𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩 𑁍 [FALL TDM]

[gorelord]

Welcome to the Test Drive!

The TDM is welcome to current players and anyone who wants to play in the setting and is encouraged to be used by prospective players. If you are interested in joining the game, you will need to obtain invite from the mod or through an existing member.

For information on the game premise, setting etc, please utilize the navigation pages below. Questions specific to the TDM prompts or the setting can go to the comment thread. Anything else relating to game mechanics can go in the FAQ.

Threads in this post can be considered game canon as long as both parties agree. This TDM event occurs in between chapters I and II.

Please make sure to identify yourselves in your top levels as either current or new player/characters.

GAME PAGES

premise
setting
faq
rules
glossary

i.
arise:
Hell is empty, and all the deovels are here.

It begins with a nightmare, the details of which have slipped through your fingers. Only the curling echo of its dread lingers in your chest. Something has snapped you out of a catatonic state: the shudder of thunder that claps like the hoofbeat of warhorses, a cold chill running down your spine, the call of your name through an empty hall. Whatever it may be that brings you back to your senses, you find yourself in an old, moldering estate lost to a bygone time. Every chamber empty, leading to more locked and broken doors. Rain pours softly out windows jammed shut, pushing you on a path deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the fortress. Farther and farther, you descend to darkness, following the sound of revelry murmuring behind closed doors.

You are not alone.

The giggle of a woman leaps over your shoulder and you feel the tightening of a ribbon around your skull and the heaviness of a mask presses flush against the meat of your cheeks. A woman with a mask the shape of a moth spins around you, smelling of the sweetness of roses and rot, as she slips away into the flush crowd.

No longer do you stand in a decaying ruin; you find yourself amidst a dark masquerade. For this one night, the Lonely Fortress has been restored to the state of its former glory— or some echoed version of it. The devils have come to roost for a night in the Martyr's Crucible. It is now up to you and your fellow exiles to make host with them in their celebration of the spirits.

What are you supposed to be? A New Kid on the Block?

(cw:mood alteration, master/servant dynamics, potential elements of dubcon/noncon.)

Do not fret if you were spirited away in your plain clothes; this illusion has graced you with the finest courtly attire of an older time. Gauzy silks, satins, and velvets in dark and brooding colors. Your mask fits snugly to your face, double-knotted to uphold the most raucous of partying (or determined tugging).

If you are lucky, you were assigned a 𑁍 Voyeur's mask. This mask has no discernable decoration beyond disguising your features, allowing you to blend in with the crowd at no cost to yourself. You are allowed to spectate the events of this night, and none expect you to take part of it.

If you are potentially unlucky, the mask you receive plays a role, and with it bequeaths a strange effect upon its wearer and treatment throughout the masque as a whole:

𑁍 The Sacrifice: You represent the maiden, fair and pure. A gift worthy of giving to the gods. Tonight, you are chosen, and this celebration is for you. Your mask takes on the shape of the lamb, deer, dove, or unicorn. Unlike the rest of the unholy court, your pale colored garments leave you feeling targeted throughout every room you enter.

Those in the presence of the Sacrificed will feel an inexplicable attraction and devotion towards the mask wearer. Enamored by their perceived perfection, their presence creates a genuine, yet terrifying, devotion in others.

𑁍 The Justiciar: You represent the lord and master, strength and dominion. This is a celebration for the spirits, and you are here to see devotion is paid. Your mask takes on the shape of a lion, bear, bull, or dragon.

Those in the presence of the Justiciar will feel compelled to serve and obey their every command. Those under another's control are still limited by their physical and intellectual limitations.

𑁍 The Devourer: You represent the vices, unbidden from chasing your desires. Tonight, you are here to consume the revelry and become a true eater of sin. For the glory of the spirits, you will live a life unleashed for the entertainment of our guest. Your mask takes on the shape of a hound, boar, rat, or hare.

Those with the Devourer's mask will find their pleasure in the service of others . They hunt the party, feeding vicariously on the pleasure and pain brought by their hand. Sweeter than any tonic, the more they taste, the more they want.

𑁍 The Temptation: A representation of the devil themselves, here to pull others into the dance with the macabre. Your mask takes on the shape of a goat, bat, serpent, or vulture.

Those with the Temptation's mask can corrupt others by their touch to feel waves of bliss, catatonia, arousal, or agony. The effects of which only last as long as the temptation is touching them, building and building the longer they remain.

Drop the Act

Removing your mask is possible, but it doesn't come without consequences. The illusion of this night resides in the mask. When it is removed, the uninvited courtiers appear like corpses of moldering flesh and open wounds. Uncovering the truth will not go well for you. Those who are caught going "faceless" will incur dissent against them by the undead courtiers. Either put the mask back on or they will designate you a better one.

