, he thinks it's worth framing them as holding one another back. as if she couldn't develop into the person she needed to be any more than he could. ❝ you keep her a child. ❞

[esoterium]

five fingertips come to push through the disheveled curls framing his face. damp and several drying stuck together with the blood that coats them. his knees buckle once when pain shoots up his other arm. a sensation that makes dark eyes roll back and the grimace that twisted his mouth melts into a sardonic grin. "what am i? your punishment. your sentence to a purgatory on earth. one filled with you wanting so desperately to pull me back from the darkness. one sentenced to you by lestat. and yet you keep me. so willing to suffer and fret.."

"i have no meaning other than what you see. i was left with NONE!" his voice cracks as the blood now begins to drip freely from his arm having soaked through the fabric of his sleeve and pooled there so heavily that the cloth can no longer contain it. delicate features twist into a look of agony caused by sheer heartache that is gone nearly as quickly as it appeared. he will not buckle. his knees are forced steady.

...home?

"aren't i living now? surely my bleeding for you proves that i am living. not quite rotting yet. but so so close. it's what they ARE. why should i not join them? every single one of them are as pitch black and dark inside as you are so terrified of in me." a dull, sickening laugh shows a row of teeth. the points of his fangs deadly sharp. yet they drag over a bottom lip that does not tear. "ahh. yes. home." his head shakes against the wet rock behind him. "where is home? the place where you would rather lock me away inside.. to make me what? better?"

his cold, judgmental gaze falters. he looks, for armand and armand only, lost. torn open. gutted. lucidity touches his mind. how fleeting will it be? "there's no mending me, armand. you try and you try and for what end..?"

there's little that should be frightening left in the world. even at armand's darkest, even in the deepest stretches of his memory, moments where his throat had gone raw in anguish, where blood blurred his vision until there was none left — and perhaps he'd have rathered madness than agony — it was nothing like what he saw when he pushed his way into nicki's mind. he's never seen such a darkness that would swallow the world and still beg for more.

he tells himself there has to be an end. he'll hit the bottom and come back up for air. and armand will be there to catch him when he does.

but he doesn't. he hasn't.

he tells himself that centuries on this earth should have given him the insight to handle it. the knowledge he held, the lessons he'd learned — the names and faces of the vampires in his coven — what was one vampire, still a child in the blood? perhaps the anger at nicki is also anger internalized, directed at himself for feeling such frustration. he feels the blood on his fingertips, his strong grip never allowing the wounds to close, instead the scent of nicki's blood mixes with stale, drying blood on his face. and for a moment, armand holds his breath in hope, clinging to that second of lucidity. stay with me!

maybe he's right. maybe he doesn't want him to be them. yet, armand chooses to scoff in response, ❝ and what are you now? what is your meaning? you're an artist in pitch black, a screeching musician — a bloodied child arguing meaning in a damp alley, ❞ how does it take so much strength not to shake him or slam him into the wall again and again. ❝ i don't want you to rot, nicolas. i want you to live. ❞

he exhales a shuddering breath, quiet but never loosening his grip, even when he brings attention to the blood he draws. ❝ if it's the only tongue you speak, it's the one i'll use, ❞ a pause, ❝ let's leave here. come home. ❞

[bloodsalted]

hell. dean still feels lingering in his soul even though it's been a handful of months since he crawled out of the ground and escaped the pit that was supposed to be his eternal cage. or until he became the very beings that he hunts. the worst of them. he doesn't speak of the years he spent on the downward spiral as his soul shattered and he gave in. those memories? they're buried deep. underneath feet and feet of dirt and grime and cemetery stones in side his brain. locked away from a mind that can't process what he did.. what he was in the end..

perhaps that's why he came to new orleans on what was supposed to be some sort've hunt dealt their way from an associate of bobby's. dean half-expects that the elder hunter saw the tells of dean's wiring being so far off that the ends are fraying day by day and gave him something to do. some bayou swamp monster witchy beast conjure made flesh come to slither its way onto bourbon street and start poisoning the tourists who were frequenting one particular spot.

