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curtkenobiAh! How can it be? I haven't got a Lestat icon. *pout*
Title: Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: M (light PG-13/T for this part)
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….
Warnings: Vampyrism, Angst, not-thinking-writer, might-as-well-be-a-songfic-ness >_>...I'll actually know what the warnings are when I write the next part.
Disclaimer: Not mine (but damn, aren't they hot?)
A/N: Dude, this was totally supposed to be crack!fic, it really was. Leather pants, rock music and blood. But then it decided to be deep (it can’t be that I’m rubbish with humour, oh no)…but anyways, if you doubt it, I’ve included what the plan-out for this story looked like. You’ll see that it deviates a good deal from it. *sigh* Maybe another time…. Also: I set the big concert between when it happened in the book and the movie, and the details for Lestat are based off of Stuart Townsend as well as the Vampire Chronicles, namely The Vampire Lestat. And please excuse the blatant Kurt-worshipping that I spew for a couple of lines. I do have a shrine to him in my bedroom next to my guitar, so....
--------------------
Attack of the Leather Pants! (was going to be the title)
Sweat and glitter and blood!!!!
Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Leather pants!!!! Black for both of them (because Curt likes to drop his black leather pants)
CUTE BUMS!!!
PALE SKIN!!!
LONG HAIR!!!! (These four points will still be addressed, just not as...spazzily as I would have liked to.)
TOTAL CRACK!fic SLASH
Special appearance by: BRIAN in SILVER LEATHER PANTS IN OSCAR WILDE’s SPACESHIP
--------------------
-----g-i-m-m-e---d-a-n-g-e-r,---l-i-t-t-l-e---s-t-r-a-n-g-e-r-----
Once upon a time…
There was a burnt out rockstar: Curt Wild. Once a glam rocker known across Britain and the US – he had been Brian Slade’s – the legendary Maxwell Demon – consort. Spastic and sexy and utterly spontaneous. In the early nineties…he was feeling more outside of everything than usual. His current love affair was just over – that affair being with his fallback lover, sweet Mistress Heroin, the comedown this time long and arduous. Arthur Stuart and he had been on the outs and off and on for a while, until the brilliant young man had finally broken and told him that he had had enough. He couldn’t take anymore now.
And so Curt had proceeded to continue on, alone. It wasn’t a hard concept for him to adjust to. He was used to ending up this way. It was how his life worked. Years ago, with his brother – ended up alone. With the boys he met in the loony bin – evanescent affairs, and in the end he was still alone, with nothing but his memories and shocks. Brian – he ended up alone. Thrust out into the cold. Arthur – if it hadn’t been for who he just was, he wouldn’t be alone. But he was. Because he was just who he was.
Curt meandered across the country, following the next big rock shows. Though his music career was past beaten, trampled, buried and decayed, he still liked the thrill of the music, of an electric performance. The kids these days…all superficial. They expressed themselves, as they well should, but…they didn’t change the world – or at least they didn’t set out to. Perhaps that was all for the better for them. U2 – well, that had been the eighties, and Bono was a force in his own right. Nirvana – now there was a band that Curt had wholly respected, not just because he and the lead singer had the same name, just spelt differently. They were big, and they had changed the world – but they hadn’t mean to. The loss of Kurt Cobain was as affecting to the world as when Maxwell Demon “died” – but even more so for the fact that Cobain actually was. Curt wondered if he and Brian hadn’t tried that with their gig – hadn't tried to change the world – if it would have all turned out different.
Of course, then he remembered Brian, and who he was.
But recently, he had followed a new act. It had started on the underground, like Nirvana – Curt had a thing for underground acts; their grit reminded him of his start, his heart – a little five man group from down in New Orleans. Curt didn’t dare venture down there – too jaded for the superstitions and too used to damned cold weather to survive. (Though he gladly would have gone to Mardi Gras, even if he melted when the sun came out the next day. He reckoned he’d be too hung over anyway to care.) But they -- this group, once Satan's Night Out, then just The Vampire Lestat when they got big, named for their lead singer -- had had one hell of an uproarious one-time-only concert two years ago. Now they were just…gone. Most of their fans had drifted off, mainly to follow Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, Stone Temple Pilots and the like.
