True Blood: Russell/Talbot
Title: I Can't Be Satisfied
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Russell/Talbot
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don’t claim anything. Please don’t sue me.
Warnings: Some mention of gore and sexual situations.
Spoilers: Up to 3x05, perhaps.
Summary: Talbot is entitled to make his own messes after cleaning house for centuries. Russell does well to remind him why he’ll continue to do so.
AN: Written for the ‘bubble bath’ square for my schmoop_bingo card as well as the ‘nervous breakdown’ square for hc_bingo. Hopefully that’s not cheating since they’re two different communities and they seemed to go so hand-in-hand with each other! Title after a blue’s song by Muddy Waters and it has nothing whatsoever to do with this fic so please don’t listen to it while reading it. This turned out a hell of a lot sappier than I intended it to be. Queen Talbot fo-evah!
The smell of blood is sharp as he approaches the manor, no more than a smear of color to any mortal eye, if even that. His senses tell them there is a copious amount of gore to be had upon reaching his destination, and there’s a sour tinge to the scent that suggest that it’s been hanging around the area for a while. Russell Edgington isn’t at all concerned, though- it’s only werewolf blood, and while he will be most disappointed if any of it has gotten on any of his antiques, it isn’t nearly the end of the world. Talbot has been on a rampage again.
He isn’t wrong- he so rarely is these days. Upon entering the front door, he is greeted by a scene that would make most humans turn their insides out with disgust. There is blood all over the welcome room- six pints can go an awfully long way if you know what to do with it, and no expense has been spared for Talbot’s breakdown tonight. One of the houseboys comes hurrying over to sputter at him, some leggy young thing that Talbot uses to garnish the desserts when he needs it overtly sweet. Anxiously, the boy explains that Master Talbot had been arguing with one of the wolves over something that needed to be done when the man had said something that seemed to especially anger Talbot. The boy hadn’t seen much of it once the slaughter had started- he had gone to the servant’s quarters to fetch the others in preparation to get the mess. Master Talbot had been so under the weather lately.
Edgington listens to all of this with a perfectly calm and almost solemn demeanor, slowly pulling off his gloves and allowing his eyes to flicker over the chaos. The small marble statuette that Talbot had always favored was still intact, if thoroughly painted with blood and a bit of liver. Intestines clung haphazardly to the banister like Christmas garlands, blood coated the candle-esque lamps, and not even the chandelier above had managed to escape some of the taint. Of course, his antique couch was spattered and shredded, torn away from the wall fitfully in the whirlwind of destruction. He’d liked that couch. Luckily, Russell had enough foresight to keep anything he truly treasured in his study, which he would have to check now that this fiasco had happened.
His face was a mask of composure and grace as he simply asked how many had met their ends at Talbot’s hands. Two for sure, the boy told him, as a few of the werewolf’s pack-mates attempted to intervene. One of them was in critical condition, as Master Talbot had taken off his arm in the flurry and scratched him up something terrible. Edgington sent him off to fetch a goblet, and when he had returned rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and bit neatly into the inside of his wrist. In his mind, he had ascertained that he would have done the exact same thing if the mutts had tried such a stunt with him, but it was important that he uphold his appearance as the good master when he could. Werewolves were not at all unlike mongrels- there were many atrocities one could get away with so long as you threw them a bone once in a while and scratched their ears. They were simple and single-minded, and as far as numbers went, Russell had no doubt their constant rutting would bring more into the fold to replace what he lost. Stupid animals.
He sent the boy on his way with the goblet half full of his blood, telling him to deliver it into the hands of the ones who were keeping watch over their brother in his time of agony. There would be words later, of course, but Russell had higher priorities to attend to than coddling a dying whelp. He had tactfully left the poor sap’s fate in the hands of his pack now. If the hale wolves couldn’t resist the temptation of his ancient blood in order to save their wounded fellow, it wasn’t his fault.
“Where is Talbot?”
***
As he entered the manor’s most illustrious bathroom, Russell quickly side-stepped and was rewarded with a hard crack against the wall. A bar of soap had been sent careening at him with enough force to splinter the plaster, barely missing his head.