maybe.. maybe.. there was another reason.. he quickly threw his and sam's bags in the trunk so fast that he didn't even say yes properly before they were on the road towards doing the most familiar thing in the world to both. there was someone here--who always came. each time he stepped foot on the cobblestone sidewalks of a quieter street only one block away. rue royale. and that's where he finds himself--standing face to face with that very person. who doesn't hesitate to graze his fingers over dean's cheek and bring eyelids to flutter. a rich, velvet voice caresses the shell of his ear and his chest caves.

looking him in the eyes--he doesn't answer right off. only stands there, lip folded between his front teeth as he curls his own fingers around a darker skinned wrist and holds the touch steady. green eyes measure brilliant amber and gold. "human? dead? but not dead? i'm not sure.. i was hoping maybe you could help me figure that out.." and more desperately, a whisper. "..please? if you have the time." please have the time.

he's confused. for all the countless texts he's browsed, for all of the memories of monsters he'd stolen from hunters ( all the interactions he'd had himself ), nothing offered up an explanation. he could have torn libraries to shreds, devoured knowledge with voracity and dean winchester would still be a mystery. the vampire would still be standing in front of him, head canted, the curiosity in his eyes hiding his true age. like youth returned in wonder and surprise.

armand reaches out, delicate fingers grazing the warmth of the hunter's cheek. although he could hear the heartbeat, although his scent was distinctly human, he needed to the tangible evidence beneath his fingertips. alive.

it's not like vampirism. while armand had felt death, he'd never rotted in the ground. no one buried and grieved him. his was an existence continued, not an act separated by a long intermission.

“ what are you, dean? i saw your grave. ”

@bloodsalted liked for a starter.

[bloodsalted]

okay so maybe that air bnb thing was a little tad bit of obvious bullshit. but dean intended it to be that way. because they both know why he is here. he can tell simply by watching armand that the vampire is onto him. knows what he is. the way he talks and carries himself. no one enters a place like this on accident. and during the day? well. that's just someone looking for some kinda trouble, isn't it? and he's that someone.

shoulders hitch. dean doesn't look like he's too frightened about being called out on his bullshit. "what? you think i'm that cheap?" a brow jerks up. "maybe i am. so what's your---."

drop the knife, you're in no position to use it. now? that? that's a request that dean isn't too keen on following. so says the way the knife comes into view fully. still at his side. but his grip is white knuckled and unyielding. there's a red tint to the blade. blood. dead man's blood. the rot of it surely touches armand's senses now.

"yeah. sorry. i'm gonna have to deny that request, hoss. ain't happening.." dean tucks his chin towards his collar. "mexican stand-off or not? this thing isn't going anywhere." muscles tense. jawline bulging as back teeth grind together. he's a determined sort. gotta give him that much credit. or not.

"kinda puts us both in a pickle. doesn't it?" dean's waiting. for the attack. he knows better than to just run headfirst at a vampire once he's been spotted. being on the defense with the knowledge that he has tends to make it offensive-defense and he fights pretty fucking good that way. the blade spins in his hand, facing backwards. one forward sweep of his arm could do a lot of damage. even if it wouldn't kill armand. it'd hurt like hell. least for a minute. he hopes.

"...what's your story? why haven't you gone all fangy jumpy yet? there's a lot of things i love foreplay before. this isn't one.."

no hunter with positive intentions comes sneaking around in the daytime. those connections he does have to the community would know better than to show uninvited too. no, the ones who seek them out in broad daylight, sneaking through their home — they're the ones that tend to come with bloodshed on their minds.

they're also the hunters that feed the coven.

later, he supposes, they'll have to determine who left the mess behind that brought this one to their door, but it's not his top priority. the flash of light from the blade catches his eye and he glances to the hand hiding it behind his thigh. a sly smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but just as quickly, his eyes lift again, meeting dean's.