Everyone figured that Lestat had dropped of the earth after it, but Curt was sure that he had seen him down at the Ruby Shard.
Not many knew of the place – a lot less knew it even had a name. It was rumoured that some deep shit was dealt with there – drugs, sex, vampires, BDSM. All that fun stuff. Curt knew about it because he got his gear from a supplier that frequented there. He wasn’t very…extreme – typically he was too zoned out to care – but he had been hanging about in the alley – he currently lived in the loft in the brownstone that was to the right of the building the club was in; he didn’t officially have a key and went up through the window. He had been smoking a cigarette out in the alley before he went up when he saw him: This pale, beautiful face in the shadows of the night. The vision was just that – like a vision, feeling fleeting and insubstantial – a moment later, Curt wasn’t sure whether he had seen him or not, but his gut told him it was real. There he had been, at the side of the building that housed the club, in the shadows. The clouds must have moved just right, at just the opportune moment, and Curt Wild caught the vision of a face as pale as the moon whose light illuminated it, and the supernatural silver gleam of his eyes reflected. Beautiful face, at once recognisable. Long, straight nose. High cheekbones. Aristocratic and rakish all at the same time. Arrogant. Full lips. Wide eyes. He’d memorised the visual for a long time – it haunted him almost like Brian did.
Lestat.
And then he was gone.
Curt Wild stamped out his cigarette on the edge of the Dumpster beside him. And then he headed to his current residence, thinking maybe he just might have to find his way through those club doors one night soon….
-----w-a-t-c-h-i-n-g---.-.-.---w-a-i-t-i-n-g-----
Lestat de Lioncourt was transfixed by the pallid vision across from him. A man, much older than he, Lestat, appeared. But he didn’t look it exactly, the man – for he was gaunt, drawn – obviously someone who lived hard – but for all that, and age as well, he was still alluring. Long blond hair, straggling down to a bit past his shoulders, most of it pulled back in a half-assed ponytail, the rest falling forward to frame his pale face. Lestat’s vision was keen, as all vampires’ was, and he could see every detail of his new obsession. The sallow, ivory skin. The mole on his right cheek. The beautiful blue-grey…no, grey-green…or were they all three colours? of his eyes. That intrigued Lestat. He was the only person he knew to have “changeable” eyes – his own went grey to blue to violet, to sometimes so dark as to be brown. There was something else about this man, though…something beyond his roughed beauty that drew Lestat to him.
Jesse was gone – off on a mission with Khayman, learning of her history. Which was fine with Lestat – as usual, he had rather tired of her as a vampire. She was beautiful, of course, as she would well stay. But she had irritated him now and again as a mortal – and she did that still as a vampire.
But now he had a new pet to toy with. A mortal one. One he could relate with, he felt. Beautiful, as Louis and Jesse were. Obviously hurt, as Louis had been. Obviously intrigued, as Jesse had been. But so much more than either of them. Lestat didn’t need to know his way around this time – he knew it quite well. But this man…he wanted him. Not for what he could show him, or aid him with. Just to know him – his beauty, his pain. He was a fallen angel in every sense. And Lestat saw that as one step closer to the elusive Ascension he would never have, but sought nevertheless.
He would wait for now. Watch and wait. He faded back into the shadows, watching the man shake his head and blink, before extinguishing his cigarette and climbing up the fire escape to climb in the broken window at the top floor.
Lestat re-emerged from the shadows. Then he followed, “flying” up to the top floor, silent as the night, landing just as quietly on the platform outside of the broken window. He could smell the traces of old blood still upon the shards left within the edges of the frame. He fingered a bit of cloth caught upon a sharp wedge, imagining his new pet’s hand wrapped within fabric – the same kind that was caught upon the glass – as he punched in the window to find a place to sleep. The wide mouth curved into a smile, oddly touched.
He ducked in.
