#DEVOURCR

[aranostra]

@devourcr // plotted starter

Nicolas can sense Armand long before he arrives on his doorstep.

There are few vampires in the French countryside. Vampires are city creatures by necessity, but Nicolas doens’t mind the inconvenience, doesn’t mind feeding primarily on animals. Sometimes a wolf, for the symbolism of it. But even if the place were crawling with vampires, he would sense Armand. 

Armand did not make him, but he did mold him. He took the creature that should never have been created and made him capable of tolerating the world, even if he chose to do it through cruelty at first. Those years spent locked away with only visits from Armand from time to time had left marks on them both. Good and bad, yes, but Nicolas chooses the good. The bad seems very far away now.

He smiles when he sees Armand. Once again, Armand is dressed in what Nicolas knows must be fashionable now. Although Armand always wears it well, the clothing is always strange in some new way. A neckline that makes no sense to him, a shape that clings in peculiar ways, an inconceivable fabric of some make. He remembers when he was fashionable. Absurdly fashionable for this region of France, with a draper’s eye and his time in Paris. He used to care so very much about his clothing. Now he is wearing something he either found in a shop while in town or something Armand sent him; years out of fashion by now.

“It has been some time,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Armand’s cheek in greeting. He couldn’t say how much time, exactly. He learned long ago not to pay attention to that.

[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. ❜

[stormlit]

these days, the former servants' quarters in the attic of the manor house are used for storage; over a century's worth of outfits, antiques, and documents pile up, and amalia is loath to get rid of anything. fashions have a funny way of coming back around, and one never knows when some priceless relic might need to be unearthed for financial reasons. certainly nobody has lived up here since soon after amalia was turned — when she insisted on moving the servants out of the big house, claiming a need for space but really making it harder for george to get to them. it wasn't enough, but she'd had little power, then. it had taken time to grow it.

only one room remains as it had been, back when amalia had been human, intentionally kept as the sparse maids' bedroom it had been, almost a shrine to the living person she was. a reminder. it is here that armand finds her, sat on one of the narrow beds, knees tucked up to her chest. she'd not been hiding, at least not intentionally, but amalia imagines it was a little difficult to find her; she reaches out a hand to him, both silent apology and invitation.

❝ i was turned today. close to today, at least. i couldn't read a calendar, and my memories of the beginning are a little fuzzy. ❞ terror does that to a person, doesn't it? terror, and transformation. amalia looks up at armand, a sad ghost of a smile on her lips. ❝ it doesn't always make me melancholy, the anniversary, but... ❞ she shrugs, ❝ it's the first time i've been back in this house for a while. ❞ they were in london, before this, and paris before that. there are more good memories than bad here, but oh, those bad ones still linger in her heart. every so often they like to leak their poison back into it.

she gently tugs armand's hand, shuffling over to make room beside her, and nods at the other bed. ❝ i slept there, before. it was colder, by the window, but i liked the view. ❞

@devourcr

[kidfrommodesto]

@devourcr asked 'is this okay?'

He hadn't expected Armand to show up at his apartment after the events of Dubai. He didn't expect himself to allow Armand into his home. He didn't expect the actual polite conversation they were having let alone Armand reaching out and holding his hand. There was a part of him that wanted to jerk his hand away and sock him in the eye; but there was such tenderness to the motion it really caught Daniel off guard. Perhaps it was the memories coming back, maybe it was the meds he was on, or maybe he was just so fucking lonely that he welcomed the touch.

"It's. . .fine." Daniel said finally, putting his other hand on top of his a moment before letting go.

[vampatriarch]

The loneliness Carlisle has felt since turning into a vampire has been debilitating. Even following the vegetarian lifestyle has been easier than dealing with being completely and utterly alone. He is a social man, has always sought out company-- but it's not like he can be around humans and their groups, not when he is no longer human, not when the sun makes him look so different. He has no one to watch his back either if needed, which just makes him feel paranoid. The paranoia isn't enough to cloud his senses though, which is what has led him to the sharp stench of blood, so strong he smelled it from miles away, even with all the many potent smells in Paris.

Now he's outside of this theater, Théâtre des Vampires, wondering why it smells so intensely. If a human were to smell so much blood coming from a theater, they'd likely assume the actors are using pig's blood for dramatics. But Carlisle knows the difference. It is easy for him to slip through the dark alley and to the back entrance of the theater, his curiosity getting the best of him. He plans to peek inside, never hesitating to help any human in need. For a heart that no longer beats, it still feels immensely, much to his own dismay sometimes. @devourcr

[bitterdeathtoswallow]

Insanity

@devourcr

Daniel felt ill.

He was dead sober, and he felt ill.