“Get out, you no-good fucking bastard!” Came the accented shouting from the sunken tub, and Russell took a rapid succession of zig-zagging steps to avoid a bottle of shampoo, a box of waxing strips, tweezers, a hand-mirror, and some sort of long-handled brush that allowed one to scrub their back more thoroughly. All the while, he was approaching the bath, which was filled at least a foot high with scented bubbles. The tub was at least ten feet long and three feet deep, easily fit to comfortably sit two or three guests. Talbot had been born in a time where community baths were the size of Olympic swimming pools and had never quite given up on insisting it was a necessity to have room in which to bathe. Russell, who had grown up with absolutely nothing in his mortal life, much less running water, was more than happy to lend a part of his fortune having the tub built for them in his pursuit of grandeur.
“Talbot, Talbot,” He drawls, barely able to see his lover over the mountain of suds, but sensing him there nonetheless. As he draws closer, it’s easier to spot him, darting over to the other side of the tub to put more distance between himself and Russell. And oh, he is mad. He couldn’t have been in the heated waters for less than twenty minutes, but he’s shaking now with what seems, superficially, to be rage. Russell knows better. The Grecian man’s dark eyes dart between the elder vampire and the metal figurine decorating the head of the faucet, clearly debating ripping the gryphon from its perch in order to have something else to throw. Russell frowns at him and shakes his head. Don’t you dare.
Talbot’s fingers stutter across the steel and halt, for as much as he could rage against Russell, there were still lines that he would not cross. When it came down to it, there was absolutely no mistaking the dominance the older vampire held across his progeny and consort.
“Now, let’s just talk a bit, darling. It’s been a long evening for the both of us,” As he says so, he begins to unbutton his shirt, keeping his gaze on Talbot, who shows his hand by returning a most wary stare.
“Fuck you,” The younger male hisses, and there is a pop as his thin, serpentine fangs unsheathe themselves. It’s as much a show of apprehension as it is aggression. Talbot is a frayed bundle of nerves at the moment, backed into a corner like a wounded animal that scorns even the hands of its master. The vampire has stressed himself over the edge again, and Russell knows he is completely to blame for it. He does feel guilty, at least partially, but Talbot has always been known for his theatrics and this sort of acting is just a cry for attention. He needs to be coaxed, to be soothed- he doesn’t really want to be alone or else he would have fled. After over seven hundred years of being together, it’s typical, and Russell falls into the routine easily.
“Evaresto evastes…” Russell’s voice deepens, purring his lover’s native tongue with a practiced ease. Talbot’s eyelids flutter just barely in response, features softening a little. He’s not giving up quite yet, though, sinking a little deeper into the water with his dark brows hitched and his lower lip beginning to jut itself out. When Edgington finishes stepping out of his clothes and slides waist-deep in the warm waters, he’ll stay, only flinching the first time out of the man’s grasp before he allows himself to be reeled in.
“I’m sorry--”
“Hah!”
“I’ve been so busy this year, I haven’t been giving you the attention you deserve.”
Talbot is trembling and clearly trying to act like he isn’t. Russell pulls him into his arms and against his chest with the familiarity only years of companionship could afford. The other doesn’t fight him, just hides his face beneath the cover of his dark curls and refuses to look him in the eyes. So far, so good.
“Now, I know I’ve been a perfect bastard-“
“Understatement of the century?”
“But I’ve always tried to do right by you. I love you, Talbot, more than anything I’ve ever had in this world. You know I don’t mean to hurt you. I would never…”
Russell is honestly surprised when Talbot shakes harder and actually sobs, quickly lifting a hand to muffle it. The vampire is actually crying, which isn’t something that happens all that often in their lover’s spats. More often than not, Talbot plays aloof and scathing until his fur is smoothed down with a soft word and a good fuck. It takes Russell a good moment to realize the surge of feeling making him clench his jaw is honest-to-god shame; it’s been long enough that he has completely forgotten what it feels like to hate himself a little for his actions. But with Talbot beginning to whine against his shoulder, he’s absolutely sure that’s what he’s feeling. Russell Edgington, who has slaughtered whole families over a trinket without looking back, feels wrong. It distresses him a little- it’s about as painful as a silver bullet to the gut and just as sudden. He reaches to tip Talbot’s head up and yes, there are streaks of blood eeking from the corners of his eyes, beginning to slide down the contour of his nose.
