almosthonorable: (i keep my enemies closer)
Ben Wade ([personal profile] almosthonorable) wrote2009-12-28 11:02 pm
Entry tags:

[[ milliways, the stables ]]

whitetextiswhite

Ben's mostly certain he put those cross-ties back where they belong in the tack room.

Which is why he's striding out to the stables, late hour and icy air be damned.

When he hears the horses -- panicked whinnies cutting straight to his eardrums, raising the hairs on the back of his neck -- he breaks into a run.

[personal profile] vojvode 2009-12-29 04:11 am (UTC)(link)
The barn door, usually closed up this time of night, is standing open, and the wind blowing up from the lake sets the lanterns swinging wildly, casting bizarre shadows.

The horses are screaming, hooves pounding at the wooden stalls, and the flicker of light coming from the center of the barn might be the source of their terror.

A lick of blue flame dances on one of the hay bales.

[personal profile] vojvode 2009-12-29 04:34 am (UTC)(link)
The back doors of the stable stand wide open as well, the wind whipping down broad corridor between the stalls, kicking up dust and hay, making the tack creak and rattle on its hooks.

The blue flame seems absolutely impervious to the wind, languid and unconcerned. There is no smell of smoke, no charring, nothing that might accompany a proper fire.

When he returns from the office carrying the fire extinguisher, it seems he misremembered just where he saw it. It's farther down the barn now, almost to the back door.

[personal profile] vojvode 2009-12-29 04:57 am (UTC)(link)
The wind tears at his coat, sucks the heat from his body. It muffles the sound of the horses' terror and bites at his ears like a beast with a thousand tiny sharp teeth.

The moment he crosses the threshold of the back door, he hears the door slam shut behind him. The wind ceases abruptly and the silence that crashes in around him is almost oppressive.

When he turns back, he's not standing on the path to the lake. His boots crunch on white salt and there's not a cloud in the sky. The blue flame hovers a few yards away, outlining the translucent silhouette of a man.

[personal profile] vojvode 2009-12-29 05:25 am (UTC)(link)
The voice that speaks seems to come from all around him, perhaps just behind him, perhaps in front of him, perhaps just beside his ear. It is genteel, and calm, a low baritone thick with an old European accent.

"I would do no such thing, my friend."

The flame dims and finally dies, and the man before Ben looks out of place here on the salt flats. A regal grey tophat lords over a fine grey suit and dark glasses obscure his eyes.

"At least not, intentionally."

[personal profile] vojvode 2009-12-31 07:23 am (UTC)(link)
The gun is useless here. Somehow that knowledge sinks into Ben's awareness, just as the bitter cold is seeping into his bones.

This time the voice is just the voice of a man.

"My friend, you look as if you have seen a ghost yourself. 'Tis an ill wind that blows o'er us all."
vojvode: (smirk)

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-01-02 06:01 am (UTC)(link)
"That is an admirable quality, especially in a man such as yourself, Mister Wade."

Without Ben actually perceiving any motion at all, the man in grey is speaking to him from behind his right shoulder. His voice is still level and calm.

"But can you trust your eyes here?"
vojvode: (smirk)

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-01-06 06:30 am (UTC)(link)
The man's lips curl into a satisfied smirk, perhaps at the unintended joke, or perhaps at the power of the man's movements.

His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses, until he dips his chin and meets Ben's gaze.

"That will do you no good here."

Time slows, the span between each breath, each heartbeat growing longer.

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-01-07 03:42 am (UTC)(link)
The man's head tilts to one side, studying the expression on Ben's face. He paces around him in a circle, a measured pace. When he breaks eye contact, moving out of Ben's sight, the hold on his mind relaxes, but does not disappear.

He re-emerges at Ben's other shoulder, holding the cowboy's hat in one hand. He brushes the snow off the crown and extends it in offering.

"Surely we can have a -- civilised conversation?"

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-01-11 08:28 pm (UTC)(link)
The man cocks an eyebrow, smirking like the Devil himself. He releases the man's hat and takes an idle moment to straighten his cuffs.

"I would have thought you more accustomed to -- stronger drink."

How could one ever mistake such a genteel figure as a threat? He is, perhaps, merely lost. Milliways is a strange place, and the doors that enter and leave here do not always follow the rules a sane man might prefer.

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-01-18 12:29 am (UTC)(link)
"My tastes are -- not yours," he murmurs, watching the man's face as he steps in, closer than some would consider comfortable.

"The Hand of God, hmm? Are you a religious man, Mister Wade?"

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-01-20 10:24 pm (UTC)(link)
A dark laugh rumbles up from the man's chest, so low Ben can almost feel it as much as hear it. His lips purse, and his gaze trails down to his chest. This close, he is an imposing figure, the refined grey suit doing nothing to hide the power of his form. He's tall, well built, and utterly at ease.

"We are no strangers to sin, you and I," he drawls, his lips mere inches from Ben's cheek.

His breath smells of something sweet, roses gone too far passed their prime.

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-01 06:32 am (UTC)(link)
"Little children," Vlad sneers, knowing the words all too well. He turns away for a moment, and his voice drips with acid.

