Update: Gimme Danger 'Cos I've Slept So Long (Pt.2)
Thursday, 18 January 2007 05:36![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
curtkenobiTitle: Gimme Danger ‘Cos I’ve Slept So Long
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: PG-13/T...working up to M
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: Vampyrism, Angst
A/N: The details for Lestat are based off of Stuart Townsend as well as the Vampire Chronicles, namely The Vampire Lestat. This part's short, and has a bit of an interlude/prelude feel.Also: I was in a hurry posting this; I'll check it over hopefully later today to make sure it's all cool.
Enjoy!
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Gimme Danger 'Cos I've Slept So Long, Part One
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-----i-'v-e---s-l-e-p-t---s-o---l-o-n-g---w-i-t-h-o-u-t---y-o-u-----
The Ruby Shard was a nice enough club – given its location and business. The owner, Davrick, owned the entire four-storey building, and he had put all of it to use. First floor was the bar and lounge, the back half the "play and display" room. Second floor was the "dungeon". Third, the "meeting place" – that was mainly because the fire escape's first platform was outside a third floor window; that way all the little junkies and addicts could just climb up to there without sullying the club floor. Fourth floor...well, the fourth floor was the private rooms. Rarely used, but available. The Shard was one of the few clubs that didn't just expressly deal with vampires – it catered to all kinds of people, mortal and immortal alike. The Gothlings, the Masters and Mistresses and their "pets", the vampires and their meals – sometimes brought along, sometimes found on the club floor; no one thought twice of anything that went on, even if it was someone being eaten by a vampire in the lounge. They found it erotic, anyway. The dealers and their little puppets. The rockers. The clubbers. And those who wished to remain anonymous.
Lestat was rather the latter of all of those. He was a vampire, yes, and a rockstar as well. He hated publicity, which was rather ironic for a vampire that craved so desperately to be known and great. He stayed to the shadows, even indoors. Occasionally he came across a little Gothling boy, or a pretty girl out here clubbing, and they struck his fancy and taste – quite literally, taste. A dealer or two had gone missing – that was against Davrick's house rules, but no one reported it, mainly because that gave the other pushers more business. But Lestat no longer had neither much of an incessant nor necessary need for blood – that was an effect when one had the oldest and purest of vampiric blood running through their veins. He hadn't stooped as low as to feast on rats and alley cats to satisfy when he had need of a snack – that he had always seen as below him, unless upon a ship, and also, that was Louis' fare. Lestat, while Louis' maker, and thus having a bit of a soft spot, would always have disdain for the depressive vampire.
Tonight was rather no different from any other night that Lestat had hung around here – he sat in a dark corner at a table beside the bar. But whereas he usually was taking in all of the bar idly, listening to see if there was anything of interest, tonight he was rather focused on the door.
He had a feeling that his little pet just might make an entrance tonight.
It had been three nights since Lestat had seen the man and followed him to the loft where he stayed just to watch him. Since then, Lestat had waited – amazingly patiently, he thought. He had glimpsed the man at the window of his loft, or out in the alley occasionally. But he had kept his distance, a sentinel in the shadows, and he had waited in the club.
Three nights. But he felt, for some odd reason, that tonight the man would show. It was early yet; he would give it time.
Around midnight, he was proven right.
There stood his little pet, his scrawny, wiry form clad in his black leather pants and a tattered fishnet shirt over a black muscle shirt. Lestat smirked. He leaned forward so the light would catch his eyes as the man's own swept the bar, finally catching Lestat. Pleased, the vampire motioned for the man to come over. He saw his pet take a deep breath, steadying himself, but then there he was, walking over.
"And whatever brings you here?" the French vampire asked, an eyebrow raised, feigning surprised interest.
Curt shivered as that accent melted over him. It was faint, but it was more than enough. He pushed a Marlboro out of the box as he sat down, taking it between his lips and then lighting it after he flipped the lid of the pack back down. He took a drag – another try at fortifying himself. What the hell was he doing? He wasn't at all sure. He wasn't sure he cared. He was here. No turning back now.
He blew out the smoke softly as he leaned back in the backed barstool seat, one arm thrown over it, the other resting on the table, cigarette in hand. "You," he replied simply, smoky voice even more rough for disuse. Lestat smiled slightly – at the reply or his voice, Curt wasn't sure. Maybe one thing, maybe both, maybe neither.
"I take it you know who I am?" Lestat questioned, folding elegant hands before him on the table. Curt was struck by how...pretty...they were. He looked back up to the vampire's face as he took another drag.