“Talbot,” He breathes, and it’s almost a plea. The tone says more than any language he knows, and the man gasps softly in response. Russell lets him sling his arms around his neck and burry his face against his collarbone, runs his own hands up the man’s back and holds him with nothing short of absolute possession as Talbot lets it all out.
“I know… I know how important this is to you, and I want more than anything to h-help you, but…” From there it dissolves into a flurry of Greek, and Talbot tells him his concerns, how he feels like Russell is slipping away from him, about how they don’t go out together anymore, about how he absolutely abhors that bitch Russell has to marry because she is so young and uncultured and can they please kill her once all of this is over? Because as much as they’ve messed around, Talbot can be viciously jealous and possessive (he doesn’t say this, but it’s more than implied). Russell just listens and continues to soothe him before Talbot begins to work himself into a tizzy again. Then Russell is kissing him with more heat than he has in years, so passionate that their fangs are out within mere moments. Because they are both dead, they don’t need to breathe and just indulge in one another until the emotion and need forces them against the side of the tub. They make love right there in the water and the King of Mississippi is absolutely reverent in his attentions. Even though the blood is dry and tastes absolutely horrible, nothing is left behind to stain Talbot’s eminent visage.
***
Talbot lets his husband wash his hair, head tilted back against the crook of Russell’s shoulder and eyes shut to better indulge himself in the feel of the clever and gentle fingers combing through his hair. He murmurs notes of pleasure when nails carefully scratch at his scalp, working the conditioner deep into the roots of his jet black hair, and sighs when he feels the press of thin lips against his forehead. For now, he is content, practically boneless with what has perhaps been the best make-up sex he can recall.
“I will buy you a new couch,” He decides aloud, his long, dark lashes lifting a fraction so he can peer up at Russell.
“With whose money?” Comes the counter, followed by a soft chuckle as Talbot gives one of his King’s boney knees a smart pinch.
“I would be flattered. I’m sure you can find me a much more suitable replacement.” Comes the amendment.
“Of course I could.”
When the hands slide away, Talbot scoots forward and dips his head beneath the water, scrubbing his hair clean only to come up with a crown of bubbles. Russell idly puffs it off before he decides to be less lazy and actually sweep it off.
“Who did this to you?” He asks Talbot, hefting one of the man’s arms free of the water to reveal the long line of a gash in the otherwise perfect canvas of his flesh. It’s almost healed now, and there will be no sign of it within an hour, but Russell is still in the mood to be protective and vengeful on the behalf of his better half.
“Don’t worry, I got him.” Comes the simple answer and the cock of an arrogant brow. Russell grunts and lowers his head anyway, placing soft kisses along the mark and trailing his tongue in a completely unnecessary gesture to help the healing process along. When Russell had first met Talbot, he had been a dark beauty, something exotic to the world in which he had grown into. From the moment he saw the young man, he knew he would have to have him no matter the cost, and Russell always took what he wanted. He was paler than he once was, but he was still olive-skinned and gorgeous, and with his immortality his beauty had been amplified ten-fold and sealed forever like a bug in amber. Death became him.
“I promise you, when the world belongs to the vampires, there will be nothing we cannot do, nowhere we cannot go. Nothing we cannot have.”
Talbot surprised him with a puff of dismissal, pulling his long, tan legs up and leaning back into Russell’s chest.
“You stupid old man,” He murmured, turning his head to breathe the words against his lover’s neck, “Always the world on a string. You just don’t get it.”
“What?” Russell cants his head a little, having not a clue as to what Talbot was up to now, and there’s the knowledge in those dark eyes that had first drawn him to the man staring back, polished with age. Talbot just shakes his head a little, tangling his fingers with Russell’s pale ones. He lifts the hand to his lips, brushing over the knuckles idly. He sighs his Maker’s true name and makes the offer that will make them avoid the issue altogether. Russell is best when he is fighting for a cause, and he needs this justification of his now.
“Round two?”
He’s so greedy and barbaric at his core, but Talbot loves him anyway, for choosing him, for loving him all these years. He still finds it endearing that Russell thinks he needs to promise him all the fine things they never had, as if he’s still that wide-eyed, fickle servant boy that leaned out his window at night and asked the gods for something more. He’d gotten exactly what he’d asked for, now he just wished he could hold it together long enough to see all of Russell’s dreams come true.
