Malkavian Insight

Summary: This is a fairly old story of mine; it's been gathering metaphorical dust on my hard drive for a few years. The plot is simple-- a Malkavian decides to disturb and seduce a smug Toreador for his own amusement. It's a pornographic thriller, and could arguably be called PWP, although I think that the thriller aspect is more prominent.

Warnings: Heterosexual sexual interaction, though nothing terribly graphic. I don't like to believe that vampires are into penetration. There is, however, some eroticism, and some explicit language, and violent themes.

The characters are all original, but there are no Mary Sues to fear.

Reviews: This is NOT beta-ed. Because it is a bit old, and an original fic, it's been proof-read and spell-checked, but nothing else. If you'd like to point out a grammatical error or redundancy, please do.

However, because this is several years old, I'm not looking to improve upon it...so criticism isn't really very necessary, unless you are pointing out a serious plot flaw or typo. I'd still appreciate opinions, good or bad.

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The last faint rays of the sun still tinted the sky with pale gold, shedding a soft light onto the leafy tops of the trees that cast trembling shadows on the curving pathways beneath. The park was large and verdant and sylvan, and now that most of the kine had gone home, hiding from the warm June dark, it was almost silent, save for the pleasant, whispering rasp of a warm storm wind passing through the dark green leaves.

Elizabeth came here often, sometimes to watch the sun going down, once it had sunken past the point of danger to her alabaster, unliving flesh...sometimes to read old poetry from pretty, musty books, in a dark too profound for mortal eyes. Like most of her breathren, she loved beauty above all other things-- she dreamt sometimes of the sun, as bright as polished metal, gleaming overhead in a sky of deepest azure blue, and white clouds drifting across that diurnal sea on whose superior tides her waking mind would never drift again.

Unlike the other Toreador, however, she was not especially fond of stuffy concert halls and art galleries; she preferred the gentle, wild beauty of the old oaks and the new young elms...wild dog-roses with their heady, cloying scent...spiraling shells of oceanic snails...the sharp gleam of distant stars...black spiders walking slow dances on webs of silver silk. . . .

She was sorry to have to kill to live, but she thought it poetic nonetheless, and chose only very lovely, very sad mortals on whom to feed. She was still young yet, and had not acquired the cold disregard the older kindred have for the human herd. She was noble and naVve and idealistic, even pretentious. She was repulsed by the Nosferatu, envious of the Ventrue, and fearful of the Gangrel.

Malkavians disturbed and irritated her because they, too, like the Toreador, were sensualists-- but they were all too fond of ugly things and fearsome things, and the contortions of their minds unsettled her: some of them were mad beyond reason and morality; some of them seemed the type who would set fire to the Louvre just to watch the smoke curls press up against the stars. Some delighted in their own sufferings, and others delighted in the sufferings of others, even other Kindred. She shuddered at the thought.

And it annoyed her yet further that one particular Malkavian, new to this city, had taken an interest in her, especially in her discomfort (Malkavians are fond of disquiet). She had never seen the creature's face, only a shadow slipping back into the current of other shadows...a phantom left deliberately for her to see. Of course, she assumed it was her superior perception that allowed her to see him as his obfuscation slipped, and never considered he might be playing a game with her.

She could tell he was a Malkavian by the manner in which he disappeared when she turned to see...few other clans could obfuscate themselves so well as the Malkavians, and none of them accompanied that disappearance with a lilting, fading, ominous giggle, like the grin of a Cheshire cat.

Now, she knew, he was near her-- her skin tingled with premonition when he approached. She did not look up from her leathern tome of French romantic poetry, but she stopped reading it, her eyes hovering over the word "Dieu" for a moment before she let the text fade into a haze. This time, she could hear him breathing, and a smile in that breath, curving like a snake. She was a little afraid of him.

Closing her eyes, she whispered into the night, in a voice so soft only the bizarrely acute ears of a Malkavian could have heard it. "I am aware of your presence, sir. If you were intending to pounce on me while I was unaware, I'm afraid that--"

In an instant, he was beside her, only a few hands breadths away on the cool park bench, one arm casually flung over the wooden back. He was smiling, of course, and his teeth were very white, small fangs visible against his full, dry lips.

His voice crawled over her nerves like a threading worm; it was both harsh and metallic, and musically soft. "Had I been intending to pounce upon you, you absurd little tart, I would have done so already." His head was cocked in the pose of a curious raptor, and his smile was unpleasant.

She straightened herself, drawing her velvet shawl closely about her shoulders and closing her book with a snap. "What is the meaning of this, lunatic? Why have you been creeping about me these few days? Surely, a Malkavian could find more amusing pursuits for himself...have you run out of colourful wallpaper to lick?"

He didn't react to the insult as she'd hoped...instead, he laughed, the same strange, shivering sound as before. His mouth was pale, and smelled of sweet rot, like the sticky scent of a dead crow. She wrinkled her dainty nose and swept her auburn curls out of her face in nervous irritation, avoiding looking at his face, where he wore his madness so openly.

