Fic: Vlad Gets Drunk
Jul. 29th, 2009 06:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanarillRags, I finished!
Title:
Fandom: ASRP, kindof, which puts in the realm of Hartman at Nickelodeon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nudity
Vlad doesn't sing.
Or rather, thinks Tressla, Vlad doesn't like to sing. This is an incredible shame, because he has a wonderful voice. If he bothered to use it for anything other than clipped instructions, explanations, and the occasional slow slide of a taunt (which insinuate themselves under her skin and stay there, buzzing, for hours), the result would surely be nothing less than sublime.
But he doesn't sing.
Tressla chooses to take this as a challenge.
The thing about getting Vlad drunk-correction, one of the things about getting Vlad drunk-is that it's actually pathetically easy when he's not alive. Something about the ability to digest whole blood has also given him a weakness to pretty much every psychotropic substance anywhere, in varying degrees. So it wouldn't be particularly difficult to find something he's never encountered and slip it in his food, or something.
It's just that . . . well, he doesn't have nearly as much fun as she does, even considering they are currently at war with no less than four demonic armies. Having gotten him over Maddie kicking and screaming, however, she's knows this is certainly something she can do without resorting to slipping him anything.
Also, Vlad is a fun drunk.
Of course, he gives her a dirty look when she announces they're going out. He likes showing her off almost as much as she likes doing the same, but he is also very structured and likes to be prepared. Even though they both know the first thing to go is the plan.
But, once he understands that they are going, he asks, "Should I wear anything special?"
She looks him up and down. He is dressed like he always is when dead, which is to say, mostly skin, with enough leather to cover the important bits and serve as an accent.
"Nnn-o," she says, changing into something that matches what he's wearing, more or less. "You'll be fine."
Then she moves them.
The party is like this:
Imagine a tropical island, vaguely comma-shaped. It rises slowly from the tail end until it abruptly ends in a bluff, sudden and shockingly white, like a whale hidden under the greenery. The cliff drops not into water, however, but a broad strip of sloping sand. Paths and stairs and terraces have been built and carved out of the cliff, and around the island. None are large enough to hold more than a couple dozen people. It's dark, and the entirety of the island has been strung with colorful glow-lights and torches for warmth. The music is loud and rhythmic, and the dance floor, at the very base of the cliff, is filled with bodies.
"What is this?" asks Vlad.
"Club Rakéké," she replies. "The Dragon Dance."
"And are there?" asks Vlad. "Dragons, I mean?"
"Of course," she says. "But you won't see them unless they want you to. Let's go."
The dance floor is-
Well, it's not a floor exactly. It's a layer of wood planking floating approximately five centimeters above the sand. Approximately because, if you know how, you can absolutely use this as a gymnastics platform, leaping into the dance and using every bit of give and spring-back that it has to launch yourself-
Tressla flicks Vlad off halfway through the aerial somersault.
It has the desired effect of convincing Vlad to join her, and between the two of them, they soon have a space cleared. Vlad isn't dancing so much as he's cooperatively competing with her in a rhythmic way, but it wouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. (She remembers a time when dancing was less about moving your body than it was about moving something you couldn't see, and she had barely learned the basics before she hadn't needed it any more. But the movement, the muscle-aching, heart-pounding thrill of living, was something she had only noticed afterward. She'd gone through the motions anyway, and for a long time, just so she could have that.)
Vlad has very large wings, although they don't actually have much resistence when he holds them closed. But even the slightest flick of the wings lends him grace in the air, while turning, exactly what is required for beauty and then just a little bit more.
He also has a lot of strength, because flying takes muscles like nothing else. Even if her weight weren't mostly insubstantial it would be enough for him to lift and toss her into flips and handstands and twists where not having an actual spine is a bonus.
After a while-and it can't be measured by song, or set, because like everything else here the drums don't end as opposed to slowly changing rhythm and tone-they decide to take a break. The terraces contain plenty of seating and waiters, and for a more casual approach, any number of open-sided, grass-roofed huts on the beach shelter bars.
They fly up to one of the terraces, and she casually waves an arm. Someone glides up to take their order, and she gets something multicolored and the kind of strong that requires each ingredient to be poured separately and slowly for a layered effect. For Vlad, she just orders a double.
"You know I don't drink," says Vlad.
"Tonight," she says, "you will. And none of this appearing-to-drink-while-sidling-it-into-a-pocket-universe shit, Vlad, I know you."
He scowls at her, and says, "It'll get me drunk."
She laughs. "Vlad, this is Rakéké the Dragon Dance. It's practically in the rules to get drunk. I'm certainly planning on it."
He scowls again, but when the drinks arrive he diligently sips. Although he does slip some of it into a pocket dimension while he thinks she's not looking.
While they cool off, and the salt breeze off the ocean helps with this, and number of people (or at least people-shaped beings) come to take a look.