❝ google maps, ❞ he repeats, ❝ air bnb — you mean freeway exit sign and the first motel that takes cash? ❞ armand takes a couple of intentional steps towards him, demeanor almost too casual, but he isn't afraid of him. from what he can tell, he's alone here and what was one hunter against him?

❝ drop the knife, you're in no position now to use it. ❞ he doesn't expect the hunter to obey him. if he did, it'd be too easy. for those so bent on killing off the supernatural, he's positive that most of them have a death wish of their own. to make the demand at all was to let him know that he can tell he's hiding the weapon.

killing vampires must have been a lot easier when you could get the jump on them. while the rest of his nest slept, he wonders if he weren't here to notice the intruder if it would have spelled death for them. he does like to give them a little more credit than that.

[safetypinned]

blood. it's a trending theme for sam. isn't it? always has been. from before he can even remember. blood on his lips. blood on his tongue. blood pouring into his mouth. blood running out of cuts and holes and wounds dug into his skin. blood, blood, blood. sam's world's saturated in it. the sun should shine red for him. day in. day out.

armand's mouth works against his skin. the vampire drinks. blood flows freely from his veins. heavy. thick. coated and saturated in something wholly inhuman. yet somehow vibrantly nothing but human. sam doesn't taste the way others in this room would taste. his blood is potent. rich. otherworldly. lips parted--his grip stays--but loosens as the steady pulls against his neck lull him into a warmth that bleeds into pleasure. numb-edged escape. wouldn't be so bad to just drift off onto that feeling. forget the world...

..that comes rising up like the dawn when armand pulls back. both gasp in unison together. sam's eyelids swing open. dazed gold-rimmed hazel meets preternatural chestnut and copper. takes the jostle to really pull sam back from where he drifted off to. a crinkle of reality crashing into his senses is stamped between his brows. "armand," he mumbles--blinking more awake.

a rapid succession of nods. he gets it. they need to go. long legs scoot against the ground. scrambling languidly to get enough footing to stand. he lets armand help him to his feet. rubs away some of the dizziness that tilts his senses sideways and waves at the vampire to lead the way. both of them need a bit of time. somewhere safe. hotel. a couple blocks away from here. doesn't ask questions. the thought is aimed at armand. unguarded. unlike he tends to keep himself. better to think it and hope armand hears.. rather than any enemies catch on.

warm living blood fills his mouth and he swallows hungrily. he'd tried to help him. he had helped him. but his rational mind is hijacked by hunger. he'd rather dilute the dead man's blood in his veins, to feel a semblance of strength again. he can't recall the last time he'd felt this weak, this out of control of his baser instincts. and yet, even as sam grips his shirt, he feeds. he'd rather it be one of the ones that brought him here, would much rather have his vengeance in their blood down his throat and pouring onto the floor.

sam isn't one of them.

the blood helps clear some of the fog away, enough that his inner voice becomes louder still. stop. stop! before he drinks him to unconsciousness, armand withdraws from his neck, gasping as if he needed the air. it's not a lot. it's not enough. when he looks down at sam, he finally sees him. he's not just a hungry, injured vampire, but armand again. ❝ sam? sam! ❞ he shakes the hunter, as if to jostle him back to the present. his hope is that he didn't drink too much. he's fed from enough humans to know, however.

❝ sam, come on, we need to leave, ❞ he insists. apologies could wait until both of them found safety. he recognizes that he'd gone in there to help him, that he'd been the one attempting to get him out of there and it was his fault that he wasn't in the best condition.

