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winterThis is an outtake from the Songs in My Head series that may or not have happened in canon. Because I foolishly admitted to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fyrie that Erik and Raoul had the hots for each other, and she went "whee! smut!". Follows Singing Songs in My Head and A Cry To Heaven, set the next night after Cry.
WINE AND SONG
The violoncello had been broken in two across the middle, though three of the strings still held the pieces together. The fourth had curled away from the neck, attached only to the tailpiece. When Erik twirled it around his finger and tugged, it still sang. A plaintive whimper of dead bones, he thought.
He reached for the bottle again and took a long swig. The snort, he assumed, meant that this was another exceptional wine that Raoul thought should be savoured. Still, it was not his fault that his companion had brought so little and they had been forced to delve into the cellars of this house.
Raoul tugged the bottle out of his hands and drank himself. “What is this place anyway?” he asked, curling on the floor among the ruins of the double bass. “It looks like a cross between a concert hall and a brothel. I can’t believe no-one got to the wine cellar before we did...”
“They were afraid,” Erik said. “There is a story. A dark one.”
“There’s always a story,” Raoul muttered, poking at a piece of red-varnished wood. “Dark stories of the North. She loved them. She-”
Erik’s hands convulsed, letting the violoncello string free with a sharp cry of its own. No. No stories of her whom they had laid to rest that day. Not yet. This drunken crawl through the darkest places of Paris was about forgetting, not remembrance.
They needed more wine.
He retrieved another bottle from the floor and leaned back against the piano stool as he knocked the bottom on the wall, knocking the cork loose. An old burgundy, this one, and the colour made him remember the story.
“It was after the Empire fell and the Bourbons came back,” he started. “Everyone was in Paris, from all over Europe, and they all wanted entertainment. It was a grand time for musicians...”
“You mean the émigrés?” Raoul rolled onto his back and reached out towards the ceiling, wriggling his fingers. “Or the English?”
“The English, German, Dutch, Russian, Austrian, Spanish, everyone!” Erik snapped. “Do you want to hear the story?”
He assumed the giggle meant yes.
“It was a grand time for musicians,” he repeated stubbornly. “You see, a chamber concerto was the height of fashion. Or someone singing. Or everything. It was the quickest way to popularity, to have a music salon, and none was better than the Hungarian’s.”
There was only one intact instrument in the vast room, a concert harp still gleaming with tarnished gold, and he focussed his eyes on it as he recalled the old story told in the orchestra pits.
“They say he gave a different name to everyone he talked to, or that he didn’t have any, but he was Hungarian or from somewhere even further away. He invited all the young musicians – he knew all the best ones, no-one ever refused, and he told them what to play, gave them marvelous instruments, was their friend. Very good friend.” Erik snorted. “They say he always picked the pretty ones.”
“Then you’d have been in no danger,” Raoul laughed, reaching over his head and dislodging several more pieces of musical instruments. “And then what happened?”
Erik snatched a violin bow out of Raoul’s grasp, then used it to scratch at his knee. “Every now and then, one of those musicians would disappear. At first they said the Hungarian recommended them to concert houses in Rome and Vienna, but nothing was ever heard from them. Then they said the Hungarian drove them mad, until their music was spent and they fled to the villages they had come from, or dove off a bridge into the Seine.”
A bridge like the one he’d met Raoul on, he thought. A step into the darkness, the flare of water, a cold embrace...
An empty bottle rolled into his side, an invitation to continue.
“More and more rumours, until the police got interested, and then it was a year since the Hungarian had opened his house in Paris. He declared he would throw the biggest party to celebrate, and despite the rumours, many people came. He stood on top of the stairs, dressed all in blue, and he said that he would have the greatest surprise for the most daring of them at midnight.” Erik sighed, looking at the top of the stairs that led to a burned-out first floor. He could almost see the Hungarian, in blue satin and golden hair. “Some people left early, but many stayed until that hour. At midnight, all the lights went out.”
Raoul waited, then craned his head to look at Erik. “And then?”
“None of them were ever seen again.” Erik threw the bow at a scurrying rat, which squealed and retreated into a dark corner. “The police entered the house the next evening, because during the day it was locked. They found all the instruments broken up, but no sign of the people. The Hungarian disappeared and no-one remembered his name.”
“That,” Raoul said with the clear enunciation of the very drunk, “still doesn’t explain why no-one touched the wine.”
Erik grinned evilly. “The doors are closed from dawn until dusk. And if you come here after dark... every now and then...”