"We're being watched," remarks Vlad.
"Yes," agrees Tressla. "Don't worry; among other things, Rakéké is a peace zone. No one would dare bring something here. They're just curious."
Vlad raises an eyebrow, but she is spared his retort by the approach of . . .
"Th'ress-roa," says the stranger, and it's obvious that the distortion in her name not out of disrespect, but because it was learned with a mouth that couldn't pronounce a number of sounds. "It is you."
"Of course," says Tressla. "Who could possibly impersonate me?"
A slow blink. "And this one? You have your claws all over him."
"This one," says Vlad, "is her husband."
Tressla rolls her eyes. "Vlad, this is Poan'amu. We used to be friends with benefits. It's possible we still are."
Poan'amu, who has been looking over Vlad, says, "It's possible. Certainly, if there were any doubts about your taste in males, he would lay them to rest. I saw you dancing, you know."
"A lot of people saw us dancing."
"Darling," says Tressla, and, "Poan'amu is, actually, trying to flirt with you."
Vlad blinks. "Is he?"
"It's not called the Dragon Dance just for show, you know," says Poan'amu. "We take it very seriously."
This time, Vlad looks, and then says, "Are you actually a male?"
Poan'amu smiles. "Yes."
"Huh." He holds up his drink, contemplating the amber liquid, and then seems to shrug before sipping. "I'm afraid we have to decline just now; maybe some other time?"
"I'll hold you to it, then," says Poan'amu, flashing a brilliant and overall sharp smile before moving on.
"He likes you," says Tressla, once he's gone.
"I can't imagine why," says Vlad, sipping again. Really, it's not too terribly bad once he's gotten past the way it burns on the way down.
Tressla shrugs. "Like he said: the dragons take dancing very seriously."
Four hours later, they've been (individually and together) propositioned so many times they've lost count, Vlad has been introduced to a great number of people Tressla identifies as "friends"-
"Did you have sex with everyone on this island?"
"Don't be ridiculous, best-beloved. It is possible to be friends without benefits. But I haven't been around lately-"
He snorts; she was dead and asleep and likely to remain that way for the rest of forever.
"-and they're just happy that I'm back," she finishes, as if he hadn't interjected.
-which meant, of course, that she was showing him off, and also Vlad is drunk.
"-won't you take me to-" he sings. He's not actually singing very loudly, but he does have certain abilities which mean that he can still be heard quite clearly. He is standing on a table, crooning into an illusory microphone.
"He's a lot more fun without his inhibitions," remarks Aki'hika'ai, matriarch of Rakéké. Also, one of the few people who can compete with Tressla on an even field, although they don't so much compete as one-up each other in terms of civilizations snatched from the brink of destruction.
"Oh, yes," agrees Tressla. Vlad is doing some truly improbable things in terms of bending backwards. A number of other people have joined him on the table, so she strengthens the legs surreptitiously.
"-town that's right for me-"
"And he does dance well. But I can't see why you'd choose him, even so." At the moment, 'Ka'ai was pregnant (again), so Tressla was sitting on her head and scratching idly behind the eye ridges.
"His pattern and mine are compatible," she says, and before 'Ka'ai can repeat her standing offer of allowing Tressla to father some children, adds, "The two of us together are far more than each of us alone." Not only is this not true of herself and 'Ka'ai, the opposite applies: when working together, the two of them are far less effective than they'd be apart, even considering their long friendship and interwoven networks.
"-about it, talk about it, talk-" sings Vlad. He can't fly when he's this inebriated, but fanning his wings clears his immediate vicinity and produces a dramatic effect, even so.
"Hmm," says 'Ka'ai, and, "I never expected you to take a permanent mate."
"Neither did I," says Tressla.
"-won't you take me to-"
"But I'm happy I found him."
Vlad wakes up to find sand in places he knew he had, but would never have considered appropriate for sand. He was sleeping on, as it turns out, on the beach, in a pile of other naked and mostly-naked people. His memories of last night are hazy after a certain point. And he has a hangover. The sky is clear, the sun bright and cheerful and beating a drum on the inside of his skull.
No, wait, that's the actual drums, which are at the moment producing a deep sound which is more felt than heard, like the heartbeat of the island.
He sits up.
"Oi," shouts Tressla, from where she's floating in the water. He winces.
Right. Hangover first. He looks inwards.
"Tressla," he says, reasonably, a few moments later. "You are far too cheerful."
"There's fruit and yogurt under the hut for breakfast," she says, totally ignoring his comment. "And then you can come and swim with me. The water's . . . actually, it's a bit cold, but nicely clear."
"Tressla, my dear, why are we naked?"
Bonus points, for anyone who isn't Rags, if you can tell me what song he's singing at the end.
Title:
Fandom: ASRP, kindof, which puts in the realm of Hartman at Nickelodeon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Nudity
Vlad doesn't sing.