"Keep yourself from idols." Around them, the blue fire rises from the salt pan, and with it, the cold wind. "Like sheaves of paper, bound in the flesh of animals, written in the blood of thousands. And yet, the blood is sacred. The blood -- is life."

He turns back, as if remembering his purpose here, and the eerie stillness of the desert returns.

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-03 09:46 pm (UTC)(link)
The air between them crackles with electricity. The vampire's gaze grows intent. His demeanour shifts, sharpens, the obsidian blade turned edge on.

"Yes, yes indeed. Your blood will be shed."

One hand rises to rest on Ben's shoulder, the grip like cold iron, the weight pressing him down. Gravity triples and the very weight of Ben's own body drags him to his knees.

"Shed -- for me."

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-06 05:53 am (UTC)(link)
The vampire gently removes the man's hat, discarding it with an idle gesture. His hand brushes through his hair, tingling along his scalp. It strokes down the side of his neck, his touch like fire along Ben's skin. Long elegant fingers hook around the line of his jaw, lifting his chin to expose the column of his throat.

"No matter," he whispers against Ben's ear. "You are merely the vessel, my friend. I -- am the blade."

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-07 02:23 am (UTC)(link)
Hot breath plays over his carotid, and the time for talking is passed.

Sensuous lips, wet silken heat, calling the blood to the surface, singing along the nerve endings. Shadows enfold the cowboy's mind, stirring the memories of the richest pleasures, and pressing just so.

The hand at his jaw tightens and he opens his mouth, laving a hot stripe with his tongue before sinking his fangs into that rich font of life.

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-08 07:13 pm (UTC)(link)
His mouth and throat work, bone slicing into his flesh, and he feasts. Violence and pain, and that sweet ruthless intent. Every sin Ben Wade ever committed, every sin Ben Wade ever bore, he devours them.

An arm encircles Ben's chest, pressing the air from his lungs, a band of cold iron, a lover's passionate embrace. The more he struggles, the tighter the snare draws around his mind.

Your God will not save you, outlaw. Here, in this place, you belong to me.

The sky above them roils black, shards of lightning fracturing the night sky. The peal of thunder that follows sounds like the very voice of Hell.

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-09 07:11 am (UTC)(link)
Dracula's senses are awash in the fire and the fury, the hot liquid life flowing down his throat. He doesn't see the weapon until it's almost too late. His hand flies faster than the eye can see, catching the butt of the gun against his palm.

His eyes open wide, all traces of white obliterated by the wash of red.

The pain is sharp and bright, beautiful in its own devastating way. His flesh boils where it contacts the crucifix, sending tendrils of smoke drifting away on the wind. His head pulls back, his mouth and chin dripping crimson, his voice raised in a roar to match that of the storm.

His presence pours into Ben's skull, smothering him with black silk and terror, the jaws of his mind closing around that part of him that still dares to struggle.

He does not release his grip on Ben, not for a heart beat, but it takes him a moment to wrench the gun away and fling it into the black. He shifts the man across his chest, as if he were nothing more than paper and wishes. His talons weave in Ben's hair, his hand cradling the back of Ben's skull, tipping his face up to the sky. The cowboy's boots scrabble for purchase in the hard salt before they're lifted clear.

Dracula paints the unblemished column of Ben's throat with an open-mouthed kiss, hot and wet with blood, soft lips against rough stubble, razor sharp fangs seeking and finding their target. Those jaws close again, and with the pain comes a shock of true terror.

The bite brings with it the sweetest wash of pleasure he's ever experienced, sweeter even than laudanum, sweeter than the rush of a relief from a whore's mouth on his prick. It flows into his blood, pools behind his breast bone, explodes inside his skull. It obliterates any sense of self-preservation he might still be clinging to.

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-13 07:30 am (UTC)(link)
Yes, yes, yes. Such a valiant heart.

The space between heart beats grows long and with it, time itself crawls to a stop.

Ben is a young boy again, sitting on that hard wooden bench in the train station, listening to the sound of his own voice. The voice of an eight year old child, cold and frightened, reading from the book as he was instructed.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I do not want."

The arm that wraps around his body warms his bones, soothes his aching heart.

"He drowns me in still waters."

The kiss at his cheek is the kiss of his mother's lips.

"He leads me into the valley of the shadow of death."

The pages turn to ash in his fingers, and the sweet siren's call in his blood fills his head and his mouth.

"I shall fear no evil. For you are with me."

You belong to me.
vojvode: (smirk)

[personal profile] vojvode 2010-02-13 08:07 am (UTC)(link)
Yes, my child. Go down into darkness with a smile on your lips.

Dracula listens to the thready breaths, feels the limit as he reaches it. He withdraws just enough, tongue laving those last few drops, the taste mingling with the salt of the man's skin, sweat and grime, all the filth of humanity here in the soft crease of skin.

He cradles the man as they both sink to the snow, dragging his fingers through Ben's hair, crooning to him softly. His voice settles into the man's thoughts.

(Go down gently into darkness and wait for me to return. I will come for you, Benjamin. I will come for you and I will never leave you.)