“Especially if you’re male, young and han – hand - pretty?”
Erik nodded.
Raoul looked around nervously, then tried to rise, but his hands slipped. He sprawled to the side, his head touching Erik’s elbow. “Maybe I should go?”
Erik tried to gesture his derisiveness with the bottle, but somehow it ended up reversed, the dregs of the wine dropping straight on Raoul’s face. The young man grimaced and wiped his face, then squinted at his fingers and proceeded to lick them clean.
Erik looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Young men dare each other to come here. That’s how the candles got here.”
Raoul squirmed backwards, propping his back against the piano stool, his head falling on Erik’s shoulder. “How’d you know so much?”
“I listen,” Erik whispered. He thought he saw something move in the shadows, a flash of blue, and he blinked carefully to clear his eyes.
Raoul shifted against him, then held up a hand with a porcelain shell that featured several finger-holes. “What’s this?”
Erik squinted. “An ocarina,” he declared. “Very, very, very old wind instr- insta-“
“Instrument?” Raoul let his hand fall across Erik’s waist.
“Yes.”
Erik took hold of Raoul’s fingers. He wanted to free the remains of the ocarina to examine them, but somehow they slipped to the floor, leaving him holding Raoul’s hand, still a little sticky with wine. He squinted again, following each line of liquid with his fingers, then switching to the shapes of muscles when he ran out of wine.
Raoul made an indistinct noise somewhere between a sigh and a purr. “Do you think Christine’s at peace? Wherever she is?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Erik had two fingers on Raoul’s wrist, rubbing them in small circles around the edges of bones.
“She – she didn’t confess... I told her to, but she said she would before the wedding and then...”
“What would she confess to?” Erik asked as he toyed with Raoul’s cuff link until it clattered to the floor.
Raoul tipped his head on Erik’s shoulder again. “My fault. It’s all my fault, of course. She liked it so much, though. Especially if she was blindfolded while I touched her. She said it made her feel things better.”
Erik breathed in, then let the air out slowly. His hand continued its motion from Raoul’s elbow to shoulder without conscious participation of his mind.
“She looked beautiful like that,” Raoul murmured with a small smile. “Her skin was pale, only a little darker than the sheets. She’d grip the headboard. She once broke a nail, she held it that tightly...”
There were things he had to hold on to, not to let his mind spiral into wine-drenched labyrinths of madness. “She didn’t have time to confess to it.”
“Will she burn in Purgatory for that?” Raoul moved his other hand to Erik’s shoulder, leaving them in a mock-embrace. “I didn’t want to hurt her, Erik. I didn’t.”
His eyes watered as he tried to look in the shadows behind the intact harp. He could smell the wine on Raoul’s breath. “Neither of us wanted, but we both did.”
“That’s what you said on the bridge,” Raoul muttered petulantly. “I thought you’d have new pearls of wisdom to share.”
“Too much wine,” Erik forced out. He turned his head, staring at the farthest candle they had bothered to light. “It clouds my eyes.”
Raoul leaned in, his dishevelled hair brushing Erik’s shoulder. His fingers curled on Erik’s shoulder, hooking into the flesh as he supported all his weight on that hand, almost falling across Erik’s body.
“Then close them,” he whispered into Erik’s ear.
Erik jerked and felt teeth brush his earlobe. Then the twin sounds of hissed breaths, and they were falling, scattering the dead bones of instruments.
A music stand cut into Erik’s back and he bucked to dislodge it. Raoul shuddered and made a pleased sound before burying his nose in Erik’s hair. He seemed to have more limbs than humanely possible, twining and insinuating between and along Erik’s, as if desperate to touch all of him at once. Erik’s hands found the place where Raoul’s shirt had slipped from his trousers. The soft skin under his fingers made him take shallow, gasping breaths that did not help the wine-haze in his mind.
He bucked again and succeeded in turning them over, some vague idea in his mind about drawing out more of those sounds, but what he got was a muttered growl. Raoul kicked him off, then crawled on top of him, his larger body covering Erik’s completely. The protest only lasted a breath before Raoul’s fingers were kneading Erik’s arms, holding him down as a hungry, wine scented tongue lapped at his throat. Their legs tangled in the violoncello strings.
Erik threw his head back. There was a growl rising in his throat, and as those large hands slipped down his body, he seized Raoul’s hair and buried the sound in the junction between neck and shoulder. Raoul tasted of wine and despair and youth, sourness and heat, and his hands held Erik’s body like iron shackles. He couldn’t move away even if he had been able to form such thoughts.
