monbellemonstre

[monbellemonstre]

(@starlightintheirwake liked this post for a starter!)

"Are you purposefully attempting to distract me or is it simply a talent that you possess naturally?" The words are spoken without malice, though in fairness they are spoken without much intonation whatsoever. Amber-brown eyes are fixated on Daniel though the presence within them in the moment is questionable, giving the impression that he is using the other man as a canvas for his mental masterpieces. Thoughts linger, and he indeed is very much so distracted, though his patience and calm remains. On the exterior. Internally his thoughts are a maelstrom of depravity that borders on blasphemy. The line, he finds, is teetered quite often when Daniel is seeking attention in one of the various preferred forms, but never fully stepped over. In this instance the attention is in the form of starting a conversation while Armand is leant over a large book of sketching paper with a sharpened charcoal betwixt two fingers, the detailed image of the man in question having begun to form before he had been interrupted.

[monbellemonstre]

(@strxgxi from here)

There is silence from Armand as his fledgling's emotions overwhelm, overstimulate. Regret pierces through to the heart of him and bleeds, viscous and bitter, into his veins. He does not require delving within his fledgling's thoughts in order to be able to read them, as they are quite plainly written in the man's behaviors. Armand almost recoils from the onslaught of questions as he realizes that no answer he can give Daniel will satisfy. Nothing he says, no explanation or story or apology will erase or remove what he had done, even if what he says is the truth. It may assuage temporarily, but the seed of resentment had been sewn by Armand's own hands. When Daniel hastens toward him he nearly winces, though not from the assumption that his fledgling will do him harm. It is from the agony that sinks into him, dissolving beneath the flesh and muscle and sinew, making his slender fingers twitch at his sides where they rest. Those fingertips long to capture Daniel's face betwixt his soft palms, to mutter reassurances, to... But as a coward would he stands as still as the trembling within himself will allow. The only animation is his expression which is slowly sinking, creasing, pinching as crimson builds along his own waterlines, quivering and threatening to slip down his cherubesque cheeks. He allows the crimson tears to escape with a singular blink as Daniel's head hangs, feeling them trail thickly down his features to drip from his chin to stain his shirtcloth. He feels as if he could vomit, though there is nothing within him to expel. "There is no disgust. There is no aversion. Daniel, I... Tu hantes mon cœur et mon esprit depuis des décennies." Oh. As it turns out, parlance can come out much like vomit would, and he finds he cannot prevent the words from spilling betwixt them. "I was taught that every fledgling grows to resent and despise their Maker, and upon sharing the Gift with you in Dubai I came to the realization that I would not survive it should you grow to resent and despise me. Not unless I was the one to dictate when..." He trails off, the words said in a trembling voice as crimson begins to build rapidly at his waterlines once more. "I should not have abandoned you, Daniel. There is no excuse, and I will carry that regret with me always."

[monbellemonstre]

It is in these moments when he thinks that the two immortals feel as one, when Lestat and his beloved are coursing through the shadows just as the mortal blood pulsates through the veins of the Hunters that had taken up residence in the occupied townhome. Veins that he will split and run dry. Each of his footsteps mirrors the fluttering of a mortal heartbeat or the draw and exhalation of a mortal breath.

The scent of the mortals burns through his nostrils and along the lining of his throat as they enter the townhome in silence. A few paltry splatterings of crimson among the floorboards trails off in two opposing directions, perfuming the air heavily. He has fed already this evening, but the impending butchery beckons to him as a siren upon a craggy seashore.

His eyes are nearly blackened with hunger and retribution as they lift to find Louis' gaze, a singular nod given in response to his paramour's own. In an admittedly impressive feat, his Louis had survived an encounter with five hunters. Lestat, in these moments, trusts him completely to handle merely two.

Not a sound is made as Lestat tilts his head in the opposing direction of the one Louis indicates, confirming his agreement to this plan. He holds his beloved's gaze for a few moments, wishing not for the first time that he could speak to Louis using his 'tricks' rather than having to do so aloud. Still. He says it well enough, he thinks, with the expression on his face. Be cautious. Come back to me. I love you. Then he is turning toward the shadows in a flourishing evanescence, nostrils flaring and lips parting as his fangs descend fully in preparation for the feast.

Within moments the vampire is among them, waiting in abeyance within the shadows. The pair of hunters are speaking in hushed tones to one another, discussing what he can only presume to be plans of how to approach destroying himself and his beloved Louis in a confrontation meant for the near future. Perhaps after an evening or two has passed, their thoughts mirroring their spoken words.