He hadn't touched drugs or alcohol since that night he woke up in the drug den that Louis and Armand had dumped him in. Armand...who was the most beautiful thing that Daniel had ever seen. Armand that Daniel desired above all things.

That's why he was ill.

Armand had tortured him. Armand had threatened to kill him and nearly done it. But in the end, the vampire had left him alive. Now he consumed his every thought, waking and dreaming.

Daniel felt like he was losing his mind.

An offer had come to him. A group called the Talamasca was intrigued that he had survived Louis, and offered him a position among their ranks. He had denied them. He didn't want to spy on vampires and research them. He wanted to be among them. He wanted to be with Armand.

Which is why he stood before the apartment building in San Francisco where he had nearly died. He lit a cigarette and watched it, day and night, for three days.

"I'm going fucking insane."

[thedevilsjournalist]

@devourcr

The last few days were a blur. It was a haze of pain and fear, of the sound of Louis' screams from another room, with a few clear memories sprinkled in. Daniel had been certain he was going to die; he was pretty sure the one called Armand was going to kill him, but for some reason he didn't.

Then Daniel was waking up on the floor of some drug den. He tried to convince himself it was a dream, some bad trip from sketchy drugs. But the wounds on his neck and the dried blood around his nose told him what he needed to know. Another few days of recovery, and Daniel decided he couldn't be in San Francisco anymore. It didn't feel safe.

The plan was to go back to his apartment, pack a bag, and leave for New York. The other side of the country felt like a good idea. It really did seem like it was working out until he checked into his hotel room and saw Armand sitting on his bed waiting for him. Daniel froze in his tracks, body completely overcome with an intense terror. The third option; not fight or flight, but freeze. He was an idiot for think that he'd actually been set free, that he'd be allowed to live. Armand was toying with him, the same way he toyed with him back in the apartment. Daniel was the idiot who walked right into the trap.

For what was probably the first time ever, Daniel was at a loss for words. What could he possibly say? Instincts took over now, freeze response taken over by flight response. He did what he should have done as soon as he saw the coffin in San Francisco; he turned around and bolted for the door.

[cursedviolinist]

@devourcr

The last thing Nicolas could remember clearly was walking with Lestat, being approached by a man who looked as though he'd crawled out of the sewers. There was a conversation between the two he couldn't quite follow, an argument, and he was pretty certain he'd been thrown to the ground without anyone even touching him.

That was when things got hazy. He remembered being lifted under the man's arm like he weighed nothing, being carried at a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a human to walk, brought underneath Les Innocents. More people waited below, just as unkept as the man who carried him. They'd chained him down, and the most horrifying part; they'd bit him, drinking his blood. This wasn't some argument between Lestat and an angry group of people; this was an argument between Lestat and a group of monsters. The biting continued despite his struggles and his pleas to stop, leaving his torso and neck littered with wounds.

Finally, the group backed off, leaving the Master kneeling next to him. Nicolas was sure he'd heard his name at one point, but he couldn't remember it now in his haze of blood loss and shock. But Nicolas didn't need to know his name to know he was the one in charge.

"Why have you brought me here?"

[starlightintheirwake]

Armand said: it was avant-garde. it was french cinema. (daniel)

Yeah, yeah, every weirdo cinephile's got full wood for the New French Extremity thing. Daniel was there, too. He gets it- duh, it's right up Daniel Molloy's alley- but can everybody come off the nose in the air about it?

"I don't know, Armand," Daniel says, and picks up a DVD copy of Lars von Trier's Antichrist from the old box of Daniel's edgelord shit Armand dug up. Willem Dafoe's body double's magnum dong had been the star of the show, he recalls about that one, and not much else, "I think von Trier is just edgy." Gaspar Noe is definitely high on his own farts.

"We need to get you on some John Waters," Daniel decides. Waters has the attitude right. Taste is a terrible thing to have. "Embrace that you're rolling around in trash."

@devourcr

[minaharkerdailymirror]

In which the Vampire meets the Hunter when she's killing a werewolf and refuses to believe she's just a civillian who happened to get lucky in defending herself

@devourcr

[aranostra]

@devourcr 15﹕ sender  and  receiver  make  eye  contact  across  a  busy  room . ( antoinette )

However many years go by, there still seem to be small rooms with live music and clinking glasses, places where Antoinette will find a booth by herself where she will spend most of her night. More often than not, a man will decide that she shouldn't be alone and inflict her with his presence; and she will leave with him. Why hunt when the prey comes to you, rolls over on its back, and waits for you to sink your teeth in? And when it does, how can she be blamed for taking what's offered?

But tonight, no prey has approached her and she listens to the music in peace, tracing the rim of a glass with her fingertip languidly, when she senses that she is not alone.