Fandom: True Blood
Pairing: Russell/Talbot
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don’t claim anything. Please don’t sue me.
Warnings: Some mention of gore and sexual situations.
Spoilers: Up to 3x05, perhaps.
Summary: Talbot is entitled to make his own messes after cleaning house for centuries. Russell does well to remind him why he’ll continue to do so.
AN: Written for the ‘bubble bath’ square for my schmoop_bingo card as well as the ‘nervous breakdown’ square for hc_bingo. Hopefully that’s not cheating since they’re two different communities and they seemed to go so hand-in-hand with each other! Title after a blue’s song by Muddy Waters and it has nothing whatsoever to do with this fic so please don’t listen to it while reading it. This turned out a hell of a lot sappier than I intended it to be. Queen Talbot fo-evah!
The smell of blood is sharp as he approaches the manor, no more than a smear of color to any mortal eye, if even that. His senses tell them there is a copious amount of gore to be had upon reaching his destination, and there’s a sour tinge to the scent that suggest that it’s been hanging around the area for a while. Russell Edgington isn’t at all concerned, though- it’s only werewolf blood, and while he will be most disappointed if any of it has gotten on any of his antiques, it isn’t nearly the end of the world. Talbot has been on a rampage again.
He isn’t wrong- he so rarely is these days. Upon entering the front door, he is greeted by a scene that would make most humans turn their insides out with disgust. There is blood all over the welcome room- six pints can go an awfully long way if you know what to do with it, and no expense has been spared for Talbot’s breakdown tonight. One of the houseboys comes hurrying over to sputter at him, some leggy young thing that Talbot uses to garnish the desserts when he needs it overtly sweet. Anxiously, the boy explains that Master Talbot had been arguing with one of the wolves over something that needed to be done when the man had said something that seemed to especially anger Talbot. The boy hadn’t seen much of it once the slaughter had started- he had gone to the servant’s quarters to fetch the others in preparation to get the mess. Master Talbot had been so under the weather lately.
Edgington listens to all of this with a perfectly calm and almost solemn demeanor, slowly pulling off his gloves and allowing his eyes to flicker over the chaos. The small marble statuette that Talbot had always favored was still intact, if thoroughly painted with blood and a bit of liver. Intestines clung haphazardly to the banister like Christmas garlands, blood coated the candle-esque lamps, and not even the chandelier above had managed to escape some of the taint. Of course, his antique couch was spattered and shredded, torn away from the wall fitfully in the whirlwind of destruction. He’d liked that couch. Luckily, Russell had enough foresight to keep anything he truly treasured in his study, which he would have to check now that this fiasco had happened.
His face was a mask of composure and grace as he simply asked how many had met their ends at Talbot’s hands. Two for sure, the boy told him, as a few of the werewolf’s pack-mates attempted to intervene. One of them was in critical condition, as Master Talbot had taken off his arm in the flurry and scratched him up something terrible. Edgington sent him off to fetch a goblet, and when he had returned rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and bit neatly into the inside of his wrist. In his mind, he had ascertained that he would have done the exact same thing if the mutts had tried such a stunt with him, but it was important that he uphold his appearance as the good master when he could. Werewolves were not at all unlike mongrels- there were many atrocities one could get away with so long as you threw them a bone once in a while and scratched their ears. They were simple and single-minded, and as far as numbers went, Russell had no doubt their constant rutting would bring more into the fold to replace what he lost. Stupid animals.
He sent the boy on his way with the goblet half full of his blood, telling him to deliver it into the hands of the ones who were keeping watch over their brother in his time of agony. There would be words later, of course, but Russell had higher priorities to attend to than coddling a dying whelp. He had tactfully left the poor sap’s fate in the hands of his pack now. If the hale wolves couldn’t resist the temptation of his ancient blood in order to save their wounded fellow, it wasn’t his fault.
“Where is Talbot?”
***
As he entered the manor’s most illustrious bathroom, Russell quickly side-stepped and was rewarded with a hard crack against the wall. A bar of soap had been sent careening at him with enough force to splinter the plaster, barely missing his head.