Those who dissent but are incapable of running are given a new mask, made to spend the rest of their night at the mercy of monstrous courtiers.

𑁍 The Wretch You now represent the fool, left to the mercy of all other courtiers to entertain through profound humiliation. A metal mask moulded as the face of a gargoyle. A bridle bit fits into your mouth to prevent from speaking. This mask comes with a bell and collar, drawing the attention of others who relish in the wretch's humiliation.

Those with the Wretch's mask will feel compelled to obey any command the other masks give them or incur the heat of the metal mask sear into their flesh when they refuse.

Those who escape are of the lucky few to break away from the echo's thrall. The hellish courtiers will continually hunt for faceless to punish until the festivities subside.

It's a wise time to keep out of sight and keep moving, but escaping the fortress is easier said than done. The corridors have gotten all turned around, windows and doors jammed shut. Some paths, which should inevitably lead away from the festivities, somehow end up looping back into the festivities from another side. Take heed, for every risk you take elevates your chances of being marked a Wretch.

ii.
revel:
Maggoty Malfeasence.

The festivities seem inviting, tempting easily to get swept up into its fray. Those with a strong gut may sense the underlying foulness of deceit and malice that runs under current of it all. Perhaps you let yourself get carried away by the magic of the night, perhaps you play along for your own safety. After all, how often do you find yourself at a ball fit for a court of the damned?

Dance! Dance until you die!

(cw:nsfw, bdsm, potential for cannibalism.)

The celebrations have spread its festivities across the heart of the Lonely Fortress. Each hall feeds a different vice, drenched in a different color. All are welcome to and from hall to hall, dared to delve deeper and deeper into their depravities until the night's final hour. Each hall is full and brimming with laughter and life, men and women who don masks of every shape possible.

𑁍 Great Hall: For dancing and fanfare. The candle's flame bathes all in a merry golden light. Players and singers have been forced onto the tables and the chandeliers to drum up a sleazy tune and a beat to dance to. Stacked flagons and casks wheel out seemingly endless amounts of wine that penetrate even the deepest of inhibitions. The energy in this room is infectious; some who begin to dance may find themselves unable to stop.

𑁍 Banquet Hall: The light in the banquet hall appears almost violet, sucking the color out of most of the food. Everything that can be found on the table tastes decadent: the rich cakes, succulent meats, sweet fruits. Your fellow exiles may be spotted being used as platters and furniture here, trussed up for display and entertainment as the hungry pick cakes and caviar off their bare skin. So long as the food they serve doesn't run out, no forks or knives will be turned against them.

𑁍 Velvet Parlor: For those looking for a place to feed carnal appetites, they will find a large parlor room draped entirely in lush pillows and heavy velvet curtains. Tonight, the room glows under a deep crimson light as courtiers slake their lusts in a garden of intertwined bodies. The heat of arousal is palpable through the diffusion of the egregore, a symphony of moans echoing from one end of the parlor to the other.

𑁍 Long Gallery: If it's a dangerous sport you crave, look no further than the long gallery — a wall of windows on one side let in a dusty blue light of the moon. Up and down the corridor, courtiers race each other riding on the backs of Wretches, swatting their hinds with makeshift crops. Others are made as pedestals to hold apple targets for knives and axes to be thrown at them. A crowd gathers around a game of knives, waiting to see who draws first blood. The iron of blood seethes into the air here, chasing after the play of pain.

Eyes Wide Shut

(cw:human/ritual sacrifice.)

In the dark before the dawn, the festivities slowly begin to turn sour. Activities grow more violent and vicious. The illusions start to fade on their own as the courtiers become gradually more and more bedraggled. The sweetness of rot grows stronger, attracting the buzzing of flies. Their façade slips away to reveal the legion of undead carousing among the living.

One masked lord rises above all in a toast to announce the culmination of the night's celebrations.

"Now cometh our rise," drones the gold devil's mask. "Our tribute to the Sleeping One, our venerable host, shall be paid in blood."

The deovels roar, their frenzy rising with the heat of the room. If you possess the Sacrificed mask, the blood tribute is...well you. After a long night of salivating, it's now the deovels' turn to come for you. You are hunted to be thrust atop a makeshift palanquin, jeering as you are carried to the fortress's lonely chapel as a living sacrifice.

Those under the spell of other masks may be urged to lend your aid in fetching, tormenting, and processing of these sacrifices. With any luck, you can free your compatriots, or perhaps bloodlust urges you to participate in their dark rituals. Dissenters will face the risk of being sacrificed themselves or placed in the mask of the wretch to do as they're told. In the chaos, escape is possible, but not all will be fortunate enough to make their bid for freedom.

Courtiers drone in their infernal chanting. Fresh blood is used to carve runes and sigils into the stone. An opening in the floor unfurls into a giant pit lined with jagged edges like a lamprey's mouth. One by one, each remaining sacrifice is urged to jump into the maw and down the throat of the hell itself.

