whiteapples (whiteapples) wrote in at_the_gates, @ 2012-02-18 22:54:00 |
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Entry tags: | balthazar, gremory |
WHO: Balthazar & Gremory
WHERE: A small private gathering in London
WHEN: Mid 1700s
WHAT: Gremory has her eye on a new body; centuries of sniping becomes a full-blown vendetta (nsfw -- demons!)
Pleasure was a halo about the demon Gremory; each movement of her borrowed body spoke of it, each word out of her mouth offered it, it followed in her wake on the most auspicious of saints days, one she claimed for her own and had made most particular plans for. On days of such heightened feeling from the humans who she preyed upon, manipulated and amplified, actions taken would be twice as powerful -- fond as Gremory was of her human flesh, a well-honed vessel to suit her agenda and taken from an occultist in payment in a game that had been truly delicious, there was now a grandchild to consider.
There has been two, in fact, male and female twins, but intimate knowledge of the mind and the heart indicated that the girl was the weaker of the two vessels and thus despite natural inclination it was to the boy that the demon Gremory turned. His face was only slightly less delicate than her current features, a lushness counterbalanced by broader shoulders and surprising height; a good body to begin a new age with.
So it was with thoughts of the bliss of new and full possession in mind (of casting the boy out of his own skin entirely) that Gremory walked though the fashionable salon, a predatory twist to her lips.
The boy was of good stock. Someone to look at, someone whom you wanted to look; the sort that writers would dub Boy in their opus, constructed of hard lines and generous swells, all in the right places, all filling the cut of the day’s fashion in just the correct way. Good stock indeed, and he knew it too if that smile that lingered ever so delicately across lips that were all but identical to those of the woman now approaching, angled in just the same way.
“Hello, cuz.”
“A fine evening.” Her lips ghosted his cheeks in greeting, first left then right, enough for him to catch the delicate scent dabbed behind the fine ears that they shared and for her to take a deceptively light breath, his own masculine perfume a variation upon a similar theme. Quite the perfect specimen, really (as if made to measure for her own desires -- such was the pleasure of watching bloodlines when one found such a good match as this family was to her needs and whims). “I did promise that I would come, after all; it would be cruel indeed to leave you waiting overlong.”
This mysterious cousin was one all in the family wondered about -- often aloud -- even as they vied for her attentions. And as it happened to belong to Boy, Boy simply smiled all the brighter, all youth and unspent vigor angled to impress this woman, whose intentions had never been guessed at by any of this generation.
He was simply pleased to be the focus of her gaze, immensely flattered to be the one whose company she desired. Boy could appreciate beauty and wit, and she certainly had both. He tucked her hand into the press of his elbow, pulled her close -- but not too close, not yet -- and replied, “A little cruelty can go a long way into making a meeting that much more pleasurable.”
“Perhaps I should make other calls, return to you when your appetite is further whetted.” Though her hand remained in place she spun outwards, far enough that the words (the cadence of which was pitched to inflame sparked desire) would find their mark and leave her chosen ‘cousin’ with want.
“What say you, sweet?”
“No.” Not insignificant strength in that grip, elegant fingers tightened around the milky white of her arm. “I said a little cruelty, and you have been cruel enough already. Do not leave me. Do what you like with me, but do not abandon me to all of these people.”
“You will bruise me.” There was appraisal in the observation, and an edge of approval (this body had the skin for purple-blue shadows of bruises, for all that she would not be long within it, and they were a pleasure to behold). And in reply to his other request -- “We must make sure you are not left to this lesser rabble, goodness no. Not for you. I will keep you with me, how’s that for a promise?”
“Shall we retire a little?” And for all that he held her in grip, this was not really a question; she lead, trusting that he would not hold back, through a door into a silk-draped alcove.
And he did not, for Boy wanted what she could give him, what she would give him. Her time and her affections and the warmth of her breath across his skin. Boy ached for it. Boy had spent too many days such as this one hoping for the dainty weight of her gaze to settle upon him, and too many nights with her in mind and himself in hand. Today was the day; he would no longer be one of those desperate souls writhing before her, moths drawn to her blaze.
“I’m going to make you shine,” was murmured low in his ear, as her teeth grazed pale lobe, a benediction of a kiss (more official than he would ever know) pressed to his jaw as she stepped backwards, making short work of the laces which held her corseted and under layers of the most sumptuous fabric London had to offer before stepping away from the pile left on the floor, naked. Naked and ready, for power thrummed beneath the skin of the demon in woman form, a glow not unlike that which she promised him touching her limbs and lighting her up, if he had the intuition to see such things -- and Boy did, oh he did, that was at least half of the reason that she wanted him so.