“Get out, you no-good fucking bastard!” Came the accented shouting from the sunken tub, and Russell took a rapid succession of zig-zagging steps to avoid a bottle of shampoo, a box of waxing strips, tweezers, a hand-mirror, and some sort of long-handled brush that allowed one to scrub their back more thoroughly. All the while, he was approaching the bath, which was filled at least a foot high with scented bubbles. The tub was at least ten feet long and three feet deep, easily fit to comfortably sit two or three guests. Talbot had been born in a time where community baths were the size of Olympic swimming pools and had never quite given up on insisting it was a necessity to have room in which to bathe. Russell, who had grown up with absolutely nothing in his mortal life, much less running water, was more than happy to lend a part of his fortune having the tub built for them in his pursuit of grandeur.
“Talbot, Talbot,” He drawls, barely able to see his lover over the mountain of suds, but sensing him there nonetheless. As he draws closer, it’s easier to spot him, darting over to the other side of the tub to put more distance between himself and Russell. And oh, he is mad. He couldn’t have been in the heated waters for less than twenty minutes, but he’s shaking now with what seems, superficially, to be rage. Russell knows better. The Grecian man’s dark eyes dart between the elder vampire and the metal figurine decorating the head of the faucet, clearly debating ripping the gryphon from its perch in order to have something else to throw. Russell frowns at him and shakes his head. Don’t you dare.
Talbot’s fingers stutter across the steel and halt, for as much as he could rage against Russell, there were still lines that he would not cross. When it came down to it, there was absolutely no mistaking the dominance the older vampire held across his progeny and consort.
“Now, let’s just talk a bit, darling. It’s been a long evening for the both of us,” As he says so, he begins to unbutton his shirt, keeping his gaze on Talbot, who shows his hand by returning a most wary stare.
“Fuck you,” The younger male hisses, and there is a pop as his thin, serpentine fangs unsheathe themselves. It’s as much a show of apprehension as it is aggression. Talbot is a frayed bundle of nerves at the moment, backed into a corner like a wounded animal that scorns even the hands of its master. The vampire has stressed himself over the edge again, and Russell knows he is completely to blame for it. He does feel guilty, at least partially, but Talbot has always been known for his theatrics and this sort of acting is just a cry for attention. He needs to be coaxed, to be soothed- he doesn’t really want to be alone or else he would have fled. After over seven hundred years of being together, it’s typical, and Russell falls into the routine easily.
“Evaresto evastes…” Russell’s voice deepens, purring his lover’s native tongue with a practiced ease. Talbot’s eyelids flutter just barely in response, features softening a little. He’s not giving up quite yet, though, sinking a little deeper into the water with his dark brows hitched and his lower lip beginning to jut itself out. When Edgington finishes stepping out of his clothes and slides waist-deep in the warm waters, he’ll stay, only flinching the first time out of the man’s grasp before he allows himself to be reeled in.
“I’m sorry--”
“Hah!”
“I’ve been so busy this year, I haven’t been giving you the attention you deserve.”
Talbot is trembling and clearly trying to act like he isn’t. Russell pulls him into his arms and against his chest with the familiarity only years of companionship could afford. The other doesn’t fight him, just hides his face beneath the cover of his dark curls and refuses to look him in the eyes. So far, so good.
“Now, I know I’ve been a perfect bastard-“
“Understatement of the century?”
“But I’ve always tried to do right by you. I love you, Talbot, more than anything I’ve ever had in this world. You know I don’t mean to hurt you. I would never…”
Russell is honestly surprised when Talbot shakes harder and actually sobs, quickly lifting a hand to muffle it. The vampire is actually crying, which isn’t something that happens all that often in their lover’s spats. More often than not, Talbot plays aloof and scathing until his fur is smoothed down with a soft word and a good fuck. It takes Russell a good moment to realize the surge of feeling making him clench his jaw is honest-to-god shame; it’s been long enough that he has completely forgotten what it feels like to hate himself a little for his actions. But with Talbot beginning to whine against his shoulder, he’s absolutely sure that’s what he’s feeling. Russell Edgington, who has slaughtered whole families over a trinket without looking back, feels wrong. It distresses him a little- it’s about as painful as a silver bullet to the gut and just as sudden. He reaches to tip Talbot’s head up and yes, there are streaks of blood eeking from the corners of his eyes, beginning to slide down the contour of his nose.
