( stack is all smiles for armand, fangs and gold glinting in the dim dark of his room, as much as his eyes which catch light in odd, sapphire hues given that his eyes are pretty fucking far from blue. in any case, the hunt is like a spell that settles between them, and stack is rapt to watch armand, to follow two pace behind him, keeping a keen ear out for the melodic hum of blood down the hall β easy prey, or at least the most convenient. any passersby go unbitten though, at armand's behest. they're seeking greener (redder) pastures in the belly of the beast, and stack is too interested in the lesson not to abide.
he's confident the two halves of vampirism are blood and music, and only more sure once they make their way to otherworld where the two combine in one sweaty, heady mix. they find a meal easily enough, one warm body pressed between them, armand showing off his skills for hunting and stack drooling down his chin, teeth scraping salt before they seek blood, meeting armand's top lip over a thick, split artery, messy blood exiting a wound and entering them. armand is neat, stack isn't βΒ he finds revelry in the mess, and once the person becomes a body and they find a couch to drop him in, there's only one thing that stops stack from a rampage. armand's hand in his, which stack interlaces with a smile maybe, almost, full of that sugary child-like giddiness, a nervous first touch or a chemical imbalance of bloodhappiness β vampirism means community to him too, and he has it with armand, babyishly babbling about nothing and everything that comes to mind, all partly lost in the loud rhythm of pulsing club music. sammie, he tells armand. my lil' cousin. his music could take you anywhere. home and back again βΒ could show you yours, could show me my brother.
it's thoughtful, like he understands remmick in some deeper place with the revelation, what drives a man to reliving the past. taking armand by the waist, he sweeps an arm around him, the other poised like they're about to waltz, mouth still sticky with blood. instead, stack guides him into a hoppy, revelrous jig, two vampires out of their time finding, at least by stack's mark, the truth inside of EDM and techno beats βΒ music is all rooted in the same magic stuff, the same thing beating in every body around them. when he presses his mouth to armand's ear, it isn't blues that comes out but a chiming, bouncing folk song:
πΆ i'm a roving jack of many a trade β of every trade, of all trades β and if you wish to know my name β they call me jack of all trades πΆ
singing, dancing with armand, all the way to the bathroom which stack sweeps him into with fluidity, up off his feet and then pinned to the wall which cracks behind him, stack panting against his mouth. his fangs are always out, no understanding yet on how to hide himself βΒ not sure what to do with his hungry mouth entirely, if not biting. he drools again, wet down his chin. all desires, he thinks, are the same at the end of the day. seeing his brother, killing his brother β eating armand, being armand. don't we do everything we do to keep fellowship with the people we love? )
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he's confident the two halves of vampirism are blood and music, and only more sure once they make their way to otherworld where the two combine in one sweaty, heady mix. they find a meal easily enough, one warm body pressed between them, armand showing off his skills for hunting and stack drooling down his chin, teeth scraping salt before they seek blood, meeting armand's top lip over a thick, split artery, messy blood exiting a wound and entering them. armand is neat, stack isn't βΒ he finds revelry in the mess, and once the person becomes a body and they find a couch to drop him in, there's only one thing that stops stack from a rampage. armand's hand in his, which stack interlaces with a smile maybe, almost, full of that sugary child-like giddiness, a nervous first touch or a chemical imbalance of bloodhappiness β vampirism means community to him too, and he has it with armand, babyishly babbling about nothing and everything that comes to mind, all partly lost in the loud rhythm of pulsing club music. sammie, he tells armand. my lil' cousin. his music could take you anywhere. home and back again βΒ could show you yours, could show me my brother.
it's thoughtful, like he understands remmick in some deeper place with the revelation, what drives a man to reliving the past. taking armand by the waist, he sweeps an arm around him, the other poised like they're about to waltz, mouth still sticky with blood. instead, stack guides him into a hoppy, revelrous jig, two vampires out of their time finding, at least by stack's mark, the truth inside of EDM and techno beats βΒ music is all rooted in the same magic stuff, the same thing beating in every body around them. when he presses his mouth to armand's ear, it isn't blues that comes out but a chiming, bouncing folk song:
πΆ i'm a roving jack of many a trade β of every trade, of all trades β and if you wish to know my name β they call me jack of all trades πΆ
singing, dancing with armand, all the way to the bathroom which stack sweeps him into with fluidity, up off his feet and then pinned to the wall which cracks behind him, stack panting against his mouth. his fangs are always out, no understanding yet on how to hide himself βΒ not sure what to do with his hungry mouth entirely, if not biting. he drools again, wet down his chin. all desires, he thinks, are the same at the end of the day. seeing his brother, killing his brother β eating armand, being armand. don't we do everything we do to keep fellowship with the people we love? )