"From what I’ve heard, you slept through the seventies, so I guess you don't know who I am," Curt countered. A brief expression crossed his face – a cringe when he realised how long ago that seemed – before he hid it beneath an almost casually challenging look at the vampire. Lestat’s white teeth and almost innocuous fangs shone as he genuinely smiled – a rare occurrence indeed. No one ever got more than an alluring smirk.
"That would be correct," Lestat conceded, with a gracious incline of his head. Curt wanted to touch those dark blond curls. The vampire's head came back up – damn, he had a helluva beautiful face. Beautiful high cheekbones. Smooth porcelain skin. He looked so young – not a day over twenty-five, if that. So…exotic, compared to Curt, or so the older man thought. "Should I know of you, then?"
Curt shrugged, sighing. "Maybe. Maybe not." He took a long drag off his cig, trying not to remember all those years ago. "Just you missed glam era. That's when I was kinda like you. Rockstar. I was a side act, though – Brian Slade was the big one. But that was all a long time ago, and over across the pond. I guess we're more alike now – fallen from notice."
Lestat smiled slightly again. Yes, they were. Lestat leaned forward and brushed back a stray bit of Curt's hair that had fallen in his face. The man jumped as Lestat sat back, the vampire cocking his head to one side.
"Wha – what'd you just do, man?"
Lestat shrugged. "Your face. You shouldn't try to hide it."
"But – ” Curt was stopped for a moment, utterly stunned by the unexpected flattery. But he regained his original tangent. “No, man. You reached all the way across this table without fucking moving, man." Curt's brows knitted as he tried to figure this out. (He wasn't very educated on the finer points of vampirism.)
"Ah," Lestat said, understanding now. He gave a cunning smile, so fitting of his brat-prince air. "Vampires move faster than the human eye can process – when we want to, that is. To us...to us, it's just moving." He sighed. "I've grown used to not dealing with mortals nowadays."
"Huh," Curt looked sceptical and intrigued all at once. He tapped the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray. "So," he said, bringing the cigarette up to his lips, "why you dealin' with me?"
Lestat smirked, reaching forward again and taking the cigarette from the former rockstar's hand as the filter touched his lips. Again, it seemed as if the vampire had barely moved – suddenly Curt felt the cigarette being taken from his hand as he stared into the blue – no, brown – fuck – eyes, of the vampire, and then Lestat was reclining back, a smile upon his sensual mouth, Curt's cigarette between two elegant fingers, that hand's arm with elbow upon the table.
"You shouldn't smoke, you know. Shortens life and all that."
"I've been smokin' since I was twelve. I ain't dead yet, and with my fuckin' luck, I won't be for a while yet."
Lestat was intrigued by that sentiment. He raised an eyebrow. Curt rolled his eyes and sighed, taking another cigarette out and lighting it. "Ain't much to live for," he gritted out.
Lestat slowly – contemplatively – stamped the cigarette out against the lacquered wood of the table. He looked up from beneath dark blond waves. There was something about this rockstar. He possessed the same emotion that Louis had when Lestat had come across him – apathy, given up on life. But there was still a fire to this man, one that Louis had lacked. Even if he was letting things ride, this faded rockstar was still open to possibility. Would still rally against the odds. He was...he was a fitting complement to Lestat himself. Knowing that which was bad about life – which is rather, at the core, the same for mortal and immortal alike: the despair, the weathering – but at the same time, he had that which Lestat had never quite found, in anyone, not even young Jesse. This ornery internal fire. Even when one realised just what kind of a hell they really were in, yet...they still did not cave. Lestat was that, as much as one could be. And so was this man.
It struck Lestat that he still didn't know his pet's name. "You were saying that you were a rockstar, too."
"Yeah, once upon a time ago. Curt Wild, Maxwell Demon's little bitch, easily tossed aside for better fame," he said bitterly. He looked at Lestat. "That was Brian's little...alter-ego. Bowie had Ziggy Stardust, Brian had Maxwell Demon. They don't do that too much nowadays, do they? They either are who they are, or completely their persona, aren't they? Nirvana, Prince. Falco, Marilyn Manson."
"I suppose that's true," Lestat mused. "And what did you think of me?"
"You're just who you are, right? I mean, you’ve got fangs – and I’ve seen some weird shit about out here, so I can believe it, being a vampire and all." Curt was amazed as he spoke that he realised he'd never once really questioned Lestat's story. Just...accepted it. Maybe he was getting a bit crazy as he got older – but then, look around. Like he'd said, more or less: the whole world was. "Hm. What was it? Eighteenth century nobleman and all that shit?"