“Talbot,” He breathes, and it’s almost a plea. The tone says more than any language he knows, and the man gasps softly in response. Russell lets him sling his arms around his neck and burry his face against his collarbone, runs his own hands up the man’s back and holds him with nothing short of absolute possession as Talbot lets it all out.
“I know… I know how important this is to you, and I want more than anything to h-help you, but…” From there it dissolves into a flurry of Greek, and Talbot tells him his concerns, how he feels like Russell is slipping away from him, about how they don’t go out together anymore, about how he absolutely abhors that bitch Russell has to marry because she is so young and uncultured and can they please kill her once all of this is over? Because as much as they’ve messed around, Talbot can be viciously jealous and possessive (he doesn’t say this, but it’s more than implied). Russell just listens and continues to soothe him before Talbot begins to work himself into a tizzy again. Then Russell is kissing him with more heat than he has in years, so passionate that their fangs are out within mere moments. Because they are both dead, they don’t need to breathe and just indulge in one another until the emotion and need forces them against the side of the tub. They make love right there in the water and the King of Mississippi is absolutely reverent in his attentions. Even though the blood is dry and tastes absolutely horrible, nothing is left behind to stain Talbot’s eminent visage.
***
Talbot lets his husband wash his hair, head tilted back against the crook of Russell’s shoulder and eyes shut to better indulge himself in the feel of the clever and gentle fingers combing through his hair. He murmurs notes of pleasure when nails carefully scratch at his scalp, working the conditioner deep into the roots of his jet black hair, and sighs when he feels the press of thin lips against his forehead. For now, he is content, practically boneless with what has perhaps been the best make-up sex he can recall.
“I will buy you a new couch,” He decides aloud, his long, dark lashes lifting a fraction so he can peer up at Russell.
“With whose money?” Comes the counter, followed by a soft chuckle as Talbot gives one of his King’s boney knees a smart pinch.
“I would be flattered. I’m sure you can find me a much more suitable replacement.” Comes the amendment.
“Of course I could.”
When the hands slide away, Talbot scoots forward and dips his head beneath the water, scrubbing his hair clean only to come up with a crown of bubbles. Russell idly puffs it off before he decides to be less lazy and actually sweep it off.
“Who did this to you?” He asks Talbot, hefting one of the man’s arms free of the water to reveal the long line of a gash in the otherwise perfect canvas of his flesh. It’s almost healed now, and there will be no sign of it within an hour, but Russell is still in the mood to be protective and vengeful on the behalf of his better half.
“Don’t worry, I got him.” Comes the simple answer and the cock of an arrogant brow. Russell grunts and lowers his head anyway, placing soft kisses along the mark and trailing his tongue in a completely unnecessary gesture to help the healing process along. When Russell had first met Talbot, he had been a dark beauty, something exotic to the world in which he had grown into. From the moment he saw the young man, he knew he would have to have him no matter the cost, and Russell always took what he wanted. He was paler than he once was, but he was still olive-skinned and gorgeous, and with his immortality his beauty had been amplified ten-fold and sealed forever like a bug in amber. Death became him.
“I promise you, when the world belongs to the vampires, there will be nothing we cannot do, nowhere we cannot go. Nothing we cannot have.”
Talbot surprised him with a puff of dismissal, pulling his long, tan legs up and leaning back into Russell’s chest.
“You stupid old man,” He murmured, turning his head to breathe the words against his lover’s neck, “Always the world on a string. You just don’t get it.”
“What?” Russell cants his head a little, having not a clue as to what Talbot was up to now, and there’s the knowledge in those dark eyes that had first drawn him to the man staring back, polished with age. Talbot just shakes his head a little, tangling his fingers with Russell’s pale ones. He lifts the hand to his lips, brushing over the knuckles idly. He sighs his Maker’s true name and makes the offer that will make them avoid the issue altogether. Russell is best when he is fighting for a cause, and he needs this justification of his now.
“Round two?”
He’s so greedy and barbaric at his core, but Talbot loves him anyway, for choosing him, for loving him all these years. He still finds it endearing that Russell thinks he needs to promise him all the fine things they never had, as if he’s still that wide-eyed, fickle servant boy that leaned out his window at night and asked the gods for something more. He’d gotten exactly what he’d asked for, now he just wished he could hold it together long enough to see all of Russell’s dreams come true.