A slow smirk transforms into bared teeth, exhaling slowly and silently as he taps into one of his vampiric abilities. What his beloved Louis refers to as 'tricks' passed down through the Blood of the ancients, growing subtly stronger with each year that passes him and with each attempt on his life survived.

These hunters shall not share the privilege of strengthening him in power.

Dilated pupils quiver briefly and both hunters immediately cease their hushed conversation, all animation following a moment later as they freeze in place. He does not wish to play his games this evening. There will be no humiliation, no terror, though it does flavor the blood deliciously. Non. Il doit les avoir. This evening all he wishes to do is kill.

[monbellemonstre]

Hi hello! If we follow each other (mutuals) and we haven't interacted yet please feel free to DM me to plot or chat, send memes, tag me in random starters, OR you can like this post for a starter from me.

Just be sure to comment which muse of mine you're wanting to interact with, and let me know which muse of yours it's for if you're a multi! If I think the starter or meme may need plotting for context I'll likely DM you to do so.

Honestly, even if we have interacted already, even a thousand times, you can do any of these things freely! I welcome the interactions and it gives me more options in terms of writing. This also applies to my other blogs if we're mutuals on those as well!

NOTE: I'm on a night shift schedule so please keep in mind that most of my replies and activity will be evenings, overnight and early mornings (depending on where you live ofc).

[monbellemonstre]

— Captain Flint (via letsbeloneytogetherr)

[monbellemonstre]

Claudia can't help the slow smile that started to appear on her face when the woman struggled to pronounce Madeleine's last name almost as much as she had when she'd first tried it. She even let out a breath of a chuckle as she shook her head. "That's alright. Just make sure you don't go sayin' it like that while you're in the shop, otherwise the owner will tease you right out the door."

Her words were soft and almost playful, her curiosity about this non-mortal growing more the longer she stood there staring at the woman.

Amber-brown eyes flickered away briefly as the woman repeated her name back to her, not used to hearing anyone but Louis saying it all that often. Maître usually referred to her as some sort of childish pet name or nickname that she really didn't care for but couldn't necessarily complain about. Much like everything else when it came to Maître.

The question, asked so boldly and out loud and everything, took her by surprise.

She glanced around quickly and took a few steps forward, toward the woman named Petal. Her name alone was unique enough to spawn a thousand and one questions, but the way she asked that question stopped them all in their invisible tracks. Her eyes were a bit wide as she shushed Petal, glancing around again just to be sure they were at least away from any prying mortal ears before meeting the woman's crimson gaze again.

"You can't just... go around askin' people if they're vampires, y'know..." Claudia said, a bit breathless despite not actually needing to breathe. "But yeah. I am. Have been for a long time now. What about you? You one of us or somethin' else? I've never met anyone with eyes like yours before..."

[monbellemonstre]

“Your eyes…they look sad. You should attend one of Mad Hatter’s tea parties. It will give you some joy!” For Armand, unprompted

(@phoebelcsts unprompted!)

The expression on Armand's face shifted easily from a calm neutrality into the warmth of a smile as the child spoke of sadness with such an innocent simplicity. Centuries it had been since he had seen life from the viewpoint of someone with such hope and genuine exuberance. "I have met my fair share of Mad Hatters, young one, and yet the sorrow remains..." A soft sound of amusement escaped him as he placed the red 'man' betwixt his fingers onto the chequerboard, amber-brown eyes flickering from the board atop the table to the child's face. The warm expression on his face grew until the smile on his lips lightened the look in his eyes. Even the proximity of someone so optimistic had seemed to refresh his spirit just a touch, and he realized in those moments that perhaps his most recent isolation had lasted too long. "So your Hatter must have some very good tea. It is your turn, young one."

[monbellemonstre]

The vampire is in the process of taking another slow, indulgent puff of his cigarette as the Hunter speaks in the form of practical questions of dead man's blood and silver bullets. The tools of the mortal's trade, drenched in folklore and the desperation of a dying era. Charming.

He tilts his head, ashen eyes still fixated on the Hunter as the smoke billows from between his slightly parted lips, an unsettling smirk on his face. The string of tension is pulled taut, seeing the way Dean's jaw grinds like flint about to spark. The Hunter is angry. Suspicious. That pleases Lestat as it means that Dean is not entirely blind to the danger that he's gotten himself into.

It is also a stark contrast to Lestat's own fluidity that comes from the confidence of being predator rather than prey for over two centuries. More or less.

"Dead man's blood will only slow them if they drink it, mon chasseur. These... fledglings are not bound by the same frailties as the lesser things you're used to gutting like fishes in back alleys and barns while shielding yourself with sticks and prayers. They are savage. Starving. Half-mad with undiluted power, no idea what they have become and no superstitions to keep. All they know is the hunger and their need to satisfy it..."

