#cheesy slush

[kurimiaki]

Without a name, things tend to get lost. [III]

Heartslabyul’s terms of endearment

Octavinelle’s set is here!

Content warning: dark content, toxic relationships, manipulation, verbal and physical abuse, forced intimacy

Riddle Rosehearts

By his word, Riddle truly had tried to remain amicable and open-minded for this date.

Too-rigid, too-coddling, too-stuck for time, too-unbending. You had tried to impress upon him the importance of fluidity, fun for fun’s sake, and a sense of ease which he has yet to fully feel on these types of romantic excursions. It’s difficult to entirely will himself away from ironclad routine and tradition, the dating guides he poured himself over in the library, what to do and what to avoid, the formulaic manner in which he wants to pursue your hand.

It’s all in the effort to satisfy you. To guarantee your partnership, commitment, and adoration. But it’s a hearty struggle for Riddle to live easily— rules are foolproof and unshakable, and shan’t allow his unease and insecurity to slip through the cracks. The fluid, lackadaisical attitude you wish him to assume certainly will, though.

He’d suggested a scarcely-populated and unfrequented cafe for a reason, and you’d vetoed his vote without care, adamant on lugging him over to some sleek new burger shop that recently opened on Sage’s Island, flush with people.

People he’d wanted to avoid, for fear of them robbing him of your attention. The things he’d wanted to speak about were overshadowed by your gushing over inconsequential things— the quirkily named menu items, their gargantuan milkshakes, that girl’s crazy boots, and, hey, was that an RSA student? Menial things, of no conversational value, void of substance. Things that deviated too far from his idealized date, that left him unsure and output. He had complacently nodded along, feigned a smile, and chewed up as much of his order as he could manage; but of course, change takes time to adapt to, and Riddle was less than content.

On your way back to campus, following along an isolated path cloaked in brushes and weeping willows, you become familiar with the consequences of pushing your boyfriend too far. Your takeout bag strewn about graveled ground, slushed and ruined strawberry milkshake soaking into dirt mounds and rocks, Riddle goes as far as to stomp down on the remains of your burger. “Was that fun for you, darling?” He jabs, emphasizing the last bit with a sneer, digging a finger hard on your sternum. You gape, grappling as to what could’ve spurred on such a drastic shift in his mood, but Riddle speaks for you.

“You’re a selfish little thing, aren’t you? You don’t think. Not about my preferences, my plans. Being seen fraternizing with you in public— alone, mind you— was a giant leap on its own. A risk.”

“I do try to be lenient, my dear, but all you do is take. You’ve even monopolized my time. See?” He lifts his wrist, removing his other hand from your sternum and unsheathing his casual dress shirt, showing you a watch. He taps the glass two times, clinking it with his fingernail, and sneers at you; so out of sorts, one might think you’d cussed out his mother. You open your mouth, the beginnings of a ‘how was I supposed to know that’ lingering on your lips, but he grasps your shirt collar and drags you down to him.

“If you’re so keen to make this relationship work, do right by me. Listen. That’s all I ask, darling.”

Riddle is not well-suited to the use of cheesy nicknames. Even something as benign as ‘my dear’ has the potential to throw him off kilter for his foreseeable future, utterly wrought with embarrassment and fear of coming on too strong. At his calmest, you’re not likely to receive an affectionate endearment from him— it’s much too unbecoming for a dorm leader to openly show favor like that, anyway. His inexperience is ultimately covered by the claim of ‘not wanting to be a biased ruler,’ which, quite blatantly, is an ineffective lie. To his credit, Riddle does try to be sweet on you. He has repeatedly practiced utilizing the name ‘darling’ in the isolated comfort of his dorm room, though he often finds himself flustered when merely conversing with a pillow.

But he’s fully in his element when buzzing with rage, isn’t he? He may not be the most articulate, gurgling and stomping around like a fussy toddler, threatening you with shattered teacups and sullying your dorm room with his tantrum: but he is free of inhibition and shame. Riddle will scream at you for allowing your grades to slip (it’s a burden to monitor you, you know, but he loves you well enough to take the task), but at least his blow is softened with the use of darling— albeit weaponized as a taunt, lilted and demeaning. In his furious blowouts, he’ll often take pause to berate you as if you were a fussy child yourself, cooing and verbally stooping to your (lower, in his distorted image) level, asking ‘do you understand that well enough, my dear?’ when your only transgression is running five minutes behind his predetermined schedule.

Riddle strictly calls you: darling, my dear. These are the only endearments he’s familiar with; he hasn’t been exposed to romantic media in the same way Ace has, for reference, and isn’t well-versed with what’s on trend to call one’s lover.

Trey Clover

“And now he won’t even answer me in class, Trey. And we sit next to each other!” You huff, throwing your arms into the air, growing increasingly irate, your every suppressed frustration bubbling up with ease in his presence. The beginnings of tears prick your eyes, and you feel your throat swell shut. To have an unresponsive group partner will always be an unbearable frustration— especially in Trein’s class, with his sink or swim curriculum, his rigid syllabus, his unwavering expectations. If your classmate doesn’t cooperate soon, you’ll fail.

You only wish you were headstrong enough to force him to comply.

All you can do, at present, is vent your every frustration with this situation to your sweet, doting, attentive boyfriend.

“I don’t know what to do…” You mumble, leaning against the cool kitchen countertop. You’re thankful that he’d entertain you so late in the night; not a soul can be heard in the surrounding rooms. It’s mostly silent, save for your ranting, the kitchen’s hum of electricity, the nervous shuffling of your feet.

Save for Trey’s worn sigh.

Exhausted, almost sounding more irate than even you, his mere exhale startles you straight. Is he mad? Eyes wide, worry seeps into you. Have you spoken too much? Had you even asked about his day? Are you being inconsiderate? You stutter something incoherent, but before your worn brain can muster something appeasing to say, Trey speaks up.

He lifts his glasses to rub his temple, green hair slightly tussled. He’s tired, and you certainly aren’t easing his tense mind.

“And what do you want me to do about this?” He starts, uncharacteristically monotone. Yellow eyes settle on you, unblinking, and you avert your gaze. Wholly intimidated, cowed into silence. When he wills it, Trey’s perfectly capable of sucking all the air out of a room.

Your sweet boyfriend speaks for you.

Pacing forward, he’s suddenly before you, so close the tips of your slippers touch. “I told you that one’s trouble, didn’t I?” Trey lightly chides, still cooly composed. ‘That one,’ being your fickle partner; the one your boyfriend did, indeed, warn you about. More than once, insisting that you inquire with your ever-intimidating professor about a group change, and to no avail. “Didn’t I?” He reiterates, pressing you for a reaction. You look away, a mix of scandalized and ashamed, called out on an error you hadn’t felt was too egregious to make. You thought you could handle it. You still can.

“Look at me, buttercup.” He implores, cupping your cheek with one hand and facing you to him— but, for fear of what you’ll find, and shame for the presumably selfish manner in which you’ve acted, your minor betrayal, you keep your eyes averted.

But your sweet boyfriend doesn’t like that, doesn’t enjoy offering his tenderness and receiving none of your compliance in return. Trey squeezes your cheeks so harshly his nails dig into your cheekbone, and you gasp, eyes immediately flickering to peer up into his.

“You know you can always trust me, right?”

You nod. Faintly feeling like he’d just grip your cheeks and do it for you, if you hadn’t.

“Take his name off of your research paper, tell Trein what’s been going on, and own up to it. It’s your work, sweetheart.” Thick fingers loosen their hold, and a soreness stabs the meat of your face, but you refrain from soothing yourself. He brushes hair from your eyes, and leans in to kiss your forehead.

“If you’d just listen, we wouldn’t have hiccups like this, would we?”

It’s a tad uncharacteristic for him, but still expected, given his pastimes and upbringing— Trey utilizes sickeningly sweet nicknames to when referring to you. He feels he’s being unoriginal when he calls you things like ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’, largely because he’s playing it safe and sticking to what he knows: what his parents call each other. It’s a secure bet to call you the aforementioned endearments, normal things like ‘pumpkin,’ but Trey does have a tendency to let pure sugar drip from his lips when he’s cross with you, using grossly saccharine names so as to glaze over the pure venom he’s fully capable of dishing your way when it’s warranted.

His idea is that, the sweeter his words, the more willing you’ll be to acquiesce to the severe alterations he wants to impose upon your relationship, which will ultimately bind you to him. Because he’s so articulate and persuasive in the manipulation he does, working the rest of your peers out to be these wholly volatile creatures so as to solidify his position as the sole recipient of your love, this strategy is incredibly effective. He plays a long game, planting little seeds of doubt in your own capabilities whenever you have the smallest slip-ups, hinting to the possibility that, yeah, maybe you’re just not cut out for an environment like this, that it’s in your best interests to quit, save yourself this cutting mental strain. It ultimately snowballs into a bigger issue, wherein you’re constantly left too-hesitant to pursue bigger feats in your school life, doubting your intellect and hard work thus far, feeling deep inadequacy in areas that you may not even struggle in. He’s at the root of it. And he’ll be there to soothe and sway you to him when you stray too far from the path you’d set for yourself, falling completely behind.

Trey doesn’t use lover’s nicknames too freely with you, though. They’re an indulgence, and something he typically doles out as a reward, somewhat micro-dosing you with doting words when you do what’s expected of you, and unprompted. Holding his hand, never straying too far from his lunch table, not growing too needy, listening to him (at bare minimum)— even going as far as to check up on your flossing and treat you with a ‘good job, honey,’ if you stay consistent. Like you’re some child.

Additionally, he’ll wean you from his tenderness should he feel the PDA gravitates too much attention to the both of you. He’s got no qualms in publicizing your relationship, and is in favor of doing so— but, as with most things, Trey is partly wary of exposing too much of himself, and this applies to you. It’s a mix of possessiveness and a desire to keep the raw parts of his life squared away, untouchable, and unseen. You’re among those things.

Trey loves to call you: sweetheart, honey, buttercup, muffin, sweetness

Cater Diamond

Cater wrenches you to him, hands spread over the expanse of your back, rubbing you up-and-down, as if attending to a distraught animal. The evening sun gleams through the club room’s windowpanes, kisses your cheeks, bathes you and Cater in a warm, honeyed veil. You’re both sat snugly atop a pile of pillows used to form a makeshift couch, snack wrappers littering the floor, the room left vacant with both Lilia and Kalim having long darted off to attend to their own dorms. Your boyfriend gives up on his half-assed massage and wraps an arm around your waist, curling over you and stuffing his face in the crook of your neck.

It’s intimate, it’s sweet, and it makes you flush. His earring rests cooly against your flushed cheek, and a smile tugs on the corner of your lips. It’s nice.

Even still, what he’d just said bordered on creepy. Invasive, possessive, and utterly strange, coming from him. In good conscience, you can’t let it slide.

“Cater?” You push, trying to nudge his head away from you, but he’s fully leaning on you now, his nose nuzzling into your jaw, this close proximity lightly frying your nerves. “Can you just— can we talk for a second? I don’t want to glaze over that.”

A little sigh comes from him at that, warm breath spreading over the expanse of your neck, making you shiver. “Glaze over what, cutie?” He croons into you, not sounding quite as irked as you anticipated he’d be from the interruption. If anything, he only squeezed your midriff a bit tighter, and you couldn’t exactly complain. It’s nice to be held like this.

Why don’t you quit your club for me?

You take a beat of silence, hoping that he’ll remember the jarring little tidbit he’d dropped on you not twenty minutes ago, his phrasing then disregarded and brushed away by the crushing gravity of Kalim’s excitement at the prospect of your participation in their band-snack-club… thing.

For me, he’d said. It’s not too weird, is it? He wants to spend more time with you. You’re already skipping over your obligations to your own club every other week to be with him, urged on by his club’s cumulative persuasiveness and heady enthusiasm, the ploy that Cater just really, really wants to see you more. That it’s boring without you there. It’s sweet that he’s so insistent, you think, but a thing of doubt gnaws at your brain. A bit of queasiness, at how easily he’d suggested you disregard what’s so important to you.

It’d be fine thing to say, had this not been the fifth time Cater’s brought it up, disregarding the five respective times you’ve already shot this suggestion down.

You like your club. You like what you do, and you really like the people in it. And you love Cater, of course, but you can’t deny the twang of uselessness you feel at wasting two hours to simply lounge and snack and sit in silence as Lilia mercilessly shreds an electric guitar, the sense that you’re misplaced, that there’s another place you’d rather be.

You’re queasy because of his insistence. You’re queasy because he won’t let up, and Cater seems just a little more annoyed every time he brings it up, as if he’s fed-up with some unreasonable display of defiance you’re putting up, that this is the end-all decision to the fate of your relationship.

You could very well be overthinking.

This could be no big thing.

He’s mouthing your neck at this point, warm lips lingering over your pulse. The hints of teeth he’d let roam your neck have you squirming by now, arms twitching to shoot up and brush him away from you, but you resist, indulging him in indulging you. It takes a moment to gather your bearings, find a modicum of mental fortitude, but you persist in your interrogation, wanting to quit the creeping discomfort that’s been nagging at you for weeks now.

“Cater, I’m not— I’m not comfortable coming over here anymore. After school, it’s… It’s better for me to do my own thing. I think. My club relates a lot to the field I want to go into, you know? It’s not optional for me.”

He doesn’t stop kissing at you. He doesn’t show a hint of concern to you, not baring a glimpse into what he’s thinking, and you’re getting a bit scared, to be fully honest with yourself. You want to be honest with him.

“And… I dunno. You’ve been really weird lately? Not, like, creepy or anything, just a little off. You don’t open up to me as much, and I feel like something’s wrong.” You explain, still letting him lean into you, wringing your hands in your lap as his lavishing persists, not once acknowledging your words. Taking a second to open room for an addition, you sigh as you’re met with silence, the movement of his lips not once abating. So you continue. “I just think—“

Cater bites your neck without an ounce of forewarning. A sensitive spot, the place he likes to tease his fingers over when he plays with your hair, that he knows can cripple you with a single chaste kiss. He bites down there, and hard. You stifle a cry, overwhelmed with a conflicting wave of pain and minute pleasure that does not abate. Confusion and fear overwhelms it all.

Your hand jolts to cover the aching impression the instant Cater lifts away from you, and you quickly turn away to face him, face twisted up in shock and slight discomfort at the jarring action, feeling quite miffed and, frankly, betrayed that he’d do something like that without asking. For biting you so hard. Hard enough for tears to prick your eyes, which, as you observe Cater lean back on the pillows with boyish ease, you’re faintly certain has caused his smile.

Lax and nonplussed with your shock and awe, the hint of trepidation that lingers around you, Cater spreads his arms, opening himself for another hug. As the seconds tick by, the longer you remain stagnant in your disarray, the more impatient he becomes. He leans forward, taking initiative, wrapping you again in his embrace and falling back with you.

Your boyfriend lets out a little ‘oomph’ upon contacting with the pillows, chuckling a little— so lackadaisical in nature, you could mistake this rendezvous for the same teasing tousling he likes to do in his dorm room, not the serious conversation you’d intended it to be. Why won’t he take you seriously?

