Death of the Virgin (VC, 15, L/L & L/A)

TITLE- Death of the Virgin
FANDOM- Vampire Chronicles
PAIRINGS- Louis/Lestat, Louis/Armand
RATING- 15
CHALLENGE- Fine art, 1hr.
TIME TAKEN- the whole hour, plus a naughty amount of extra time for a quick touch of research.
DISCLAIMER- Well, Anne owns them. That about sums it up. She owns them, has the rights to them, and created them. I didn't. I'm broke and making no money from this. Purely for fun. Don't sue.
SUMMARY- Er, Louis and bridges and art galleries and sex and blood and death.



March 1897, London

The bridge was a fake.

The stone clad gothic towers hid practical metal workings.

Double-leaf bascule mechanism.

Cantilever design.

So very modern.

So very now.

It was efficient, and revolutionary, and a total fraud.

Louis wandered along the high walkway. Women with rouge dabbed across their faces smiled at him, or raised skirts high enough for a glimpse of stockings to be seen. Young men, shivering in the chill spring air smirked or raised eyebrows.

A man, little more than a boy really, took a long slow drag on a cigarette and sidled up close.

"For you, luv, real cheap."

Louis paused. "Oh?"

"Sure," the boy smiled. "You strike me as the psychological type, very greek." He threw a cautious look back over his shoulder, "Like me."

"Ah," Louis inclined his head.

Lestat had been strangely conventional.

First full night as a vampire. Sweltering in the thick humidity of Louisiana and the nearby swamps. Turning down the lanterns in the master bedroom, the windows open but with lace drapes drawn across them.

And on the bed, beneath the covers, using whale-oil to make the going easier.

The boy walked confidently besides Louis.

He pointed out a near-by hotel.

Swore they were discreet.

"I'm sure this will do fine," Louis murmured.

He glanced up the grey street, occasionally catching the bright tip of cigarillos flaring in doorways.

To the south, in the countryside, in still unspoilt woods bluebells would be in bloom.

And to the south, in the countryside, Oscar Wilde was in gaol and dreaming of the freedom April would bring.

Louis followed the boy into the hotel.

Armand had been different.

Second floor of the Louvre, beneath a Caravaggio that depicted the Madonna with swollen feet.

And the words he had whispered…

So very disconcerting next to Lestat's remembered silences.

Words of light and dark, of the art and beauty that surrounded them, of chiaroscuro, and what Armand was going to do to him.

Especially that.

Graphic, dirty, explicit details.

The room was small and smelt of mould and cooked tomatoes.

The boy grinned and removed his slightly battered, slightly stained bowler hat.

"No need to be shy with me, luv. There's nothing I haven't seen or done."

Louis raised an eyebrow, "No doubt."

The boy stepped close, long bony fingers working at Louis' necktie.

It had been much the same in the galleries and museums of Italy.

And then, of course, beneath triptychs in centuries old basilicas.

And in the Vatican.

And in millennia old tombs in Egypt.

Always with the same words being spoken to him, words dropped in his ear.

And they had burnt.

A little.

They had burnt a little.

And he couldn't quite answer what was said.

The boy was tall, and he was thin, hair a muddy brown.

And his mouth was a little too full, a little too wide, a little too expressive.

Louis ran his thumb across the boy's bottom lip.

It was so close… it was almost…

No point lying to himself. No point in saying he wasn't reminded.

"Tell me what it is you're after," the boy cocked his head to the side. "What it is you want."

Louis choked back a laugh. "You would not believe me if I told you."

He kissed the side of the boy's neck, marvelling in the sheer heat there.

When they had first arrived in London, Armand had taken him to Cleveland Street.

Before they had even visited the National Gallery, or British Museum, Armand had taken him to Cleveland Street and the brothel there.

And he had been shocked.

Though he'd hidden it well.

Or at least tried to.

Shocked, not by the simple decadence and debauchery, that was nothing new, but that Armand would bring him to such a place, and watch, and encourage, and _whisper_

And he'd known no such thing as this would have ever happened with Lestat.

Lestat, who was jealous, and protective, and possessive.

Lestat, who had ripped out throats of those who merely smiled at him.

But Armand had put coins in hands, and chosen gilded youths, and directed, and said that he wanted to see Louis in this setting of soiled beauty.

He'd seen Louis beneath the old masterpieces.

Now he wanted to see him here.

Louis slid his fangs into the boy's throat, holding him tight, crushing him.

The blood rushed into his mouth.

His head felt dizzy.

He dropped the corpse.

Out the window, above the dark, dirty waters of The Thames, he could see the lying gothic façade of Tower Bridge.