His voice trails off, his register lowering considerably as he speaks of the illegitimate fledglings, a measure of genuine unease settling inside of him. He knows intimately what it is like to be brought into the Blood without guidance, but even still he had some semblance of control over his hunger even then. He takes another long, slow puff of the cigarette before he continues.

"A beheading. The heat of an intense fire. The light of the sun... These are the only things that can destroy us for certain."

He says the words almost as if he does not wish to, because it reveals his own weaknesses to the Hunter. Though, in truth, Lestat is almost certain that the only thing that might work to destroy him is indeed removing his head from the rest of his body. He had already survived everything else.

"... And you better get it right the first time, mon chasseur. If a vampire of the ancient Blood survives an attempt on their life they become more powerful against that which sought to destroy them. Including the light of the sun."

Sure as hell feels like he's in his mind. That's fantastic. The anti-possession tattoo isn't enough now? Now he's gotta ward his thoughts with something? He misses the time where vampires were simple creatures, easy to kill and not like this. He makes a mental note to send Sam a message so the nerd can get to work on finding something for him.

It's possible he's just never run into a vampire this old and powerful. Lestat is different than the other vampires, that much is for sure, and he has no intentions of actually going up against him unless the vampire makes a move to attack him.

He doesn't like the way Lestat is looking at him, like he sees right through him. Like he knows something. What the hell does he know? What the hell has he seen by going rooting around in his head?

He hates the thought of it and his jaw clenches as his eyes narrow in Lestat's direction, letting him know how unhappy he is with the possibility of this.

Lestat offers help and a part of Dean is surprised by it. He doesn't expect him to turn against his own kind. Then again, these vampires are threatening his very existence and bringing in hunters. Some of these hunters may not be as understanding as Dean has become over the years and try to attack every vampire they see, regardless of what they or aren't doing.

An ancient one? Great. By the sounds of that, it's not good, and he'll have no choice but to have Lestat's help. He doesn't have a death wish, not today at least, and so he'll accept it. He's smarter than going into a nest alone when there's something called an ancient one.

"Fine. Say I take your help, then what? What about dead man's blood? Won't kill 'em but it weakens 'em. Does that work on these?" He's got plenty of dead man's blood back in the impala to coat his weapons with.

At least they've moved on from whether Dean thinks this vampire is pretty or not, small victories, Dean supposes.

[monbellemonstre]

(@strxgxi from here)

Si beau… It is a rare and anomalous moment, when Lestat can fluster Armand so thoroughly and so quickly that there is little time for temperance or patience, clemency or leniency, things which he knows the elder vampire covets and seeks to make his own. But the indignation, the resentment, the sheer bitterness within the elder vampire's initial outburst, it stained that beautiful cherubesque face with a shadowed acrimony that only Armand's true age and nature could exemplify. The face of a nursling nip, the smoothness of false innocence, and what lay deeper still, underneath... Une bête sanguinaire. Lestat felt very much in those moments how he had felt the first time he had ever seen Armand. He wanted to bathe him in perfumed oils and wrap his body in crushed velvet embroideries, to worship him, to break him, and to be broken by him all the same. He felt in control, a conductor surrounded by a loyal orchestra, and that control made him feel safe. As did, of course, the familiar stirrings of chaos and savagery that he had been born into, both in mortal life and when Magnus had brought him unwillingly into the Blood. Ashen eyes glistened, the pale colors undulating as they captured bits of light from the fire and the various blues and violets of their surroundings as they followed every step that the elder vampire took. When Armand gave that ominous little peal of laughter and approached the mortal sitting on the plush sofa there was a fluttering of excitement in Lestat's abdomen, a warmth that only came from the oncoming violent evidence of his lover's returned affections. He knew what was about to happen. After all, he'd practically orchestrated it line for line, just like his beloved playwright. A script carved out of mortal flesh and bone, fragile and destined for ruin. The moment the mortal soars up into the air and impacts the ceiling with a dull thud Lestat lets out a sound of jovial amusement that quickly transforms into deep laughter, particularly as the mortal gives a shout and falls back to the floorboards. "HahahaHAHAAAAAAA!" The sound is followed by the clapping together of Lestat's palms, twice, his face the very picture of entertained. "Ohhhhh, mon amour, tu m'amuses!..." He reached into his breast pocket to retrieve his own cigarette box with another little chuckle of amusement, though he used a match to light the end of his cigarette. The scent of mortal blood began to perfume the air as the man's face impacted the floor directly, giving a lovely crunching sound. "You say I am childish for wanting to have my evening meal in the comfort of my own living space, and yet... here you are, tossing that poor wretch about... comme un enfant détruisant ses propres biens parce que ses parents l'ont contrarié. C'est comme si je rentrais à la maison..." He paused a moment to take a long drag of the cigarette, filling his lungs with smoke that coiled from between his lips as he finished speaking. "Tu vas abîmer le plafond, mon amour…"