Erik’s shirt gave way under insistent hands and Raoul bit his shoulder, the pain a bright arc of feeling. Erik was panting now, a continuous breathless whimper of a mind overwhelmed with both drink and sensation. A last barrier broke and he stopped resisting the press of Raoul’s hips, finding the rhythm and matching it.
One of them kicked at an empty bottle. It rolled into the darkness, the candlelight glinting on it in green and blue.
Button by button, they were skin-to-skin now, Erik’s hesitant hands prompted by Raoul’s hungry ones. Raoul’s mouth returned to Erik’s ear, tongue and lips and teeth now. Erik let his head turn, his cheek pressed to the dusty floorboards, his eyes staring blankly into the darkness. For a moment he thought he saw someone there, a blur of gold and blue, but it was only the reflection of the harp – gold-stringed, blue-enamelled – in a cracked mirror.
Their fingers tangled together between their hips, fabric and heat and flesh. With an annoyed snort, Raoul pushed Erik’s hands out of the way, throwing them apart to scramble at the floor. He dealt quickly with the remaining fastenings, groaning loudly when his hands touched flesh.
Erik bit his lip sharply, shuddering. Somewhere, a candle hissed as the flame touched a remnant of meat in the tallow. Raoul’s fingers wrapped around them both.
Raoul was propped over him now, hips rolling in rhythm with his hand and Erik’s own body. The candlelight divided his face into planes of light and shadow. As he threw his head back, the light illuminated his mouth, lips slicked by a tongue that sneaked out with every thrust.
Erik sank his fingers into Raoul’s hair, touched that mouth and white teeth, the straining muscles in Raoul’s neck. He clawed at a mark of his own teeth there, reddening it further, then splayed his fingers on both sides of the throat.
Raoul whimpered then, his blue eyes widening. Erik’s fingers found the pattern of a strangling hold. Feather-light now, gentle, but if he only squeezed...
Raoul thrashed in his hold, his own fingers slipping and speeding on their flesh, one hand digging into Erik’s hip with a bruising force. The blue eyes were blank, glazed with pleasure.
Slowly, Erik increased the pressure. He felt Raoul’s pulse, fast and hot, gasping breaths. Raoul’s hands convulsed and Erik groaned, the pleasure almost making his eyes roll back, but still they were focussed on Raoul’s face, parted lips, an expression of fear and anticipation and ecstasy. Skin reddening even more with each passing moment.
They were frantic now, legs kicking, hips bucking, though Erik’s hold on Raoul’s throat held firm. Music, somewhere, or were those their own moans, desperate, stuttered, the most primitive harmony of all?
A violoncello string came apart with a sharp sound, and so did they.
Several breaths later, Erik idly thought he could feel the lingering tremors in the tips of his fingers. Raoul was lying heavily over him, a sharp nose poking into the crook of Erik’s neck. Raoul’s hair was scattered over Erik’s face and he blew air up, trying to dislodge the annoying strands.
Raoul stirred and slowly raised his head, dragging his cheek along Erik’s until their lips met. The kisses were lazy, wet and warm, until Erik slipped his fingers into Raoul’s hair again to hold him still. Now he could explore properly. He kept his eyes open and thought that Raoul’s lashes were so much paler than his hair.
Tired, sated, they shifted until they were sprawled next to each other. The warmth of the room, too great for an unheated house in March in Paris, lulled them to sleep.
In that instance when the body already slumbers, but the mind is still awake, Erik thought he heard the strings of a harp being plucked one by one, C to G, three and a half octaves in as many breaths. The soft footsteps were half-hidden in the echoes. If he opened his eyes, he wondered, would he see blue clothes and golden hair?
“Sleep,” an amused voice whispered as two fingertips touched his lips. “You’ve earned your forgetfulness.”
FINIS?
(First person who isn'tfyrie to identify the cameo can request a one-page fic :>)
fyrie that Erik and Raoul had the hots for each other, and she went "whee! smut!". Follows Singing Songs in My Head and A Cry To Heaven, set the next night after Cry.WINE AND SONG
The violoncello had been broken in two across the middle, though three of the strings still held the pieces together. The fourth had curled away from the neck, attached only to the tailpiece. When Erik twirled it around his finger and tugged, it still sang. A plaintive whimper of dead bones, he thought.
He reached for the bottle again and took a long swig. The snort, he assumed, meant that this was another exceptional wine that Raoul thought should be savoured. Still, it was not his fault that his companion had brought so little and they had been forced to delve into the cellars of this house.