His hand soothes over your head, lightly brushing over your baby hairs, and a little kiss meets your earlobe.

“Let’s just be quiet for a little while, yeah? Take it easy. You think too much, babydoll,” He coos, but not without a twinge of warning to his tone, sterner than he’s ever been with you. You go a bit rigid.

“You shouldn’t wear yourself out with useless stuff like that. Everything’s just peachy, isn’t it?”

Out of every Heartslabyul member listed here, Cater uses endearments with the most frequency. It’s expected of him!

He experiments with your nicknames like one would throw darts, constantly changing his flow of speech and choice words, shooting either to hit or miss. He’s not super in-tune with your likes and dislikes— it’s more so how his peers react to the nicknames he lavishes you in. If hearing him call you ‘booga-bear’ makes his dorm mates crumple up and cringe, he’s not likely to ever use it again. Whatever is popular to call one’s beau online, he’s likely to start calling you. It’s very impersonal, quite obviously only intended to build him up as the sweetly doting boyfriend he aims to be, superficial enough to throw you off. But he doesn’t exactly want that, either, so he’ll ease up a bit if he finds it makes you increasingly wary to accept his attempts at PDA, sticking to what’s tried and true— babydoll. It’s equal parts endearing and embarrassing, just intimate enough to make you squirm, with how quietly he’ll whisper it in your ear. Just below the rush he gets from a hit Magicam post is the thrill of making you shrivel up, be it out of shyness or plain discomfort. He likes to have that level of influence over your state of being, to get you to curl up from a small word.

Cater marks you his: babydoll, cutie, cutie-pie, lovebug, hon’, sugarlump, puppy, sweetums

Ace Trappola

Petulant, mean, and uncaring. Your boyfriend is a rotten bully. You fume and stomp down a main hallway, steps long and wide, aiming to make Ace acutely aware of your indignation.

“Leave me alone!”

“Baby, come on!” He groans, the noise reverberating throughout the gymnasium, following him out as he slams into the push handle and jogs after you. You don’t look back, walking faster now.

Mean, mean, mean. Who is he, to tell you to fuck off? What sort of boyfriend is he, to mutter that you’re only showing up to practice to ‘soak up attention,’ to flaunt and flirt with his teammates? You had thought doling out refreshments would be a nice gesture, something he’d recognize for what it is; his partner demonstrating support on a hot summer’s day, being his mini-cheerleader. You thought he’d be happy to see you.

‘Leave them there and go,’ are the words Ace greeted you with. Not a smile, no wave, no questions of why you weren’t at your own club, none of his typical sweetness. None of it. No, the second he spotted you in the sidelines with Floyd, he was immediately abrasive and cold, meandering over to tell you to piss off the instant a whistle blew for a break. Even upon pointing out your reason for being there, a cooler packed with carbonated sweetness and water, you received; ‘That’s nice, babe, but we’re busy.’

Perhaps if Floyd hadn’t been so close to you on the bench, Ace’s mood wouldn’t be so sour. His jarring bouts of jealously are a sign and dance that you are, regrettably, well familiar with. And utterly sick of.

But he’s always been quick to make a smooth recovery.

Catching up to you, breathless from the last game and the mini-sprint it took to reach you, Ace snatches up your forearm. You, still furious, wrench it away from him, but his hands are quick to follow. In a flurry of motion, you’re spun around to face him, shoulders gripped tightly by Ace’s sweaty palms.

To top off his absurd assholery, he absolutely reeks. You scrunch up your nose in distaste.

“Hey, hey, hey! Babe, I mean it. I’m sorry for being such an ass back there,” He smiles, crooked, his eyebrows knit together in a blatant mockery of regret. “That’s what you’re all mad about, yeah? I didn’t mean to talk so harsh. Honest.”

You open your mouth to rebuke him, attempting to shrug out of his hold, but he’s even quicker to interrupt you, to hold you tighter.

“I mean it.”

Tighter, tighter, tighter. Tighter until your shoulder locks up, rigid with pain, threatening to pop out of socket. You whine, thrash, try to maneuver yourself in such a way that throws him off of you, but Ace doesn’t let up. Till he wrings out your forgiveness, he won’t.

“I-I know! It’s fine!” Is what you muster, more of a yell than the timid acceptance he usually likes to hear from you, but it’s enough. His grip eases. You breathe.

And then he holds you, more tender than before, in that performative tenderness you can easily see through. It’s always the same— brush hair behind your ear, pepper your cheek, nose, forehead, and neck in kisses, and stroke your back up and down. He must think this is all it takes to rid you of your hurting.

Ace uses nicknames as one would a bandage. He strongly believes that, with enough sappiness, any wound he’s inflicted upon you can be easily amended. Typically, he’s too flustered to use endearments around his peers, not wanting to appear as some lovesick puppy-dog who’s desperate to win your favor. Cooly, he’ll call you by name, occasionally switching to ‘babe,’ if only to solidify his position as your boyfriend when he feels threatened by another man. Those sickly sweet nicknames only come up when you’re well and truly put-out with his abrasive behavior; he gets aggressive and accusatory when you display interest in anybody other than himself, and is both deliberately and unintentionally cruel, often forgetting himself and going too far with barbed words and vicious snipes. Only when you’re teary-eyed does Ace bust out ‘baby,’ cupping your cheeks in his hands and softly leveling with you— cooing warmly, as if he hadn’t just marked you a whore for electing to work with Deuce over him in a paired project.

Ace likes to call you: babe, baby, and (very rarely) cutie. Will try and fail to woo you by calling you ‘sexy’ and ‘kitten’. He’s not suave enough…

Deuce Spade

“You know… I’m not really comfortable with you hanging around Epel so much.”

You take pause from preparing Deuce’s study guide, setting your pen down mid-vocabulary word, leaving the bright blue flash-card unfinished. Intrigued, albeit slightly put-out by the serious tone he so rarely takes, you devote your full attention to him.

He immediately interprets your blank staring as open criticism rather than a gesture for him to continue— justifiably so, you suppose— but what do you say to something like that? What exactly has made him uncomfortable? Is he about to accuse you of something? You’re not sure. So you wait for him to speak, your expression the image of neutrality.

“Sorry. I’m sorry if that’s overstepping a little. I’m just… I don’t know, he’s a bit touchy, I guess ? He knows that I’m dating you, but he still calls you such nice things, and it’s kinda irking to see him hover around you like he does. Like he’s trying to win you over or something. I dunno,” He rapid-fires, speaking so hurriedly that you can hardly deliberate on what’s being said, as if to gloss over this blatant source of his concern.

Deuce has been clingy the past few weeks. To say the least. You’re well aware of his fried nerves as of late, but you’d thought to attribute the incessant lingering and repeated calls to his concern for midterms— that’s the viable excuse he had, anyway, and the very reason why you’re going so far as to make him a study guide right now. For a class you don’t even have.

“Maybe I’m just overthinking.” He asserts, about to brush away his statement, waving a hand in the air. Deuce’s right hand deftly flicks and twirls a pen, a mesmerizing little gesture, one you’re certain he’s doing to curb his own anxiety. You can feel his leg jolting up and down, practically vibrating from the intensity of his nerves. You think he’s finished, and open your mouth to inquire further, to coax out a better explanation from him, but he fires off again.

“I mean, it’s weird, right? I call you up to come over and study, like we promised, and he’s with you at Sam’s shop. He mozies up to our table in the cafeteria and sits next to you, and I have to sit two people away because, y’know, my class is so far away I’m always late, which I’m sure he knows. The apple thing, too, you know?” Deuce whines, breathlessly exasperated, so frantic in his explanation that you’re wildly taken aback, minimally gaping and grappling for an area to interject. But you can’t, and he continues for you.

“Cutting that apple for you. Making the slices into little bunnies, all that. I couldn’t even do it for you when I tried after school, and you had to wrap my hands cuz’ I’m such a clutz and went and cut myself, and— geez.” He breaks off, voice cracking, and you’re forced to full attention at the warble his lip takes, the wet gleam that instantly floods those striking chan eyes, threatening to drip down onto your freshly inked flash cards.

You don’t mind it. Instead, You immediately lean over the desk to cup his hands in yours, trying to ease him into meet your eyes as his own go glassy. He dips his head downward, clearly hiding from you.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay! Please don’t cry, Deuce.” You quietly urge, not keen on attracting any watchful eyes from around the library, empty though it is. You’d be sorry if anyone else saw him like this. If he became the butt of some joke for his sensitivity— you’ve always liked that about him. You don’t mind the tears, but you do worry.

So you do what any good lover would do, and comfort him. Do anything to right what’s making him so wrong.

“It’s Epel, yeah? You don’t want me to hang around him so much? That’s all fine. We’re weren’t even that close in the first place, Deuce. I swear.” Reaffirming him, you acquiesce to the inquiry that so quickly wracked him with anxiety, leaning over and pressing your forehead to his. “I wish I’d known about this. I’m sorry that I didn’t catch on sooner,” You offer, trying to get him to look at you with gentle reassurances, half-empty promises.

Then you kiss his forehead, and he rockets upright.

With a grin peeled over his lips, he leans forward to kiss your cheek, filled with fresh zeal and eagerness. Your eyes widen a bit at how quickly that crumpled expression fled his face. How immediately he resumed that easy boyishness of his, the sweetness that endeares him to you so much. It’s strange, but he kisses away the stitch that forms between your brows, too.

“I knew you’d understand, lovely. Thank you for being so considerate.”

Deuce knows much better than to degrade you in any capacity. Among a plethora of other life tips, his mother made it a point to drill into him the importance of respecting his partner, to communicate, harbor respect, to treat you as an equal. Ever since he meekly announced to her that he’d found you, she’s reminded him of this. Treat them well, she’ll note, every time he brings you up over the phone, which, admittedly, is incredibly frequent. So, he’s not likely to use the same monikers that Ace or Cater take to, which are markedly less respectful given the context they use them in— Deuce wants you loved and appreciated, and takes great care with what nicknames he chooses for you.

He’s flushed for hours after using it, but Deuce strongly favors ‘lovely’ for your trademark endearment, something to call you every day without fail, be it publicly or over the phone each night before bed. It’s sweet and easy, gentle, something that rolls off his tongue easier with repeated use. It’s comfortable and safe for him and you. It’s nice.

The issue with Deuce’s nicknames doesn’t pertain to you, necessarily, but trouble does arise when he seeks out a new individual to project his insecurities onto, someone he views as a threat to what you two have got going on. Be it with someone in his close circle physically inching too close to you, or an unknown classmate he shoulder-checks for staring at you too long, Deuce can quickly become volatile. To a fault, he’s incredibly possessive of you, and although it’s something he’s aware of, he struggles to keep it in check. Old habits die hard and, inevitably, he’s going to cuss someone out for crossing some benign and inscrutable boundary he’s made around you. Unbeknownst to you, or so he hopes. He’s not a massively threatening presence at school, but he’s got his fair share of bite— Deuce builds a bit of a reputation as an attack dog, where you’re concerned. If he deems it as warranted, he’s not above a bloody brawl. If his mom heard of any of this, she’d burst into tears. He’s quite certain that you’d leave him if you found out about him breaking fingers for the meager crime of latching onto your arm.

Deuce will call you: lovely, precious. He rarely deviates from these two, if at all.

[hirokari]

rain-sitting.

p: na jaemin x gn!reader | wc: 2.7k | g: high school!au, best friends to enemies to more, slight angst, fluff, high school academic rivals | cw: explicit language, food and eating | a/n: hmm lowkey cheesy but . so what im so insanely in love with jaemin

Your socks are getting wet. You suppose that's a given when you've been sitting in the rain for thirty minutes, but you can't help but cringe at the slush of it every time you shift in your position.

Your t-shirt clings to your abdomen and you constantly have to pull at it, sniffing and breathing in the scent of fresh rain.

Normally you'd love the scent of it. Its earthy and fresh, and you don't ever mind that it can be cold. Though, as you watch the rain bounce against the pavement, you still can't bring yourself to dislike the weather. God knows how long you've been here, but you don't mind staying another moment longer.

To your surprise, the rain stops hitting your body. You're a little startled at the sound of aggressive patter against an umbrella and look up.

Nothing could have prepared you for the fact that Na Jaemin towers over you, letting himself get drenched because he's holding his umbrella over your hunched body.

He stares at you. After looking up at him for a moment, you look down to your feet, too embarrassed to say anything.

"What, is this a hobby of yours? Rain-sitting?"

You don't answer.

Though he sighs, Jaemin stays put by your side, still holding his umbrella out to shield you. A minute passes by. Then two. By now, you're hoping he'll give up and walk away-- back to wherever he came from-- because you don't think you can handle the embarrassment of explaining how you'd twisted your ankle running in the rain.

Finally, after deciding he'd been under the rain for too long, you look back up at him, who's still watching over you, eyes somehow kinder than they used to be.

"Hi," You croak. Jaemin can't help but let his chest clench a little. The corner of his lips twitches up, "Hi, yes, I've been here for like, 30 minutes."

"It wasn't that long," You scoff in a suppressed whisper. Jaemin raises his brows at you, "Oh, so you were aware I was here?"

You don't answer.

Jaemin sighs yet again, slowly lowering to your level. You watch the boy, slightly enamoured by the look on his face, uncaring for the fact that he's still being rained on just to keep the umbrella over you.

He sits next to you on the pavement, nudging the hand which holds his umbrella against your knuckle. With a moment's hesitation and your cautious eyes meeting with his, you take it with a slight tremble in your fingers due to the cold.

And you decide you don't like the fact that Na Jaemin is getting rained on, so you shift closer to him, the sound of your shoes scraping against the gravelly pavement mixing in with the rain that now calms down.

"Why are you here? Do you have anywhere to go?" Asks Jaemin, shuffling closer to your side to shelter from the weather. "The project. Jeno's place is around here but he had something to do last minute so we rescheduled. Tried running home but- uh,"

You pause, partly because you're too embarrassed to admit you'd fallen and twisted your ankle, another part shy about the fact that Jaemin is literally pressed up against your side.

You grumble with your lips pressed against each other, "I tw-s m'nkl."

"Um, sorry?"

"I," You heave, eyes squinting shut as you turn your face towards him, "twisted. My ankle."

Jaemin wears a worried expression on his face, which surprises you a little. Almost hurriedly (you don't want to imagine things), Jaemin lunges and reaches forward to your right ankle, to which you laugh at.

"Wrong one, genius."

"How was I supposed to know?" Replies Jaemin, though his tone suggests he was jesting.

You let him inspect your ankle, letting your stomach and chest do everything but stay calm when he grazes your skin with his fingers. He tilts it a little, eyes casting up to you in assurance that you're not hurt, then turns your ankle over.

"Can you walk?"

"Not on my own, no."

The boy pauses, still grazing his fingers down your ankle until he taps on the material of your shoe. "Alright," Sniffling and scrunching his nose up, Jaemin turns around, still squatted in front of you, and stretches his arms backwards.

"Get on."

"What?"

"Get on my back, Y/N."

"I can't," You deny. You reasonably can physically, but you don't think your heart could take it.

"Y/N," He says your name again, this time softer as he looks back at you. Clenching the umbrella tighter in your hand, you give in with slightly dusted cheeks and lean forward, one arm wrapping across his shoulder blades, the other holding his umbrella over the both of you.