[monbellemonstre]

Amber-brown eyes shift, gaze drawn to that measured approach as if the movement itself were the flicker of a flame and Armand's attention the moth. He loathes the slender lean of the blonde's gait and how captivatingly that voice reverberates within his skull. His eyes immediately return to the harlequin's face, of course, but the small and instinctual glance is impregnated with meaning. It serves as both an acceptance and enjoyment of this change in proximity betwixt the two celestial bodies. A joyful little orbit, both of them just as much at the other's mercy, should mercy in some form still exist within either. The corner of Armand's mouth lifts higher, almost as if he might be confessing to such enjoyments in the silence that rests between them within the opaque. Perhaps he is, as his thoughts are not hidden beneath their usual systematic compartmentalization. They are instead as glittering and grandiose as the display of a storefront during the holidays, windows frosted with ice as the snow begins to drift. The ice captures the light of the streetlamps and tricks the mind, only for a moment, into thinking something magical might be occurring beneath the mundane or the ordinary. A wriggling lore submerged beneath the opaque. "An overwhelming sense of conservancy, as ill placed as it may be." The words are spoken with a measure of declining amusement that settled in the last syllable firmly at concerned neutrality. "There have been whisperings of a self proclaimed venator with your name on their lips, lurking. Watching. Asking questions."

⸸ཀ(centuries fail to cure Lestat's disregard for impossibilities. He gave up seeking involved conversations with people who prefer ego as their partner. Armand expands in his lavish darkness where Lestat's pale light sizzles, threatening to set their proximity afire. Ancient beings they were, raised by generations drenched in incoherent dichotomy. Lestat ponders what poet Armand assumes tonight as he comes to prophesize before a golden lion. A blue glint echoes in Lestat's eyes as they fall down Armand's figure. He is dressed like the shadow he prefers to remain. Lestat arches his elegant eyebrow, belittling their prickling conversation with a single expression. He is defiant, proud, and maybe just a little curious. "Oh?" Lestat's voice is akin to a melody a prisoner hums while marching to the gallows. The audience that visits the execution thinks that his head will roll in the next hour, but the prisoner holds one vital detail the former does not: he is here to drink them all dry. Lestat's lips spread into a self-indulgent smile. "You seek me out with a favor?" He snaps his fingers at Armand as if an enlightened fuse sparks in his head. "Do not tell me just yet. First, the Devil must speak of the catch." He gestures toward Arman, approaching him with a single, calculated sway. A mere sway of his hips an inch to the adversary's direction, boldly entering muddy waters. "What possessed you to warn me unless such danger willingly crawled here, Armand?"

[monbellemonstre]

Oh, c'est absolument fantastique…

That gorgeous little rapture of barely contained indignation causes the vampire's mercurial expression to shift, to transform into something much more solicitous and unrefined. Ashen blue eyes dilate further, irises capturing the deep violet-maroon of the draperies and surrounding the midnight of his pupils with a candescent radiance.

Le masque glisse, tombe doucement pour révéler son véritable intérêt. Artémis et Héphaïstos dorment désormais sur les épaules d'Erebus.

Now, there is only a keen and vicious fascination.

"I'm not inside of your head, mon cher... You simply lack the necessary skills to prevent projecting your thoughts for anyone with my gifts to hear..."

The vampire Lestat is no longer a well choreographed pantomime, a tummler of his own making, a harlequin tragedian steering the course of his own vessel, non. He is the gourmand of the corpus delicti. A collector, a connoisseur curating a new piece for his collection. And what a ravishing piece this Dean Winchester will make...

Generally speaking, bringing a Hunter into the Blood is not only frowned upon but punishable by death in certain covens. But this Hunter is unlike any that Lestat has ever met before... This Hunter has strength of spirit that the vampire longs to deconstruct, to remake in his own image. To keep for himself, for eternity. And the predisposition for darkness, the spark... it is already laying dormant within the Hunter, waiting for the moment when it can flourish and blossom once more.

This Hunter has bore witness to breathtaking terrors, nightmarish effigies and creatures unlike anything Lestat has ever experienced. Hellscapes, an inferno of pain and suffering not only experienced by this Dean Winchester, but curated by him as well. A demonic force tormenting souls in the deep underbelly of theology.

