#“siphoned sour lemony opioid peptides” is Delicious im proud of that one LOL

[teddybearsims]

so ive been writing another jayvik fic... after finishing my one shot of them & my timebomb piece, I felt so empty and like I NEEDED to start some sort of longish fic..chapter 1 is now finished at around 14.6k words ;-; <3 hoping to post it soon! (snippet below after I rant a bit)

after so many years of writing I feel like my style is consistently evolving and this piece is no different -- the only way I can describe my prose for this one is just freeing myself of any sort of inner ego and going balls to the wall, which is the greatest piece of self-advice I could give myself lmao.

this one is a divorce/separation au (with unreliable narrator viktor POV).. with plenty of the angst that I love writing. ive been writing it in past-tense because it is (quoting from interview with the vampire) "an odyssey of recollection"

SO here is a snippet, from near the beginning of chapter 1, their story starts in their earlier academic years:

Emerging from the lab one foggy morning, Viktor purchased a diet-soda from the vending machine, huffed down a menthol cigarette on the outskirts of slippery concrete steps before he hobbled his way into a seminar. A seminar which he was gravely late for, and had garnered such a low number of students that the circular, sloped auditorium echoed Viktor’s late announcement. The heavy wooden door slammed in his wake and he flinched with a wave of nausea as heads turned with scolding glares. Viktor only hoped to catch the door with his foot, and fumbled it tremendously. Heimerdinger had eagerly waved him toward the front, projector flickering with light, casting above the chalkboard, against the white brick wall around thirty-or-less feet tall, which illuminated and positively dwarfed the professor’s already short, stocky frame. 

Viktor bowed in what he hoped was a display of forgiveness, and sunk himself into the back row of stalled seats. He was in favour of not tripping down the elongated steps in the half-dark orifice of this godforsaken lecture hall, where Heimerdinger loved to monologue in, despite whatever turnout his extracurricular lectures garnered. The man continued on, nasally voice carried, echoed enigmatically off the cathedral-like vaulted dome ceilings, which were made up of rows of dark cherry wood that lead to a semi-stained oculus of yellowing green and blue mirrored florals — a complete mock-up of the humongous oculus in the main city’s cultural centre. 

An illusion of grandeur, as most of the university was materialized with dark wood, polished brass and rich mosaics, but they could never hope to get the scent of aged, musty paperbacks out of the dark carpeted halls, nor be free from the late-night terrifying scratches in the walls that were either mice, or old copper pipes that rattled and threatened to burst. Most resources had been budgeted or curated through wealthy investors, in all truth, it stunk of opulent riches and detestable high-roller academics who had nothing better to do with their time than remind everyone else they were made of freshly minted cash.

Jayce Talis rushed in not even a minute later, the clang of the doors had the few heads turning in annoyance once again — except for Viktor, who was more or less succumbed to an out of body experience, somewhere between deluded and day-dreaming. Rosy-cheeked and gap-toothed, gold chain caught between the half-raised collar of his starchy untucked shirt, worn beneath a wrinkled aviator bomber lined with black fur. Shiny brown-leather brogues squeaked across the laminate until Jayce Talis dropped into the seat right next to Viktor; the scent of strong espresso beans wafting off of him, hair half-mused with cowlicks abound. 

Similar to what Viktor might have imagined a demigod giant would look like at a kids’ tea party, the low-hung chair raised Jayce’s knees higher than his hips in a slope of tailored black trousers — or maybe Jayce had just been slanted, hunched against the creamy plastic, breathing ragged as he gave a half-hearted, boyish salute down to Heimerdinger. Or perhaps that was Viktor’s own breath, with the kind of high he imagines a marathon runner might get near the fifteen mile mark. It siphoned sour, lemony opioid peptides into the illogical receptors of his brain that wanted to curve and gnaw and twist gold through his fingers, no matter how malapropos. The projection clicked onward to a display of intricate arithmetic that was nothing short of experimental, and Viktor did his best to mock it up in his notebook.