There was his pet, laying curled up in a corner, arms wrapped tight around himself, barely covered by his beaten leather bomber jacket that he had thrown over himself. His trim legs were encased in black leather – Lestat smiled; they had the same taste, for he wore black leather as well. Lestat figured that that was the only pair of pants his little pet might own. The clunky Doc Martens had untied laces, the black stripes blending in with the shadows, though Lestat could see them. He could see the pale skin of the man’s stomach beneath the jacket where his shirt had rucked up – a black shirt, Lestat had seen in the alley. His skin looked like it would be soft to touch. And, unable to help himself, Lestat moved forward and knelt beside the sleeping man, managing to not stir any of the debris strewn across the floor – empty liquor bottles, needles, paper, empty cigarette packs. He reached forward and lightly brushed back the curtain of blond hair that hid the beautiful face.
The man shivered at his touch – Lestat knew his hands were cold. But a soft sigh escaped the pale lips, and Lestat took the liberty to cup the man's cheek in his hand. Another shiver, harder this time, but nevertheless, the face pressed against his hand, as if yearning for his touch.
"What do I yearn?"
"To walk with the living, out of the cold, dark wasteland of eternity."
Jesse's words came back to him, his own written words thrown in his face. The cold, dark wasteland of eternity. Yes. The cold, dark wasteland of a ruined soul. And though the man below him was not immortal, Lestat felt he knew something of cold, dark wasteland of a ruined soul as well.
He loved this man. He had not heard a single word from his mouth, not seen him before this moment, but the connection was instantaneous. And undeniable.
Lestat lightly brushed the back of his hand down the thin, chilled cheek. "Later," he whispered, his French accent thick because of emotion and his trying to be quiet. And as his pet stirred, he was backing away, vanishing into the night like the spectre he so often appeared to be.
(The lyrics in the breaks are from:
“Gimme Danger” – Ewan McGregor & the Wylde Ratttz
-and-
“Slept So Long” – Jay Gordon of Orgy.)
Title: Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: M (light PG-13/T for this part)
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….
Warnings: Vampyrism, Angst, not-thinking-writer, might-as-well-be-a-songfic-ness >_>...I'll actually know what the warnings are when I write the next part.
Disclaimer: Not mine (but damn, aren't they hot?)
A/N: Dude, this was totally supposed to be crack!fic, it really was. Leather pants, rock music and blood. But then it decided to be deep (it can’t be that I’m rubbish with humour, oh no)…but anyways, if you doubt it, I’ve included what the plan-out for this story looked like. You’ll see that it deviates a good deal from it. *sigh* Maybe another time…. Also: I set the big concert between when it happened in the book and the movie, and the details for Lestat are based off of Stuart Townsend as well as the Vampire Chronicles, namely The Vampire Lestat. And please excuse the blatant Kurt-worshipping that I spew for a couple of lines. I do have a shrine to him in my bedroom next to my guitar, so....
Attack of the Leather Pants! (was going to be the title)
Sweat and glitter and blood!!!!
Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Leather pants!!!! Black for both of them (because Curt likes to drop his black leather pants)
CUTE BUMS!!!
PALE SKIN!!!
LONG HAIR!!!! (These four points will still be addressed, just not as...spazzily as I would have liked to.)
TOTAL CRACK!fic SLASH
Once upon a time…
There was a burnt out rockstar: Curt Wild. Once a glam rocker known across Britain and the US – he had been Brian Slade’s – the legendary Maxwell Demon – consort. Spastic and sexy and utterly spontaneous. In the early nineties…he was feeling more outside of everything than usual. His current love affair was just over – that affair being with his fallback lover, sweet Mistress Heroin, the comedown this time long and arduous. Arthur Stuart and he had been on the outs and off and on for a while, until the brilliant young man had finally broken and told him that he had had enough. He couldn’t take anymore now.
And so Curt had proceeded to continue on, alone. It wasn’t a hard concept for him to adjust to. He was used to ending up this way. It was how his life worked. Years ago, with his brother – ended up alone. With the boys he met in the loony bin – evanescent affairs, and in the end he was still alone, with nothing but his memories and shocks. Brian – he ended up alone. Thrust out into the cold. Arthur – if it hadn’t been for who he just was, he wouldn’t be alone. But he was. Because he was just who he was.