"Maybe I'd rather lick the pictures on your wallpaper, and maybe I just like the way you widen your eyes when the shadows change around you. You have very lovely eyes, Elizabeth; did you know that?"

She gasped, slightly in affront, and slightly in fear that he knew her name...and when she looked up, startled, into his face...one of his eyes was a little lighter than the other, both of them a strange violet blue, arcing with grey sparks. She was certain they changed colour as she looked at them, and the pupils were like twin trenches, black holes that led forever backwards into his mind.

"Do you mean to imply," she began haughtily, her voice quavering with rage, "that you have a crush?"

His smile faded, replaced with a look more sinister, his high, white cheekbones skull-like in the moonlight. "No, I'm implying that perhaps I'd like to take your pretty little eyes out of your pretty little head and mount them in settings to wear in rings on my fingers."

He held up his hand and wiggled his long fingers in front of her, making her recoil. She thought she sensed some energy moving around him, more than an aura...mortals, too, could feel madness crackling around a very old, very powerful Malkavian, even when he is cloaked and disguised and speaks in polite platitudes.

To a Kindred, his lunacy fairly leapt from his wan hands, tickling her skin like the rapid feet of spiders.

She shuddered and could not look away from him. Her book slipped from her hands, striking the pavement with a dull sound, and she knotted her fingers in her lap, willing herself to stand and run, to get as far away from him as possible, but she was mesmerised, held fast by the silent command in his eyes.

He was wearing a tattered white shirt of some heavy material, the long sleeves unhemmed at the cuffs, and the neckline low and stained, as frayed as the sleeves. His clavicle was skeletal across his broad shoulders. His hair was very long and dark blonde, pulled out of his angular face in a rough ponytail, from which a few strands had escaped. He looked every bit the madman, but he was beautiful in a way, too, his features aristocratic and cold.

"Let me...go...please. . . ." She whispered, trembling in terror.

He smiled slowly, his cruel mouth dimpling in the corners. "Let you go? Silly little prima donna. I'm not keeping you." He shrugged, and she thought she would have blushed, had she living blood in her still. No, now that she considered it, he was not, of his own will, holding her here...she had been so enthralled before...being a Toreador, she was well-acquainted with her addiction to beautiful things. And he was beautiful, if horridly so. Hateful creature!

She stood abruptly, collecting her book and clutching it to her bosom like a talisman. Without another word, she turned and fled, moving through the night until she reached her apartment door. Inside was warm and smelled of new flowers and expensive candles, but a pall had fallen over all her things, knowing he had looked upon them. There was no comfort here. She could still feel his madness crawling in her brain like a snake.

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It was not until a full week later that she saw him again, in the few hours left of the night before dawn would stain the sky with death. She was sitting in her own chambers, listening to an old vinyl record of Beethoven's fifth symphony, when she felt him near her. She looked around herself fearfully, finding no one, and lit all the lamps, to banish any shadows in which he might hide.

Then she heard a tapping on her window, and darted over to it, throwing open the long curtains that hid the city from her. He was sitting there, on the black, wrought-iron rail of the useless little porch that surrounded her penthouse window, with all the ease and tranquility of a cat on a cushion. His hair was untied from its ribbon, and hung around his shoulders loosely, the ends curling a little. Unlike the rest of him, it was sleek and clean, if disarrayed, and glinted weirdly in the lamplight like a dark river over his shoulders.

She pried open the window to snap at him. "I don't know how you got there, and I don't care, but get down, and go away. Find some silly little human girl with black eyeliner and too many earrings who'll appreciate your attentions."

He climbed in past her with feline grace, and, ignoring her admonitions, walked idly about her apartment, tilting paintings on their wires and taking one of the white roses from a vase and toying with it before sitting on her red velvet chaise lounge, putting his dirty boots up on the other end, smudging them with whatever filth he'd walked through last. "I'd always thought that Toreadors prided themselves on being excellent hosts, but really, I think your skills are rather lacking. You could at least offer me something to drink!"

"I can't think of anything on which Malkavians pride themselves, other than making damned maddening pests of themselves, and I really must commend your skill at that." She angrily snapped the needle arm away from the record, halting the music in the middle of a somber passage. The silence was sharp and unpleasant.

"Thank you!" He smiled and inclined his head, his cold eyes glittering wickedly. "Now, come here, and sit down." He patted the couch beside himself, swinging his legs around and laying his feet on the floor.

She obeyed. His nearness was uncannily compelling-- somehow, we are drawn to what we fear the most; nightmares fascinate us more deeply than the sweetest of dreams. He put his arm around her shoulder in a companionable fashion, drawing her closer to his cold side. She shivered all over, her skin crawling with apprehension. His fingers traced lazy spirals on her arm. He did not trouble himself to keep his body warm, as some vampires did...he was as cold as his grave. His hand slid up to her throat, following the path of her blue veins, and she was reminded of the night on which she had died and lived again, in the artificially warm, elegant arms of her Sire, a Toreador lady of extraordinary beauty, who had promised her endless beauty and art and wonder on the night she gave her eternal life and stole every vestige of art from her soul. That is the curse of the Toreadors-- though they love what is beautiful and artful, they cannot create it-- only the mad can make things so compelling and wondrous.