Seeing these things shifts something within the vampire, and for the first time since being unwillingly brought into the Blood in 1794, Lestat is thankful he is immortal. That his soul, already damned and soaked with mortal blood, will never have to experience such horrors. He used to think that it might, but he has seen what happens to the soul when a vampire is destroyed, has seen it intimately. Nothing is left of them but a hollow impression, roaming the Earth in spirit as they had in body.

"I can help you rid New Orleans of this rogue vampire coven, but you must understand that these are no ordinary newborn fledglings. This madness, this... incredible bloodlust that you have witnessed in these 'nests', it is inhabituel... uncommon. Even a newborn fledgling left to fend for themselves with no knowledge of what they have become should be capable of practicing self control after the initial feeding, even if they enjoy indulging in such savageries..."

As Lestat speaks he withdraws a silver cigarette case and a zippo lighter from within his breast pocket, opens the case, plucks a cigarette out and places it between his lips. He lights it, taking a long puff of the smoke and exhaling it upward to the ceiling, rather than toward the Hunter now standing roughly five feet and four quarter inches from him. The vampire speaks freely to the Hunter, divulging more than perhaps he should.

"Their inability to practice self control outside of the hunt, their extraordinary strength, their bloodlust... It means that they've been brought into the Blood by an ancient one. Holy water, garlic, the crucifix, these things will not work unless there is belief, faith behind it. Most ancient ones have lost such faiths and superstitions..."

The vampire starts speaking in French because of course he does, why the hell had he expected anything different? Pretentious ass vampire. He doesn't understand a single word of that French, it's not like he had fancy education growing up and he dropped out of high school.

He knows one thing, though. He doesn't like that he doesn't know what he's saying, no matter how good French sounds falling off of Lestat's tongue. "Hey - speak English. I don't have a damn clue what you're saying." Though, it's possible that's the point.

It's becoming increasingly clear that this vampire is far older than any he's ever encountered. It doesn't make him afraid, he's faced down literal gods and hell itself. Why the hell would a vampire scare him? If this bastard knows his name, then he knows who he is, and possibly the things he's done. His name and his brother's name is known in a wide variety of circles. His father's, too.

Even as Lestat approaches, Dean does not back down. Maybe if he were some newbie hunter who got in way over his head but he's not, he's a seasoned hunter who doesn't really get scared easily.

Dean's eyes narrow in a glare as the vampire insists on saying that his breath hitches at his voice. What the hell? If it has, he hasn't been noticing it, so he'll pretend like he didn't do it at all.

Then, there's a voice in his head and Dean wants to lash out because of it. "Get out of my goddamn head!" Oh, he hates that. He's tired of beings rooting around in his mind like he's sent out goddamn invitations.

Pretty? Really? Well, Dean can't deny that Lestat is an attractive man but surely that means nothing.

"I don't know what you're talking about but I'm gettin' real tired of your games real fast."

[monbellemonstre]

❛ if i could be a different person, i promise you, i would be. ❜ @ Louis

(@eladead - from here) - (always accepting!)

Slender fingers go still, the page Louis had been turning in the book cradled against one of his palms fluttering back into place, forgotten. There are very few moments between them that he would call intimate without any sort of carnal undertones, and the words disarm him entirely for several long seconds. Spectral green eyes fixate on Lestat for the duration of those long, drawn out seconds, almost as if he's trying to determine whether or not the words are meant to procure genuine connection or Louis' insistence that his paramour need not change as perfection has already been achieved. Either way, he thinks, Lestat will be satisfied, but Louis doesn't want simple satisfaction. He wants communication. His weight shifts effortlessly as he closes Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium, translated, and places it on the mantle he's been standing next to for the better part of the past four hours. In this moment Lestat is more important than the pages that he's scoured a thousand times over without absolution. Instead, he finds that absolution within his lover's eyes. "What if I said that I didn't want you to change who you are, love? What if I said, theoretically, that I want you to teach me how to let go? No violence, no unnecessary pain, just... you and I, on the hunt, treating them with respect... What then?" The words are gentle but genuine, his hesitations dissolving the moment that the conversation is set in perpetual motion. An olive branch extended. A compromise wherein before he had refused them. He is approaching Lestat slowly but casually, the evidence of years spent familiarizing and memorizing, and a measure of warmth exists in the small smile just barely visible at the corners of his mouth.