Or rather, thinks Tressla, Vlad doesn't like to sing. This is an incredible shame, because he has a wonderful voice. If he bothered to use it for anything other than clipped instructions, explanations, and the occasional slow slide of a taunt (which insinuate themselves under her skin and stay there, buzzing, for hours), the result would surely be nothing less than sublime.
But he doesn't sing.
Tressla chooses to take this as a challenge.
The thing about getting Vlad drunk-correction, one of the things about getting Vlad drunk-is that it's actually pathetically easy when he's not alive. Something about the ability to digest whole blood has also given him a weakness to pretty much every psychotropic substance anywhere, in varying degrees. So it wouldn't be particularly difficult to find something he's never encountered and slip it in his food, or something.
It's just that . . . well, he doesn't have nearly as much fun as she does, even considering they are currently at war with no less than four demonic armies. Having gotten him over Maddie kicking and screaming, however, she's knows this is certainly something she can do without resorting to slipping him anything.
Also, Vlad is a fun drunk.
Of course, he gives her a dirty look when she announces they're going out. He likes showing her off almost as much as she likes doing the same, but he is also very structured and likes to be prepared. Even though they both know the first thing to go is the plan.
But, once he understands that they are going, he asks, "Should I wear anything special?"
She looks him up and down. He is dressed like he always is when dead, which is to say, mostly skin, with enough leather to cover the important bits and serve as an accent.
"Nnn-o," she says, changing into something that matches what he's wearing, more or less. "You'll be fine."
Then she moves them.
The party is like this:
Imagine a tropical island, vaguely comma-shaped. It rises slowly from the tail end until it abruptly ends in a bluff, sudden and shockingly white, like a whale hidden under the greenery. The cliff drops not into water, however, but a broad strip of sloping sand. Paths and stairs and terraces have been built and carved out of the cliff, and around the island. None are large enough to hold more than a couple dozen people. It's dark, and the entirety of the island has been strung with colorful glow-lights and torches for warmth. The music is loud and rhythmic, and the dance floor, at the very base of the cliff, is filled with bodies.
"What is this?" asks Vlad.
"Club Rakéké," she replies. "The Dragon Dance."
"And are there?" asks Vlad. "Dragons, I mean?"
"Of course," she says. "But you won't see them unless they want you to. Let's go."
The dance floor is-
Well, it's not a floor exactly. It's a layer of wood planking floating approximately five centimeters above the sand. Approximately because, if you know how, you can absolutely use this as a gymnastics platform, leaping into the dance and using every bit of give and spring-back that it has to launch yourself-
Tressla flicks Vlad off halfway through the aerial somersault.
It has the desired effect of convincing Vlad to join her, and between the two of them, they soon have a space cleared. Vlad isn't dancing so much as he's cooperatively competing with her in a rhythmic way, but it wouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. (She remembers a time when dancing was less about moving your body than it was about moving something you couldn't see, and she had barely learned the basics before she hadn't needed it any more. But the movement, the muscle-aching, heart-pounding thrill of living, was something she had only noticed afterward. She'd gone through the motions anyway, and for a long time, just so she could have that.)
Vlad has very large wings, although they don't actually have much resistence when he holds them closed. But even the slightest flick of the wings lends him grace in the air, while turning, exactly what is required for beauty and then just a little bit more.
He also has a lot of strength, because flying takes muscles like nothing else. Even if her weight weren't mostly insubstantial it would be enough for him to lift and toss her into flips and handstands and twists where not having an actual spine is a bonus.
After a while-and it can't be measured by song, or set, because like everything else here the drums don't end as opposed to slowly changing rhythm and tone-they decide to take a break. The terraces contain plenty of seating and waiters, and for a more casual approach, any number of open-sided, grass-roofed huts on the beach shelter bars.
They fly up to one of the terraces, and she casually waves an arm. Someone glides up to take their order, and she gets something multicolored and the kind of strong that requires each ingredient to be poured separately and slowly for a layered effect. For Vlad, she just orders a double.
"You know I don't drink," says Vlad.
"Tonight," she says, "you will. And none of this appearing-to-drink-while-sidling-it-into-a-pocket-universe shit, Vlad, I know you."
He scowls at her, and says, "It'll get me drunk."
She laughs. "Vlad, this is Rakéké the Dragon Dance. It's practically in the rules to get drunk. I'm certainly planning on it."
He scowls again, but when the drinks arrive he diligently sips. Although he does slip some of it into a pocket dimension while he thinks she's not looking.
While they cool off, and the salt breeze off the ocean helps with this, and number of people (or at least people-shaped beings) come to take a look.
"We're being watched," remarks Vlad.
"Yes," agrees Tressla. "Don't worry; among other things, Rakéké is a peace zone. No one would dare bring something here. They're just curious."