For most, this is the end.

For the few, surviving your fall into the stomach will land you in the Undercroft; corrupted by vines of blood and sinew that run along the stone walls. The tunnels under the fortress is a labyrinth of its own, may you wander the dark until the exit can be found. You are not alone down here, for the lost servitors of the keep meander in the dark for their next meal, but hunted by the deovels no more until you can find your way out.

iii.
respite:
It's just a bunch of hocus pocus!

With the breaking of the dawn, the terror of the night is swept away as light fills in the shadows. The hellish court and its massacre are gone within the blink of an eye, leaving the Lonely Fortress back in its regressive state of damp and dark solitude. No trace of dark ritual or aggressor remains. The echo has come and gone, leaving the fortress in a dead and uneasy silence compared to the raucous frenzy that had possessed it a blink before.

The spirits have come and filled their bellies. Where did you end up?

Another Glorious Morning

If you survived the night: Wherever you are, whatever you had been doing by the end of the night, it matters not. Just like that, you jolt awake from a long and restless sleep. The morning light pierces through old, musty curtains in another hazy day in the Crucible. No traces of your courtly garments or mask remain; the events of the night echo in your body, groaning like a hangover. You may find you are tucked away perfectly into bed, fully dressed and in dirtied boots...or you may have woken to missing clothes altogether. Any injuries accrued at the hand of other exiles remain, lending to some part of the night being grounded in truth.

If you are lucky, you have awoken in a room assigned to you, but that may not always be the case. Sleepwalking is a common affliction to exiles old and new, so lets hope any unanticipated bedpartners are forgiving of the company— they too are in need of recuperation. Relish in this moment. You survived.

Deep asleep in thy wormy bed

If you had died at any part of the night: You will not have woken in any bed (unless you were slain in one), but instead rise in the part of the castle where you fell; not a trace of injuries left, only the discomforting memory of death the strangeness of your awakening.

You may be questioning if the night's events were real at all. The sourness of death, blood and bile, lingers as a bitter taste in your mouth. Additionally, you are missing memory. A cut on your palm, but no memory of its accrual, suggests something was bargained for your return. Any trace of such a devil's deal escapes your memory.

Breakfast is served for those who still hold an appetite, but the dining table remains uncomfortably quiet beyond the scraping of forks. The food tastes dull compared to the decadence of the masque, even duller for those who made their brush with death.

Rest now, relish in your continued survival, for who knows what awaits at the next turning of a moon.

Comments

lestat de lioncourt . iwtv . existing player

[nettling]

ARISE 𑁍

(i.DROP THE ACT)

[ Lestat's party costume reminds him again of playing Lelio, bouncing from one stage to the other in pursuit of his sweet Isabella. Layers of black embellished with gold, ornate beading, and embroidery that would have taken a seamstress all hours of the night to cobble together. A long webbed cloak hangs off his shoulders, draped regally in the way worn by men of his human era. He is ever the image of a dark prince, donned with a bat mask with wings unfurling outward off the sides of his face. (He finds it rather ironic that the maiden gave him a bat, but no one is here to listen to his quips about being compared to something as hilarious as Dracula.)

The Frenchman doesn't skip a beat, walking into the party uninvited. A curtsy, a bow, a curl of his fingers entertain damned and living alike. Whatever entity he has stumbled into remains on the fringe of his mind. The faint sweet smell of decay twitches underneath his nose. No matter how his body desires to recoil, his performance doesn't falter.

Not all are as complacent as he; the living are panicking, hearts fluttering under the rapid shift. Why wouldn't they? Who are these people and what have they come for? In a realm full of monsters and tragedies, could he blame them for wanting to slip free of gilded nightmares?

One such dissenter would seem to have nearly gotten away if it weren't for another catching sight of their fallen mask. Lestat could do nothing; he could wait and see them re-emerge as a wretch...or he could meddle (and how he enjoys it so). A ghoul in a horned mask is brushed aside, let him handle this. Perhaps he truly is Lelio reborn again, stalking quickly in the dark to save the disenfranchised from meeting some new unearthly demise.

Perhaps he assists in curtailing a hunter, fresh on a faceless' trail. Perhaps he reaches them first, arm as hard as stone, sticking out of a darkened hallway to scoop a fleeing body like one of those Vaudeville acts done horribly wrong. He closes in, boxing this little escapee into a corner under the shadow of his cape. ]

Going somewhere? [His head tips with a lazy smile.]

REVEL 𑁍

(ii. GREAT HALL)

[ Fun, strange, exciting, terrifying. Every beat of the night is a seduction of the senses. Lestat had missed this sort of romanticism of the old century: courtly balls, dangerous games, all the sort of pomp and fanfare that melted away in the modern world. Illusions and the sickly sweet smell of rot be damned, this vampire remains woefully nostalgic.