This time, though, she was not a wanton, flushing mortal, infatuated with the changeless, ageless beauty of a well-dressed, elegant vampiress. Now she was older, and colder inside, and her fascination was tinged with hatred and despair.

When he released her of a sudden, she gasped and fell against him, unsupported, and he laughed again...his laughter was like Baroque music, rising and falling, a fugue of insanity. Tears filled her eyes suddenly, dimming the room.

She was not sure, a moment later, how she had come to be in his arms, like a weak child, her head against his rough shoulder as he carried her lightly to her bedroom, laying her on her broad, black sheets. She should have moved, but she did not...she let him manipulate her; let him gently tear away her pretty silk dress.
"You really are quite lovely, my dear," he said, flicking his tongue over his soft lips and bending over her to stroke her chest, tendrils of his hair falling against her skin. She whimpered, rising against the touch she should not have enjoyed. He moved his hands over her, straddling her thin body on his knees and drawing circles on her flat belly.

He smirked suddenly, reminding her of his derangement. "All the things I'm going to show you tonight begin with the letter "D"," he said, sounding slightly giddy. Malkavian whimsy is a terrifying thing, but she was not afraid anymore, not now, now when she should be screaming and kicking.

He dragged his nails along her inner thigh, laying his hand to rest on her groin, a human toy no longer of any erotic importance to the immortal. "Let's start with...damnation!" He suddenly pushed two hard fingers into her vagina, and she gasped in alarm-- the feeling was invasive and strange, though distant, rather like the ache of an old scar. He slid his fingers in and out over the once moist tissue in a mockery of human sex. He spoke to himself aloud for her benefit.

"I was very good at fucking while I was alive, if I recall correctly," he began conversationally, "but it's been a very long time. A pity. I wonder if this hurts you?"

She shook her head slightly, unsure if he could see. He was looking at something in the dark that might not have been real.

"Our existence is damnation...all the things in life that make us wish to sustain it are taken from us in immortality." He withdrew his fingers from her cold womb and lay his hand on her stomach.

"Yes," she sighed miserably, wondering why she moved her hand to press it against his, liking the comfort of his body.

He went on, lying down beside her, very close, so that she could smell his breath and his hunger. He had not fed in a while; his thirst was harsh and electric. "I think, next....Dominate."

He pressed the hand above her silent heart, catching her gaze, and she was frozen entirely, as if, suddenly, her purpose in being was to obey his wishes. His derangement played at the edges of her mind, teasing, coiling like steam. Her breath came shallow and sharp in her throat.

"Mmmm, no...I think I prefer. . . ."

He slid over her, his lips covering hers, and lightly touched his tongue to hers, which she willingingly slid into his mouth, aching somewhere she could not place. "Dementate. . . ."

And then his mind thrust into hers, hard and brutal, like murder, agony mixed with ecstacy. She felt the tide of his insanity wash over her, dissolving her like sand, and her thoughts expanded until they burst like bubbles in the foam of the great green sea of madness. She moaned loudly, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him down against her, as though his power flowed through his tongue, and not some imperceptible spigot in his mind.

He kissed her with a practised grace...even the undead like to be touched...and her sight folded backwards into itself...she was blinded and illuminated at once: the room disappeared into a tempest of colour and sound and eternity. Madness was a silvery light, chasing away all the shadows of her sanity and showing her the insides and the outsides of all things...a paradox of clarity and confusion.

When he withdrew, she was weeping, her eyes closed, empty and lonely in her mind, suddenly brutally aware of the largeness of eternity and how sad and cold it would be, night after night of searching without finding...athanasia was a purgatorial avenue that led forever past glorious frescos and through orange groves and fields of poppies, going nowhere but further into the dark, further away from humanity and sunlight and all the warm, carnal things she had forsaken to be beautiful forever.

"Just one more, now," he said into her ear, his tongue tickling the fine hairs there. His voice was comforting, and he was the universe.

She did not startle when she felt his mouth open against her throat, nor did she stir in alarm when his sharp teeth bit painlessly into her soft skin. He drank her hunger and her loneliness, and wrapped her up in the dark, comforting clouds of real, true death.

She heard him speak, as she died. "...Diablerie."

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The Malkavian stood from the bed, carefully tucking the silken sheets around her body. He smoothed her hair out of her face and kissed her cold eyelids shut, smiling to himself as he left the room.

"Toreadors are always too damned easy," he sighed to himself, laying the needle back against the record. "So melodramatic. Now a Nosferatu...that'd be a challenge."

He laughed, lying down on her scarlet lounge and closing his eyes as the music began again, surging upward and crashing down like a tempest, powerful and beautiful and insane.