"Yes,” Lestat said, ducking his head a bit, fangs peeking as he smiled. “So you believe in vampires? And I’m not so much a nobleman as one might picture, but that sounds better, doesn't it?"
Curt snorted amusement. "Yeah. I believe a lot of shit that would surprise most people. And yeah, I guess it does."
"And what were you, Curt Wild? Who you are or a persona?"
Curt scoffed. He sighed. "Hm. Who was I? I was me, before Brian. Just a fucked-up spaz. Then I was something – we were something, greater than anything – over our fuckin' heads. Now...now I'm just another junkie burnt out former rockstar. That's me now."
The cold, dark wasteland of a ruined soul. Lestat's previous thoughts came back to him. How right he had been.
"You know," Curt said, bringing Lestat from his recollection, "you still haven't answered my question." He stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray, then looked up, tossing his loose moonbeam blond hair back from his face. It fell back forward, mostly anyways: "Why're you dealin' with me if you don't deal with mortals?"
Lestat once again folded his hands before him. He looked into Curt's grey...green – no, blue-green...with grey? – eyes.
"Because I've an interest in you."
Curt about choked on air, covering the initial reaction with a scoff. He coughed. "Don't see why," he told the vampire. Lestat put his hand over Curt's as the man reached for his pack of Marlboros again.
"Come."
Curt was caught in those darkly violet eyes. " 'kay," he said quietly, still lost within Lestat's eyes. He followed the vampire out of the club. "So where're we goin'?" Curt asked as they exited into the still night.
Lestat smirked, silencing Curt with a soft, oh-so tempting for more, slight kiss, wrapping his arms about the man.
"Up," he replied, so matter-of-fact. And then Curt saw that the ground was getting further and further from his feet – he and the vampire were getting higher in the air. Scared – shocked – he turned his eyes back to Lestat. The vampire smiled softly, unexpectedly reassuring to Curt. And suddenly, the former glam rocker relaxed.
And they soared.
(The lyric in the break is from:
"Slept So Long" – Jay Gordon of Orgy.)
Author: Curt Kenobi
Pairing: Curt Wild/Lestat de Lioncourt
Rating: PG-13/T...working up to M
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: Vampyrism, Angst
A/N: The details for Lestat are based off of Stuart Townsend as well as the Vampire Chronicles, namely The Vampire Lestat. This part's short, and has a bit of an interlude/prelude feel.
Enjoy!
Gimme Danger 'Cos I've Slept So Long, Part One
The Ruby Shard was a nice enough club – given its location and business. The owner, Davrick, owned the entire four-storey building, and he had put all of it to use. First floor was the bar and lounge, the back half the "play and display" room. Second floor was the "dungeon". Third, the "meeting place" – that was mainly because the fire escape's first platform was outside a third floor window; that way all the little junkies and addicts could just climb up to there without sullying the club floor. Fourth floor...well, the fourth floor was the private rooms. Rarely used, but available. The Shard was one of the few clubs that didn't just expressly deal with vampires – it catered to all kinds of people, mortal and immortal alike. The Gothlings, the Masters and Mistresses and their "pets", the vampires and their meals – sometimes brought along, sometimes found on the club floor; no one thought twice of anything that went on, even if it was someone being eaten by a vampire in the lounge. They found it erotic, anyway. The dealers and their little puppets. The rockers. The clubbers. And those who wished to remain anonymous.
Lestat was rather the latter of all of those. He was a vampire, yes, and a rockstar as well. He hated publicity, which was rather ironic for a vampire that craved so desperately to be known and great. He stayed to the shadows, even indoors. Occasionally he came across a little Gothling boy, or a pretty girl out here clubbing, and they struck his fancy and taste – quite literally, taste. A dealer or two had gone missing – that was against Davrick's house rules, but no one reported it, mainly because that gave the other pushers more business. But Lestat no longer had neither much of an incessant nor necessary need for blood – that was an effect when one had the oldest and purest of vampiric blood running through their veins. He hadn't stooped as low as to feast on rats and alley cats to satisfy when he had need of a snack – that he had always seen as below him, unless upon a ship, and also, that was Louis' fare. Lestat, while Louis' maker, and thus having a bit of a soft spot, would always have disdain for the depressive vampire.