The Brat Prince can be found, very easily, in the Great Hall— taking the hands of young and supple bodies drawn to the warm mirth of laughter. He doesn't need the white mask of purity to draw the attentions of others; this attention-seeking behavior is all his.

The silken bat's wing cape flutters over his shoulders as he slides a pristine gloved hand along the small of a new back. In a sea of undead, he's drawn to anything with a pulse or the nature of those similar to his own. Any flutter of unease is quelled by his touch, a complement to the bat's mask. By each dance's end, he'll leave his partner dazed and drunken with mild bliss. ]

Your trouble for a dance? [ He asks, warm and buttery, leaning in close. Men and women alike don't escape his attentions, nor does he covet any secrecy with doting upon fine young men ensnared by his thrall. He is, after all, non-discriminating. ]

(iii. VELVET PARLOR)

[ The Velvet Parlor is where the vampire's attentions turn next. More living, beating hearts for him to wade through. How their blood sings brightly in the undercurrent of passions. The dead do walk here, he among them, but there are plenty to go around to avoid tainting his mouth with their taste.

Gradually, his layers are stripped back, revealing pale skin and a web of grisly scars. Muscle hard as marble, all to be pondered over by curious hands and mouths. Oh, how he hungers. Two weeks in this forgotten realm is a blink to his kind and yet also a lifetime meal after meal unsatiated. How he yearns to feed until the beating stops.

Perhaps he is lucky, picking out a wretched mind that none would miss — a vampire with a conscience? His ex would debate if he ever had one. He is capable of virtues, even in a land absent of them. No love lost if it is no one worth remembering. He thinks about it even when he shouldn't.

With the bat's mask still affixed to his face, the press of his lips on skin elicits a druzy state that only bliss can provide. His tongue finds the beating pulse fluttering under soft, exposed skin as he flicks away a foreign hand attached to an undead paramour. Begone, ghoul, this one is his. ]

WILD 𑁍

(Wildcard me if none of the above fit or adjust them to your needs! I'm flexible between brackets or prose. You can contact me via PM or if you have me on plurk coffinmate

P.S let me know any opt-in re: getting fed on and/or the permission for lestat's mind reading. otherwise, i will leave it alone!)

REVEL - cw: mild, affectionate homophobia - feel free to read his mind, he's stupid

[pharmacy]

[ Quentin dances wholeheartedly and badly. No matter how you dress the boy up, he looks, ultimately, like a sophomore in an expensive Halloween costume and one too many jungle juices in. When Lestat's hand slides into the small of his back, it's a service to everyone alive and undead alike for someone to reign him in.

[ To his credit, the boy can follow lead. Even if the bat mask looks stupid--well, does it look stupid stupid? Or is he pulling it off? The point is, Quentin fully scoffs at the look as he's pulled into orbit, but his rapidly-softening disdain is no barrier between their bodies. He falls into place where he's suggested, slopes into Lestat's angles, arcs with Lestat's wavelengths. It comes so natural that it doesn't even rise to his consciousness. 

[ His body on the backburner leaves all kinds of room for other thoughts. Like he can't remember the last time a guy was like this with him--if a guy ever was. What kind of guy acts like this, dresses like that even if he is pulling it off? ] 

Trouble for a dance? You look like trouble for anything. [ So short of breath, so enthralled, the emergency alarm doesn't reach his brain when his thumb scrapes from the corner of Lestat's mouth along the underside of his cheek bone and finds the skin not quite warm. ] Are you this gay back home, or is it a--new dimension, new me situation? 

oh q, you sweet summer child

[nettling]

[ Perhaps it's to Quentin's benefit that he is scooped into the orbit of one type of undead over the other, lest he step on the toes of some moldering courtier from Hell — not that Lestat would take kindly to any toe stepping either. The all American white boy needs to get his shit together.

For a monster with a body hard as marble under cool flesh, the vampire moves them through the motions of dance with fluid grace. The way this sort of music is meant to be danced to...not whatever demon summoning ritual Quentin's two left feet were performing.

For all the naivete, Lestat finds it charming. Smile cracking beneath the flamboyant bat mask splayed across his eyes. No denying he's trouble, but how much trouble will he be for a mortal boy? He doesn't need the power of his mask to enthrall, but the sweet dullness it provokes continues to do the hard work for him. ]

There's seldom a place in this world or any other that would see me behave as anyone or anything other than me. [ A monster, a devil, a gay. Go off, he relishes in it all. ]

Is that your excuse? New dimension, new you? [ The Frenchman's head may or may not deliberately tilt into the soft touches. Enjoying the beating warmth of blood thrumming beneath his fingertips. A glint in his eye grows mischievous before he twists and dips Quentin like he's the bell of the ball. It's been long since he fed, and he smells so juicy beneath his nose. ] A dream of all dreams to let the strange, enamoring Frenchman to sweep you off your feet?