[monbellemonstre]

The mortal's initial hesitations and subsequent denials are met with a low, almost flirtatious sound of amusement that even the most proficient in compartmentalization may not be able to convince themselves is merely just a mirthful exhalation. After the sound fades and silence falls, the room is left somehow much quieter than it had been before, and a smirk rests on pale lips.

The vampire Lestat stands, his statuesque form uncannily still as he leans against the far wall of the parlor, ashen eyes lined in black reflecting the galvanic glow of the streetlamps filtering in from the nearby window. Those eyes are fixated on the Hunter, almost glowing in the darkness, reminiscent of some wild beastly predator tracking its prey.

The vampire is doing this on purpose, of course, because he knows that most mortals find it incredibly unnerving and when mortals are caught off guard or frightened they tend to offer up their thoughts on silver platter. All the vampire has to do is pay attention. Hunters are no exception. With all of their impudent, vengeful self-assuredness there comes with it a very tangible fear.

A fear not of their own mortality, but of their own survival.

"Tu es un labyrinthe d'énigmes... You enter my home, no invitation, and yet you aren't frightened. You aren't frightened of my nature, my thirst for mortal blood... Pour ton sang..." It is the first thing that the vampire addresses, because he finds it the most entertaining. His tone is low, a register lower than any mortal vocal chords can easily replicate, and this time the flirtation is not a question. It is a statement of fact, woven into his tone effortlessly. As he speaks it is with a flourish of reanimation, moving away from the wall and taking measured steps toward the Hunter.

"Then what is it, Dean Winchester, that makes your stomach quiver and your breath hitch every time you hear my voice? At my ever pressing proximity?" The Hunter's name is used quite on purpose, as if uttering a confession in the silence of a church to a Priest. Lestat is letting the Hunter know that he is not like the fumbling, grotesque newborns risking their kind's very existence by slaughtering their way through their fledgling years. He is older. He is more powerful. He is not without self control under any normal circumstances.

Almost as if to emphasize this the vampire's pupils dilate rapidly, a smirk of wicked promise appears on his lips and his voice echoes in Dean's mind:

'Could it be that you find me... pretty?'

[monbellemonstre]

(@strxgxi - cont. from here)

The miniscule glimmer of dominion in Armand's amber-brown eyes was amplified by the slight widening of the already-present smirk on the vampire's lips as the mortal's eyes met his own, the attention he had sought successfully captured. The sensation was a dually bladed victory, however, and it caused a quivering within, a trembling division. Triumph at the success of having captured Daniel's attention and shame over how much he had desired the attention in the first place.

A waif knelt along the streetside in front of a pleasure house, slender hands upturned, reverent palms facing Heaven as forbearance is sought. The sky opening. A demon dressed as a savior, approaching in the rain...

The memory flickered like film reels behind sovereign eyes and left the back of his throat aching. His flesh stung with the ghosts of the past. Amber-brown eyes remained fixated on Daniel as he let amusement and flirtation cover the true emotions roiling within. It was incredibly helpful that the mortal chose that precise moment to engage in the delightfully adolescent expression of sticking his tongue out.

Armand drew in a slow, unnecessary breath to capture Daniel's scent on his own tongue, lips parting just so as the smirk faded, replaced by a sweltering expression. The glimmer in his eyes intensified, pupils dilating subtly. Ever since the 'interview' the vampire had found himself... intrigued by Daniel Molloy. Fixated, almost. Tracking him from the moment he had left the destroyed apartment, observing him, studying him. How could a mere mortal possess the ability to uproot decades of trust and intimacy between Louis and himself?

Twice?

It was a labyrinth of questions and answers, and though none of them were in the correct order he fully intended to sort them out properly. Several images flickered behind Armand's amber-brown eyes but they were not memories of days long since past. Rather, they were obscene little situations between himself and Daniel in various states of undress, and it caused a fiery squirming sensation in the pit of his stomach when he realized that he couldn't be certain which one of them was producing the imagery.

"Is that why you're flushing, Daniel? Because you find me attractive? Because you enjoy the feeling of me... watching?"

[monbellemonstre]

Stop starin' and fuckin' do something.

A deep reverberation rumbles through Lestat automatically as his beloved growls those words. As his beloved is at last submerged beneath the current of darkness and swept away by the tides of the more feral and animalistic natures of their shared existence. In this moment, as lips crash together and fingernails claw and find purchase, Maker and progeny have never been closer.

A dance shared between two eternal devils; one starving themselves to remain a saint, the other blissfully falling from grace while attempting to become a savior.

Both are damned, either way, but the dance continues all the same.

