Act 2: A Parody in Three Acts: A Night in the Life of Andre (yes, that Andre…sorta)

Act 2:

Andre gently closed The Red Door behind himself when he exited The Play Room with a mighty, gusty (and gustily given) sigh of relieved accomplishment…or was it accomplished relief?

Either way the fumes rising from the orifice below his stately nostrils were rank as fuck and so he promptly popped a handy breath mint into his pretty, pretty mouth.

(Breath mint distribution devices were strategically placed beside each doorway – the same way hand sanitizing units outnumber nurses in hospitals – for this express purpose.  No, not that Andre’s breath was that horrid on a regular basis, which it wasn’t, honest, but that vampire noses were just that sensitive and there was just no telling which meal was going to ingest what products for their meal…and you know what bad dietary decisions mortals tend to make especially when they’re low on iron, have an especially grumbly tummy and are bored…)

Apparently his last meal had a hitherto unknown fondness for salmon.   Or was that turkey?  He burped again, then shrugged. He never could remember the difference.  He would see to her death forthwith, well, maybe the next night.

Some night.

Maybe.  He still had that annoying Were to tend to.

Andre then cast his eyes furtively and with great secrecy to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again before stuffing them back into his head and stepping a foot forward.

One could never be too careful as the happenings in The Play Room behind The Red Door were…private.



No one talked about what had, or could have, or might have, or may have, or all the previous listed + not have, happened.

Once The Red Door was closed, the discussion was over. Oh, you could still talk all you wanted to about politics, religion, which way the toilet paper is supposed to face in mortal bathrooms and whether it’s milk first or tea first in a cuppa, but you would not discuss what goes on in The Play Room outside The Play Room with someone who isn’t familiar with The Play Room.

What happens in The Play Room stays in the, well, there’s no Play Room in Vegas so that cliché is useless…but you get the gist.

Or not.

After all, gists sometimes happen in…somewhere not named Vegas.

But not there.

(“The Play Room” is now being typed once more for the road because that phrase hasn’t been overused nearly enough.)

(And no, we’re still not discussing The Squirrel Incident/s.)

Now, however, it was time for Andre to report to his Maker for their nightly briefing. Sophie-Anne (really, her name was Jane Doe – she was the original Jane Doe, don’tcha know – but she always thought the name was too Plain Jane for her hair coloring and the delicate shape of her ankles, so moments after she rose she changed her name because that’s what future queens of Louisiana do) loved giving briefs.

And boxers.

And thongs for tha ladies and g-strings for whoever wanted them.

She’d even been known to pass around modified granny-panties (with cotton crotches and embellished with lace) to her favorites, but no one discusses that.

Comfort is a thing, yo.

The Queen, Herself, actually refused to wear butt floss, but she loved the way it could be used to lift and define certain derrières…well, that was her erstwhile reasoning.

Not that those derrières needed it, you understand.

But tonight’s meeting wasn’t about that kind of brief, Andree quipped quippily to himself with a very light blush.

Yes, he could/can/will blush – just don’t tell anyone. Willa wants to think she’s all special and shit for retaining the ability to blush after her Turning in another story I’m writing (The Moon <—artfully casual and nicely convenient fic-name dropping, right?), and while the ability to retain the ability to blush ably after Turning *is* a nice gift of sorts (for whom we’re still not sure), Andre doesn’t want to rob her of any glory and/or fame, so yeah, don’t tell her.

(Unless she gets bitchy, in which case have at it, but she’s good folk so I doubt it’d happen. Plus there’s the minor fact that Eric “The Fucking Viking” Northman kind of *is* her Maker and, well, you REALLY don’t want to piss that mo’fo off…he’d tear you a new one just by looking at you really, really hard, erm, meanly, yeah, that’s what I meant: meanly. Ahem.  Oh, and then there’s…{ominous background noise and/or theme-song} Sevrin to consider…)

And so it goes…oh, wait, wrong fic…  Hang on whilst I bite either my nail (gross…fingernails are so gross…) or lip ’cause that’s what womenfolk are supposed to do when whatevering, right?

Oh, hell with it – So Andre left The Play Room and went to find his Maker for her briefing – the info exchange kind, not the undie exchange kind – with his latest project for her in his large, strong, masculine hand.

Andre knew his gift would be well-received.  Jane/Sophie-Anne’s such a good Maker – he knows that she absolutely loves it when he brings her something from The Play Room!  She loves it when any of her Children make and/or bring her pressies!  She does!  Oh yes she does!!