Her eyes widen slightly, her pale cheeks flushing. She has sensed others before, very rarely since separating from her maker. Her impulse was to escape. Lestat had always insisted that he was one of the few civilized vampires. That others were terrifying things that might subdue or hurt her.

Which he had done, in the end. Why, after all his lying, did she still believe the things he taught her?

There is no escape without drawing attention here, though. So she lifts her head and scans the room, trying to keep her fear from her expression even as she feels her eyes dart like a rabbit's. How will she know who it is? But she does, immediately. There is no mistaking another vampire, and he is already looking directly at her.

She feels suddenly like she's become the prey, and like the prey who comes right to her, she lifts a hand gesturing for him to join her at her booth.

[vienamoi]

❛   i wondered when you would make your way to me. ❜ lestat's tone is downright bored as he continues to scrub at half of his face with a makeup-remover wipe. he doesn't even really spare @devourcr more than a glance in the mirror. ( * he's not completely rude ! you should always look at your guest at least once. ) ❛   showing up in my home is a bold choice, though. i applaud you for the audacity. ━━━━━━━━ just be sure to keep your shoes off the sofa. that's genuine cheetah fur upholstery. ❜

[stormlit]

❛ i need to talk to you. i'm at home, when you're free. ❜

it would have been easy to go and find armand, but the last place amalia had wanted to talk to him was the theatre, with its listening ears and disdainful looks. it's been a long time since she felt welcome there, since she enjoyed going. at least paris has enough other theatres for her to frequent, often with armand, that she doesn't feel its loss all too terribly. so she asks him to come to her instead, answers his approach by swinging the door open with a flick of her hand from where she rests on the couch, legs up across it and a bottle of nail polish in her hand. he lives here as much as she does, but tonight it's her domain.

❝ darling, ❞ she greets without looking up, dragging red varnish across the last of her nails and recapping the bottle, leaning over to put it on the coffee table. ❝ did you know that your coven is still following me? ❞ she sounds calm, she looks calm. but amalia has always been a predator prowling the shadows, waiting for her moment to pounce, and calmness is just a front, a misdirection. she is angry. ❝ they think they're so smart, as if i don't know they're there. as if i can't hear what they think of me, as if i can't feel them scrabbling inside my head, trying to get at my fucking thoughts. ❞

amalia nurses her grudges, always. she remembers her slights. and this is something that has been building, held to her chest until she snaps. ❝ it's been years, armand. my patience wears thin. ❞ she looks up at him now, meets his eyes. their connection has always been...intense and honest, and she needs to know. because with the anger comes hurt, too. ❝ did you tell them to watch me? ❞

@devourcr

[kidfrommodesto]

❛ do you honestly think this is easy for me? ❜

"You know what? Yeah. I fucking do." Daniel snapped from the kitchen, pouring himself a drink, "you lead me on like you want me, you wine and dine me and then god fucking FORBID I ask you to change me then you act like I'm the fucking scum of the earth!"

[itsalcngstory]

There's a revolving curiosity around the unknown, camera held lightly in her grasp as she sits at an aged bench. Couples roaming around in the darkening night, the stars above just beginning to reveal themselves in the square, camera initially focused upon a nearby fountain - how it illuminates a near dim cerulean, like a beacon in the night that she can't help but add into the frame of a photo she snaps.

A little further roaming, and she catches sight of someone who catches her attention rather swiftly, resounding click of the shutter heard before she can even contemplate taking the picture. What worries her just slightly is the eye contact in the shot, a flush of embarassed crimson rising to her features when she lowers the camera and chestnut gaze catches sight of the other.

@devourcr

[sookiestackhcuse]

🐝  *  ―  𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑻𝒀 𝑹𝑨𝑵𝑫𝑶𝑴 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺. | ❛ you're completely out of your element here, aren't you? ❜ asked by @devourcr

❝ What, vampires trying to take a bite out of me? That's actually right up my alley. ❞

Their kind couldn't help it when they were around her. One whiff of her faerie blood and it was like they were caught under a spell she didn't mean to cast. It took a lot of strength on their end to control themselves around her. The baby vampires had no impulse control while the older ones pretended not to be phased. She had asked Eric one time what he thought about her scent the first time they met. He admitted that all he could do the first sixty seconds of being around here was listen to the blood rushing through her veins and inhale her scent, his mouth watering only dreaming of what she might taste like. She wondered then if Armand thought the same way. He hadn't given her hungry eyes once, at least, not that she had noticed.

❝ Doesn't mean I'm not lookin' over my shoulder wonderin' if someone is gonna pounce on me and make me their next meal. I know I'm food if one of you really wants me to be. I got no allusions. ❞