Raoul tugged the bottle out of his hands and drank himself. “What is this place anyway?” he asked, curling on the floor among the ruins of the double bass. “It looks like a cross between a concert hall and a brothel. I can’t believe no-one got to the wine cellar before we did...”
“They were afraid,” Erik said. “There is a story. A dark one.”
“There’s always a story,” Raoul muttered, poking at a piece of red-varnished wood. “Dark stories of the North. She loved them. She-”
Erik’s hands convulsed, letting the violoncello string free with a sharp cry of its own. No. No stories of her whom they had laid to rest that day. Not yet. This drunken crawl through the darkest places of Paris was about forgetting, not remembrance.
They needed more wine.
He retrieved another bottle from the floor and leaned back against the piano stool as he knocked the bottom on the wall, knocking the cork loose. An old burgundy, this one, and the colour made him remember the story.
“It was after the Empire fell and the Bourbons came back,” he started. “Everyone was in Paris, from all over Europe, and they all wanted entertainment. It was a grand time for musicians...”
“You mean the émigrés?” Raoul rolled onto his back and reached out towards the ceiling, wriggling his fingers. “Or the English?”
“The English, German, Dutch, Russian, Austrian, Spanish, everyone!” Erik snapped. “Do you want to hear the story?”
He assumed the giggle meant yes.
“It was a grand time for musicians,” he repeated stubbornly. “You see, a chamber concerto was the height of fashion. Or someone singing. Or everything. It was the quickest way to popularity, to have a music salon, and none was better than the Hungarian’s.”
There was only one intact instrument in the vast room, a concert harp still gleaming with tarnished gold, and he focussed his eyes on it as he recalled the old story told in the orchestra pits.
“They say he gave a different name to everyone he talked to, or that he didn’t have any, but he was Hungarian or from somewhere even further away. He invited all the young musicians – he knew all the best ones, no-one ever refused, and he told them what to play, gave them marvelous instruments, was their friend. Very good friend.” Erik snorted. “They say he always picked the pretty ones.”
“Then you’d have been in no danger,” Raoul laughed, reaching over his head and dislodging several more pieces of musical instruments. “And then what happened?”
Erik snatched a violin bow out of Raoul’s grasp, then used it to scratch at his knee. “Every now and then, one of those musicians would disappear. At first they said the Hungarian recommended them to concert houses in Rome and Vienna, but nothing was ever heard from them. Then they said the Hungarian drove them mad, until their music was spent and they fled to the villages they had come from, or dove off a bridge into the Seine.”
A bridge like the one he’d met Raoul on, he thought. A step into the darkness, the flare of water, a cold embrace...
An empty bottle rolled into his side, an invitation to continue.
“More and more rumours, until the police got interested, and then it was a year since the Hungarian had opened his house in Paris. He declared he would throw the biggest party to celebrate, and despite the rumours, many people came. He stood on top of the stairs, dressed all in blue, and he said that he would have the greatest surprise for the most daring of them at midnight.” Erik sighed, looking at the top of the stairs that led to a burned-out first floor. He could almost see the Hungarian, in blue satin and golden hair. “Some people left early, but many stayed until that hour. At midnight, all the lights went out.”
Raoul waited, then craned his head to look at Erik. “And then?”
“None of them were ever seen again.” Erik threw the bow at a scurrying rat, which squealed and retreated into a dark corner. “The police entered the house the next evening, because during the day it was locked. They found all the instruments broken up, but no sign of the people. The Hungarian disappeared and no-one remembered his name.”
“That,” Raoul said with the clear enunciation of the very drunk, “still doesn’t explain why no-one touched the wine.”
Erik grinned evilly. “The doors are closed from dawn until dusk. And if you come here after dark... every now and then...”
“Especially if you’re male, young and han – hand - pretty?”
Erik nodded.
Raoul looked around nervously, then tried to rise, but his hands slipped. He sprawled to the side, his head touching Erik’s elbow. “Maybe I should go?”
Erik tried to gesture his derisiveness with the bottle, but somehow it ended up reversed, the dregs of the wine dropping straight on Raoul’s face. The young man grimaced and wiped his face, then squinted at his fingers and proceeded to lick them clean.
Erik looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Young men dare each other to come here. That’s how the candles got here.”
Raoul squirmed backwards, propping his back against the piano stool, his head falling on Erik’s shoulder. “How’d you know so much?”