[pharmacy]

[ Whole lot of talk to tell him nothing. But it's cute talk, and the way this bat folds into his palm makes him want more. More cute talk, more in his hand, his hair looks thick under the mask and the ribbon holding it tight-- ]

Oh! Fuck! [ He can follow, but he's not used to being dipped. There's a surprising strength in the wiry arms that whip around the back of Lestat's neck. Nothing like the strength they keeps him both off the floor when Quentin's feet scrabble out from under him. For a second he goes-- 

[ (to the trial grounds, off a building, ribs shattering from impact with the hard-packed warehouse floor or a boot at his sternum, air thumped out from ihs diaphragm as he's thrown over a shoulder) 

[ --a frightened brand of breathless. With his hand pushing up the back of Lestat's hair (thick) and a compulsive cackle, he pushes that rush of adrenaline down a more pleasant pathway. It's fun, they're having fun. His heart can pound for fun, too. ] Ah--same old me, too. Clumsy. Pick me up, man, come on. 

revel

[bloodrops]

[ easily, the dark prince captures the entire great hall with a simple wave of his hand as if he was performing on stage. everyone's looking at him. everyone wants him. and yet there's someone in the audience who yearns for him more than all the others combined together.

Louis felt his maker's presence the moment he entered the room and even before that. doubtless he felt his too, but Louis tries to keep himself hidden in the crowd, holds still behind his lion mask as if he wasn't even there, only a painful distance away. it's a nightmare version of their last night together, the masquerade that ended in cruelty and blood. violence bubbles underneath the surface here too, Louis thinks, or perhaps it's his own rage that colors the edges of his vision. he could do it all again – pick up the knife and slit his throat open – and at the same time there's nothing he regrets more.

approaching the other vampire wasn't even an option, it wasn't safe or wise in any way, but already Louis feet move on their own and lead him to the heart of the party. there another man has taken his place by the dark prince's side, but Louis brushes past him and catches Lestat's gloved hand in his own. a simple direction should do: ]

He doesn't want you anymore. [ Louis watches as the young man's expression sours. ]

[nettling]

[ Perhaps it's to Lestat's own foolishness that he doesn't find Louis good on his promises. Bloodlust hangs in the air as an uninvited guest, picking out who's who in the crowd: food and fodder. Where do vampires stand in the mix? For that, he is unsure. Neither fodder nor food nor quite so hunter or butcher. Someone stalks him through the halls regardless, and perhaps it goes ignored with a purpose. Until it gets fed up and comes seeking the brat prince out himself.

It feels as easy as anything. How many times had that hand once reached out for his? How many times in their shared decades had Louis' hands explored every inch of skin? Lestat's gaze flicks to his progeny. Not taken aback by his brazen approach so much as he recognizes the shape of mask curled to his face. A wry smile fights at the corner of his lips, unable to take his eyes off how...magnificent he looks.

How his heart aches.

The boy at his other side is already a forgotten shadow. Whatever blissful hold he held on the young man is abandoned without another thought. His eyes remain fixed on Louis in a fit of defiance, mesmerized by the look held under the shade of his mask. ]

Run along. My company has been spoken for.

[ His final say in the matter sends the boy off with a disgruntled glance between the two. The Frenchman stands left to wonder if Louis has come to him with a dance in mind or a knife in hand. ]

What is this supposed to be? [ He wonders, turning now to face his old paramour directly. A and drifts to fix the lapel of his suit. Of course a night like this should stir memories the both of them wish to forget. ] Feeling nostalgic?

[bloodrops]

Feeling stupid.

[ what else is this? the blunt reprimand is aimed at himself. he was a fool for fearing that Lestat might not accept his hand and even a bigger one for feeling so happy that Lestat took it. when the other man turns to him, Louis glances away, focuses on the party like he wished to put some distance between them – despite the physical connection already formed between them. always hot and cold with him, apparently, though what might read as indifference is actually shame. ]

Just wanted a closer look at your costume, that's all. Whose idea were those wings anyway? [ he negs and yet he grabs the hand in the middle of the gesture so familiar in its ordinariness that he could perish. it's a torment, touching him like this, but he can't allow Lestat's hands wandering free. can't allow him leading anyone else to a dance either.

still, they were lucky that the costume is apparently to his liking. slightly wrong color or fit and Lestat would have burned the whole place down. ]

[nettling]

[ He's made adjustments as needed. One cannot be too picky whilst being spirited away by devils and demons. This isn't about his costume, or Louis' for that matter (though there is the question of intent, why a lion...Louis?) There is much between them that goes between the lines. Louis is never so outspoken and startled like a lamb when Lestat hardly bothers to filter himself. It's a familiar dance as much as it is a tiring one. ]

You'll have to consult my seamstress.