[esoterium]

dark brown. nearly pitch black eyes drink in the sight of armand as he speaks with a voice that rings in his ears as if it were some sort've holy hymn. one that he remembers so vivid. so clearly. even in the centuries that have passed between them. there is no cutting or carving that voice from his brain. or the face from his eyes that remember every detail and seeing it in person only validates that his once fear for forgetting it was sorely..even dumbly placed. how could he forget this particular creature? his pupil. his love. his everything at one point in time.

does armand know how much he meant? surely he has to. and surely he hasn't forgotten. and he means nothing less. time neither erased or eroded how much love santino has for him. only changed its form. as santino has changed (yet not) over time.

"mm," his head dips in an agreeing nod. "yes. yes. they might. they wouldn't be completely wrong. there's one thing in history i've learned? it's always changing yet always staying the same. only wearing a different mask each century." his voice holds so much fondness. so much hope for this conversation. the longer they linger in one another's presence. the easier it is for him to show. to allow himself to feel. the cautious creature that he normally is. in all things. damn near gets thrown out the window in a matter of minutes he spends in the grip of those amber eyes and armand's presence.

it'd be a dangerous power in anyone else's hands. and yet he is fine with it being in armand's.

his expression reflects the hope the start of this conversation stoked in his chest when armand invites him to the beach. his hand raises and gestures towards the exit. "of course. i'd be honored." a glance around the room and the invitation comes as a welcome relief. there are too many ears around here. too many wandering souls that could come upon them and he wants this moment to himself. wants to be greedy with the attention he's being given. before someone tears him away.

he waits for armand to lead then follows along. "it has been a long time, armand.. and yet seeing you," he shrugs--the rest left unsaid. he's not sure he can or has to finish. seeing you makes it feel like no time at all. seeing you erases time. erases ages.

there had been a time when santino represented his present. his future. in all of its entirety. he'd built the foundation for the vampire who'd ruled in paris, but only after he'd torn down the previous. it had been like fire spreading through him, burning, cleansing, leaving ash where a young vampire's soul had been. santino had introduced him to the dark, but in doing so, had taught him to find solace in it. he'd found solace in him, respect, admiration — love. and even now, centuries later, when he looked back on it, he understood. or so, he rationalized that he did.

the past is always bittersweet, always tainted with some acrid poison. his stomach twists in knots, an uncommon feeling for the vampire responsible for the lavish vampire haven around them. it's such a strange mixture of apprehension and longing. he'd wanted this reunion, despite how he could have so easily chosen the opposite route. one second was all that had separated him from approaching the elder to disappearing into the shadows yet again, leaving them still in a standoff, always aware of one another but never closing the distance. or would santino have eventually given him more than silence? in truth, he doesn't know. it's surreal to remember how much he'd known of him, only to see more of a mystery in front of him now.

even if it were possible that he knew he approached before he said anything, once the words leave his lips, there's no taking them back. there's no more pretending. now that he's closer still, his eyes drink him in, from the shape and cut of his clothing, to his chosen jewelry, and the way his hair falls behind him. he was a fearsome beauty, as he always had been. dark, daunting, powerful.

surely, he'd captivated the minds of many, particularly in his silence.

when he answers, the younger vampire feels some of the anxiety slip away, eased by the smile in his tone. oh, he's not forgotten, nor does it settle him entirely, but it gives him hope that it wasn't a poor choice to approach him. as he turns, his amber gaze lifts, settling over the familiar features of his face, eyes bright with observation, in revisiting memory. ❝ some might say the world is as close to 500 years ago as it has ever been. the styles have changed, the technology, but the heartbeat is familiar. ❞ he finds himself enthralled by the forward movement of the world, the rise of art and science weaving together, the humanistic perspectives that reminded him, at times, of venice before.