“I listen,” Erik whispered. He thought he saw something move in the shadows, a flash of blue, and he blinked carefully to clear his eyes.
Raoul shifted against him, then held up a hand with a porcelain shell that featured several finger-holes. “What’s this?”
Erik squinted. “An ocarina,” he declared. “Very, very, very old wind instr- insta-“
“Instrument?” Raoul let his hand fall across Erik’s waist.
“Yes.”
Erik took hold of Raoul’s fingers. He wanted to free the remains of the ocarina to examine them, but somehow they slipped to the floor, leaving him holding Raoul’s hand, still a little sticky with wine. He squinted again, following each line of liquid with his fingers, then switching to the shapes of muscles when he ran out of wine.
Raoul made an indistinct noise somewhere between a sigh and a purr. “Do you think Christine’s at peace? Wherever she is?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Erik had two fingers on Raoul’s wrist, rubbing them in small circles around the edges of bones.
“She – she didn’t confess... I told her to, but she said she would before the wedding and then...”
“What would she confess to?” Erik asked as he toyed with Raoul’s cuff link until it clattered to the floor.
Raoul tipped his head on Erik’s shoulder again. “My fault. It’s all my fault, of course. She liked it so much, though. Especially if she was blindfolded while I touched her. She said it made her feel things better.”
Erik breathed in, then let the air out slowly. His hand continued its motion from Raoul’s elbow to shoulder without conscious participation of his mind.
“She looked beautiful like that,” Raoul murmured with a small smile. “Her skin was pale, only a little darker than the sheets. She’d grip the headboard. She once broke a nail, she held it that tightly...”
There were things he had to hold on to, not to let his mind spiral into wine-drenched labyrinths of madness. “She didn’t have time to confess to it.”
“Will she burn in Purgatory for that?” Raoul moved his other hand to Erik’s shoulder, leaving them in a mock-embrace. “I didn’t want to hurt her, Erik. I didn’t.”
His eyes watered as he tried to look in the shadows behind the intact harp. He could smell the wine on Raoul’s breath. “Neither of us wanted, but we both did.”
“That’s what you said on the bridge,” Raoul muttered petulantly. “I thought you’d have new pearls of wisdom to share.”
“Too much wine,” Erik forced out. He turned his head, staring at the farthest candle they had bothered to light. “It clouds my eyes.”
Raoul leaned in, his dishevelled hair brushing Erik’s shoulder. His fingers curled on Erik’s shoulder, hooking into the flesh as he supported all his weight on that hand, almost falling across Erik’s body.
“Then close them,” he whispered into Erik’s ear.
Erik jerked and felt teeth brush his earlobe. Then the twin sounds of hissed breaths, and they were falling, scattering the dead bones of instruments.
A music stand cut into Erik’s back and he bucked to dislodge it. Raoul shuddered and made a pleased sound before burying his nose in Erik’s hair. He seemed to have more limbs than humanely possible, twining and insinuating between and along Erik’s, as if desperate to touch all of him at once. Erik’s hands found the place where Raoul’s shirt had slipped from his trousers. The soft skin under his fingers made him take shallow, gasping breaths that did not help the wine-haze in his mind.
He bucked again and succeeded in turning them over, some vague idea in his mind about drawing out more of those sounds, but what he got was a muttered growl. Raoul kicked him off, then crawled on top of him, his larger body covering Erik’s completely. The protest only lasted a breath before Raoul’s fingers were kneading Erik’s arms, holding him down as a hungry, wine scented tongue lapped at his throat. Their legs tangled in the violoncello strings.
Erik threw his head back. There was a growl rising in his throat, and as those large hands slipped down his body, he seized Raoul’s hair and buried the sound in the junction between neck and shoulder. Raoul tasted of wine and despair and youth, sourness and heat, and his hands held Erik’s body like iron shackles. He couldn’t move away even if he had been able to form such thoughts.
Erik’s shirt gave way under insistent hands and Raoul bit his shoulder, the pain a bright arc of feeling. Erik was panting now, a continuous breathless whimper of a mind overwhelmed with both drink and sensation. A last barrier broke and he stopped resisting the press of Raoul’s hips, finding the rhythm and matching it.
One of them kicked at an empty bottle. It rolled into the darkness, the candlelight glinting on it in green and blue.