[ He plays along. A hand held aloft, he watches as the younger vampire shuffles his discomfort for aloofness. He turns them slowly into the crowd of dancing courtiers. If his company has been replaced, Louis must commit to at least walking the walk he has committed himself to. If they're going to talk, they're going to dance. ]

The lion suits you. I think. The king of carnivores prowling out under the lamplights.

[bloodrops]

It's a mask. An illusion.

[ he's hardly the king of anything these days. his booming american business switched out for crawling in the european mud. he hasn't even realized his idea of selling his photography yet. Lestat caught him in between capitalist pursuits. their shared seamstress, the moth lady, clearly had no idea of that, but she must have known about mr. Lioncourt at least. what a joke. ]

But they'll do anything I say.

[ a reminder of his old life, just like this dance here. Louis follows him to the dance floor, his head dizzy and his heart erratic just from being in his proximity. part of him feels satisfied with that. no need for a talk. what is there left to say when Lestat doesn't want to hear how sorry he is anyway? ]

And so will you, I bet. [ is this safe? a question he should have asked himself before walking over to him. ]

[nettling]

[ One mask with the power to compel, another with the power to please. If Lestat is aware of the bat mask's compulsion, he doesn't remark upon it. The giddiness of mortals is no new thing, but he'd picked up on the pattern some few bodies ago. All this with no added effort of his own? And to Louis as well, who is already a compendium of confused and mixed emotions when in their shared presence, likely not able to pick up on which of it is true and which is a facsimile. ]

Had I not played the role of obedient partner before? [ For a limited time. He knows Louis has feelings about what obedience entailed at the time, it matters less now after all said and done. What matters is, ] Have I disobeyed you even now?

[ Granted he hasn't eviscerated Louis' new pet with their impromptu playdate (that Lestat had no hand in organizing) or play with the other persons of interest that his ex feels compelled to mother and coo after in this sordid place. ]

Or are you compelled to put me in my place even now? Just because you can?

[bloodrops]

[ yes. ]

Things are different now, is all I'm saying.

[ it was a threat. a reminder to himself that he can survive without him. perhaps moot because he doesn't know if he has it in himself to force him to do anything when he's still feeling so miserable about the murder attempt. ]

I have my life apart from you, you have your own. I take care of myself and Claudia. You take care of your own business, whatever it is. I don't want to know.

[ he's perfectly in control of his life and emotions, see? they don't need you anymore, Lestat. if Louis dances with him, it's just to have fun. nothing more. if his breath hitches when they're pressed closer against each other, it's a coincidence. ]

So don't push it.

[ an invitation to fucking push it. ]

[nettling]

[ Doesn't want to know how long Lestat spent putting himself back together piece by piece. How his life was never better without Louis (or Claudia) in it. How much easier it would have been if he had. What Louis doesn't know is that he's finally picking up the pieces of himself off the ground. How he has chosen to try to live in spite of him.

He's not certain if he believes Louis. The look beneath the brow of his mask, stripped of most expression, bores into him with a knowing. He twirls them through the crowd, gloved hand gliding at the small of his back.

Don't push it, he says. Lestat, who enjoys sticking his thumb in open wounds. ]

If that's what you desire.

[ He agrees, so soft it may almost be earnest. An invitation he might have taken, if only Louis weren't wearing some magical compulsion mask. His hand slips away from his paramour's waist to rest along his own as he takes a bow to place his lips across Louis' knuckles in parting. ]

[bloodrops]

[ the fucking mask. apparently the only way to make the older vampire listen and Louis discovered it at the worst possible moment.

the light touch lingers on his hand even as Lestat draws away and into the crowd and the next dance begins. Louis remains among the dancers, a lone figure standing still, only his gloved fingers curling softly over the knuckles Lestat kissed. who knew such a simple gesture could feel like a hundred knives driven into his heart?

and then, it's like a puppeteer had picked up his tool, Louis springs back to life and moves from his spot. he walks straight through the crowd with a clear goal in mind. he only has to follow the echo of his own heartbeat to discover him in the corridor illuminated by candles. once he reaches Lestat, his voice is thin and weak, but audible enough. he's reluctant to use it, but staying silent is worse. ]

... Stop.

[nettling]

[ There was a point in his life where he thought he could put Louis behind him. Another turbulent relationship that he could leave behind for once and not the other way around. Some days, he still feels that spark of rebellion. Standing on the edges of this storm that dares to sweep him back in by the ankles. Is he happier outside of it, or was he better suited to be consumed by a cyclone of passion. ]

Stop. Go. Don't interfere. Say something. Don't say anything. [ He drolls. Louis these days is nothing but demands. Barriers put up and taken down again. It's exhausting. He's forgotten how exhausting it is. Would his feet drag the same were he not compelled by some infernal sorcery or would Lestat have kept walking had he the agency?

