Update: Gimme Danger Cos I've Slept So Long, Part Five
Title: Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: M (but really, this is back in light T)
Summary: In the early/mid ‘90s, Curt Wild is living a rather desolate existence. Until he spots the mysterious lead singer of a suddenly nonexistent band outside an infamous club. Little does he know that he intrigues that lead singer as well….
Disclaimer: Not mine (but damn, aren't they hot?)
Warnings: Writer that types while half-asleep. Vampyrism, Angst, Bloodplay, PWP, Slash, Sex (in previous chapter), and Tragedy(-not-tragedy?). Cliffie end.
A/N: And here's short, conflicted Part Five. (alt ending-epilogues will be following soon -- and it will -not- take almost a year, swear!)
--------------------
Gimme Danger 'Cos I've Slept So Long, Part One
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Two
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Three
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Four A
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Four B
--------------------
-----t-h-e-n---I---w-i-l-l---d-o---a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g-----
Oh, God.
It was…irrepressible. Unstoppable.
If it had been like all the previous times, Lestat could have controlled himself. But every now and again, there were exceptions. One has to understand, with a vampire, biting is far more varied than it is with humans. (It’s the fangs.) With mortals, you’ve a graze, a nip, a bite, or a deep bite. With vampires, there’s still a graze and a nip; a bite is typically just a reddened impression of the fang marks left, though. And then, rather than calling it a “deep bite”, there is a “kiss” or a tease - where the fangs actually puncture the skin (though not as deeply as possible) and just anywhere.
Then there is the bite. Sometimes called the Silver Kiss, or the Dark Kiss - there’s a myriad of romantic euphemisms for it. The bite is what vampires are known for. Above a vein, fangs sunk in deep, a deal of blood hotly released and consumed.
All the bites Lestat had marked Curt with before had been nips, plain bites and kisses.
Now, though… He had bitten him.
When Curt came, so too in a way had Lestat. Not as Curt did, no - he was undead, and not even sex with a mortal he was intensely drawn to and connected with could change that. But emotions did spiral for him in much the same way - likely more so for him, for his telepathy was letting him know Curt’s. And as he was swept under by sensation - clenching heat pulsing around his cock (funny to think he’d had no use whatsoever for it since he was born into Darkness) - liquid, hot, spurting from Curt, sliding over Lestat’s hand, between their stomachs. All the little saints -- if he had no knowledge of what it was, by the feel he might have said it could have been blood. He supposed in a way it was: Blood was essence, soul. Life. So, in a bit of a lesser degree, was this. As he was overwhelmed by the intense emotion, Curt’s mind grasping his, taking him under - Lestat just lost control, and the impulse - the need -- to bite followed.
Ah. It was… The blood was hot, gushing forth, flooding Lestat’s mouth. It was his nature, and he bent to it, drinking eagerly. Distantly, he felt the initial clench of Curt’s fist in his hair. He was dancing through vivid, fragmented memories, tripping along the bars of a musical staff as if he were a moving note, or fingers put down on the strings of a guitar - a shining black Fender. Following the pinprick tracks down sallow skin to where a needle of murky liquid made a new one. Soaring away into a beautiful night above a noisy city, glitter falling from the sky.
A memory came forth, taking precedence: Curt walking down a hall, guitar on his back. Lestat could feel heartbeat, loud and irregular, but strong. Strong, joining with his, finding a harmonious rhythm. A hypnotic, soothing beat.
He was killing him.
--------------------
No sound came out as Curt’s jaw dropped when he felt Lestat’s fangs tear into his neck. Too shocked. Too wrung. Too…just didn’t give a damn. But sharp teeth ripped into soft flesh - Curt felt it tear, felt the hot blood flow thickly and the moist hotness of Lestat’s mouth, sucking at it. …He was drinking his blood.
He’d die.
For some reason, right now, that felt okay. Almost…peaceful. He’d attained a bit of something he thought had been taken from him - been lost to him a long time ago.