"On 3, okay?"

"Okay,"

Jaemin plants his palms on the underside of your thighs, his touch still somehow warm despite the amount of time he'd spent under the rain. At some point he already started counting down, but you were too carried away with the feeling of his fingers hooking across the pit of your knee, his touch conveying a gentle message in a way. In some strange way that you interpret it perfectly well.

"That's not so bad," Jaemin clears his throat, ascending up to his feet. "You okay back there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just tell me if I get too heavy," You reply half-heartedly, feeling a little stupid at the fact that you'd been fawning over the touch of your academic rival.

You press the side of your forehead against the back of his neck. Jaemin shivers, but likes the comfort you give him just from a simple, non-intentional gesture.

"We're going to my place,"

"What? No-no, you can just drop me off at the bus station, Na."

"What, and leave you alone all night? You live across town, Y/N."

You don't object after that. You hate when Jaemin is right, but you hate it even more when you can't argue with him. Wordless, Jaemin turns towards the direction of his house, steady with his footsteps as he walks. He can't help but smile a little when you notice his front side was exposed a slight bit and adjust the umbrella so you're both equally shielded, though there isn't really any more use to that because you're both extremely wet.

"I can't just crash at your place," You attempt to object again.

"You're not crashing," Replies Jaemin, bouncing and tightening his hold on you. "I'm making you stay at my place."

"You're kidnapping me."

"I'm kidnapping you."

You can't help the little laugh that bubbles out your throat-- a small chuckle-- which makes Jaemin's lips stretch in a wider smile, chuckling to himself.

It's until when Jaemin slowly sets you down on his porch when you realize it has been the longest time since you'd been to his place. 9th grade, 2nd semester. His mom had invited you over for lunch because you were Na Jaemin's technical best friend at the time.

When the door opens, Jaemin offers a hand out to you, which you take. He tugs you closer to his side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to keep you grounded and balanced (but you'd reacted the opposite because he was pressed so close against you).

His place is the same as it was the last time you'd visited: a family portrait hung up above the drawer next to the shoe holder; a four-seat dinner table sits in front of the kitchen counter; Jaemin's name hung up on his door written in his middle school handwriting (you'd ever forgotten it).

"There," Grunts Jaemin a little as he sets you down on the couch. You cringe, "Aren't you bothered your couch is gonna get wet?" You watch the boy retrieve an aid kit from a drawer, fetching a fresh wrap and playing with it.

"Nope," He says as he plops down next to you, his own clothes wetting the cushions. His fingers tap at your knee and he looks at your ankle. You turn. lifting your ankle towards him, which he takes and sets on his lap carefully.

"Though these wraps are pretty expensive," Sighs Jaemin, lightly pressing against your skin. "you need it."

You don't understand.

Jaemin... hasn't been on the best terms with you. As much as you hate to admit it, he makes fun of you. Rubs his grades in your face, unwilling to accept defeat when you reveal a perfect score. You'd had an argument in front of half the school because Mark had spilled that you liked him-- at the time. But that was two years ago.

People change, you suppose. In silence.

Watching him, it's hard for you to believe this boy-- the one that'd insulted you in front of a majority of the student body-- is helping you to this extent.

Jaemin notices you staring, and sees the unintentional frown you wear.

"I... understand."

"Hm?"

"If you- hate. Me." His voice is strained, quiet. Guilty, almost. You shake your head, "No, no. I don't." You absorb the moment, fully realizing that Na Jaemin doesn't hate you either with the way he looks at you.

"I don't think I could hate you."

It seems to have triggered something in Jaemin, and suddenly he's sitting a little closer to you, turning. "I never hated you." You give him a surprised look, "You didn't?"

"No, I'm just... extremely, extremely stupid. When I heard you had feelings for me, I-"

You waves your hands at him, shaking your head with a bitter frown, "Oh, we don't have to talk about that, Na. Please spare me the embarrassment." Though you attempt to jest, he still think he's at fault.

There's a silence in the air. A suffocating one. Jaemin still grazes his fingers over your bandaged ankle, a chest clenching look on his face.

"You need fresh clothes." He says, voice strained. Before you can say anything back, Jaemin is quick to get up and leave to his room, leaving you alone with the sound of the clock that hangs in the center of the room, its ticking slowing the more you pay attention to it.

You take this time to observe your ankle he'd just bandaged. It was done with care, you can tell just by looking at it, the feeling of it not too tight nor too loose. You remember he'd always wanted to work in the medicine field, so it was a given he was experienced with things like this.

Jaemin has told you many things over the span of 5 years that you've known him. He likes books and coffee and all things yellow. He likes taking photos of every moment, whether it be scenery or a portrait of any of his friends.

He practically lives off of sweets. You remember he'd joked with you about it, both of you wondering how he has not had a stroke yet. He was, inevitably, your best friend. And you were his. Were.

Jaemin comes back with a pair of sweats and a thin t-shirt, offering them to you, "Here. Tell me if you need a hoodie or a jacket. In case you get cold."

You take the clothes, smiling and thanking him quietly. "I can walk myself to the bathroom. Thanks again, Na."

Jaemin's shirt smells like him, and it feels fresh. You're relieved to change out of your clothes, a moment longer or you'd have caught a cold. As you wring the water out of your hair over the sink, you notice to your side: a cup, with two toothbrushes. One yellow, another green.

"Holy shit," You mumble, stunned. The green toothbrush is all too familiar-- its yours. From when you slept over. In the tenth grade. "Ew," You laugh to yourself, wondering how long it sat here.

Discarding your wet clothes in a plastic bag he'd given you, you walk out of the bathroom, still holding and scrutinizing the toothbrush.

"You do realize you have, like, a two year-old toothbrush in the same cup as your own, right?" You say as you slowly approach Jaemin, who cooks in the kitchen. He freezes, slowly turning to you.

"I'm not a creep, I swear."

"No, you're just a nostalgist."

"That I am." He laughs, taking the toothbrush from your grasp. "Guess I just really enjoyed that sleepover."

There's a solemn look on his face. "Look, I want to apologize to you. I had no right to treat you like I did. And I can't just show back up into your life like this-- without an apology."

"Na, you don't need to apologize."

"Stop calling me that." Jaemin sighs, exasperated. You notice his fist clenching, confused at the sudden damp in his mood. "What? Calling you what?"

"Na. Just call me Jaemin, like everyone. Or- Jaem. Like you. Like you used to. I hate thinking about the fact that I'd pushed you so far away to the point you can't even say my name like you used to. I never meant to. I was- I'm just so-"

He stops himself, unwilling to continue.

"Jaemin," You say. "Your-"

"I swear to god if you're going to blame and put yourself down like you always do, I'm going to rip my hair out. I hurt you. To the point where I can't possibly fix it."

"Jaem-"

"It can't be mended and it can't go back to the way it was. I'm always running my mouth before I think and it's going to be the death of me-- but please let me make it up to you before that happens."

"Jaemin. Dude." You land a firm smack on his shoulder. He feigns a wince, holding his arm. "What the hell was that for? I' trying to apologize to you."

You can't help but chuckle, pointing to the stove behind him, "Try not to burn your food first." Jaemin lets out a string of profanities, turning the stove off in a hurry.

"That... was supposed to be our dinner."

"I don't mind instant ramen," You say, opening the cabinet. You're surprised you still remember where he'd kept his ramen packs. "I'm sorry," Grumbles Jaemin, chucking the charred food into the trash.

"It's fine, I haven't treated myself to ramen in a while."

"No, I mean. For letting my mouth run. Again." The boy rubs his brow, still holding your toothbrush. He takes a glance at it, "It really can't go back to the way it was, can it? As much as some things stay the same, time can't."

You sigh as you rip open a packet, "No. But things can be mended. You just need strength." You pause and turn around, pinching the end of his nose, "And control over your own mouth."

Jaemin laughs, swatting your hand away. He watches with fond eyes as you prepare two packets of ramen for the both of you, content with the sight of you in his clothes.

"Actually, honestly speaking, I..." He coughs a little before continuing. "I used to like you."

"What?" You ask in a laugh.

"Yeah, ninth grade. And tenth." Jaemin shifts in his position, planting his hands against the kitchen's cold granite counter. "...and eleventh."

You give him a look, expecting him to stop. He shrugs at the look you give him, "And maybe, in the slightest, smallest chance, now."

"Na Jaemin likes me?" You repeat, incredulous. "I'm flattered, but, I never saw this coming."

"You didn't? I thought it was pretty obvious,"

"No, I guess you rejecting me in front of half of the school's student body gave me the vibes that, you didn't like me." You say, not showing the slightest bit of bitterness in your voice. Jaemin rubs his face, wearing a frown, "I'm really sorry about that."

"Dude, it was tenth grade. It doesn't matter now, does it?" You reply nonchalantly, mixing your ramen in its seasoning. Clapping your hands against your lap, you declare the food is done and hand Jaemin a pair of chopsticks that you'd taken from the drawer.

"No, it doesn't, I guess." He hums, taking the offered chopsticks. "I don't suppose it's too late to ask you out? On a date?"

You almost laugh at how nervous he sounds. The Na Jaemin is fidgety and bashful? You need to savor this.

"No, it's not too late," You mention, eating on a mouthful or ramen right after. Jaemin beams, bumping his hip to yours as he shoves the ramen you'd made into his own mouth.

Despite what he said, Jaemin believes things can still be mended, no matter how bad he'd caused damage. Maybe they can even go back to how it used to be-- but he doesn't want that. He wants more, with you.

©hirokari, 2023.

[stxrmylxve]

okk minxx ..

what you did to me w that last hc.. i feel a little guilty now and the brainrot is full on this evening- so can i request what izana and kakucho would be like in the streets and 🛏 -♥️♥️♥️♥️ please and tyyy! -💋

WARNINGS: mentions of breeding kink, nicknames, fluff 😁, the guys are little sweethearts

Izana:

SFW:

Izana is very similar to kakucho as far as he really wants to please you. whether you need help with something simple like holding your bag, or something big like buying a car, he wants to help in any way possible

he loves seeing you happy, so he will buy you little trinkets to remember him throughout the day 🥹

will have your name in his phone as something silly or cheesy and no one else can call you that nickname except him!

Nsfw:

always lets you top. he might seem and act like a top, but you can’t tell me this guy isn’t a sucker for being dommed

tbh there isn’t much to say because he is pretty vanilla….

he likes to take things slow and sensual. he is the type of guy to play soft music and to light candles to create a cute environment so that he can match the vibe!

he always refers to you as his “queen” just because he lives by your demand and pleasure. he always will try anything you’re up for, as long as he is okay with doing it too ofc 🧍‍♀️, and puts your pleasure before even thinking about his own

Kakucho:

SFW:

he honestly reminds me of Asahi from Haikyuu!! because he has his own voice, and everyone knows it, but whenever he is around someone that he knows well and likes, he turns to slush 🥹

he always talks to everyone about you so sappy because he constantly talks about how perfect you are and the mini dates you go on and such

he is a PLANNER ❗️❗️he will plan dates at least a week beforehand so that he can buy everything and get one of the other executive’s help to set it all up (and he goes all out too)

NSFW:

a bit of a wildcard.. he can either be really slow and will get all embarrassed about being too bold, or he is bold and ruthless and will breed you until you sputter

well on that note, he has a breeding kink 💁‍♀️ he also is an odd bird because besides that, he doesn’t really seem to have any kinks 🧍‍♀️

if you want him on his knees, call him your king!! He LOVES having a variety of nicknames in general, but ‘king’ really turns him on…

another one that puts your pleasure first cause he is a gentleman and i love him sm

[lovelytsunoda]

fairytale of new york // mick schumacher

summary: it's her first christmas alone, and he's wandering around new york in the middle of an existential crisis about his future. it was simply meant to be

pairing: mick schumacher x female reader

you were handsome, you were pretty, queen of new york city. happy christmas your arse, i pray god it's our last. and the boys in the nypd choir still singing 'galway bay', and the bells are ringing out, for christmas day (..) i could have been someone, well so could anyone

warnings: angst: mentions of mick losing the haas seat, guenther steiner mention, anxiety and loneliness, metions of hospitals and thyroid problems. cheesiness, a romance book-worthy meet cute, sexual tension, body image/insecurity, implied smut.

author's note: fuck guenther steiner. netflix created a monster as soon as they made him a series regular. and fuck gene haas, i hope he goes back to federal prison for tax evasion. mick really gave his all this season and got nothing in return.

new york city, new york. december 22nd, 2022

they've got cars as big as bars, they've got rivers of gold, where the wind blows right through you, no place for the old

she still wasn't used to the sounds of the city.

new york city raged around her as she walked down the sidewalk, her adidas tennis shoes squelching in the muddy slush.

there was no destination in mind, she just knew that she couldn't stay in her residence alone. her roommates had gone home for the holidays. her own parents had decided to embrace their newfound freedom and flew to puerto rico, leaving y/n to navigate the holidays on her own.

she was a small town girl at heart, raised on a vineyard in niagara falls. new york city had been a big change for her, but she was halfway through her semester and she wasn't sure if moving had been the right call for her.

she was still thinking when she felt the impact, a hard body running right into hers. the impact forced her off the sidewalk, and she fell in between two parked cars. melted slush soaked through her jeans and stained her puffer jacket, her glasses knocked from her face with the impact.

"what the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted, inspecting her glasses for cracks or scratches. "if there's anything wrong with my glasses, you're buying me new ones, asshole!"

"are you alright?" the person said hurriedly, kneeling down the help her to her feet. "i'm so sorry!"

he had a soft face, one that reminded her of an owl. his bright blue eyes were panicked, and his voice had a touch of an accent that she couldn't quite place.

she got to her feet, with some help from the handsome stranger, her feet sliding through the damp street shoulder.

"it's no big deal." she was breathing heavily, her anger dissipating the longer she looked at his soft face. "i should have been paying more attention."

"no, no. it's my fault. can i buy you a drink?"

"can i get your name first?"

"mick." he said softly, extending his gloved hand for a handshake.

"y/n. now, about that drink."

when you first took my hand on that cold winter's eve, and you told me that broadway was waiting for me

twenty minutes later, they were sitting in an old-timey british pub, with john lennon on the speakers and a basket of onion rings in between the two of them as they nursed hot drinks.

"i'm sorry about your jeans, by the way." mick said apologetically, swiping the whipped cream from the top of his hot chocolate onto his pointer finger before licking the cream off his skin.

the action sent shivers down y/n's spine as she shrugged to hide the involuntary action. "it's no big deal. they'll dry."

"still, i feel bad."

"well, don't." she smiled. "what brings you to new york? you're not from around here, are you?"

"but you're not either. not a hint of new yorker in your tone."

"touche. i'm canadian. i was raised in wine country, just over the border in old niagara on the lake."

"switzerland. genolier, but not too many people know where that is." mick laughed lowly before shoving an onion ring in his mouth. "new york was a pretty last minute decision, actually. didn't want to go home, didn't want to go to the ranch." i needed to be some place where people didn't know who i was. he didn't say it out loud, but he yearned to. "i lost my job in november. i'm not sure where to go from here, to be honest."