Tonight was rather no different from any other night that Lestat had hung around here – he sat in a dark corner at a table beside the bar. But whereas he usually was taking in all of the bar idly, listening to see if there was anything of interest, tonight he was rather focused on the door.
He had a feeling that his little pet just might make an entrance tonight.
It had been three nights since Lestat had seen the man and followed him to the loft where he stayed just to watch him. Since then, Lestat had waited – amazingly patiently, he thought. He had glimpsed the man at the window of his loft, or out in the alley occasionally. But he had kept his distance, a sentinel in the shadows, and he had waited in the club.
Three nights. But he felt, for some odd reason, that tonight the man would show. It was early yet; he would give it time.
Around midnight, he was proven right.
There stood his little pet, his scrawny, wiry form clad in his black leather pants and a tattered fishnet shirt over a black muscle shirt. Lestat smirked. He leaned forward so the light would catch his eyes as the man's own swept the bar, finally catching Lestat. Pleased, the vampire motioned for the man to come over. He saw his pet take a deep breath, steadying himself, but then there he was, walking over.
"And whatever brings you here?" the French vampire asked, an eyebrow raised, feigning surprised interest.
Curt shivered as that accent melted over him. It was faint, but it was more than enough. He pushed a Marlboro out of the box as he sat down, taking it between his lips and then lighting it after he flipped the lid of the pack back down. He took a drag – another try at fortifying himself. What the hell was he doing? He wasn't at all sure. He wasn't sure he cared. He was here. No turning back now.
He blew out the smoke softly as he leaned back in the backed barstool seat, one arm thrown over it, the other resting on the table, cigarette in hand. "You," he replied simply, smoky voice even more rough for disuse. Lestat smiled slightly – at the reply or his voice, Curt wasn't sure. Maybe one thing, maybe both, maybe neither.
"I take it you know who I am?" Lestat questioned, folding elegant hands before him on the table. Curt was struck by how...pretty...they were. He looked back up to the vampire's face as he took another drag.
"From what I’ve heard, you slept through the seventies, so I guess you don't know who I am," Curt countered. A brief expression crossed his face – a cringe when he realised how long ago that seemed – before he hid it beneath an almost casually challenging look at the vampire. Lestat’s white teeth and almost innocuous fangs shone as he genuinely smiled – a rare occurrence indeed. No one ever got more than an alluring smirk.
"That would be correct," Lestat conceded, with a gracious incline of his head. Curt wanted to touch those dark blond curls. The vampire's head came back up – damn, he had a helluva beautiful face. Beautiful high cheekbones. Smooth porcelain skin. He looked so young – not a day over twenty-five, if that. So…exotic, compared to Curt, or so the older man thought. "Should I know of you, then?"
Curt shrugged, sighing. "Maybe. Maybe not." He took a long drag off his cig, trying not to remember all those years ago. "Just you missed glam era. That's when I was kinda like you. Rockstar. I was a side act, though – Brian Slade was the big one. But that was all a long time ago, and over across the pond. I guess we're more alike now – fallen from notice."
Lestat smiled slightly again. Yes, they were. Lestat leaned forward and brushed back a stray bit of Curt's hair that had fallen in his face. The man jumped as Lestat sat back, the vampire cocking his head to one side.
"Wha – what'd you just do, man?"
Lestat shrugged. "Your face. You shouldn't try to hide it."
"But – ” Curt was stopped for a moment, utterly stunned by the unexpected flattery. But he regained his original tangent. “No, man. You reached all the way across this table without fucking moving, man." Curt's brows knitted as he tried to figure this out. (He wasn't very educated on the finer points of vampirism.)
"Ah," Lestat said, understanding now. He gave a cunning smile, so fitting of his brat-prince air. "Vampires move faster than the human eye can process – when we want to, that is. To us...to us, it's just moving." He sighed. "I've grown used to not dealing with mortals nowadays."
"Huh," Curt looked sceptical and intrigued all at once. He tapped the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray. "So," he said, bringing the cigarette up to his lips, "why you dealin' with me?"
Lestat smirked, reaching forward again and taking the cigarette from the former rockstar's hand as the filter touched his lips. Again, it seemed as if the vampire had barely moved – suddenly Curt felt the cigarette being taken from his hand as he stared into the blue – no, brown – fuck – eyes, of the vampire, and then Lestat was reclining back, a smile upon his sensual mouth, Curt's cigarette between two elegant fingers, that hand's arm with elbow upon the table.
"You shouldn't smoke, you know. Shortens life and all that."