Button by button, they were skin-to-skin now, Erik’s hesitant hands prompted by Raoul’s hungry ones. Raoul’s mouth returned to Erik’s ear, tongue and lips and teeth now. Erik let his head turn, his cheek pressed to the dusty floorboards, his eyes staring blankly into the darkness. For a moment he thought he saw someone there, a blur of gold and blue, but it was only the reflection of the harp – gold-stringed, blue-enamelled – in a cracked mirror.
Their fingers tangled together between their hips, fabric and heat and flesh. With an annoyed snort, Raoul pushed Erik’s hands out of the way, throwing them apart to scramble at the floor. He dealt quickly with the remaining fastenings, groaning loudly when his hands touched flesh.
Erik bit his lip sharply, shuddering. Somewhere, a candle hissed as the flame touched a remnant of meat in the tallow. Raoul’s fingers wrapped around them both.
Raoul was propped over him now, hips rolling in rhythm with his hand and Erik’s own body. The candlelight divided his face into planes of light and shadow. As he threw his head back, the light illuminated his mouth, lips slicked by a tongue that sneaked out with every thrust.
Erik sank his fingers into Raoul’s hair, touched that mouth and white teeth, the straining muscles in Raoul’s neck. He clawed at a mark of his own teeth there, reddening it further, then splayed his fingers on both sides of the throat.
Raoul whimpered then, his blue eyes widening. Erik’s fingers found the pattern of a strangling hold. Feather-light now, gentle, but if he only squeezed...
Raoul thrashed in his hold, his own fingers slipping and speeding on their flesh, one hand digging into Erik’s hip with a bruising force. The blue eyes were blank, glazed with pleasure.
Slowly, Erik increased the pressure. He felt Raoul’s pulse, fast and hot, gasping breaths. Raoul’s hands convulsed and Erik groaned, the pleasure almost making his eyes roll back, but still they were focussed on Raoul’s face, parted lips, an expression of fear and anticipation and ecstasy. Skin reddening even more with each passing moment.
They were frantic now, legs kicking, hips bucking, though Erik’s hold on Raoul’s throat held firm. Music, somewhere, or were those their own moans, desperate, stuttered, the most primitive harmony of all?
A violoncello string came apart with a sharp sound, and so did they.
Several breaths later, Erik idly thought he could feel the lingering tremors in the tips of his fingers. Raoul was lying heavily over him, a sharp nose poking into the crook of Erik’s neck. Raoul’s hair was scattered over Erik’s face and he blew air up, trying to dislodge the annoying strands.
Raoul stirred and slowly raised his head, dragging his cheek along Erik’s until their lips met. The kisses were lazy, wet and warm, until Erik slipped his fingers into Raoul’s hair again to hold him still. Now he could explore properly. He kept his eyes open and thought that Raoul’s lashes were so much paler than his hair.
Tired, sated, they shifted until they were sprawled next to each other. The warmth of the room, too great for an unheated house in March in Paris, lulled them to sleep.
In that instance when the body already slumbers, but the mind is still awake, Erik thought he heard the strings of a harp being plucked one by one, C to G, three and a half octaves in as many breaths. The soft footsteps were half-hidden in the echoes. If he opened his eyes, he wondered, would he see blue clothes and golden hair?
“Sleep,” an amused voice whispered as two fingertips touched his lips. “You’ve earned your forgetfulness.”
FINIS?
(First person who isn't
fyrie to identify the cameo can request a one-page fic :>)![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:12 pm (UTC)*wonders if the blond in questiuon is a certain flaming vampire we all know an d love by the name of Herbert*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:14 pm (UTC)Cookiefic of your choice? :>(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:17 pm (UTC)Sinc I am feleing sickeningly cvold and sicly, I think my request is for,Lorenzåpo-centric Mexico fic. caus,e you know, in mexico it is so warm and toasty.t he rest shall be left to you :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:25 pm (UTC)And offer still stands, because my Lorenzo is vampire-phobic.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:34 pm (UTC)Is there any chance we get a companion story from Herbie's POV?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:39 pm (UTC)(Incidentally, he plays the harp. Rather well. He once used the music to drive someone mad, because he'd made a bet that even the bloodiest soul could be moved to tears.)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 05:49 pm (UTC)( *blink blink* Don't tell me he drove Vlad mad by playing the harp! )
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 06:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 06:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 06:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 06:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 06:18 pm (UTC)Btw, want to Vlad-pick the next Bloodmarks chapter? 's got smut in it.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 06:21 pm (UTC)Sure, throw the chapter my way! I thirst for something tonight, and the music ain't quite sating it.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-11 11:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-12 05:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-12 02:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-12 05:34 am (UTC)