"i'm sorry to hear that." she frowned, taking a sip of her own hot chocolate, flinching as she felt it scald her tongue. "and around christmas as well. christ, your boss was a heartless bastard. this is my first christmas without my family around. my grandparents are in europe, enjoying retirement and all that bullshit. they've been retired for fifteen years, they just seem to not like staying in canada very long. and my parents are in puerto rico on a beach somewhere."

"so why aren't you with them?"

"i moved out when i went back to college. i took a gap year right after high school, and then it was two years digitally during covid, and my parents told me that i needed to" she paused, getting her fingers ready to make air quotes. "spread my wings." she ran her fingers through her hair, resisting the urge to mess with her hoop earrings. "it's lonely. making friends in university isn't as easy as they claim."

"tell me about it." mick laughed. "you can't make people like you. like my boss."

"does he live around here? we can key his car." y/n suggested halfheartedly, stealing another onion ring from the basket.

mick laughed. the first genuine laugh in weeks. the first genuine laugh since abu dhabi. "well, guenther lives in austria, so that might be a little difficult."

"austria? jesus." she laughed. "hey, this might sound strange, but has anybody ever told you that you look like micheal schumacher?"

mick's cheeks flushed pink as he thought about a response. "he's my dad." the german said simply, showing y/n a picture on his phone. "all i ever wanted was to make him proud, you know. do you watch racing?"

y/n smiled fondly, looking down at the iphone. "my grandfather did. i remember the schumacher era well, his big mercedes comeback. i haven't watched f1 in years, actually. granddad spent some time in the hospital for thyroid problems, and i'd sit with him for hours on end watching races with him while he was in for treatments."

"would you beleive me if i told you that i was a driver?" saying it stung. he still couldn't get used to the fact that he wasn't going to get to drive any more, even if he did sign the reserve contract with mercedes.

y/n raised an eyebrow. "i'd have to see it to believe it, schumacher."

mick laughed, pressing a few more buttons on his phone, pulling up a picture from abu dhabi, his last race ever. it was him and seb, with lance in the corner of the frame and esteban behind them both.

he was going to miss everybody so much.

"is that sebastian vettel?" y/n's eyes widened as she looked at the phone again. "the sebastian vettel? he's still around?"

"he just retired, actually. he had a great run, didn't he."

"he did."

"you said you were in university? what are you studying?" mick asked, shifting the focus of the conversation to the young woman across from him.

"english literature, with a focus on the mystery-thriller genre." she said sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. she was a nerd through and through, occasionally embrassed to admit her degree ut loud.

english lit was the fallback option for people who didn't know what they wanted to do with their lives, and the fact that she took a gap year first would tell everybody everything they needed to know about her.

except she was starting to get an idea of what she wanted. she just wanted to be around books, be it in a publishing agency or a librarian.

"so you're like, really smart." mick gushed

she brushed her hair behind her ear, hoping that mick would assume the red in her face was from the american winter raging on outside. "i don't know if those are the words that i would use, to be honest. i'm in like, the middle half of my class. incredibly fucking average. i've just always known that i wanted to spend my life around books.

conversation had reached a comfortable lull, with the duo sneaking the other longing glances as they munched on the onion rings and drank their hot chocolates.

mick thought she was stunning: with her shoulder length hair that shone in the lights from the bar, the cat's eye glasses that framed her eyes so nicely, the small golden nose ring that glittered against her skin. but more so than that, he enjoyed her company. her soothing voice, her beautiful laugh. her aspirations and eccentricities.

y/n was entranced by mick schumacher. his passion, his vibrance, his sunshine attitude that could light up an entire room without even trying. was it too soon to say that she had fallen for his soft features, his bright blue eyes and his beautiful hair?

sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing, we kissed on a corner, then danced through the night

the song on the stereo changed, a group of drunk nyu frat boys in the corner who had been celebrating the end of exam season throwing their arms around each other and belting out the words.

y/n laughed at the group, before she started singing along herself. "and then we sang a song, a rare old mountain dew. i turned my face away, and dreamed about you."

"you have a great voice." mick said shyly, not wanting to embarass y/n.

"no i don't." she laughed, fighting the urge to hide her face behind her hands. "i just really like this song. it's my favorite holiday song. 'fairytale of new york'. it's not my favourite version, though. i like the creeper version better than the original. not the most popular opinion."

mick raised his eyebrows. "it's a little depressing."

"it's beautiful. melancholic, almost." mick didn't miss the sparkle in her eyes as she started talking about music. "i went through a phase in high school, I was really into the punk bands of the seventies and eighties, like i was a complete nerd about it. i could recite any fact about the sex pistols or the clash in seconds. sorry, i'm rambling."

"no, no. keep going. i think its cute." he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, a dusting of pink coating his pale cheeks.

why did you say that, schumacher? you're not as smooth as you think you are. what would sebastian say?

"do you want to dance?" he offered up instead, getting up from his side of the table and extending a hand for y/n to hold on to.

y/n looked at him, slightly confused but taking his hand anyways, an electric shock coursing through her veins at the closeness. "you know how to dance?"

"my mother raised me properly." mick laughed as he pulled her closer, leading her in a clumsy ballroom waltz and trying to keep himself together, overwhelmed by her vanilla scented perfume, her closeness to her body. "just follow my lead."

they matched their footsteps, circling around the carpeted floor and the frat boys in the corner, the couples sharing drinks after work, the group watching the premier league on the tv above the bar. the world narrowed down to just the two of them, fingers laced together and arms around backs to hold the other close while y/n sang along under her breath.

they stopped dancing as the song faded out, foreheads pressed together as they stood between empty tables.

"can i kiss you?" mick asked softly, scared that if he was any louder, his voice would betray him.

"yes." she answered equally as quiet, wanting to keep the moment a secret between the two of them.

their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss, mick's lips warm and soft against her own. she pulled away, a bright smile on her face as she rested her forehead against his.

"i don't usually kiss strange men in bars, you know."

mick laughed, both his hands resting comfortingly on her waist. "and i dont kiss strange women in bars, but i'm really happy to make you the exception."

"i'm glad. now, can you kiss me again? if we're going to break these rules, i think we should go all out."

and then mick kissed her, with twice as much feeling this time, each kiss punctuated with giggles and bright smiles.

you were handsome, you were pretty, queen of new york city

their giggles echoed off the hallways of the residency building. the apartment had been shoddily built for the sole purpose of housing students away from the university campus: three floors with paper thin walls and metal doors with electronic locks, pre-fabricated and cookie cutter pre-furnished three-bedroom apartments behind every electronic combination lock.

the hallways were hung with dollar-store tinsel, whiteboards with festive doodles proclaiming who lived where, the sound of christmas carols wafting up from the lobby and through the thin drywall.

she held mick's hand in hers, and the driver longed to touch every inch of her body as they ran down the hallway, the pom-pom on the tip of her winter beanie hat bouncing up and down as she ran, flared jeans swirling around her legs as she stopped in front of a door with a handmade wreath hanging off the front door, covering up the names on the whiteboard.

"all of my roommates went home for the holidays. it's just me here, we aren't in anyone's way." she said softly, pushing the door open.

a large christmas tree stood in the small living room, covered in mismatched garlands, homemade ornaments blinking rainbow lights and a picture of ryan reynolds perched at the top where the star should have been.

the sight brought a smile to mick's face. It was a glimpse into the life of a girl he could see himself falling in love with.

a girl that could help him find out who he was outside of the sport he had given so much of his life to.

"i'm just in here." she said softly, opening a door with a poster of guns n roses on the front, a small hangar reading "y/n's room" in calligraphy hanging off the doorknob. "sorry, it's a little bit of a mess."

"that's okay." mick beamed, taking everything in. everything in the youngest schumacher's life had been cookie cutter, neat and organized as a pin. he was ready to embrace a bit of disorder once in a while. "i actually like it. feels cozy."

every available surface of her room was covered in books: overflowing bookshelves next to the desk, another makeshift shelf constructed at the end of the bed that was filled with overflow, a few mismatched photo storage boxes on the bottom shelf. the walls were a collage of all the things that made y/n who she was: art cars with paintings from van gogh and monet, polaroid pictures of her and her small circle of friends from home, postcards of all the places she wanted to see. strings of fake flowers, their plastic petals bright against the cream colored paint.

y/n smiled as she flicked on the warm-colored fairy lights hanging above her bed, lighting a small scented candle that was on the side table before she took off her jacket and beanie, ruffling her hair in a way that allowed mick to see something that he hadn't originally noticed in the dim lighting of the pub: the magenta streaks running through the undersides of her hair.

"what?" she asked, a smile on her face when she caught him looking.

"i just noticed the streaks in your hair. i think it looks really good. you're beautiful, you know that?"

she shook her head, kicking off her shoes before crossing to where mick was, looping her arms around his neck. "unfortunately, that's not something i've heard from too many people."

"i don't understand why." he said, gently kissing the top of her forehead as he rubbed his thumbs up and down her torso, over her knit sweater like the gentleman that he was. "and if you'll let me, i want to show you just how beautiful you are, even if i only have you for one night."

she slipped her glasses off her face, folding the arms in and resting them on top of her romance book before turning back to mick and kissing him softly, cradling his face in her hands.

she never wanted to let him go.

she shivered under his touch as he undid the buttons on her cardigan, stripping her top half down to her lacy black camisole before he gently pushed her onto the bed, climbing on top of her and pressing his lips to hers in a bruising kiss. her fingernails left scratch marks across his abs as she slipped her hands underneath his sweater, bunching the fabric up as she tried to strip the german of all the clothing covering his upper half.

as he kissed down her neck, mick could feel himself getting hard, fully at the mercy of her labored breathing, the low moans and whines she let out as he nipped at her skin and dug his fingers into her jean-clad thigh, wrapping her leg around his body before he grinded into her, trying to find any kind of relief that he could.

his hands tugged at the cotton camisole with enough fervor that he was sacred it might rip as he scrambled to push it up, pressing kisses to y/n's stomach before she sat up, gently pushing him away.

y/n didn't know why she did it. why she let the sudden wave of insecurity and anxiety keep her from getting something that she finally wanted. thoughts about the stretch marks and acne scars marring her breasts, her not-so-flat stomach that mick was sure to notice soon enough. the little inner demons that would be the death of her.

"what's wrong, pretty girl?" mick's voice was gentle and soft as he brushed a lock of magenta hair from her face. "is it too much? too fast? please, let me know how you're feeling." he was gentl as ever, bringing y/n's hands to his lips so he could place a kiss on her knuckles.

she sucked in a deep breath, taking things into her own hands, making the conscious decision to overcome her demons as she pulled the camisole over her head, reaching behind her to undo the cotton tommy hilfiger bra, putting every vulnerable part of herself on display, hoping that mick would see past it, fighting the urge to cover herself with her hands, to shrink back into the person she used to be.

mick kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, her nose, and her lips, her head cradled in his hands. "you're the most beautiful woman that i have ever seen, and i wish you could see that in yourself the way that i do."

"tonight, you've helped me find that part of myself, made me feel things that i never thought were possible for me. and if we only have one night, i want to make the most of it." she said confidently, unsure of where that confidence had come from but knowing it was from the part of herself she had been trying to find for so long. "kiss me, schumacher."

the boys in the nypd choir still singing galway bay, and the bells are ringing out, for christmas day.

they didn't leave the bed that night unless they absolutely had to, one of her grandmother's heavy knit blankets draped overtop the duvet as they lay together in a tangle of limbs. the air was punctuated with bright giggles as they kissed, big smiles on their faces.

neither of them wanted to let the other go. they knew what this was: a one night stand, nothing more.

but maybe it didn't have to be that way.

"mick?" she said softly, moving to sit up, the oversized def leppard shirt hanging off her frame, making her look smaller than ever. "where do we go from here? i know that we went into this thinking it would be a one time thing, that you would go back to switzerland, and i'd stay here. but i don't know if i want that any more."

mick sat up, still shirtless and with a thoughtful look in his eyes. a shiver ran through his body from the cold, and y/n instantly reached for the blanket, wrapping the corners around his torso.

"that's not what i want either, pretty girl. what i've felt tonight is nothing that i've ever felt with another girl."

she shifted in place, resisting the urge to reach for the driver. "so what now?"

"i've got no plans. no sport to go back to. i could stay in new york while i try and figure my future out." mick took her warm hand in his cold one. "i want to make this work, y/n. i want to get to know you, to wake up next to you every day. and if i ever get back to racing, i want you to be in the garage at my side."

"okay." y/n said, trying not to cry (the good kind of tears, of course!) "okay. let's do this. tomorrow i'll show you all my favourite places in new york?"

mick laughed. "sounds like a really good plan."

and then he kissed her again, wide smiles on both of their faces.

and even more important than that, they had hope for the future.

__________

tags: @sidcrosbyspuck @flannel-cures @libraryofloveletters @diorleclerc @magnummagnussen @daydreamingleclerc

[deadbydangit]

Going to a Scary movie with them

David, Ghostface, Dwight

David King

He's more excited for the snacks.

David loves his popcorn.

Smothered in butter and salt.

It's hardly edible to anyone but him.

And candy. So much candy.

Don't forget the slushes.

He's the type to get up in the middle of the movie to get more snacks.

Don't worry, he got some food for you too.

And half of it is gone before the movie starts.

He likes to act like he isn't scared.

Trying to be a macho man.

But he is jumping a bit.

And he'll spill a little popcorn.

"Oh, just a shiver. It's cold here. Come here love."

He'll pull you into his arms.

He wants to hold you because he's a little scared.

Let him think he's cuddling up to you to keep you warm and safe.

"Don't be scared love. I'm here."

As he does the cheesy boyfriend arm around your waist thing.

After the movie he might suggest sneaking into another movie.

He doesn't mind breaking the rules.

But, if you want to go home, he won't protest.

He'll ask to watch another movie at home though.

He really just wants to cuddle again.

Can you really blame him though?

Ghostface

His time to shine.

Horror movies?

Uh, yes please.

But going to a scary movie with him isn't nearly as fun as it seems.

First off, he won't shut up.

Like, at all.

"That wouldn't happen."

"Sloppy technique."

"This final girl is so unconventional."

"This is an insult to all slashers!"

People in the theater are going to hate him.

Other times, he's trying to scare you.

Suddenly grabbing your leg.

Getting close to your face.

Overall. Bring on obnoxious.

He's going to get you kicked out of the theater.

He's going to groan about it.

But he's also going to feel really bad.

"Sorry babe. I got too carried away."

Don't hold it against him.

If you do, he'll whine the whole day.

Let him take you home and show you one of his favorite scary movies.

The excitement in Danny's eyes.

How much he enjoys it.

How much he enjoys sharing it with you.

It makes it all worth it.

Dwight Fairfield

What are you doing?

Seriously.

Why?

Do you know how sensitive Dwight is?

Do you also know how much he wants to please you?

He's going to sit through this movie biting his nails.

He won't scream.

But he's screaming on the inside.

Probably crying too.

But he's holding it all in.

For you.

Because he wants to impress you.

But he isn't fooling anyone.

He's terrified.

He'll try and play it cool.