Curt meandered across the country, following the next big rock shows. Though his music career was past beaten, trampled, buried and decayed, he still liked the thrill of the music, of an electric performance. The kids these days…all superficial. They expressed themselves, as they well should, but…they didn’t change the world – or at least they didn’t set out to. Perhaps that was all for the better for them. U2 – well, that had been the eighties, and Bono was a force in his own right. Nirvana – now there was a band that Curt had wholly respected, not just because he and the lead singer had the same name, just spelt differently. They were big, and they had changed the world – but they hadn’t mean to. The loss of Kurt Cobain was as affecting to the world as when Maxwell Demon “died” – but even more so for the fact that Cobain actually was. Curt wondered if he and Brian hadn’t tried that with their gig – hadn't tried to change the world – if it would have all turned out different.
Of course, then he remembered Brian, and who he was.
But recently, he had followed a new act. It had started on the underground, like Nirvana – Curt had a thing for underground acts; their grit reminded him of his start, his heart – a little five man group from down in New Orleans. Curt didn’t dare venture down there – too jaded for the superstitions and too used to damned cold weather to survive. (Though he gladly would have gone to Mardi Gras, even if he melted when the sun came out the next day. He reckoned he’d be too hung over anyway to care.) But they -- this group, once Satan's Night Out, then just The Vampire Lestat when they got big, named for their lead singer -- had had one hell of an uproarious one-time-only concert two years ago. Now they were just…gone. Most of their fans had drifted off, mainly to follow Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, Stone Temple Pilots and the like.
Everyone figured that Lestat had dropped of the earth after it, but Curt was sure that he had seen him down at the Ruby Shard.
Not many knew of the place – a lot less knew it even had a name. It was rumoured that some deep shit was dealt with there – drugs, sex, vampires, BDSM. All that fun stuff. Curt knew about it because he got his gear from a supplier that frequented there. He wasn’t very…extreme – typically he was too zoned out to care – but he had been hanging about in the alley – he currently lived in the loft in the brownstone that was to the right of the building the club was in; he didn’t officially have a key and went up through the window. He had been smoking a cigarette out in the alley before he went up when he saw him: This pale, beautiful face in the shadows of the night. The vision was just that – like a vision, feeling fleeting and insubstantial – a moment later, Curt wasn’t sure whether he had seen him or not, but his gut told him it was real. There he had been, at the side of the building that housed the club, in the shadows. The clouds must have moved just right, at just the opportune moment, and Curt Wild caught the vision of a face as pale as the moon whose light illuminated it, and the supernatural silver gleam of his eyes reflected. Beautiful face, at once recognisable. Long, straight nose. High cheekbones. Aristocratic and rakish all at the same time. Arrogant. Full lips. Wide eyes. He’d memorised the visual for a long time – it haunted him almost like Brian did.
Lestat.
And then he was gone.
Curt Wild stamped out his cigarette on the edge of the Dumpster beside him. And then he headed to his current residence, thinking maybe he just might have to find his way through those club doors one night soon….
Lestat de Lioncourt was transfixed by the pallid vision across from him. A man, much older than he, Lestat, appeared. But he didn’t look it exactly, the man – for he was gaunt, drawn – obviously someone who lived hard – but for all that, and age as well, he was still alluring. Long blond hair, straggling down to a bit past his shoulders, most of it pulled back in a half-assed ponytail, the rest falling forward to frame his pale face. Lestat’s vision was keen, as all vampires’ was, and he could see every detail of his new obsession. The sallow, ivory skin. The mole on his right cheek. The beautiful blue-grey…no, grey-green…or were they all three colours? of his eyes. That intrigued Lestat. He was the only person he knew to have “changeable” eyes – his own went grey to blue to violet, to sometimes so dark as to be brown. There was something else about this man, though…something beyond his roughed beauty that drew Lestat to him.
Jesse was gone – off on a mission with Khayman, learning of her history. Which was fine with Lestat – as usual, he had rather tired of her as a vampire. She was beautiful, of course, as she would well stay. But she had irritated him now and again as a mortal – and she did that still as a vampire.
But now he had a new pet to toy with. A mortal one. One he could relate with, he felt. Beautiful, as Louis and Jesse were. Obviously hurt, as Louis had been. Obviously intrigued, as Jesse had been. But so much more than either of them. Lestat didn’t need to know his way around this time – he knew it quite well. But this man…he wanted him. Not for what he could show him, or aid him with. Just to know him – his beauty, his pain. He was a fallen angel in every sense. And Lestat saw that as one step closer to the elusive Ascension he would never have, but sought nevertheless.