“Disrobe, cousin.”
Intuition he had, but Boy was also touched by the greed and impatience of coddled youth. The somber cut of his jacket was shed, a button here and there loosened, but all of this came with the press of his stride as he drew close, closer, one hand dipping low as the other stretched warm across the swell of one pale breast.
“Why don’t you disrobe me?”
“Demanding, aren’t we?” And though there was threat to her response, it was couched in desire -- like called to like, after all, and if Boy’s last request was to be undressed by her own two hands then it was hardly an imposition. Pale flesh revealed pale flesh as her fine fingers flicked undone the clasps that held his shirt to him, berry-red lips caught by sharp teeth in response to his hands upon her. Nails traced across his chest, leaving the lightest of marks behind them, before her own hands moved to his breeches.
The power, as skin touched skin (great aunt and bright young star of the same house) began to make the air in the room heavy, a heady perfume to a demon. It was tempting, so tempting, to give herself over to the ritual and the desire to possess and overpower, but Gremory was a demon of little moments as much as anything else -- let the boy have his moment, eternity was her own. And, more importantly, pleasure grew only greater with delay, as he had so rightly told her.
It shuttered his eyes, this contact, heavy eyelids drawn down across a gaze that flickered with the heat of something more than just desire. She had been right in her assessment of him -- he possessed that intuition, knew there was more than just basic physical need that rippled beneath his skin.
“We are,” was half mumble, half hiss of breath as Boy did away with the press of his breeches, the hand that lingered between her legs now shifting to guide himself inside her as the other gripped the delicate arch of her waist, holding her close as his eyes blinked open again.
“That’s family for you.” She said low but sing-song as her arms twined around his neck, one hand clenched tight in the jet black hair and the other firm at the nape of his neck as she moved within his grip. “We are going to be beautiful, you and I.”
The next words that she spoke were heavier, somehow, than any others that had been uttered to him: “Do you love me?”
An all too human sound of pleasure escaped Boy, points of colour high in his cheeks as the heat of the room and of their bodies enveloped every tangled limb. “Do I--” he began, breathless, human, so very human and young and unaccustomed to such a twist of pleasure and demoniac power, hard and needing more than he had of her even as sticky sweat gathered in the hollow of his spine.
A scrape of his hips. “-- do I.” He was inside her and she was blindingly bright and suddenly, suddenly: laughter.
“Oh, do I ever.”
The noise that came from Gremory’s throat in her moment of realisation, coloured by desire and heat and need (for what she had fanned in the boy who was to be her host was the palest reflection of what she felt burning with her own true self), was pure rage. The voice was known, and the laughter certainly known and the sense of violation which accompanied the endeavours that most satisfied him -- known.
Balthazar.
But the power would not leave, not like that, could only be shifted into another key, and her hands upon the sweet body that was to have been her own quite easily drew blood even as she continued to move and hissed, “What a pleasure, cousin,” into the shell of his ear.
That laughter, still, every rich, low peal of it speaking volumes of the amusement and self-satisfaction that gripped this cousin, Balthazar in a human vessel selected for Gremory’s purposes. His had been the lightest of possessions, with Balthazar almost nodding off to sleep as Boy continued in his daily routine, taking himself in hand and crying out as he climaxed over thoughts of the so-called mysterious aunt, dressing himself, bathing, shitting -- all of it. He’d stirred briefly upon the sting of a cut received by a knife, grinning cat-like as the twin sister sucked blood from the shallow wound.
But now, this; and he burst fully into the confines of Boy, filling every limb and nerve-ending completely, the heat of the inferno lighting in Boy’s clear eyes as he laughed and laughed with every thrust of Boy’s beautifully formed cock.
“Sweet Gremory, I think I should let you select all my vessels. Such a specimen, this one.”
“You are a thief, Balthazar.” And if her words were a sing-song croon just as she had murmured to her chosen one, the cadences now were of a rage that could rend souls as easily as flesh, the always-otherworldly face now as terrible as it was beautiful as the half-mask cultivated for the sake of preserving this precious bloodline for her own purposes fell away more with each thrust. The light was now beyond blinding as the power that had built within her was channelled directly to the flesh that her oldest and dearest enemy had seen fit to take over; pain, her least but most immediate revenge for what had been stolen, even as she kept him moving to the rhythm that she set.
“He was mine, petty dukeling; I’ll have payment in kind, be sure of it.”