❝ would you walk with me? the beach is empty this time of night. ❞

[roseguided-arch]

𝐈𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 affects him once he's done. how he feels, the strength it will imbue him with for a while. though, some part of her blood will remain inside of him even long after. like with lestat even to this day. the difference between the two is her blood will only add to the strength his age grants him while lestat had just been turned--her blood didn't add to anything, but granted him something. to think, as well, the status it is to have even the smallest bit of akasha's blood in their system. ( the queens blood was coveted & for this reason alone she has always been selective with whom receives it. only a small handful had been given it in the beginning . . a necessary step to begin the bloodline to branch outward into other immortals. ultimately, they all stem from her. )

eyes close feeling @devourcr draw closer, his hand pulling her body closer to his own until they almost press against one another. ancient allowing herself a moment longer to enjoy the feeling as they were nearing a risky point. akasha didn't want any negative effects despite having the utmost resilience.

❛ alright, ❜ voices the vampire softly against the shell of his ear, hand raises to cup armand under his chin, palm pressed against his throat with little pressure, to push him backward & make his mouth leave her throat. not because she didn't trust him not to stop when told but, more as a precaution to ensure it. now, however, eyes glance at his features . . the blood dripping from his mouth . . & mind thinks: how can one look so handsome with my blood all over his mouth ? akasha grins, ❛ good boy. ❜ light praise, eyes lingering on his mouth. leaning closer, ❛ it's been some time since someone has drank from me. tell me then, dearest armand, what do i taste like ? ❜

the taste is sweeter than any other he'd sampled, veins thrumming with strength, her blood flowing through him as he drank slowly, a pleased sound muffled into her skin, his fingertips stroking the soft, cool skin of the other side of her throat, the other hand a gentle grip on her waist as he feeds. there were only two modes he knew when feeding from another vampire: intimate or aggressive. and there was no stealing from their queen. he imagines if any had tried, they'd met their deaths.

it's an honor, isn't it? to be someone she allows so close to her throat, to allow him to take her blood, to fill himself with her ancient strength. he doesn't take her allowance lightly, doesn't regard her without admiration or respect. to live only 500 years, he's learned to guard his own throat, not only for the power that his blood could hold for younger vampires, but because of the vulnerability, the intimacy.

his breathing is slow as he drinks, savoring every drop that touches his tongue. he doesn't stop, however, relying solely on her to let him know when it's been enough. the hand on her waist slips further, around to her back instead, sliding closer still on the sofa as he leans over her, pulling her body to his as he feeds.

[esoterium]

emerald eyes remained shut. the ultimate showing of trust for a vampire who learned very early on that putting blind faith in someone? would only end up in it being broken. and thus? having your heart broken as well. because that is what happened between lestat and him. even in all his anger. all his vicious ferocity that he disposed of his marker with? louis's hard ached for him. still does in ways that he will never put a voice to. never fully allow himself to acknowledge or linger on long enough to feel the depth of. because there is disaster waiting for him there.

armand? he'll trust him. tentatively, yes. slowly. towards himself? he'd trust him even more. for claudia? when it comes to both of them towards one another? louis knows that trust? could be just as dangerous as acknowledging and letting himself feel the mourning he has for lestat.

release her. if it were so easy. he would've done it right that moment. the way armand's voice tangles itself inside of him. pulls strings that louis long thought were too frayed for anyone to grasp. it is not that simple, though. he loves her. even as her love turns to hatred so quickly. so much more often. he tells himself that it is deserved. what he's done to her? what he had a hand in condemning her to? deserves this punishment. her detachment. her hatred. yet, she loves him. how is he supposed to break away? when they've been sewn together in blood for so very long?

the pained expression that befalls the younger vampire writes it's way across his brow. forms creases in between both eyebrows. punches a wrinkle of it over his forehead. louis bites the corner of his lip between sharpened incisors. not enough to draw blood but it does bleed the color out. what color in them he has. long lashes open. he pulls away enough to meet chestnut hued eyes. their closeness is so palpable that he feels like he's pinned in place by it's heavy hold.

and he is.

"i don't know how to be without her. she's all i've known. the one constant i've had since i came into this life. how do i let her go when i don't know what i am without her?" he confesses between them, turning his cheek into the hand upon it. such a gentle show of affection. it's jarring in a way but he craves it enough to show he wants. maybe needs. it to stay. "why is the thought of what i might become without her so terrifying?"