Random thought randomly placed from other character set at an inappropriate POV time:  She thinks that it’s always fun when Sigebert makes her things in The Shop Room, and although she can never quite figure out what the hell it is that Wybert makes her – and she’ll be the first to admit that she has nary a clue as to where he does his work – she loves it when he makes her…things…too!  She does!  Oh yes she does!!

At least these nights they’re no longer making odd noises or emitting obnoxious odors.


Poor Wybert. He tries, though. He really does…

*obligatory moment of useless silence indicating understanding and/or sympathy*

Wybert was blessed with a great and talented tongue, though.   That’s what originally brought him to Jane Sophie-Anne’s attention! He can whistle any tune he’s ever heard in tri-part harmony!  Almost put ol’ Ludwig out of business back in the day, erm, night, he did…

(Oh, yeah, um, we’re back to Andre’s POV now, btw, so…)

Andre, having continued stalking and walking (all the better to show off his tight ass) during this meandering over Wybert and His Great and Talented Tongue, now approached the annex of the Palace dedicated to various and assorted meetings, briefings, briefs, chats, assemblies, assemblages, gatherings, get-togethers, conferences, and the rare seminar.

Tonight’s briefing would be held in the Louis XIV suite – the Louis XIII now being considered by his Maker rather too gauche to tolerate – and so Andre appropriately grasped with appropriate firmness the correct door knob and turned it in the appropriate direction with appropriate suave-ness with his large, strong, flexible, masculine hand.

(Translation: he opened the fucking door.)

After that, he walked in.

And yes, his ass was nice and tight.  He made sure of it.

And then, with obvious fervor and more than a few gesticulations and a right flippant toss of his long Lucius luscious blond hair, he sat down, even.

In a chair.

All by himself.

With great relish (minus the onions) he placed his most recent The Play Room creation proudly on the long conference table before him, and waited with impatient patience for his Maker to notice and coo in obvious approval and joy.

Sadly she didn’t notice it immediately – therefore there was no cooing – as she was still in her own quarters trying to decide which pair of undergarments she would proudly don for this night’s briefing.

Eventually she remembered that this wasn’t a panty-brief kind of nightly briefing, chose a random pair of panties appropriately and with appropriate care, then left at vamp speed to speed vampily and in a blur to the appropriate conference-room room.

Three steps into that most appropriate of rooms she came to a dead, complete, absolute, and sudden stop.

She gasped!

(Then she un-wedgied herself…apparently she’d donned too quickly her underwear for the evening.  At least she was now certain that her ass-crack was clean.)

There, on the gilded table before her very own Andre, her Master Torturer of Torturous Fame and Profit, her shy boy of the Blood Brigade, sat the world’s most perfect – the best ever turned, crafted, fired, glazed, and painted – ever-so-slightly askew (and slightly wobbly) vampire-hand-made ash tray!

She swooned.

The perfection!

*Hey, every good mama knows they have to sometimes fake the love for things made by their kids that they don’t actually love – the things, not the kids, although it stands to reason that that would qualify, too, dammit.  So she might have faked more than a little of her appreciation and enchantment with the crap her Children have “bestowed” upon her over the years but that’s fine…Jane Sophie-Anne is a good vampire mommy!*

Everyone, even Wybert who was only a little jealous, complimented Andre on his uneven but brightly painted and/or artfully glazed and glitter-decorated handiwork.

(Glitter really is the herpes of the craft world.)

Sigebert soon after made a plan with his Broder-By-Turning (yeah, that’s what I call Sigebert/Wybert and Andre in my other fics…it’s apropos) to go with him to The Play Room the next night.  He loved arts and crafts, too, dammit, no matter what they said.

He could squish balls (of clay!  of clay)  with the best of them!

Eventually the meeting adjourned and they all left, but not once did The Queen of Queenly Things ever put down her brand glittery-new ash tray.

She was kind of afraid it might break.

 End Act 2

**A/N:  Annnd here’s the second “act” – I hope you liked it?  Let me know what you thought in the comments, and I really hope it brought a giggle-snort or even an out-right laugh?  If so, my mission is complete…sort of – there IS one more “act” to go, after all…**

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13 thoughts on “Act 2: A Parody in Three Acts: A Night in the Life of Andre (yes, that Andre…sorta)

  1. Pingback: Anyone ready for “Act 2”? | Addicted to Godric…& Eric…& Andre

  2. .I think QSA needs to gift Pam some of those granny panties to stop the chafing. Either that or get some squirrels down there. Hmm I feel my own crack fic brewing….Must be something I can take to stop that.


  3. Pam has already been on the phone – she wants Compton to get those granny panties. Really badly. And the bitch took my squirrels to try and force my hand.


  4. Thank god. Now I can use the GPS trackers I installed on them and track them down before Bubba drains them… He’s trying something new.


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