He was dying. Lestat was drinking his blood. Somehow it felt…almost fitting.
Right.
--------------------
Much like biting for a vampire, blood-drinking is varied as well. An unchangeable fact is that it’s nourishment. It can be drinking to feed - where the vampire drinks almost all the victim’s blood, though holding from those final drops, final moments. (When a vampire drinks from a host, they become linked for that spell of time. If they drink to the last, they are drawn in and die as well.) There is drinking to drain. Newer vampires aren’t very adept in this action, but the older ones have fed enough to know just when to disengage from a victim to leave them weakened, but still functional, given time to recover.
And then there is drinking to turn. Sometimes, it just starts as drinking to drain or to feed. Most of the time, the intent to impart the Dark Gift is already decided. And as the chosen is considerably weakened, on the verge of the precipice of death, the vampire shares his or her own blood.
Lestat had gone past the draining point, he was almost sure. That left two options, both of them quite grave and undeniably concrete: death, or turning.
He couldn’t ask it of him.
But…
With a great effort - a force of will he should have exerted moments earlier, but he’d gotten so taken away, so wrapped up in this rocker’s angel fall - Lestat pulled himself away from Curt. Away from his blood, and from his memories. Curt’s sallow skin had already been pale when they met, but now it was truly like alabaster. His breathing was laboured. His eyes were shining, almost painfully bright. A molten cobalt silver, that vision of ethereal grandness. His soul was ruined, but his eyes shone that there was a part of him that was pure - innocent, untainted…lost.
He could leave him. Carry him off to somewhere nice, maybe. Or just stay here. Curt would fall asleep and likely…just not wake. He could finish what he started, letting Curt go with his last memory Lestat biting into his neck. Or he could bite open his wrist and share his own dark blood.
He couldn’t.
Lestat knew his pattern. He would turn a beauty - worthy of it, entrancing, and often mirroring something Lestat desired or greatly admired. But he would grow tired of them in their immortality. They would grow apart from him. It was rather the vampiric way. Curt’s beauty would be retained, but would he resent Lestat for it, like Louis? Match him until he turned on him - like a little vampiric Darth Vader, as little Claudia had? Stay with him until Lestat realised that what had enchanted him before was lost, as it had been with Jesse?
He could take up music again. Be the rockstar Lestat had never truly been, though he’d played the role well. Resurrect the age of over-indulgent decadence and hedonist, spastic being that he had lived for. Herald in his own style? Lestat entertained turning Curt for many the same reasons he had turned Nicolas.
Nicki had gone insane at the thought immortality had cost him his soul, the heart of his music.
From the memories Lestat had whirled through, Curt’s music sprang from the well of an already tainted soul. He wasn’t Nicki. He wouldn’t be.
Lestat still couldn’t find it in himself to do it.
Part of him knew it was for his own sake. He didn’t want to sire another soon-to-be-disenchanted fledgling.
The weakened hand in his thick wavy hair found the strength to pull down, pulling Lestat from his inconclusive reverie, to bring him down to kiss Curt. The former rockstar bit at Lestat’s bottom lip, prompting (as Curt had meant it to) another slow, thorough blood kiss. When they finally parted, Curt took the opening.
“Do it.”
Lestat took a deep breath. “Do you want it? To be immortal, a vampire?”
Curt gave a wry smile. “I’ve lived this life, y’know?”
Life or death; it was true both ways, wasn’t it? There wasn’t really anything left to him in his mortal life: to turn him could be a rebirth, but then again, why bother extending it?
Blue-silver eyes met him levelly. “Do it, Lestat.”
Lestat closed his eyes, briefly. And then he set his mouth back to Curt’s neck.
(The lyric in the page break is from:
"Gimme Danger" -- Ewan McGregor and the Wylde Ratttz.)
