Chester in Immortalis Writes a Daily Nicolas Entry on Excess

13 October

Excess. The word itself drips with promise, does it not? A gluttonous sprawl across the senses, a deliberate overreach into the forbidden. And Nicolas, my Nicolas, he is excess incarnate. He does not sip at life, he guzzles it down in great, choking gulps until it spills over, staining everything it touches. I watch him, always watching, and today I commit his indulgences to paper, lest they evaporate like so much spent breath in the night air.

It began, as these things often do with him, in the small hours after midnight. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city beyond the walls, a murmur that Nicolas ignores as he ignores all boundaries. He lounged in the crimson armchair, legs splayed wide, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the pale expanse of his chest marked with faint scars, souvenirs from excesses past. A bottle of absinthe sat half-empty on the side table, its green venom swirling lazily as he poured another glass, not bothering with the sugar or the water. He drinks it neat, lets it burn straight to his core, and his eyes, those fathomless black pools, gleam with the fire it ignites.

“Chester,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot, “come here.” I obeyed, as I always do, drawn to him like iron to a magnet. He pulled me onto his lap, his hands roaming with that possessive greed, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise. Excess in touch, excess in claim. He kissed me then, not gently, never gently, but with teeth and tongue and a hunger that devoured. His mouth tasted of anise and something darker, metallic, the residue of whatever poor soul had crossed his path earlier. Blood, perhaps. Or tears. With Nicolas, one blends into the other.

We spilled from the chair to the floor, a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing. He took me there, on the Persian rug that has seen so many such scenes, its fibres matted with the evidence of prior sins. No restraint, no mercy. He pushed me to limits I did not know I had, and then beyond, his body a machine of relentless motion, sweat-slicked and unyielding. I clawed at his back, drawing blood, and he laughed, that deep, throaty sound that vibrates through bone. “More,” he demanded, and more I gave, until my voice cracked and my vision blurred at the edges.

But that was merely the prelude. Nicolas’s true excess unfurls in the aftermath, when sated lust gives way to crueller appetites. He rose, still naked, glistening, and fetched the blade from the mantelpiece, its edge honed to surgical keenness. “Watch,” he commanded, and I did, propped on elbows, chest heaving. He selected a moth from the air, one of those pale-winged creatures drawn to our flame, and pinned it to the table with a casual flick. Then, with deliberate slowness, he sliced, not killing outright but peeling back layers, exposing the fragile workings within. Its struggles were faint, pathetic, and he savoured them, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

“Life is excess,” he murmured, as if imparting some profound truth, though we both know it is merely justification. He moved on to greater prey, a rat he’d caught earlier in the cellar, its squeals piercing the room as he vivisected it alive. Blood sprayed in fine arcs, warm against my skin where it reached me. He let it pool, then dipped his fingers and traced sigils on my thighs, marking me as his canvas. The air thickened with copper and fear, and arousal stirred anew in me, shameful and inevitable. Nicolas feeds on it all: the pain, the death, the desire it births.

By dawn, the room was a charnel house. Corpses of insects and vermin strewn about, the rug ruined beyond salvage, and we, smeared and spent, collapsed amidst the wreckage. He pulled me close, his breath hot against my neck. “You see?” he whispered. “This is living. Not the timid measures of the world outside, but this glorious overfill.” I nodded, throat too raw for words, my body a map of his excesses: bites, scratches, the sticky residue of our union.

Yet even as I write this, propped against the headboard with a cup of black coffee to steady my trembling hands, I feel the pull of it. Excess is addictive, a siren call that drowns out reason. Nicolas sleeps beside me now, innocent in repose, but I know what stirs beneath that skin. Tonight, he will demand more, and I will give it, pushing further into the abyss we share. For what is love, if not the ultimate excess? A drowning in another, until self is obliterated, and only the shared depravity remains.

Until tomorrow’s entry.

Immortalis Book One August 2026