Put his arm around you and promise to keep you safe.

"D-don't worry. I won't let them get you."

But he's shaking at the same time.

Maybe fake being scared, boost his confidence.

Lord knows he needs it.

At the end of the movie, don't mention how afraid he looked.

Just give him a kiss.

Maybe go watch a comedy after.

That should chill him out.

And give him a chance to keep cuddling with you.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

My Melancholy Angel

Evan "Buck" Buckley/TK Strand (911, 911 Lone Star), 1,658 words, rated M | AO3 | Tags: Addiction, sex as a coping mechanism, unhealthy coping mechanisms, first time, depression, gay sex, set before season 3

When they meet again, it’s a coincidence, but what really is a coincidence in a world creating so many fates?

Only a few months have passed, but here in New York, just before Christmas, nothing really resembles the blistering heat that scorched both their skin back then. Now it seems as if a warmth from within is taking hold of them. It's classic, it's cheesy, but they meet in the middle of Times Square, where Buck suddenly stops to stare up at the ticker, mesmerized. TK runs into him, staring at his phone, lost in thought.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, not very credibly, “wait... Buckley, right? California?”

Buck cocks his head, “Well, ain’t that pretty face from Texas.”

TK grimaces, “Could say the same about you,” he quips. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm trying to find that stupid conference place,” Buck says. “That's probably why you're here too?”

“The ICFRE? That’s for executives. I'm here with my father, but I'm not planning to go. Just taking the opportunity to get a taste of the big city again. What about you? You’re a bit young for a promotion to captain, don't you think?”

“Hey, I used to be a fire marshal,” Buck says. “Seems to qualify me. But I actually deputize for our cap. It was too close to Christmas for him, he must have big plans. Well, this is something big for me,” Buck explains, spreading his arms as if to embrace the whole city.

TK could tell him that nobody really likes being in New York at Christmas because it's all slush and stressed people, life isn't a Hollywood movie. The conference is boring as hell, but mandatory, which is why everyone - except his own dad - finds some excuse. Half the people there are overzealous firefighters like Buck. He doesn't, because there's something refreshing about Buck's enthusiasm. Something that brightens up the gray of this December day in New York City, in a different way than the constant flashing and glowing all around. He’s handsome, his cheeks flushed from the cold, wrapped up in a thick winter coat that makes him look younger than he is. An interesting mixture to cause tingles.

“I can show you where the conference is taking place,” TK offers, ”but it doesn't really start until tomorrow. You're early.”

“Like to be prepared,” Buck replies.

“Okay,” says TK without thinking, ”how about a coffee then? You look like you're not used to the cold.”

“Oh, you can say that again! I’d love to, really. Are we gonna meet your boyfriend?”

TK’s features are about to slip, but he get’s a hold of his face and his demeanor. It's good to say it aloud, like a plaster to tear off a wound, quickly.

“We broke up.”

Which is the reason he's here, but he doesn't say. His father practically beat him onto the plane, figuratively speaking, for fear he’d hurt himself. It wouldn't be the first time, and TK can't say that he didn't feel like it. He completely ruined things with Carlos, and if that wasn't a reason to start taking pills again, what was? But his father went full Captain mode, distracting him with trifles for month, up to forcing to accompany him to New York. Somehow, it helped. He’s still thinking of Carlos, every day, his fingers hovering over the send-button of his phone several times. But he’s not taking anything, he’s not trying to jump of any high-rise, he’s not feeling like throwing himself under a bus. He’s way too numb for all of that.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Buck says, real compassion on his face.

It's a beautiful face, and he's a sweet guy full of emotions, and TK takes a decision.

It’s actually not that hard to get Buck into his hotel room, and he’s easy to kiss, lips soft and moist. What is surprising, though, is his confession.

“I've never done that before. With a man, I mean.”

He laughs, a little nervously, and TK blinks in confusion. He’s never had any trouble with his gaydar, and the mere fact that Buck lets himself be kissed (and kisses back with little restraint) indicate that he wasn't wrong this time either. TK just isn't quite sure that he's in the mood for an involuntary outing, a sloppy first time, a baby gay.

“Well, I've... kissed a lot, of course,” Buck continues, clearly nervous, which strangely makes him even more attractive. “I was a sex addict. Think it's only fair that I tell you that, just in case it turns you off.”

That man is so confusing, TK is mesmerized.

“Subliminally bi,” he mumbles in fascination as he nibbles on Buck's jugular like some kind of vampire. Somehow, he is, isn’t he? “Tell you what, this is a first for me, too. But I promise, you'll love it.”

He’s put on his seductive tone, it’s never missed its target before. He needs to stop thinking about himself like that, he’s not a predator, and Buck is a grown man who decides for himself. Now, he's apparently decided he's not quite as straight as he thought he was, and what's wrong with TK helping him a little on his journey?

They’re not even fully inside the room when he peels them both out of their winter clothes. Bit by bit, slowly, because it's worth it; a well-trained body is hidden under these layers. Buck is a sight for sore eyes. TK has no idea what it actually means to be a sex addict and how to overcome such an addiction, but obviously not through abstinence, because Buck doesn't seem shy at all. He leans into TK's touch as if he's waited for it, waited to be touched like this. TK traces these strong shoulders, peppering his body with kisses; he's stroking muscles and kneading skin and he likes it. It might just be a distraction, but it works. His shrink would probably have to say a word or two about sex as a coping mechanism, but he’s trying not to focus on that.

Various ways to be addicted, TK knows that well enough. An addict is always looking for the kick, and it’s always a fleeting sensation. Right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now, he’s savoring immaculate skin, a well-groomed body. Yes, Buck is easy to kiss, and he's not shy. After a while, he starts exploring TK's body for his part. His touch is like the wildfire they fought together, unpredictable and hot. It’s obvious that he has touched many women, that he knows exactly what works for them and not so much what works for a man. But he is also a quick learner who pays attention to the smallest signals. TK didn't even realize how much he missed those touches, and if he wasn't already on fire, he'd be embarrassed by his little noises.

Right now, he decides not to bother. Their kisses get wilder, more eager, and damn, Buck is a good kisser. His hard-on is already pressing against TK's thighs as they fall onto the bed, entangled. They're wearing ridiculously little clothing for a December day in New York City now, but the hotel room is warm, and Buck's and TK's skin is even warmer. TK takes his time, but when the last sheath falls and he holds Buck's cock in his hand, Buck lets out the sweetest sounds, and his mind switches off.

It takes a bit of time and costs him one of his best lube condoms, but if he didn't take them for such a purpose, why take them at all? He conducts Buck, but it’s clear he makes it easy for him. Buck loses nothing but his innocence in dealing with men, and TK thinks that hardly counts, after all, he's the one who's lowering himself here. In the truest sense of the word. At the same time, he towers over the handsome guy from California, setting the tone, the pace. His flushed cheeks are adorable, just like this irritating birthmark on his brow. TK leans in to plant a kiss right there, and when he feels Buck's hands on his butt, he knows that all the assets are there to make him forget for the first time in a long time.

We’re two addicts falling off the wagon, he thinks as it’s Buck’s time to set the rhythm, and he does it well. TK doesn't quite realize whether it's just sex that Buck is longing for. He seems like someone who’s desperate to please, who needs reassurance that he's doing everything right, and TK can give that to him, why not? He praises him, tells him how well he is doing, how good he feels.

"You're a natural," he whispers, and it's not a lie.

This feels good. It's a quick fuck in his hotel room, and it still feels good. There’s nothing to it, no revelation, no deep feelings. No guilty conscience when Buck's eyes light up at his praise, just encouragement, obviously, because his thrusts become more violent. It’s all TK needs right now. Finally, his mind shuts off, and he holds onto Buck’s shoulders as he’s reaching his one moment of relief in months. This serotonin won't last long, he knows that, but it doesn't matter. He only wants to live in the here and now, not in the past and certainly not in the future.

Afterwards, as they lie next to each other, out of breath, eyes veiled, TK can't help but say, “Don't fall in love with me, California.”

“Why not?” asks Buck with undisguised curiosity and... much more in his voice, more that TK doesn't want to know about.

“’Cause I’m not worth it,” he says, “because I’m an addict, too.”

For the first time in months, he’s just not sure what he’s addicted to anymore.

[contreparry]

Happy DADWC Friday! How about ❝ i don’t feel like a whole person without you anymore. i don’t fucking care if anyone else would say about that. you’re part of who i am now. the most important piece of me. ❞ from your Yearning prompts for whichever characters inspire you/strike your fancy.

Here’s some Zevran/Surana from the corporate!espionage AU for @dadrunkwriting !

He hadn’t realized that there was a live band at the bar tonight.

Bran usually worked on Friday evenings. That was just the way of things- there was either something at the Warden that needed sorting, or something at the university, and even if he had a free night he tended to like to stay in and rest. But inventory was all caught up on at the shop, his advisor encouraged him to take the weekend off so he could come in refreshed Monday morning, and Alistair insisted that he come out with their friends- and even told him to invite Zevran if the man was free. The more the merrier, Alistair declared, and so Bran texted Zevran about his evening plans and Alistair's invitation, put a leash and harness on Barkspawn, and walked over to the bar a few blocks down to join the others for an evening of fun.

But maybe he had miscalculated about the fun?

He didn't dislike live music. Sure, the band might not be his taste, but the singer (an older Dwarven woman with short-cropped hair and a bright smile) was good. She kept things moving, switching between Antivan and Ferelden as she announced songs and bantered with the crowd while also adjusting the balance of the sound ("Angelo, more horn, Angelo!"). It was just that live music tended to draw crowds, and those crowds wanted to dance, and Bran...

Bran didn't dance. Far too self-conscious to even consider it. He sat back at a far table outside, the setting sun's heat sinking into his black cotton t-shirt like butter into hot bread, and he sipped at his beer. He watched the dancers (envied their ease with themselves and their surroundings) and watched his friends.

Leliana had brought her friend Josephine with her, and they danced to every song. Josephine's bright yellow skirt blossomed like a flower whenever she turned, and Leliana took every opportunity to twirl Josephine about. They switched partners often, dancing with whoever they came across, but they always managed to find each other in the end.

Morrigan was at the bar with Alistair with a sketchbook laid out on the bartop and a pencil in her hand. They were arguing- to be more accurate, Morrigan was telling Alistair something, and Alistair kept shaking his head. There was something to his exaggerated movements that suggested that he was playing some sort of joke, or perhaps egging Morrigan on. Barkspawn had planted himself firmly at Alistair's side, mournfully eyeing the plate of cheesy fries Alistair bought from one of the food trucks parked nearby.

Bran was surprised to see Sten at the bar- the man hadn't expressed any interest in relaxation or free time, but he had made himself comfortable at a table with a book and a large, brightly colored slush drink with a tiny cocktail umbrella perched atop it. Bran waved at him and, after a moment, Sten raised his hand and waved back before returning to his book. Oghren's presence wasn't a surprise, but beyond a curt nod and a raised glass, Oghren seemed content to drink his fill, pay his tab, and leave without socializing.

Bran thought he spied Velanna and Sigrun in the crowd of dancers, but it was so crowded that he couldn't make sense of where the bodies ended and began. Sometimes he caught sight of pale blonde hair or a tattooed face, and then it all disappeared once more in the blur of colors and bodies.

There was no Zevran, though, and Bran tried to bury his disappointment with his practical knowledge. Zevran was in Kirkwall visiting a friend (Isabela, the beautiful woman from some of Zevran's pictures) was dealing with some sort of crisis, and he went to check on her. Just a little thing, my darling, nothing to truly fret over- or so Zevran assured him. But Isabela was his dearest friend- his only friend for a long time, if Bran read between the lines correctly- so when Zevran heard a whisper of trouble he was off to assist her. It was rather sweet of him, even if it meant that Bran was going to spend the night drinking by himself because Zevran’s ferry back to Amaranthine was delayed. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to describe himself as a 'home base,' for he had Leliana's jacket, Josephine's purse, Alistair's backpack, and Morrigan's sunglasses piled up at the table beside him. Ha. Now that was a thought.

Sten had the right idea. He ought to have brought a book to pass the time. But instead Bran found his thoughts drifting back to Zevran. He'd asked Zevran to check in on Anders while he was in Kirkwall, seeing as he'd be stuck there for at least another day due to bad weather. Anders was awful at keeping in touch at the best of times, but he was apparently so swamped with work and adjusting to life in the Free Marches that he neglected to even pick up his last paycheck at the Warden. Bran had half a mind to get Nathaniel to figure out the logistical nightmare of getting Anders his money- the man was like a hunting dog when he had a job to do- but Bran figured that he was generally responsible for payroll whenever Duncan was out, so he ought to do it himself. If only Anders would actually answer his phone!

"Ah, there you are, mi amore! I hope you will forgive my tardiness," Zevran whispered in his ear. A tendril of hair brushed against his cheek, followed by a swift peck from a smiling mouth. Bran jolted upright, but Zevran simply caught him, plastering himself to his back and winding his arms around him until he was enclosed in a pair of arms.

"I was certain you wouldn't make it. Something about a weather delay?" Bran exclaimed. He tilted back until his head was cradled in the niche between Zevran's shoulder and neck. Only a few months ago he would have flinched at the thought of cuddling in public. He would have been too self-conscious to even consider the thought, truth be told. But now- now he was simply happy that Zevran was here.

"Choppy seas, but they cleared out by the afternoon and we crossed," Zevran said cheerfully. "The marvels of modern technology. Come, enough brooding in the corner. Dance with me."

It was an order that Bran would obey, even if somewhat reluctantly. Zevran pulled him upright and held his hand as they navigated around tables and patrons. Bran nodded at Alistair when they walked past the bar, and he waved before returning to his intense conversation with Morrigan.

"I can't dance, you know," Bran said as Zevran turned towards him. "No rhythm." Perhaps that wasn't true. It was an untested theory, one that Bran never attempted to look into. At least, not until now. Zevran laughed at his mumbled protest and took his hand.

"We'll see," Zevran promised, and then he swept Bran off his feet. All Bran could see were flashes of color out of the corners of his eyes and Zevran's bright, sharp grin, and all he could hear was the band- and Bran might have lost all sense of direction if it weren't for Zevran's hand on his back. But Zevran made everything make sense. He made everything easy, and as they swept and twirled through the crowd Bran felt himself grin like a fool. It really was that easy, wasn't it?

“You have some sense of rhythm to you after all,” Zevran teased. His breath was warm on his cheek, and Bran nearly melted into his embrace. But instead he let Zevran twirl him out and back into his hold, until his hand rested along Zevran’s shoulder and Zevran kept his own hand on the small of his back. It felt as if it was burning a hole through his shirt.

“Me? You’re doing the hard work,” Bran replied.

“But you’re a fast learner. Look, you already know where to place your feet!” Zevran insisted, but when Bran tried to look down to see what his feet were doing Zevran pulled him closer until they were chest to chest and Bran felt the man's heart beating against his own.