--> To: Epilogue Take One [Romantic]
--> To: Epilogue Take Two [Eternal]
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: M (but really, this is back in light T)
Summary: In the early/mid ‘90s, Curt Wild is living a rather desolate existence. Until he spots the mysterious lead singer of a suddenly nonexistent band outside an infamous club. Little does he know that he intrigues that lead singer as well….
Disclaimer: Not mine (but damn, aren't they hot?)
Warnings: Writer that types while half-asleep. Vampyrism, Angst, Bloodplay, PWP, Slash, Sex (in previous chapter), and Tragedy(-not-tragedy?). Cliffie end.
A/N: And here's short, conflicted Part Five. (alt ending-epilogues will be following soon -- and it will -not- take almost a year, swear!)
--------------------
Gimme Danger 'Cos I've Slept So Long, Part One
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Two
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Three
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Four A
Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long, Part Four B
--------------------
-----t-h-e-n---I---w-i-l-l---d-o---a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g-----
Oh, God.
It was…irrepressible. Unstoppable.
If it had been like all the previous times, Lestat could have controlled himself. But every now and again, there were exceptions. One has to understand, with a vampire, biting is far more varied than it is with humans. (It’s the fangs.) With mortals, you’ve a graze, a nip, a bite, or a deep bite. With vampires, there’s still a graze and a nip; a bite is typically just a reddened impression of the fang marks left, though. And then, rather than calling it a “deep bite”, there is a “kiss” or a tease - where the fangs actually puncture the skin (though not as deeply as possible) and just anywhere.
Then there is the bite. Sometimes called the Silver Kiss, or the Dark Kiss - there’s a myriad of romantic euphemisms for it. The bite is what vampires are known for. Above a vein, fangs sunk in deep, a deal of blood hotly released and consumed.
All the bites Lestat had marked Curt with before had been nips, plain bites and kisses.
Now, though… He had bitten him.
When Curt came, so too in a way had Lestat. Not as Curt did, no - he was undead, and not even sex with a mortal he was intensely drawn to and connected with could change that. But emotions did spiral for him in much the same way - likely more so for him, for his telepathy was letting him know Curt’s. And as he was swept under by sensation - clenching heat pulsing around his cock (funny to think he’d had no use whatsoever for it since he was born into Darkness) - liquid, hot, spurting from Curt, sliding over Lestat’s hand, between their stomachs. All the little saints -- if he had no knowledge of what it was, by the feel he might have said it could have been blood. He supposed in a way it was: Blood was essence, soul. Life. So, in a bit of a lesser degree, was this. As he was overwhelmed by the intense emotion, Curt’s mind grasping his, taking him under - Lestat just lost control, and the impulse - the need -- to bite followed.
Ah. It was… The blood was hot, gushing forth, flooding Lestat’s mouth. It was his nature, and he bent to it, drinking eagerly. Distantly, he felt the initial clench of Curt’s fist in his hair. He was dancing through vivid, fragmented memories, tripping along the bars of a musical staff as if he were a moving note, or fingers put down on the strings of a guitar - a shining black Fender. Following the pinprick tracks down sallow skin to where a needle of murky liquid made a new one. Soaring away into a beautiful night above a noisy city, glitter falling from the sky.
A memory came forth, taking precedence: Curt walking down a hall, guitar on his back. Lestat could feel heartbeat, loud and irregular, but strong. Strong, joining with his, finding a harmonious rhythm. A hypnotic, soothing beat.
He was killing him.
--------------------
No sound came out as Curt’s jaw dropped when he felt Lestat’s fangs tear into his neck. Too shocked. Too wrung. Too…just didn’t give a damn. But sharp teeth ripped into soft flesh - Curt felt it tear, felt the hot blood flow thickly and the moist hotness of Lestat’s mouth, sucking at it. …He was drinking his blood.
He’d die.
For some reason, right now, that felt okay. Almost…peaceful. He’d attained a bit of something he thought had been taken from him - been lost to him a long time ago.