Vlad raises an eyebrow, but she is spared his retort by the approach of . . .
"Th'ress-roa," says the stranger, and it's obvious that the distortion in her name not out of disrespect, but because it was learned with a mouth that couldn't pronounce a number of sounds. "It is you."
"Of course," says Tressla. "Who could possibly impersonate me?"
A slow blink. "And this one? You have your claws all over him."
"This one," says Vlad, "is her husband."
Tressla rolls her eyes. "Vlad, this is Poan'amu. We used to be friends with benefits. It's possible we still are."
Poan'amu, who has been looking over Vlad, says, "It's possible. Certainly, if there were any doubts about your taste in males, he would lay them to rest. I saw you dancing, you know."
"A lot of people saw us dancing."
"Darling," says Tressla, and, "Poan'amu is, actually, trying to flirt with you."
Vlad blinks. "Is he?"
"It's not called the Dragon Dance just for show, you know," says Poan'amu. "We take it very seriously."
This time, Vlad looks, and then says, "Are you actually a male?"
Poan'amu smiles. "Yes."
"Huh." He holds up his drink, contemplating the amber liquid, and then seems to shrug before sipping. "I'm afraid we have to decline just now; maybe some other time?"
"I'll hold you to it, then," says Poan'amu, flashing a brilliant and overall sharp smile before moving on.
"He likes you," says Tressla, once he's gone.
"I can't imagine why," says Vlad, sipping again. Really, it's not too terribly bad once he's gotten past the way it burns on the way down.
Tressla shrugs. "Like he said: the dragons take dancing very seriously."
Four hours later, they've been (individually and together) propositioned so many times they've lost count, Vlad has been introduced to a great number of people Tressla identifies as "friends"-
"Did you have sex with everyone on this island?"
"Don't be ridiculous, best-beloved. It is possible to be friends without benefits. But I haven't been around lately-"
He snorts; she was dead and asleep and likely to remain that way for the rest of forever.
"-and they're just happy that I'm back," she finishes, as if he hadn't interjected.
-which meant, of course, that she was showing him off, and also Vlad is drunk.
"-won't you take me to-" he sings. He's not actually singing very loudly, but he does have certain abilities which mean that he can still be heard quite clearly. He is standing on a table, crooning into an illusory microphone.
"He's a lot more fun without his inhibitions," remarks Aki'hika'ai, matriarch of Rakéké. Also, one of the few people who can compete with Tressla on an even field, although they don't so much compete as one-up each other in terms of civilizations snatched from the brink of destruction.
"Oh, yes," agrees Tressla. Vlad is doing some truly improbable things in terms of bending backwards. A number of other people have joined him on the table, so she strengthens the legs surreptitiously.
"-town that's right for me-"
"And he does dance well. But I can't see why you'd choose him, even so." At the moment, 'Ka'ai was pregnant (again), so Tressla was sitting on her head and scratching idly behind the eye ridges.
"His pattern and mine are compatible," she says, and before 'Ka'ai can repeat her standing offer of allowing Tressla to father some children, adds, "The two of us together are far more than each of us alone." Not only is this not true of herself and 'Ka'ai, the opposite applies: when working together, the two of them are far less effective than they'd be apart, even considering their long friendship and interwoven networks.
"-about it, talk about it, talk-" sings Vlad. He can't fly when he's this inebriated, but fanning his wings clears his immediate vicinity and produces a dramatic effect, even so.
"Hmm," says 'Ka'ai, and, "I never expected you to take a permanent mate."
"Neither did I," says Tressla.
"-won't you take me to-"
"But I'm happy I found him."
Vlad wakes up to find sand in places he knew he had, but would never have considered appropriate for sand. He was sleeping on, as it turns out, on the beach, in a pile of other naked and mostly-naked people. His memories of last night are hazy after a certain point. And he has a hangover. The sky is clear, the sun bright and cheerful and beating a drum on the inside of his skull.
No, wait, that's the actual drums, which are at the moment producing a deep sound which is more felt than heard, like the heartbeat of the island.
He sits up.
"Oi," shouts Tressla, from where she's floating in the water. He winces.
Right. Hangover first. He looks inwards.
"Tressla," he says, reasonably, a few moments later. "You are far too cheerful."
"There's fruit and yogurt under the hut for breakfast," she says, totally ignoring his comment. "And then you can come and swim with me. The water's . . . actually, it's a bit cold, but nicely clear."
"Tressla, my dear, why are we naked?"
Bonus points, for anyone who isn't Rags, if you can tell me what song he's singing at the end.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-07-30 01:44 am (UTC)I love the narrative of this, and of course the image of drunk!Vlad singing. He's far too uptight most of the time.
Question, though. Is he naked while in ghost form, or human form?
no subject
Date: 2009-07-30 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-30 01:48 am (UTC)