"No, don't look," Zevran said with a laugh, and his breath ruffled Bran's hair. "Feel, don't look!" And because there were so many lights, because Zevran was so close with his golden hair and bright smile, because there was so much to look at- Bran closed his eyes. And dancing felt easier when he didn't have to see, when all he had to do was feel the rhythm of the drums and Zevran's heartbeat. It it was all so easy, when it never had been before. What were the changed variables? The live band, his friends, Zevran? Zevran, definitely Zevran. He wouldn't have left his table if not for Zevran, and now here he was! And it all felt so easy, so right!

He'd never be able to go back to how things used to be, would he? Now that he could dance, now that he knew how exhilarating the rush could be, how could he ever go back to sitting in a corner all night every night? Dancing might even become something like a hobby! Or maybe it was merely Zevran's expert lead and presence that made Bran think along these lines.

"You're having deep thoughts, mi amor," Zevran murmured in his ear. "Has dancing stolen your sharp tongue from you?"

I don’t feel like a whole person without you anymore, Bran thought wildly as he opened his eyes and met Zevran's gaze. I don’t fucking care what anyone else would say about that. You are part of who I am now. The most important piece of me.

"When I catch my breath I'll find a suitable sharp-tongued remark for you," Bran said instead, horrified by the absolute certainty that the thoughts he had, the thoughts he almost spoke aloud, held. He must not think like that- all grim determination and wild romantic declarations. That was... volatile. Unsafe. And he had to be careful, or else... or else...

Zevran leaned in close and kissed him- soft and sweet and barely more than a brush of his lips against Bran's- and smiled wickedly before swiftly turning them and spinning Bran under his arm.

"Then I'll keep you from catching your breath," Zevran declared, and Bran felt as if he might melt into a puddle in Zevran's arms.

[uozlulu]

Fic. IwtV AMC. Dream a Memory of Me. PG-13. Armand/Daniel

Character(s)/Relationship(s) Armand, Daniel, Lestat, Louis; Armand/Daniel, Armand/Louis, Armand/Louis/Daniel, Daniel/his unnamed second wife, Louis/Daniel, Louis/Lestat (some pairings are background pairings (past, mentioned, canonically present, etc…)). The main pairing and focus of the fic is Armand/Daniel. Genre Drama/Horror/Romance/Supernatural/Vampire Rating PG-13 Word Count 9,197 Disclaimer As this is fanfiction, I do not hold copyright to the source material(s) nor do I claim that I do. This is for free entertainment purposes only. Summary When Armand made Daniel forget their relationship decades ago, Daniel’s mind created a first wife to make sense of the memory loss. Now in Dubai, Daniel finds what he remembered from that time in his life distorting until he can no longer remember Alice but can only remember Armand during his years full of addiction. As the interview continues, Daniel tries to make sense of it all. Warning(s) spoilers up through season 1 episode 7, spoilers from the book Interview with the Vampire that will appear in season 2, inspiration drawn from spoilers for The Queen of the Damned, possibly other Vampire Chronicles spoilers, set during the COVID-19 pandemic, consensual blood drinking, addiction, food consumption, blood-fueled eating disorder, talking about death, discussion of murder, violence, fire, medication, language, chronic illness, toxic relationships, mention of potential suicidal behavior but nobody is actively suicidal, self-mutilation for blood drinking purposes Notes Saw a post on Tumblr that hypothesized that there was no Alice and that Daniel had a relationship with Armand instead, his mind compensating for his memory loss of that relationship by filling in the gaps with a fictional first wife. So, this fic is kind of an exploration of Daniel regaining some semblance of his actual memories as dreams. I tried to be clear with my transitions from memory to the present day. The ~ marks changes between groupings of memories and present day scenes.

This fic is my own odyssey of recollection since I read IwtV about twenty years ago, have since read synopsis for all the other books, listened to my friends obsess over the series since middle school, and absorbed a lot of information by being fandom adjacent for the last over twenty years online and fandom present for the TV show. So that, along with my Swiss cheesy memory, all kind of mixed together in my brain and out came this fic. Since IwtV AMC is an AU already, I figured it’s free real estate and went for it (also my brain wouldn’t shut up about the plot bunny).

AO3 link

Dream a Memory of Me      

Snow flurries spit in the air. Slush froze at their feet. Cold fingers slid along Daniel’s face, following contours that no longer existed. A shadowed figure lit from above surrounded and surrounded by Christmas lights from behind spoke in a quiet, resonate voice, “When you are dying, I will return.”

Daniel’s eyes opened. He lay in bed in his room in Dubai, the dream already slipping from his mind. His phone said it was well past two in the morning in New York, which made it almost noon in Dubai. This was the second time he woke since falling asleep shortly after dawn local time. He would probably sleep and wake a few more times before giving up on sleep entirely near sunset.

His mind wanted to cling to its dream, whatever it was. Alice? No. Yes. The shadowy figure was as tall as Alice was and ran their fingers along the side of his face like she did, careful of the sharp fingernails. Their hair was wavy. Their voice…

Daniel could not remember what Alice sounded like. He remembered the lights strung above them at the café in Paris where they had that dessert the vampires gave him early into the present interview. He attended university dance recitals at Alice’s side as they watched the student she patronized outdo his classmates. There were kitchen gadgets on almost every spare space of countertop. There were the movie cameras with their reels, art, theater, blood….

Daniel’s eyes closed. Exhaustion claimed him just as his brain questioned why there would be blood, pungent, fresh, and plentiful.

As always, Daniel woke a few more times before resigning himself to “morning” near sunset and setting about his day. Once clean and clothed, he found his medicine waiting for him on a saucer beside a glass of water on a tray. He reluctantly took it. After that would come breakfast while sitting across from a vampire who could not pick a healthy partner to save his death. Daniel wondered what animal he would watch Louis devour tonight.

Daniel gathered his things for the interview and placed them in his laptop bag. The color of his room changed and drew his attention to the sunset. Intense orange and pale yellow spread across the sky and sparkled off the buildings and the Persian Gulf.

For a moment, his mind recalled a similar sky spread out across Greenwich Village decades ago. He grasped Alice’s cold hands and drew their hands close to him until her fingers almost warmed. Her hair tickled his face and she pressed her lips to his skin where his jaw met his neck. Much like his dream, she was in shadow and had only eyes for a face.

Daniel blinked and his mind returned to the bedroom in Dubai. The color began to fade from the sky.

“You are my mortal lover,” a phantom voice seemingly whispered in his ear.

Daniel looked around but there was no sign of anyone else. It did not sound like it did when Armand or Louis communicated with him in his mind either. He sighed silently, shouldered his laptop bag, and left the bedroom to start the next session.

~

The apartment was dingy and yellowed wallpaper started to peel from the walls. With a hiss of warning, the best of the 1970’s jewel tones filled the room punctuated by shrieks. Sharp nails sunk into Daniel’s skin. As fast as the pain erupted, the nails were gone as someone else threw themselves between Daniel and his adversary. Hissing and shrieking continued. Furniture upended. A water pitcher shattered on the floor. Someone kicked Daniel so hard that his back hit the door.

“Go!” a voice sounded Daniel’s head clearer than any dream. “Leave!”

Daniel ran without destination weaving his way through the alleys of San Francisco until he could no longer breathe. He rested his hands on his knees, bowed his head, and gasped for air. Blood dried on his arms from the claw marks. Sweat dripped from his face. He reached into his pockets. He did not have the energy to curse aloud. He no longer had his tape recorder.

Two feet gently landed beside him with barely any noise. Daniel looked up at Armand and held his gaze.

“Come with me,” Armand said.

“Give me my tape,” Daniel said.

“Louis has the tape,” Armand said. Cold fingers grasped Daniel’s wrist and urged him to follow, slipping away once Daniel obeyed. “He broke free and fled. He must not find you.”

They merged into a crowd of youths exploring the city’s nightlife. Daniel frowned. “But –”

“Louie will kill you if he finds you,” Armand said. “He denies his nature until he can no longer contain it. I do what I can to stop him, but he’s a vampire and he must feed properly. Someone will die tonight. Don’t volunteer.”

They approached a condominium complex that was much nicer than the apartment complex where the interview went sideways. Daniel wiped the sweat from his face. “Why not let him eat me?”

Armand paused before they reached the door. “Why let him eat you?”

“Answering a question with a question is a dick move,” Daniel said. He followed Armand inside.

The door closed and Daniel’s eyes opened. He was in the sitting room of the penthouse in Dubai. Once again, he fell asleep during a lull in the present interview. This was why he retired soon after his Parkinson’s medication increased the second time. He rubbed his face and sighed. Another dream that felt more like a memory. His eyebrows furrowed together. The condominium complex was more familiar to him than the events in the dream.

A cup and saucer clinked gently when they touched the table in front of Daniel. He raised his head and met Armand’s gaze before scanning the rest of the room. There was no sign of anyone else.

“Louis is resting. Recalling Paris is always stressful,” Armand said.

“Hard to talk about the death of your child and your vampire offspring with their killer always lurking nearby,” Daniel murmured. He accepted the tea.

“Vampires must think of their preservation. Even our kind need laws. Louis knows my reasoning and still chose to become my lover,” Armand said.

“Louis sees a pair of beautiful eyes and loses all reason.” Daniel set the tea down. “A man who flung him from a building and a man who can’t let him answer questions in peace.” Daniel shook his head. “He can really pick them.”

“I could give you both peace,” Armand remained standing, “but as Louis said earlier, he hasn’t killed in twenty years. Yes, he’s drunk human blood from willing participants, but that does not satiate our hunger entirely. You don’t want to become his next proper meal.”

“You said you wouldn’t save my life this time. I would think it wouldn’t matter what I become.” Daniel did not look away.

“I won’t save your life.” Armand leaned forward and placed a cold hand on Daniel’s tremoring hand. He lowered his voice until it existed only in the space between them, barely a whisper against Daniel’s ear. “You are going to die. I am going to save your death.”

Daniel shivered, but did not move away. “And if I refuse?”

“Will you refuse?” Armand kept his hand firmly on Daniel’s hand despite Daniel’s tremors.

“Answering a question with a question…” Daniel’s voice trailed as his brain distracted his speech by trying to recall the dream he had earlier.

“‘…is a dick move,’ Armand finished. After a beat, he asked as Daniel might repeat an interview question, “Will you refuse?”

“I want my real memories back,” Daniel said. “Give them to me. Whatever prank you’re pulling, I want no part of it.”

Armand leaned even closer. His breath was cool against Daniel’s skin. “You have them,” he let go of Daniel’s hand and traced the side of his face, learning the new contour, “and now you must forget the filler.”

Daniel frowned. Before he could speak, Armand’s fingers stilled and his thumb rested against the pulse point in Daniel’s neck. Daniel swallowed. He searched Armand’s eyes and then leaned away, freeing himself from Armand’s hand. His back hit the sofa cushion behind him.

Armand retracted his hand and straightened his posture. “When you first arrived, I removed the mental block I placed upon you decades ago. It’s up to your brain to do the rest.”

“Fantastic,” Daniel murmured. “Like asking a Model T to run Tesla software.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Armand said. “You’re already starting to question ‘Alice,’ aren’t you?”

Daniel did not confirm or deny it. He eyed Armand and then finished his tea. He rose from the sofa slowly. “I spent years with her. I should know what she looked like, what she sounded like.”

“‘Her,’” Armand repeated in a tone that sounded half-bemused. He picked up the teacup and saucer. “Did you leave ‘her’ or did ‘she’ leave you?”

Daniel eyed him. “Don’t you have rats to microwave?”

Armand snorted. He headed back to the kitchen. At the doorway, he turned and looked back at Daniel. “That ‘Buick’ you mentioned. It had a red interior.” He disappeared from sight.

Daniel rolled his eyes. He rubbed his face and retreated to his room. In all of his memories of that car, the interior was brown. Everything in his mind felt jumbled. He should have left like he considered doing after Louis and Armand revealed Armand’s identity days ago and the first supposed memory appeared.

~

Daniel’s eyes opened. Again, he was in Dubai. Again, he only slept a few hours before waking. He winced and sat up slowly. A sharp pain attacked the skin at the front of his ankle. It felt like a bite, but it was his nerves sending strange erroneous signals to his brain. He pressed on the affected skin, easing the sharpness until his nerve endings finally calmed.

Daniel breathed through his nose. His dream dissipated from his mind. He thought it was of Alice, but the more he tried to remember it, the less he remembered. It was the most he thought of her since writing his memoir soon after his Parkinson’s diagnosis.

The longer he tried to remember Alice’s face and voice, the more Daniel thought of Armand asking him if he was starting to question her. Daniel frowned and picked up his phone. He opened up an incognito browser window, typed “Alice,” and paused. Alice never took his name. He needed to remember her full name. His eyebrows drew together. He must have known it back then and likely heard it at their wedding. His gaze returned to the sunlight on the floor. When did they get married? Where did they get married? How did they get married?

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard. They got married earlier in their relationship around the time he started using drugs more than earlier experimentation. If he could remember which city, if he could remember what kind of wedding, then maybe the rest would follow. San Francisco. Paris. Greenwich Village….

An image formed in Daniel’s mind, taking the shape of a memory. The full moon shed light into a dark room. Linoleum designed to look like tile was cold under his bare feet. Cold lips explored Daniel’s neck. “You are my mortal lover,” a voice whispered in his ear. “I will bind you to me.”

Daniel shivered. “Shouldn’t you ask immortal lover first?”

The voice laughed, its owner shrouded in the darkness of the room and the uncertainty of memory. “We have an agreement and he’s working on himself right now. Does it bother you to have to share?”

Cold fingers slid along the skin at Daniel’s waist, sharp nails pricking the skin without piercing it. Daniel shook his head. “No.”

The hands slid away slowly from Daniel’s body. The figure stepped back, the moon illuminating them from behind. Bright eyes held Daniel’s gaze, glowing in the dark. Long nails sliced through the flesh at the figure’s wrist. Blood dripped onto the floor audibly.

Daniel’s heart quickened. The figure drew close and brought their wrist towards his face. Daniel’s fingers tentatively ran along the figure’s arm. “Do we say vows? Binding seems serious.”

“Vows…” the figure paused and then grinned. “Sounds dramatic. Alright.” They paused for a moment to think. “This blood shall be our bond. Wherever we go, whenever we part, we will be one with each other. You will always find me and I will always find you.”

Daniel licked his lips. He never gave a thought to his own wedding let alone vows in his life. After a moment, he said, “This blood is our bond, binding us with certainty. We’ll find each other in the dark and a cold eternity.”

Fangs glinted in the light. “Very poetic.”

Daniel snorted and then licked his lips. There was no hesitation. He brought the wrist to his mouth. He ran his tongue along the trails of blood. It had no flavor he could recall. The occasional clot burst in the mouth with the texture of a fragile berry. He drank until the blood stopped flowing and the wound clotted.

His mind spun and he slowly let go. He licked the blood from his lips, wiped it from his face, and licked it from his fingers. He offered his wrist to the figure.

The figure grasped Daniel’s hand and held it in their own, bringing it towards their cold chest. “It’s not your time yet. Not here. Not now. We are bound as any mortal can be to my kind.” The figure leaned forward, let go of Daniel’s hand, and took Daniel’s face in their cold fingers. They kissed Daniel despite the blood smeared across his face and mouth. Daniel’s fingers tangled in their hair. Both of their feet rose off the ground as the kiss deepened.