He was dying. Lestat was drinking his blood. Somehow it felt…almost fitting.
Right.
--------------------
Much like biting for a vampire, blood-drinking is varied as well. An unchangeable fact is that it’s nourishment. It can be drinking to feed - where the vampire drinks almost all the victim’s blood, though holding from those final drops, final moments. (When a vampire drinks from a host, they become linked for that spell of time. If they drink to the last, they are drawn in and die as well.) There is drinking to drain. Newer vampires aren’t very adept in this action, but the older ones have fed enough to know just when to disengage from a victim to leave them weakened, but still functional, given time to recover.
And then there is drinking to turn. Sometimes, it just starts as drinking to drain or to feed. Most of the time, the intent to impart the Dark Gift is already decided. And as the chosen is considerably weakened, on the verge of the precipice of death, the vampire shares his or her own blood.
Lestat had gone past the draining point, he was almost sure. That left two options, both of them quite grave and undeniably concrete: death, or turning.
He couldn’t ask it of him.
But…
With a great effort - a force of will he should have exerted moments earlier, but he’d gotten so taken away, so wrapped up in this rocker’s angel fall - Lestat pulled himself away from Curt. Away from his blood, and from his memories. Curt’s sallow skin had already been pale when they met, but now it was truly like alabaster. His breathing was laboured. His eyes were shining, almost painfully bright. A molten cobalt silver, that vision of ethereal grandness. His soul was ruined, but his eyes shone that there was a part of him that was pure - innocent, untainted…lost.
He could leave him. Carry him off to somewhere nice, maybe. Or just stay here. Curt would fall asleep and likely…just not wake. He could finish what he started, letting Curt go with his last memory Lestat biting into his neck. Or he could bite open his wrist and share his own dark blood.
He couldn’t.
Lestat knew his pattern. He would turn a beauty - worthy of it, entrancing, and often mirroring something Lestat desired or greatly admired. But he would grow tired of them in their immortality. They would grow apart from him. It was rather the vampiric way. Curt’s beauty would be retained, but would he resent Lestat for it, like Louis? Match him until he turned on him - like a little vampiric Darth Vader, as little Claudia had? Stay with him until Lestat realised that what had enchanted him before was lost, as it had been with Jesse?
He could take up music again. Be the rockstar Lestat had never truly been, though he’d played the role well. Resurrect the age of over-indulgent decadence and hedonist, spastic being that he had lived for. Herald in his own style? Lestat entertained turning Curt for many the same reasons he had turned Nicolas.
Nicki had gone insane at the thought immortality had cost him his soul, the heart of his music.
From the memories Lestat had whirled through, Curt’s music sprang from the well of an already tainted soul. He wasn’t Nicki. He wouldn’t be.
Lestat still couldn’t find it in himself to do it.
Part of him knew it was for his own sake. He didn’t want to sire another soon-to-be-disenchanted fledgling.
The weakened hand in his thick wavy hair found the strength to pull down, pulling Lestat from his inconclusive reverie, to bring him down to kiss Curt. The former rockstar bit at Lestat’s bottom lip, prompting (as Curt had meant it to) another slow, thorough blood kiss. When they finally parted, Curt took the opening.
“Do it.”
Lestat took a deep breath. “Do you want it? To be immortal, a vampire?”
Curt gave a wry smile. “I’ve lived this life, y’know?”
Life or death; it was true both ways, wasn’t it? There wasn’t really anything left to him in his mortal life: to turn him could be a rebirth, but then again, why bother extending it?
Blue-silver eyes met him levelly. “Do it, Lestat.”
Lestat closed his eyes, briefly. And then he set his mouth back to Curt’s neck.
(The lyric in the page break is from:
"Gimme Danger" -- Ewan McGregor and the Wylde Ratttz.)
--> To: Epilogue Take One [Romantic]
--> To: Epilogue Take Two [Eternal]