There is no thought, no conscience, no inner light illuminating the shame and disgrace within Louis' falsely righteous bones, none of the guilt that usually creased his paramour's perfect features. There are only the baser, more primal desires that drive them now, that drive every species.

There is only instinct. Only the feeling of flesh on flesh as Lestat lifts a knee and crawls onto the edge of the bed, forcing his paramour onto his back. He breaks the kiss with the taste of his own vampiric blood on his tongue, drawing in a gasping breath and letting it out in the form of a guttural sound that would terrify any mortal should they hear it.

"So demanding, mon cœur. Si désespéré pour moi... Such agony you must be in..." One hand is tangled in Louis' hair, elbow to the mattress, while the other lifts to his mouth to slicken his palm before delving down between them.

Within moments he is pushing forward, not seeking entry into his lover's body but demanding it swiftly, words leaving him in a growl at the sensations. "Comme il est beau que cette souffrance se termine par votre ruine…"

[monbellemonstre]

The joke is appreciated because the both of them know this is the only instance where Lestat would take more than one, perhaps two lives in a singular evening. The hunt, while exhilarating to the elder vampire in such provocative ways as to make his paramour's stomach twist, had gotten more reserved and reasonable as the years progressed.

While still a young fledgling himself, Lestat had brought terror and fear to remote villages and small towns. That is not to say that his thirst for blood nor the deep, pulsating desire to cause violence and savage mayhem has decreased as time has passed. Quite the opposite in fact. Particularly since meeting Louis.

It is more to do with the fact that the elder vampire has learned how to control these urges and drink to keep himself alive and at his full capabilities, without the ever-pressing need to indulge. He still relishes and delights in the bloodshed, the squirming, the fear in the mortal's eyes as the light fades, of course…

But he does so now without gluttony.

He has no care for religious cardinal sins, commandments, rules, stipulations from an invisible God too cowardly to intervene when hearing a young man's pleading cries, but he does care. He cares a great deal, in fact, what Louis thinks of him. And this drives him, again and again, into the madness of his more primal natures.

This is what love and dedication are, is it not? Madness to the point of self-destruction?

Maker and fledgling move through the Quarter, silent revenants of the night, keen eyes surveying every shadow between the lamplights as they pass them by. The scent of the hunters is captured on the fluttering breeze as it passes, and Lestat's nostrils flare as he fills his lungs with the aromatic ozone. The humidity has risen by several dew points, the pressure elevating just enough to keep the spattering of blood along the alleyways fresh. Finding the hunter's hideout is a fairly simple task once they pass Delaronde près de Chartres.

He comes to a stop in the same moment Louis' hand reaches out to take him by the wrist, ashen blue eyes fixating on the large townhome in the near distance. He is unsure which of them has sensed it first, but it matters not. He still feels a surge of affectionate pride for his fledgling in these moments, as Louis senses the hunters in their hideaway and concludes precisely how many reside within.

"Well done, Louis." The words are brief and breathy. The tone he says them in is genuine, and it conveys the depth of his affections. The depth of his admirations for his fledgling, his paramour, his companion through eternity. Even the glisten in his ashen eyes carried the weight of his love for Louis. "Four hunters, just as you say. Two are injured, one of them severely enough to require medical attention... You must have fought them brilliantly, mon cher..."

His eyes turn back to the occupied townhome as his own senses sharpen, listening to the sounds of the hunters hearts beating, the idle conversations as they tended to their wounds, their thoughts as their heads filled with vampiric visions of the night's violence. A violence that was not yet near its completion.

"We must be quick and silent. Establish ourselves within the townhome before we make our presence known. Take them by surprise while they are still in the process of mending... Come." In a moment he is on the move, slipping through the shadows toward the townhome faster than any mere mortal could replicate, as silent as the night breeze.

Then we burn them all.

Lestat says it with such conviction that Louis wants to believe him, he knows his love will keep him safe. Despite their ups and downs, that is one thing that Louis is sure of. Lestat will do everything in his power to protect them even if it means slaughtering as many vampire hunters that he needs to.

Unlike Lestat, as paranoid as he may feel right now, Louis doesn't seem to know that they may have found their townhome. After all, wouldn't he or Lestat had noticed if they were being stalked or hunted? Sure, they got the drop on him this time, but on Lestat? A thought that seems inconceivable.

Lestat sounds so sure when he said no one followed and Louis believes him. Even if he had doubt, that hand to his cheek is enough to distract him from racing thoughts and doubt that may be lingering behind.

His head tilts to lean his cheek into Lestat's hand, as if a cat trying to nuzzle it's owner. Lestat's touch is comforting in ways that he can not describe. It's like he was drowning in the worry and Lestat is the lifeline keeping him afloat.