Daniel’s eyes opened. He was in Dubai. A few hours passed since he fell asleep. His phone lay on his blankets and buzzed against his knee. He glanced at the screen. An automated appointment scheduling email notification appeared and disappeared. Daniel sighed, turned off his phone, and placed it back in its charger.

The thought of only moonlight, blood dripping down his chin, and cold fingers on his skin returned to his mind. It did not feel like a dream. There was viscosity to the blood, texture to the linoleum, and goosebumps on his flesh in the dream. He tried to recall more of the dream and see the figure in the shadows, but he was too tired. He stared up at the ceiling. The memory slipped away and slowly sleep claimed him again.

~

The penthouse in Dubai glowed in candlelight and artificial light. Louis sat in his chair and Daniel on the sofa. Armand was not far away.

“…and that’s when I met you,” Louis said. “Your mind all but sang at the bar. You were full of life.” His lips quirked upwards and his eyes almost seemed to soften despite catching the light. “But that’s a topic we can begin tomorrow.”

‘“Were full of life,”’ Daniel thought with an internal snort. He glanced at his computer but left the recording running. The sun would rise soon.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Louis said. “You are still full of life.”

“Don’t read my mind,” Daniel said. “I’m just an old bastard turning to dust. We can’t stay the people we were.”

“I’m glad you didn’t stay the same.” Louis leaned forward and held Daniel’s gaze. “You might be turning to dust for now, but my offer is still there.”

Daniel’s eyes shifted to Armand standing towards the back of the room. Armand’s thumb moved along his opposite hand. His jaw was tense. Daniel’s eyes returned to Louis. “And if I refuse?”

“Then that is your choice,” Louis said. “Everyone should have that choice.”

Daniel studied Louis a long moment. “I want to finish this project as an outsider. If I became a vampire during the process, it would no longer be the piece it should be.” After the project wrapped, Daniel was not sure which choice he might make.

Louis’ smile seemed to grow. He rose from his chair, bid Daniel good morning, and headed to the doorway. He paused when he passed Armand. They stared at each other a long moment and then Louis disappeared.

Daniel slowly rose from the sofa. He gathered his things. “It bothers you whenever Louis offers me the ‘gift.’” He looked across the room at Armand. “Why?”

Armand slowly slid his hands apart and let them rest at his sides. “It’s not his to give.”

“There don’t seem to be rules to it,” Daniel said. “Unlike this place.” His eyes scanned the room. “The books out of reach, the sterile sand garden in a lively desert. Your constant presence monitoring his every word.” His gaze returned to Armand. “Rules and control.”

“He is free to say and do what he likes,” Armand said. “I am not here to monitor his words.”

“Then why are you here?” Daniel asked. “If not to monitor his story, if not to spare my life, then why? Certainly there are more interesting things on TV.”

“What do you think will happen when the rest of the vampire world discovers this interview?” Armand asked. “What do you think they’ll do when they learn how Louis was spared despite attempting to murder one of us, how he has spoken about us, and his connections? Even Lestat creating a beaming bisexual beacon of a rock star will not distract from the rumors this time.”

“So you do know about Lestat’s band and Louis doesn’t,” Daniel said.

“I know because I use my ears and my eyes,” Armand said. “Louis chooses to pull away from such things.”

Daniel eyed Armand. He did not truly buy that this was entirely Louis’ idea. He did not think Louis would be able to resist if he heard Lestat’s voice on the radio or reason it away. Daniel slowly closed the bag.

Armand ran his thumb along his opposite hand and then slowly parted his hands. “You only know two vampires, and the written diary of a third. You cannot judge all vampires. We must protect each other, which means we must also kill each other when threatened. Louis is weak by his own choice. When you publish this interview, it could end with his severed head.”

“So why let him do the interview at all?” Daniel asked. “Doesn’t this interview also threaten you?”

“I am old enough to know a large majority of mortals will see your piece as a fantastic tale that deserves a speculative fiction award,” Armand said. “Other vampires are not so wise. This interview is no threat to me.”

“‘Wise,’” Daniel repeated with a tiny snort. “If this is a suicide mission, you should let him tell the truth.” Daniel shouldered his computer bag. “Otherwise it’s not worth dying for.” He headed to his bedroom. His limbs felt heavy and exhaustion tugged him towards his bed as if tonight he might have uninterrupted sleep. Yet, as usual, sleep was sporadic and unfulfilling.

~

Every time Daniel woke, he could almost just feel blood drip down his chin and puddle in his mouth. His heart palpated wildly to the point he almost could not breathe. His bouts of wakefulness were longer and his bouts of sleep shorter. Everything ached. No sleeping position seemed right. He thought of blood like he used to think of LSD in the middle of the night in New York with barely enough blankets against the cold. Anything to escape being overtired and too awake.

He still could not remember Alice’s face or voice. He began to doubt her eyebrows were unique. He still could not remember if they bothered with a wedding ceremony or signed papers in a courthouse. He had no idea how to find proof she existed beyond his own memoir. He knew she loved the theater and movies. He knew she was always devising some new horrible concoction of foods because the combined color was pretty or disgusting. He knew they broke up in the kitchen. Daniel closed his eyes.

In his dream, Daniel’s hands shook but differently than they shook from Parkinson’s. His clothes barely protected against the wind and hung off his thin frame. His stomach rumbled but the scent of every restaurant he passed on the street turned it upside down. The briefcase strapped over his shoulder with the notes for his latest article slapped against his hipbone, but he ignored the pain. His pace quickened when he saw the condominium complex up ahead.

A doorman with the thickest moustache and brightest blue suit stopped Daniel before he could even reach the door. He would not let Daniel pass even after Daniel showed him his driver’s license that had this very address printed across it.

Abruptly the door opened and a voice spoke, “You remember Daniel, don’t you? He lives with me. He’s a freelancer. He’s been abroad with a story.”

The doorman eyed Daniel but reluctantly let him enter the building. Daniel’s stomach rumbled loudly. He followed a shadowy figure up the dimly lit stairs. He wiped saliva from his mouth. He could not take his eyes off the figure’s skin especially their wrists.

“When did you last eat?” the figure asked.

“You know when,” Daniel almost growled. His stomach rumbled again.

“You’re a mortal. You cannot survive on my blood alone.” The figure let them into a unit near the top of the building. “You were gone for a month. You must have eaten something.”

“I drank coconut water,” Daniel said, “nothing else smelled or tasted right.”

The figure paused. Dark eyes regarded Daniel. “I see.” The figure moved deeper into the apartment.

Daniel set his bag down, kicked off his shoes, and followed them to the kitchen. The latest kitchenware technology lined the counter space.

“Sit,” the figure said.

“Feed me,” Daniel growled.

“I will. Sit.”

When Daniel sat on a nearby chair, the figure rummaged through the fridge. It ripped cabbage, tomato, and carrots into pieces with its claw-like fingernails. It tossed them all into a mixing bowl that was much too large for its contents. The figure found a fork and set the salad on the small table beside Daniel.

Daniel stared at the salad a long moment. His gaze slowly moved towards the figure. “Are you fucking serious?”

The figure reached out and grasped Daniel’s shirt collar, their grip tight. They moved the collar away from Daniel’s chest, exposing an ample gap. “I remember when this shirt clung to you.”

“I lost weight,” Daniel said. “It happens.”

The figure let go of Daniel’s shirt and turned back to the fridge. “I should feed you protein too. Do you think you would eat a cat? It’s meatier than usual. I think someone fed it well.”

“I would eat blood,” Daniel said. “You bound me to this. Feed me.”

The figure eyed him. They pushed dark wavy hair from their eyes with a dramatic gesture. “First it was ‘Turn me! Turn me! Turn me!’ and now it’s ‘Feed me! Feed me! Feed me!’ You’re only mortal I’ve ever bound. I thought it would keep you at my side not at my veins!”

“Then feed me from your side!” Daniel lunged for the figure. The figure lifted into the air. Daniel lunged repeatedly, but the figure was always out of reach. Daniel crashed into the table, knocking it over and the salad scattered across the floor.

“Pathetic,” the figure hissed. “This isn’t working.” Their feet gently landed on the floor and they knelt at Daniel’s side. “I told you if you bored me I would kill you, but a mortal death would be too kind and your blood would taste awful.”

Pain ripped into Daniel’s wrist and his blood oozed down his arm and gathered in drops on the floor. Daniel cried out.

The figure gathered Daniel’s blood on their fingers and brought it to their mouth. “I release you from our binding.” They gathered more of Daniel’s blood on their fingers and fed it to Daniel. “You will stop seeking me out. This blood is a symbol of a new pact. You are no longer bound to me.”

Daniel desperately licked his blood from the figure’s fingers. It tasted terrible and did not quell his hunger.

“I will leave you here.” The figure stood.  

Daniel grasped their pants leg with his free hand. “….Armand…” he hissed.

Armand looked down at him no longer in shadow. “Live a long life, Daniel.” He lifted himself to the air just out of reach and left the kitchen. The door closed soon after.

Daniel could barely move from the floor. He let out a frustrated growl and shut his eyes. The hunger gnawed at him until he felt hollow. He drank his own blood and shouted in anger.

When Daniel’s eyes opened, the sunset was at its peak and his room and Dubai glowed red. Daniel slowly left the bed and approached the windows. His mind spun. Images flooded him, each one barely registering before the next took its place. Armand looking down at him in that kitchen full of disgust. Armand’s small smile whenever Daniel would take his hands to warm them with his own. Armand leaning forward while watching the dancer he patronized spin across the stage as the contemporary music droned. Armand sitting under strings of lights at a Paris café telling Daniel how awful the dessert tasted. Armand wasting food and destroying kitchen equipment with animals while talking excitedly about the artistry of his colorful messes. Armand filming short artsy films with excitement and dramatic flair. Armand leaning closer in a moonlit apartment, offering his dripping wrist while Daniel composed vows on the spot.

Daniel leaned against a window. His heart pounded in his ears. His legs weakened. He slowly sat on the floor without much warning. He bowed his head and put his hands over his ears when a memory of Louis from San Francisco sprang forth, gouging Daniel’s arms with his long nails. Daniel took deep breaths, but they felt more like gasps. His heart would not calm. The memories would not stop. He shut his eyes as tight as he could.

Slowly Armand’s face faded from Daniel’s mind until there was nothing. Little memories untouched by vampirism began to appear. Eating his first real meal after breaking up with Armand in a dirty McDonalds while the woman who would become who he thought of as his second wife closed up for the night. Sharing a car with her to and from an addiction recovery program while she talked about her struggle with opiates. Rain lashing on their wedding day two years later, their friends from the recovery program the only people in attendance. Holding his daughters as newborns years apart, finding how different babies could be even so tiny. His heart rate slowed and when he opened his eyes, the hotel room in Dubai was dark except for the glow of Armand’s iPad and a light in nearby room. Voices whispered. Daniel slowly began to understand the words.

“I read that it has to be adjusted periodically,” Louis said, “and eventually it will stop working. If it even was the medicine that caused this.” He stood across from the foot of the bed where Armand sat with his iPad lay on his lap, the brightness turned all the way down.

“We can’t rule the medicine out. We can’t trust the hospitals either,” Armand said.  

“We might not have to,” Louis said. “We can assess things when he wakes. The doctor will be here soon. They’ll know what to do.”

Daniel slowly sat up. “I’m awake.” He rubbed his face and then flexed his fingers to ease the tremors. “What time is it?”

“Half past eleven,” Louis said. “How do you feel?”

Daniel’s gaze moved from Louis to Armand and back to Louis. “As normal as someone can when two vampires greet them in their bedroom.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Louis asked.

“I woke up, it was sunset. I woke up again, and it’s now,” Daniel said. “I feel like I’ve been microwaved.” He slowly moved his legs to the side of the bed.

“You collapsed,” Louis said. “Armand found you. You should stay in bed until the doctor arrives. We will continue the interview tomorrow.”

“I’m not that far gone,” Daniel said. He stood slowly, keeping one hand to the wall just in case his legs weakened again, but this time they did not. His head did not feel too full. His heart remained calm. He walked to his suitcase and picked out clothes for the night. He looked at the vampires watching him. “I didn’t break anything. I’m not dizzy. I’m going to get dressed and do my job.” He escaped to the bathroom.

Daniel could hear quiet discussion happening once he closed the door. He did not lock it just in case he did fall again, but he did not fall. When he left the bathroom, his brain still felt fried but his legs and heart felt like they always did in the last decade. The light in his room was on and the tray that always appeared after he got ready for the night sat in its spot with his medication and glass of water. The doctor who helped monitor his condition in Dubai waited for him. Daniel submitted to the exam.

~

The doctor assessed that Daniel was exhausted and agreed with Louis that Daniel should rest. It was frustrating, but provided an opportunity to review notes and evaluate strategy for upcoming interview sessions. The city lights glowed outside the windows in the sitting room and periodically drew Daniel’s gaze. Feeling eyes on him, Daniel found Armand watching him from the doorway. Daniel eyed him. “Gotten your fill screwing around with my memories yet?”

Armand set tea down in front of Daniel along with several ghraybeh cookies placed on a small china dessert plate. “I told you, I’ve removed my manipulations. It’s up to your own mind for what happens next.”

Daniel took a cookie. It had an almond placed in its center. It was delicious. “I think it’s more than that. Every memory I have that should be Alice, is now of you. So either this is a prank in which you replace my memories of her with bullshit or one of your experiments where you find out what happens when you fabricate a whole person, let them exist for over forty years, and then take the fake person away to see what happens.” Daniel sipped his tea. “Either way, it pisses me off. I’m not here to be one of your rats.”

“Or I took your memories of what happens and now gave them back.” Armand remained standing. “Have you figured out how we broke up?”

“You left me bleeding on the kitchen floor,” Daniel said.

“That was the first time,” Armand said, “but I miscalculated how to stop the hunger.”

“You shouldn’t have been feeding me your blood in the first place.” Daniel took another cookie.

“You kept begging me to turn you. I thought this would be a compromise.” Armand sighed inaudibly. “But it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Well I’m glad both of us found the monkey paw in that then,” Daniel quipped. He finished the snack. His shoulders sagged more than he would have liked. He felt more unrested than usual despite waking much later than any other interview day. “And someone I’m supposed to believe you want to turn me now?”

Armand leaned on the table so their eyes would be level. “Why wouldn’t I? What other vampire can choose such a person? You know our secrets. You no longer think like a child. You have the fascination to want to turn but also the wisdom almost to resist.”

Daniel met his gaze. “I’m wrinkled and flabby. I don’t put up with bullshit. You won’t be able to keep me in this zoo of a penthouse.”

Armand reached out, running his fingers through Daniel’s hair and curling them at his ear. Armand leaned closer until his breath felt cold against Daniel’s neck. “If that bothered me, I would have plucked you sooner.”

Armand kissed Daniel right where his jaw met his neck, letting his lips linger a moment. Daniel shivered. He swallowed.

Armand stopped leaning on the table, picked up the tray of used china, and slipped from the room. Daniel watched him, his gaze lingering on the doorway even after Armand left.