He would wait for now. Watch and wait. He faded back into the shadows, watching the man shake his head and blink, before extinguishing his cigarette and climbing up the fire escape to climb in the broken window at the top floor.
Lestat re-emerged from the shadows. Then he followed, “flying” up to the top floor, silent as the night, landing just as quietly on the platform outside of the broken window. He could smell the traces of old blood still upon the shards left within the edges of the frame. He fingered a bit of cloth caught upon a sharp wedge, imagining his new pet’s hand wrapped within fabric – the same kind that was caught upon the glass – as he punched in the window to find a place to sleep. The wide mouth curved into a smile, oddly touched.
He ducked in.
There was his pet, laying curled up in a corner, arms wrapped tight around himself, barely covered by his beaten leather bomber jacket that he had thrown over himself. His trim legs were encased in black leather – Lestat smiled; they had the same taste, for he wore black leather as well. Lestat figured that that was the only pair of pants his little pet might own. The clunky Doc Martens had untied laces, the black stripes blending in with the shadows, though Lestat could see them. He could see the pale skin of the man’s stomach beneath the jacket where his shirt had rucked up – a black shirt, Lestat had seen in the alley. His skin looked like it would be soft to touch. And, unable to help himself, Lestat moved forward and knelt beside the sleeping man, managing to not stir any of the debris strewn across the floor – empty liquor bottles, needles, paper, empty cigarette packs. He reached forward and lightly brushed back the curtain of blond hair that hid the beautiful face.
The man shivered at his touch – Lestat knew his hands were cold. But a soft sigh escaped the pale lips, and Lestat took the liberty to cup the man's cheek in his hand. Another shiver, harder this time, but nevertheless, the face pressed against his hand, as if yearning for his touch.
"What do I yearn?"
"To walk with the living, out of the cold, dark wasteland of eternity."
Jesse's words came back to him, his own written words thrown in his face. The cold, dark wasteland of eternity. Yes. The cold, dark wasteland of a ruined soul. And though the man below him was not immortal, Lestat felt he knew something of cold, dark wasteland of a ruined soul as well.
He loved this man. He had not heard a single word from his mouth, not seen him before this moment, but the connection was instantaneous. And undeniable.
Lestat lightly brushed the back of his hand down the thin, chilled cheek. "Later," he whispered, his French accent thick because of emotion and his trying to be quiet. And as his pet stirred, he was backing away, vanishing into the night like the spectre he so often appeared to be.
“Gimme Danger” – Ewan McGregor & the Wylde Ratttz
-and-
“Slept So Long” – Jay Gordon of Orgy.)
--> To: Part Two
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no subject
Date: 2007-01-17 23:08 (UTC)I'm just so impressed/excited by these pieces. You write the crossover seamlessly, and even send my imagniation spinning off in to plot-bunny heaven. (What if Arthur came back!? OTP collision!!)
Seriously, as long as you post, I will read. Nay, I will DEVOUR. *squee*
no subject
Date: 2007-01-18 01:16 (UTC)I'm so glad you like it so far! I'm having a great time just writing ^_^ It was so supposed to be crack!fic. (*little pout*) But it's become really interesting to me for its seriousness, though. I'm glad that the crossover doesn't seem too odd. And poor woobie Curt, yes -- sorry to put him and Arthur on the outs (*hugs* It did hurt, but the way I had Curt go at the beginning, it was hurting Arthur more -- poor Arthur, but I love him for his love for Curt *promises him a better go round next time...maybe* *scolds mean angsting streak*) But that just leaves Curt open and right there for Lestat to...take an interest. -hehe- (And Stuart as Lestat is just so inherently sexy...)
(What if Arthur came back!? OTP collision!!) <-- That is an interesting idea ^_^ (*recollects someone saying "Stuart, this is Christian. Christian -- Stuart. You both know Ewan, so...just do what comes naturally."* XD)
...I've got the next part finished, I think...this might actually go three or four parts. It'll be up soon!