He turns to face him again. Then, he almost wishes to be let go. If he gets swept in again, they are certain to travel back down those well worn paths they are apt to do. He wants it, and how he cannot seem to resist all that he wants. As it stands there before him. ]

You want to be pushed. You'll never settle for domesticity, for the easy. It's not made for you.

[bloodrops]

[ Louis is almost glad he doesn't have to mull over whether Lestat would have stopped for him or not. the compulsion makes everything simple and he lacks the words for how complicated the rest is.

the only thing clear is that he can't allow Lestat to walk away after their masked dance. the last time he did, it was the beginning of the end and his heart would never be whole again. ]

I said the wrong thing.

[ Lestat could be spouting the most annoying shit and Louis would be doing this anyway. he steps forward and walks into the storm. stops right in front of him. ready to be pushed. ]

I'm sorry.

[ for what he said. for what he did. it'll always come back to that. ]

[nettling]

[ His first instinct is to crawl out of his skin and flee. He cannot explain why; perhaps it's easier for them both if they hated one another. The black molding of Lestat's mask hides the flutter of weakness that courses through him. This moment would be more remarkable if he hadn't already forgiven Louis. As he has with everything before. ]

What is one sorry in the sea of the pain we inflicted on one another? [ Things Louis has yet to know, yet to forgive him for. Absolution has not banished those demons. He distracts himself with the lining of Louis' jacket. Running his thumb along an embroidered edge.]

Who does not want a life of their own? It would be criminal of me to deprive you of it. [ He doesn't want it. He doesn't want Louis to want it, selfishly. Pettily. ] Since you grew sick of me enough to kill me, clearly I was not enough,

[bloodrops]

[ he could melt into his touch right there and then if Lestat let him. would he? for the first time since they got together he doesn't know for sure, so he doesn't reach for him. ]

Stop. It wasn't... [ he's lost for words and growing frustrated with himself for it. there could never be a reason to justify his actions. realizing he's accidentally ordered him again, Louis tries to correct himself: ] Say what you want to say, but it wasn't that. I felt trapped. I mistook betrayal for the only way out. I wouldn't have been able to leave you, you know that?

[ he's blabbering. it's nonsense. what are words next to his crime? his half-hearted and useless yet cruel murder. ]

And I still wasn't out of it. I'll never be. [ pale Lestat with a bleeding throat, staring at him longingly. "do you miss me?" yes. yes. ] So maybe I can figure it out with you what it's like. Having a life of my own.

[nettling]

[ But he had, and he did. If Louis knew, would his answer be the same?

The corridor they're in shudders out most noise from between the adjoining rooms. The Frenchman edges closer as he continues to fuss the fabric between his two fingers, contemplating. Is this wise? No one has ever accused him of wisdom, only chasing the tails of his every whim and woe. That's how they came together the first time. A night stopped in New Orleans to brush with a fate that changed his course forever. ]

Perhaps it would be an arrangement best for the both of us. [ His agreement is mild, brought with the heavy slough of breath falling from his chest. A part of him doesn't think it's a good idea. A part of him desires to go on his bitter rampage until he has spent every last drop of resentment. ] Take things slower this time.

[ There is so much he doesn't know. So much Lestat has changed without him. Louis had his hand certainly, but there is much more endured that he'd yet know. ]

If this is what you desire.

[bloodrops]

[ it's become so quiet it could be just the two of them at this party. the air around them nearly ripples from unreleased tension. ]

Yeah.

[ Louis presses his lips together tightly, swallows down a sob or a shudder. his nod is barely anything, but the look he gives Lestat is a mix of relief and fear. can they pull this off? honestly, he has no idea, but this feels like the only option available. he knows he doesn't have it in himself to keep running away, even if Lestat seems to have reservations about this. the hesitation is frankly frightening and makes his blood run cold. ]

We'll take it slow.

[ he repeats after him. empty words when what he really wants to do is to jump on him and tear off that ridiculous costume. ]

[nettling]

[ Slow is for reasonable people. They are anything but, but for a moment while they look at one another, they can pretend that either is capable of doing the reasonable thing. Perhaps if this were an older Louis, they would be beholden to such a stupid rule, but they aren't. Lestat cannot ignore the way Louis sounds or the way his heart flutters and aches like his own.

Tomorrow they may tear each other apart again, but tonight, amidst this fantastical illusion,even the impossible would seem within grasp. Lestat hums in agreement, weary around the edges as the decision settles in. Slow, they'll take it.