@devourcr

ultimately, there would be no way out that didn't include violence. armand went over it again and again and not once had it deterred him. eventually, the others would let their masks slip ( they were so thin, almost transparent as it was ). they would bare their fangs at louis and claudia, painted faces menacing as they reveled in bloodlust disguised as justice. he can feel their resentment as if it were tangible, just as he hears what they say when the pair leaves. louis and claudia sadly bound to rules they'd never learned ( convenient that he knows lestat wouldn't have taught them ). he dances around the subject of lestat, holding his knowledge close, his history with the infuriating blonde — the theatre's history — the players here would gleefully kill in his name.

claudia holds much of the responsibility and while armand has more fascination for the child vampire than malice, she's also the one thing in his way. she's much more alike to them than louis is. but the danger is closing in, the threads fraying and armand will count down until they snap. if they do, he tells himself, he won't lose louis. he'll be the hand for him to take. and louis will help usher in a successful curtain call.

he's so relentlessly hungry, it's as if louis has brought that gnawing back to the surface when he'd arrived. he wants the world. to see it, experience it, to indulge in it and while he can impart knowledge as an older vampire, louis could give him life. amber eyes all but plead for him to give into what he wants ( what they both want ). the way he looks back at him, the bite of his lip, even the movement of his hands, it's all observed in silence. he didn't need the mind gift to know that he's mulling it over, that he wants this. but he's justifiably hesitant.

armand's chin tilts up as fingers brush across his jaw, welcoming the touch, a soft breath exhaled. their foreheads touch and armand's hands lift to cup his face in his hands, thumb brushing his cheekbone as he whispers the words that he desperately wants to hear. no, they couldn't remain here, but they don't have to. it's claudia, however, that is still in the way. and armand can see how it tortures him to think of leaving her ( as if it were some cruel abandonment ). armand could ensure that he doesn't have to live with guilt for leaving. any obstacle in their way, he can clear.

❝ benevolent, ❞ he supposes he'd see himself as some kind of monster. and while claudia would never survive on her own, armand doesn't suggest that either. ❝ too often we grow to hate those who've made us. release her — let her have the life you couldn't give her. she'll love you still. but she won't need you. ❞

he remains close, eyes warm, open, studying louis's expression. ❝ think also about what you need. ❞ and let him be a part of that.

[esoterium]

wild eyes search armand's almond hues. the blood has begun to dry on his chin and lips turning the pallid skin a flaking brown in spots. his tongue rolls across his bottom lip to snag the corner and drag it between fanged teeth. desire. want. starvation. the need for more, more, MORE. he'd spill fire down his throat and come up screaming raw and bloody that it didn't burn deep enough and ask for seconds. there's nothing that fills the emptiness inside. nothing that chases away the dark. it's all consuming. all devouring. all that he is and armand doesn't understand..

..he's not lost in it. he thrives in it.

there's nothing that makes him feel whole. nothing that sates the endless hunger. he falls and falls and falls into his madness and it is there to greet him like a lover. a muse that is unending, unwavering. the only thing that WON'T LEAVE!!!

oh he's bleeding underneath armand's fingernails. he can feel the blood roll down his arms and it makes him feel so very close to being alive. the pain. the blood. the wounds that armand's fingernails have kept from healing. it's as close to mortality as he can touch. unless it is at the mercy of his mouth and teeth.

i can show you..

and for the briefest, most fleeting moment--there's a pause. a wary set of eyes that peer back questioning. lips part and he searches armand's gaze in return. steady. lucid. "i want nothing to do with them. they are puppets. nothing more. no thought. no meaning. they pantomime art in hopes of becoming something more than blood and bones that rot in their coffins each day." his eyes narrow. "you... you do not want me to be them."