He thinks Lestat has always been his lifeline, even before his Maker had turned him.

Louis lets out a sigh of content as he takes the moment for what it is, eyes fluttering shut as he meets Lestat's lips. It feels reassuring to him and it helps relax tense muscles, his lips and touch take away the edge he feels so heavily right now.

The kiss does not last long but the younger vampire is thankful for the moment they had shared. Lestat must have known he needed it - he has a way of doing that. Even when he cannot read his mind, he is so attuned to Louis that he usually knows how to calm him.

"This is the one time I will not stop you from slaughtering them all. Don't get used to it, Lestat." It is not harsh, it is a joke, an attempt to lighten the mood and put Lestat at ease, too. He's not the only one on edge from this.

He then gives a nod of his head and allows Lestat to lead the way, falling into a steady pace behind his lover. They'll follow the scent of blood once more, there won't be a chance any of them will be able to get away. Not again, not with Lestat hunting them.

He follows Lestat until they find the blood trail again and then he reaches out to grasp Lestat's wrist. He knows the man has probably already sensed it, but it's pure instinct that causes him to stop him.

Ahead of them, where the scent of blood is strongest, stands a building. Nothing out of the ordinary, it does not look to be abandoned or run down, it's a home. Either these hunters are local or they're squatting in a place that does not belong to them.

Louis pauses to focus on his senses and he concludes that there are four heartbeats inside just as he had originally reported to Lestat. "They're all in there." Likely tending to each other's wounds.

[monbellemonstre]

Lestat's determination did not waver.

Despite the elder vampire's coquettish habitudes which drew him into the gravitational orbit of the vivid, provocative and exquisite, his determination to complete the process properly persisted as his new fledgling expelled the remnants of his mortal self onto the floorboards. He remained, knelt beside his fledgling and bringing him comfort in the only way that he could in those moments.

Sympathetic fingers, long and pale, combing through pristine silvery curls. Benevolent and compassionate murmurings and utterances surrounded by sputtering sickness. Within several more violent expulsions of the vile liquid the transformation was completed. The monarch, no longer pupae, having quivered free of its chrysalis at last, abandoning the remnants of a former life that no longer serves it.

Ashen blue eyes gain a near reverent gleam as he watched the spark within his fledgling become a blazing wildfire of ecstasy, and for several long moments he could do nothing more than kneel, and observe in wonderment. Lestat had never imagined something could be so primitive in its simplicity, so feral in its clemency. His fledgling, his Mangum Opus, his companion, his Daniel Molloy... was absolute perfection. A canvas of pleasurable experiences and hardships conquered made flesh and bone.

A walking masterpiece.

And Lestat de Lioncourt; the thespian, the artisan, the avant-gardist Maître de transformations extraordinaires. He is astounded by his own creation.

The elder vampire had only just begun to rise from his knelt position of near-worship by the time his fledgling begun rushing over with a sheet of paper in hand. Lestat's grin was immediate upon seeing the flawless lines of script on the paper, a melodic chuckle escaping at his fledgling's pure celebratory elation.

"The Dark Gift has healed you, mon amour... Those beautiful hands could compose a million volumes and never tire." The words were spoken with almost the same reverence as the elder vampire's eyes still retained, though another melodic sound of amusement passed his lips as Daniel tossed the paper aside. There was an odd sensation that blossomed within at the sight as well, a twisting sensation in his abdomen that sent warmth throughout. It took Lestat a moment to recognize the sensation as affectionate pride.

His arms encircled his fledgling's waist without hesitation, the alluring request for the hunt causing a much different rush of heat within. He pushed it away, sequestered it into a corner where he might retrieve it at a later time. Perhaps after the hunt. All that mattered to him in that moment was making sure his brand new fledgling was fed and cared for. He was beginning to enjoy the idea of mercy and compassion, of guidance and nurturing during such a feral time. It was certainly more exhilarating than pain and misery, and he had always been a firm believer that grief is momentary.

"Out for a bite on the town, hmm? What poetry you speak, mon amour..." His voice was low and teasing, resting at such an octave that Daniel's mortal ears would have been incapable of picking it up. His arms tightened around his fledgling's waist as he pulled him closer, the elder vampire's expression matching that of his tone of voice. "I know the perfect spot, down by the water's edge. Rife with lonely tourists and lost little lambs wandering from the safety of their sheepcotes..." A brief pause wherein he bunts his forehead against Daniel's, and then, "We will start at the Piers. Go over the fundamentals of the hunt, see how easily you are able to maintain control of your thirst for blood around the mortals and... go from there."