"I've been smokin' since I was twelve. I ain't dead yet, and with my fuckin' luck, I won't be for a while yet."
Lestat was intrigued by that sentiment. He raised an eyebrow. Curt rolled his eyes and sighed, taking another cigarette out and lighting it. "Ain't much to live for," he gritted out.
Lestat slowly – contemplatively – stamped the cigarette out against the lacquered wood of the table. He looked up from beneath dark blond waves. There was something about this rockstar. He possessed the same emotion that Louis had when Lestat had come across him – apathy, given up on life. But there was still a fire to this man, one that Louis had lacked. Even if he was letting things ride, this faded rockstar was still open to possibility. Would still rally against the odds. He was...he was a fitting complement to Lestat himself. Knowing that which was bad about life – which is rather, at the core, the same for mortal and immortal alike: the despair, the weathering – but at the same time, he had that which Lestat had never quite found, in anyone, not even young Jesse. This ornery internal fire. Even when one realised just what kind of a hell they really were in, yet...they still did not cave. Lestat was that, as much as one could be. And so was this man.
It struck Lestat that he still didn't know his pet's name. "You were saying that you were a rockstar, too."
"Yeah, once upon a time ago. Curt Wild, Maxwell Demon's little bitch, easily tossed aside for better fame," he said bitterly. He looked at Lestat. "That was Brian's little...alter-ego. Bowie had Ziggy Stardust, Brian had Maxwell Demon. They don't do that too much nowadays, do they? They either are who they are, or completely their persona, aren't they? Nirvana, Prince. Falco, Marilyn Manson."
"I suppose that's true," Lestat mused. "And what did you think of me?"
"You're just who you are, right? I mean, you’ve got fangs – and I’ve seen some weird shit about out here, so I can believe it, being a vampire and all." Curt was amazed as he spoke that he realised he'd never once really questioned Lestat's story. Just...accepted it. Maybe he was getting a bit crazy as he got older – but then, look around. Like he'd said, more or less: the whole world was. "Hm. What was it? Eighteenth century nobleman and all that shit?"
"Yes,” Lestat said, ducking his head a bit, fangs peeking as he smiled. “So you believe in vampires? And I’m not so much a nobleman as one might picture, but that sounds better, doesn't it?"
Curt snorted amusement. "Yeah. I believe a lot of shit that would surprise most people. And yeah, I guess it does."
"And what were you, Curt Wild? Who you are or a persona?"
Curt scoffed. He sighed. "Hm. Who was I? I was me, before Brian. Just a fucked-up spaz. Then I was something – we were something, greater than anything – over our fuckin' heads. Now...now I'm just another junkie burnt out former rockstar. That's me now."
The cold, dark wasteland of a ruined soul. Lestat's previous thoughts came back to him. How right he had been.
"You know," Curt said, bringing Lestat from his recollection, "you still haven't answered my question." He stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray, then looked up, tossing his loose moonbeam blond hair back from his face. It fell back forward, mostly anyways: "Why're you dealin' with me if you don't deal with mortals?"
Lestat once again folded his hands before him. He looked into Curt's grey...green – no, blue-green...with grey? – eyes.
"Because I've an interest in you."
Curt about choked on air, covering the initial reaction with a scoff. He coughed. "Don't see why," he told the vampire. Lestat put his hand over Curt's as the man reached for his pack of Marlboros again.
"Come."
Curt was caught in those darkly violet eyes. " 'kay," he said quietly, still lost within Lestat's eyes. He followed the vampire out of the club. "So where're we goin'?" Curt asked as they exited into the still night.
Lestat smirked, silencing Curt with a soft, oh-so tempting for more, slight kiss, wrapping his arms about the man.
"Up," he replied, so matter-of-fact. And then Curt saw that the ground was getting further and further from his feet – he and the vampire were getting higher in the air. Scared – shocked – he turned his eyes back to Lestat. The vampire smiled softly, unexpectedly reassuring to Curt. And suddenly, the former glam rocker relaxed.
And they soared.
"Slept So Long" – Jay Gordon of Orgy.)
--> To: Part Three
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Date: 2007-01-19 03:58 (UTC)OMG, that bit is perfection. Damn. I would've never pieced that together between these two, and yet here is seems 100% self-evident. You absolutely rule.
And GUNH! The chemistry between them. I swear I can't get enough. Mix your gift with capturing them and all these gorgeous little details (the club, the missing drug dealers, the fire escape) and the piece just glimmers.
Like I said, you are at the top of my Must Read NOW stack.
*hugs*