Which is why it takes about... 10 seconds to yank Louis into the next closest possible room— it could be a closet for all he cares. The vampire's body moving almost out of instinct, like the iron grip of a dead man asleep at the crux of noon, it acts of its own volition. Every memory of him floods back into the reflexes of muscle as he pulls the other man towards him and crushes them together, mouth to mouth. ]

[bloodrops]

[ 10 seconds must be a record for them.

it's a familiar dance and they both know the steps. Louis falls into it madly, furious to make up for the lost time and any damage caused. Lestat only had to make the first move, after that it's hard to tell who's moving faster. it's messy when both of them are afraid of the spell being broken, the clock striking midnight.

Louis kicks the brooms out of the way as they stumble into the closet. someone steps into a bucket and Louis accidentally knocks down a pile of towels. there's dust and the same strange scent of rot that lingers everywhere, but he couldn't think of anything more romantic at the moment. despite their masks knocking together awkwardly, the kiss continues as ferocious as it started. Louis is already unbuttoning his lover's trousers and tugging them down. ]

[nettling]

[ The mess collapses around them. Lestat's shoes stumble over fallen supplies as he endures the force of Louis coming at him. It's these moments that he feels more alive than he has in weeks. Like in St Louis, with his hair stinking with bog water, nothing can come between them. Not the rot, the horrific corpses dancing down the hall. Not the other exiles that have claimed each other's beds since their arrival. They didn't matter. Only this does. ]

Mon lion—[ he rasps into a gap between their mouths. Affectionate, encouraging. His hands curl up around Louis' face, tracing the curves of his mask. A sigh of relief that one feels after finding their way home from a long and treacherous journey. ] Mon Louis.

[ He desires to remap his lover's body with his mouth, committing every nook and cranny of his fresh into memory. His hands similarly seek to disrobe, to get at the skin underneath. The intoxication his mask provides only adds to the heightened pleasure. His hips shift with the tugging of hands, quick work of what needs to be exposed. Body yielding to whatever Louis desires, to be devoured by him again and again. ]

[bloodrops]

[ hearing his name spoken like that tugs at the invisible strings joining them, straining them so tight it will take forever to untangle the knots. ]

Lestat-- [ what he may as well call his own heart. Louis claws and pulls, rips at the fabric between them. the ache of Lestat's sweetness is too much to bear. his actions are frantic and rushed, bordering on aggressive. now that the fear of rejection is gone, he's letting his freak out. the same feral energy that led to him bashing a stranger's head against a rock at a park in Paris. ]

You're gonna feel really good. [ he pants an order, his fist rough in Lestat's hair. the face of a nocturnal beast stares back at him, but the blue eyes belong to his lover. his maker. the heightened pleasure is crazy in itself and Louis plans to add to it. heavily. ] Better than before-- [ a heated promise he licks into his mouth before he draws away and sinks down into his knees. the fullness of him feels perfect and familiar in his hand and he doesn't waste any time tipping his head and taking him in his mouth. ]

slides crusty tag over and begs forgiveness

[nettling]

[ How many years had it been since he tasted him properly? It was another dark room where they'd found each other, but when was the last time they tried to devour one another's souls? Sometimes Lestat thinks he can only be content with himself buried deep and wrapped tightly in Louis's arms.

He already feels better, a tongue twisted with the sweetness of panacea. Not because Louis had ordered it so. A moan soft and needy leaves his lips. Somewhere, deep down, lies the frustration of self-betrayal. Determined to tread the distance of a Louis different from the one raking his hands across his body. ]

It's yours. For the taking. [ His cock, his passion, all of him. Things spouted in the heat of the moment as his hands crawl across Louis's shoulders as he descends. His hip drawn to his hands like a magnet as a shoulder finds the back of the door to lean on. The warmth and wetness of his mouth, divine incarnate. The noise he makes is equally buttery, fingers soothing over the velvet along his shoulder.] Shouted from the rooftops, if that's your desire. For every damned soul can stand and make witness.

heart eyes

[bloodrops]

[ Louis closes his eyes and shuts away everything but his lover's taste and sounds, fully losing himself in his task. it's long overdue and made achingly lovely from the wait. his hands grip at the impossibly slim waist and appreciative noises slip from himself without meaning to. his whole body rocks with the rhythm of his head bobbing, already imagining the tempo and gravity of Lestat taking him later. he's careful to leave him proper wet and wanting, but after a blissful moment impatience pushes him back up on his feet. lips swollen, spit glistening in the corners of his mouth and limbs trembling with lust, Louis casts an intense gaze over his pale chest before he attacks his throat with furious kisses, chasing after his heartbeat. ]

No. [ he grunts against his skin as he pushes him against the back of the door, possessive and rough. ] No, just for me here. I don't want anyone else hearing it, every word for me only. I want all of it. [ now that they're back together he doesn't want to share him with anyone even for a second – even if it was a grand gesture to praise him to the world. get here, stupid. ]