a small laugh followed by a sardonic smile as his head falls back to rest against the wall. gaze still pinned on armand. "you ask as if there is another. did we forget who is making who bleed?"

he feels the blood well up under his fingertips, and yet the laughter makes him dig deeper, muscles tense, nails biting, despite knowing that less strength would have held him there. oh, he looks so mad. absolutely insane, with blood on his mouth, his hair hanging in his face. even as his mind seeks his, he finds it impossible to understand. it's dark. it's primal. it's hunger, desire, swallowing him like an endless pit. it's too loud.

armand's eyes never leave nicolas's face, frustration like a fire burning in the amber. he slams him into the chipping brick of a nearby wall. snap out of it, snap out of it! oh, but there was nothing that had ever given him any real suspicion that he could. the violence radiating off of him isn't conducive to helping. but, what could help him?

❝ i do care, ❞ he snaps through gritted teeth, fangs practically bared at the other vampire. ❝ we all... care. ❞ if others passed the alley, they may think little of them. alleys like this one have seen their fair share of violence, hushed discussions, and passion alike. he doesn't know the words that might sink into nicki's mind, that might help free him. he'd known so few vampires as young as him to go as mad as he had. he once thought it might be a curse given to those who lived long enough to experience it. those who lived in isolation long enough.

❝ i deem it because it is madness, nicolas, ❞ fingertips maintain their hold, standing so close, eyes searching his for something. ❝ what else could it be? i can show you. i can give you our world, if you would just open your mind and listen. if you'd follow us. ❞

be obedient. listen. just listen.

❝ christ, is pain the only language you speak? ❞

[safetypinned]

dean would be so pissed off. the thought shoots through sam's head as he carefully places one booted foot before the next into the pile of rubble that's littered across the rotten floorboards under his feet. each measured step falls as silently as possible. an occasional creak is the best he can do given the entire places looks like it's ready to crumble and fall apart around him. tattered curtains billow in the warm breeze coming in through shattered windows.

least it's cooled off. night time. the worst time to find armand's location. but there's no way in hell his brother would agree to fetching him. not when the hunters have gone. armand's in no real danger (least that's how it looks) and they could do this when it was a better time. like right before dawn.but..they might not have til dawn. and sam's not taking that chance.

heart in the bottom of his gut when he finds armand, sam rushes to the pile of limp and sick bound on the floor. long fingers quickly pluck and pull at the locks (he should know better. he should.) with a look of determined anger gritting his back teeth together. "i got you.. it's okay, armand. you're gonna be alright." the lunge is half-expected but not the power behind it. by the looks of him? armand seemed far worse for wear. crouched, it doesn't take much to knock sam off his feet. head connects with the wood hard enough to make him see stars exploding behind the pitch black of clamped together eyes. the initial burn in his throat, though? that kicks a yell out of his lungs. high pitched and so unreal in his own ears. hands grip armand's shoulders. clothing bunches up in white knuckled fists. as eyes flick open then roll back as the hunter's blood rushes into armand's mouth.

( @safetypinned asked: [ BLOODLUST ]  the sender has gone too long without feeding, base instincts taking over, the receiver finds them. + reverse )

he can't remember how he got there. if he could, maybe his pride would've been cracked into half a dozen pieces. hunters had somehow gotten the jump on him but instead of killing him, they'd subdued him. dead man's blood leaves him ill, tired, drifting from consciousness to unconsciousness. they were searching for answers, but to what, he can't track. his mind feels muddled, desperate, hungry.

he's aware of someone helping him, of their familiar voice, their hands removing the binds that shouldn't have been able to hold him as well as they did. his head is bowed, dirty curls in front of his face as he attempts to pull himself out of the haze. he's starving. armand's eyes open, blearly, seeking to focus and while he recognizes sam, the sound of his heartbeat is maddening.

vampire teeth extract, a low growl, closer to animal monster than human and he lunges at sam seeking to tackle him, teeth aimed for his throat.