Physical pain was not Balthazar’s domain -- he came to it naturally, of course, as did every demon, for these human vessels were nothing if not bundles of raw nerves, built for sensation and the abuse of it; but the art of making each synapse sing in simultaneous choir and singularity was not his -- and time immemorial spent gnawing at Gremory’s heels (for fun! for fun!) had taught him that it was not hers either. This, then, was her lashing out at him in the only way she knew how -- vicious and base, the essence of their kind, brutality of the lowest common denominator that made this strike as sweet as it was agonizing.
His response was to send her flying across the room, into the walls of glossy wood paneling, his own pilfered body wrenching across with her, fingers dug into those milky shoulders until blood was drawn. “Thief? Oh, you can have him when I’m done.”
And it hurt -- oh it hurt -- but the mortal vessel was not the demonic spirit, and the grin upon her lips was ghastly as she raked that which she had wanted to possess with oh-so-carefully-maintained nails, to destroy some of the beauty of his body. “I don’t take leavings, Balthazar, my love, my darling, you bitch.”
There were times for her when it was also fun, a game of give and take, but as centuries passed one or the other raised stakes and to be so thwarted by this particular move on the chessboard of their relationship created a rage that Gremory had no doubt would burn hot for decades. She raised the flat of her hand to crack against his ear, just as she raised her lips to his own. “This is unfortunate.”
Somewhere in the background, Boy roiled as agony spilled hot and immediate across his body, sensation surging vivid as Balthazar felt himself -- himself: inky beast of oil and hellfire -- expand and push against the rubbery limits of this body as he soaked in the prize of the night: Gremory’s signature pleasure, now changed into searing rage, and all because of him.
“For you.” And he jerked his head away from the kiss, only to tighten his teeth across the prominent collar bone as he dragged them both down to the floor, his hand hard on her jaw as he attempted to force the swan-like neck in some unnatural angle. “For me, these are the spoils.”
“Don’t you think highly of yourself.” The voice, now, was more than just the vessel’s bent to Gremory’s purpose and touched by her nature (Meredith Belton and the demon had been worlds away from each other -- once). It contained a multitude of sins and poisons, sweet and seductive and deadly; it contained a promise, even as the pain in her vessel’s neck sang through her, even as her teeth sank into the soft skin of his neck, his shoulder. There was no yielding there, for all that this was not Gremory’s night.
“Vendetta, then, victor.”
Flesh was gouged out of him in savage mouthfuls, and as every beautifully toned muscle in Boy’s body seized up in the throes of pain, the screams that would have ripped forth were stolen and reformed into whooping shrieks of laughter as Balthazar released her neck, exchanging delicate throat for the edge of her jaw, which he visited with his human’s blunt little teeth.
“Vendetta, sweet Gremory! It makes life so much more interesting.” Blood and spit sprayed out as he spoke through the roiling laughter, too much power going into his lunge off and away from her, bones cracking under the pressure of demonic power surging in excess.
She stood, overriding the protests of abused flesh that she would not abandon -- might not ever abandon, now, until the moment was right and another creature so perfectly attuned to her nature could be found and suitably prepared. As Gremory’s bloodied arm reached out to a carafe of wine set upon a bookshelf her collarbone could be seen beneath the mess that was her shoulder, and dark bruising already graced her neck. Aware of her blood (her body’s blood) and his saliva thick upon her lips, and disgusted by the presumption of victory rather than any physical aspect of it, her expression twisted as wine stung the torn flesh on the way down. “To interesting -- may you come to regret this day.”
The carafe, after her fill had been drunk, was pitched at his head with a slight flick of the wrist and a great deal of force. A near-impotent gesture of rage, but still ever so slightly satisfying, and sickly sweet smile followed. “Now get the fuck out, Balthazar, before I remove you from the Christmas card list entirely.”
He caught it, one-handed and languid, smiling a grotesque and pinned-on smile as her words of vendetta and retribution once again brought out the flicker of the unnatural in Boy’s once beautiful, clear eyes (now bloodshot and weeping). Balthazar did so adore a good quarrel -- hadn’t had the pleasure of one in so long now -- and he was absurdly pleased with himself for pushing Gremory into such a state of searing rage with his little acts of mischief. A harmless prank had not gone awry this well in quite a long time.
A mocking bow, lean body bending easily at the waist. “I’m getting gone, darling heart --” words chased by the shatter of glass as he smashed the carafe against one naked leg. Slivers of glass bit into the swell of a calf as he straightened, one long crystalline shard held lightly in his hand and brought across to slice through the delicate skin of his neck, where there were vessels and bundles of nerves and the hard, hard jut of a pulse running wild.
Blood, hot and sticky, gushed out of the crimson line as Balthazar withdrew, ash-smoke and the bite of sulfur in the air. Parting words to Gremory, no longer needing to be uttered by a human orifice -- Enjoy your last moments with Boy!