~

Snow covered the mall parking lot. Christmas lights shone from any tree in sight. The car ran in the parking spot to keep warm. Luckily, the gas crisis was over. Daniel glanced at the rear view mirror. His daughter slept soundly where she lay on the backseat hugging a well-worn bear. His pregnant wife would get off work soon and they would all head home and out of the cold.

Last minute shoppers headed to their cars. Daniel idly watched them, but there was nothing interesting about any of them until one caught his attention. Daniel’s heartbeat immediately increased. Sweat gathered on his palms. His stomach rumbled even though he ate dinner two hours ago. He did not blink. He did not think. He left the car running and rushed out into the slush and snow, barely remembering to shut the door.

“Armand!” the almost whispered shout seemed to echo despite the snow and slush.

Armand had a large box in a bag in his hand. The snow clung to his hair as flurries spit from the sky. His attention turned towards Daniel.

Daniel rushed forward. “I need you…” his voice trailed. He glanced back over his shoulder. The car was still running with all the doors closed. The driver’s door was unlocked. He could not leave his daughter like that. His attention returned to Armand. His stomach rumbled audibly again. Sweat gathered at his brow. His heart pounded in his ears. His arms weakened. Thoughts of blood flooded his mind. He glanced back over his shoulder and then back at Armand. His body seemed to twitch. His mind ground to an almost audible halt.

Armand approached slowly. He took Daniel’s arm and guided him back to the car, peering inside. “Adorable,” he said with the same genuine voice he used when he spoke to the children in costumes on Halloween.

Daniel found his voice. “She’s mine.” He swallowed. “There’s another on the way.” His eyes did not move from Armand.

Armand’s attention returned to Daniel. He let go of Daniel’s arm and set his bag on top of the car instead of in the snow and slush at their feet. He caressed the side of Daniel’s face. The parking lot light made his hair glow. Christmas lights shone behind him. “I thought I could undo our blood bond, but I cannot. However, I can hide it.” His fingers slid to the back of Daniel’s neck, his grip firm. “When you are dying, I will return and give you what you truly want, but for now, I’ll take your memory, your hunger, your desire.” He leaned down and kissed Daniel. There was no nipping and no blood. The hand at Daniel’s neck kept Daniel still. When Armand broke the kiss, he stepped back. “Goodbye for now, Daniel.”

Daniel gasped for breath and fell forward into waiting arms. His eyes closed and he was only vaguely aware of Armand guiding him into the driver’s seat of his car and shutting the car door soundly.

When Daniel’s eyes opened, he was in his room in Dubai. He sat up slowly and fumbled with his phone. It was earlier than he might normally give up on sleeping. A notification flashed on screen. It was an email from his youngest daughter. Daniel held his breath a moment and then opened the app and the email.

“Dad,

“One of the other professors asked after you today. I’ve been so busy converting my lesson plans that I haven’t been keeping up on the news. He said you’re in Dubai.

“How is Dubai? Can you tell me why you’re there? Are you well? I want to hear it from you and not the news.”  

Daniel sighed and stared out the windows. The phone slipped from his fingers and the screen eventually went to sleep. He could reply later on his laptop. He watched the sky a long moment. His mind was full but settled. His heart was calm. He had no desire to go back to sleep. He did not know if he wanted to stay.

Daniel slowly got out of bed and got ready for the night. Like the night after he found out “Rashid” was Armand, Daniel changed into clothes he could wear to the airport or the interview. He packed his bags while ignoring the medicine bottles, letting the movements ease the tremors in his hands. He could head to the airport and board the first flight he could find away from here. He was almost to the end of the interview and could stay to finish it. He could get away from Armand and let his memories return to normal if possible. It might not matter if these really were his true memories. He could tell the vampires to go fuck themselves again. He could finish his contract and leave his daughters with a financial cushion when the world was on the brink of a potential economic depression. He slowly closed his bag. He stared out the windows at the start of the sunset.

He could not remember what Armand’s blood tasted like, which made it all feel like dreams. He almost wanted to know, but he did not want to end up rock bottom on a kitchen floor ever again. He could feel the texture of it in his mouth. He swallowed and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind. The feeling of eyes on him drew Daniel’s attention to the doorway.

Armand entered the room with the morning tray. He placed it where it belonged and placed pills from the medicine bottles nearby on the saucer so they did not obscure the painting in the center. “If you leave, don’t forget your medicine.”

“As if you’d let me leave,” Daniel said.

“You are always free to leave.” Armand stepped back so Daniel could access the tray. “But do you really want to leave?”

“Is Louis also always free to leave?” Daniel asked. He approached the tray but ignored it for now.

“He is, but he chooses not to,” Armand said. “When we discovered the diaries, it brought up a lot of negative emotion. He’s trying to avoid another outburst.”

They stood close enough that Daniel could feel the chill radiating from Armand. Armand’s clothing exposed his clavicle and neck but nothing more unlike the clothing he wore at the start of this interview.

“Should I return to the t-shirts?” Armand smiled an almost smirk.

“Out of my head,” Daniel said.

“I don’t have to pry into your mind to know what’s clearly on your face,” Armand said. “I know you.”

“Do the clothes affect your body temperature?” Daniel asked.

“As much as it would affect a corpse,” Armand said. “Are you going to take your medicine?”

Daniel looked at the pills. “There came a point at the start of the pandemic where I asked myself, ‘Am I living to live or living to avoid death?’” His gaze shifted to Armand. “I don’t want to waste my money on a life that’s no longer about living. I might deteriorate faster, but I am closer to dying than ever before, and the money that could go into putting death off should go to those who can use it to live.”

Armand moved closer and his fingers barely rested against Daniel’s waist just above his belt. “You could die to live and it would be irrelevant.”

Daniel did not avert his gaze or step back. “And stay with the man who fed me his blood because he didn’t know how to ask me to stay? Stay with the man who tangled my memories?”

“Would you rather I kept you bound to me all this time?” Armand drew closer.  

The light from the sunset faded. A lamp lit on its own, providing dim light. Daniel licked his lips. “You could just ask for the things you want.” He slowly took Armand’s hands in his and brought them close to his body, holding them so that they would warm. Armand’s eyes fixed on their hands. His shoulders seemed to relax. When the tremors became too much, Daniel let go. He stepped away to take his medicine and then went to get his laptop bag with all of his interview supplies.  

Armand pressed his own hands together, letting the vague warmth resonate until it dissipated.

~

The interview moved from the dining table to the sitting room. Daniel settled on the sofa and Louis on the chair. Armand sat on a different chair nearby with his iPad, one eye always watching the proceedings.

“You’ve started to remember more about the first interview, haven’t you?” Louis asked.

“Memories and dreams are too closely related,” Daniel said. “Besides, this is about your recollection and your perspective.”

“Of course,” Louis said. He took a breath and resumed his recollection, “Like in Florida, Armand and I started to cruise the bars in San Francisco. Tourists, students, people looking for a secret rendezvous – all were fair game. We worked as a team, seducing people back to a small apartment where no one would bother us and our prey. Armand always liked to watch.”

Daniel had dreams that felt like memories where he participated in a similar sexual game. He ignored those thoughts for now and said, “So you picked me, but you talked to me instead. What changed your mind?”

“It’s easy to almost hypnotize mortals, even when mortal,” Louis said. “You lean in, say the right words, place a strategic hand, and the rest follows. When I touched you, you noticed it was strange and cold. Instead of ignoring it or rationalizing it, you started thinking about it. I told you I was old enough to be your grandpa, and you considered it instead of dismissing it as a strange line.” Louis smiled slightly. “When you introduced yourself, I recognized your name from the newspaper. I admired your work trying to help clean up the rivers, so I thought if there was anyone who might believe me, anyone I could tell my story to, you were one of those rare people.

“I wasn’t wrong, but I was only starting to process what happened. I was still bitter. I hadn’t analyzed anything yet.” Louis continued his narration. After he attacked Daniel, he fled the apartment in San Francisco and hit the streets just as Armand said he would in one of the recovered memories. After this bender, Louis withdrew and used the next several years to think about the memories. He returned to New Orleans and Europe, forcing himself to confront what he could and the ghosts of his past.

“I knew Armand would take up with you,” Louis said. “I was more surprised that you hadn’t convinced him to turn you when you both arrived in Paris than I was surprised to see you with him.”

“Were you jealous?” Daniel asked.

“No,” Louis said. “After Paris, I saw you a few other times. Every time the life that drew me to you in San Francisco drained away. You were a phantom, irritable and obsessive. You were so preoccupied with the blood you craved that you barely noticed the rest of the world. You no longer had any curiosity.” He paused. “I felt sad and concerned for you, but no envy or jealousy. I was grateful to not be in your position.”

A silence passed. Daniel opened his mouth but a noise from his bedroom seemed to echo through the penthouse despite the carpeting. The sound of breeze knocking paper and other light items to the ground sounded. Footsteps approached. Armand discarded his iPad. Louis rose to his feet. Daniel switched to the recording app on his phone, put his laptop away as fast as he was capable, and then placed the strap of his laptop bag across his body securely.

A man appeared, his long golden hair windswept from climbing the building but somehow immaculately in place. He wore a plunging pirate’s blouse with puffed sleeves and the tightest pinkest leather pants. He strode into the room in heeled boots and his gazed fixed on Louis, his makeup firmly on point. “Good night, Louis.” He looked towards the sofa and gave a small wave. “Good night, Daniel.”

Daniel returned the wave in kind. “Good night.” He did not know how else to react.

Armand moved to Louis’ side. Louis’ eyes softened and then immediately hardened. His shoulders squared. “Why are you here, Lestat? Tired of playing dead?”

Lestat’s attention returned to Louis. He snorted. “Dead men don’t have conversations in abandoned houses! You were so consumed when we last met that you treated me as a specter, an illusion!” Lestat moved a hand through the air. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is the present. We’re in the middle of a great crisis and you are playing house.”

“I am not ‘playing house,’” Louis said. “I’ve been with Armand for sixty years now. I don’t want anything to do with this ‘grand conversion’ or whatever is happening out there.”

“It’s not a conversion,” Lestat said. “The mortals are dying of a plague while vampires are spontaneously combusting. Our populations aren’t growing; they’re dwindling, mortal and vampire alike.”

“If that was true, Marius would have said something,” Louis said. He looked at Armand. “Right?”

Armand nodded. “Marius mentioned something like that. It started around the time that the mortals started dying of a respiratory virus. I haven’t seen anyone combust myself. Those that have advised not to speak of it mentally.”

Louis stared a long moment. “The pandemic started months ago, when we moved to this penthouse. I had no idea.”

Armand did not avert his gaze. He did not say anything either.

“I too have spoken to Marius,” Lestat said. “It does not seem random. When I left him, I knew you would be hiding, but I had to find you. I immediately remembered a rumor I heard when I emerged from the ground forty years ago. Everyone said a vampire had a biographer. No one knew who it was. There was never an article or a book, so I thought it was just a story until I met Daniel Molloy.”

Daniel ran his tongue along his teeth. He was glad when no one looked his way.

“The other reporters who interviewed me on tour either thought of their own problems or if they noticed strange things about me, they dismissed these things easily,” Lestat continued. “Daniel did not do that. It made him remember someone with the same qualities. He had to be the biographer. He knew a vampire but was still mortal and unafraid.

“So, dear Louis, when I read that Daniel flew to Dubai, I knew of only one vampire who could inspire such risk, inspire such loyalty.” Lestat paused. “If I can find you, who else can find you? Whoever is causing the spontaneous combustion? Someone looking for revenge? Madeleine will not be as charitable as I am if you cross her path.”

Louis stiffened and took a step forward, pulling himself to his full height. “Keep her name out of your mouth!”

Lestat did not back away. This time his smile sparkled in his eyes. “Or what?”

Armand stepped between them. The glee left Lestat’s eyes for a moment. Armand leaned close to Louis’ ear. He rested a hand on Louis’ waist. “Louis, he’s trying to provoke you. You were there in Paris. You saw their ashes.”

“Then who did I meet?” Lestat asked. “The Madeleine I met is a charming Parisian woman at Claudia’s side who laments that her craft died out with Mattel.”

“Mattel didn’t exist then,” Armand said.

“In the 1990’s? I assure you it very much did,” Lestat said.

“In the 1940’s when she died,” Armand said. “When she turned to ash. Ash we saw.”

“Two women chained up in a courtyard waiting for the sun in a city full of soldiers looking for opportunity,” Lestat said. “You saw the ash, but who died that morning? Did you see who burnt in the courtyard?”

No one spoke. No one moved.

“Answer him,” Louis said quietly.

Armand’s gaze shifted from Lestat to Louis. “Louis, this is –”

“Answer him,” Louis almost hissed. He stepped away from Armand.

Armand took a deep breath. “I was not part of the team that kept watch that night. I was looking for an opportunity to free you.”

“After Claudia and Madeleine were to die,” Lestat said. “When did you find this opportunity? Two days later? Three days?”

Louis’ shoulders tensed. His hands trembled but not in the way that Daniel’s hands tremored. He stretched his jaw slowly.

“When else was I going to do it?” Armand asked. “If I freed him before that morning, he would have tried to save them, and he would have suffered their fate for it.”

“As if you would be so benevolent to let him even think of attempting a rescue,” Lestat said. “If you waited until they died, then you could have Louis to yourself, but he still rejected you.”

“And then became my lover fifteen years later,” Armand said, “while you were wallowing in New Orleans scavenging on vermin. He treated you as a specter because that’s what you were.”

“Enough,” Louis’ voice almost seemed to echo even though it was quiet.

Lestat and Armand immediately turned towards Louis.

“Enough,” Louis repeated. He stood in front of an interior wall, candles flickering nearby. “Claudia and Madeleine…all this time….” He shook his head and looked at Lestat and Armand. “I always knew y’all were treacherous. I always knew yall were cruel. I accepted this. It’s what you both are, what vampires are.” He paused for effect and his eyes rose to the ceiling. “It’s exciting. It’s alluring. It’s maybe even some kind of divine punishment.”

Lestat’s eyes never left Louis while Danniel and Armand’s eyes followed Louis’ gaze. A sprinkler head rested in the center of the ceiling. The mechanism that shut off access to the water slowly turned.

Armand knocked Louis to the ground to break his gaze. Louis fought back. Claws drew blood. Armand tried to subdue Louis. Louis tried to lash out and break free.

Daniel tensed but did not move from the sofa. Lestat watched the fight practically sparkling. He spoke to Daniel conversationally, “You are still here.”

“If I’m going to die, I’d rather be at the epicenter of the disaster and die instantly than suffocate in the elevator or fall down the stairs,” Daniel said.

“Of course.” Lestat’s smile grew whenever Louis gained an upper hand. “Tell me, Daniel. Do you want to die?”

Daniel held his breath a moment. His heartbeat increased. Both yes and no rested against his tongue. “I don’t know.”

Louis broke free from Armand and rushed to his feet. The light glinted off his fangs and Armand’s blood dripped from his nails. His eyes seemed to glow. His body trembled with rage. His stomach rumbled audibly.

“I would like a definite answer,” Lestat said. “Yes or no.”

Louis’ gaze shifted to Daniel. His stomach rumbled again. Daniel’s tongue went dry. Hesitation evaporated. “Not like this.”

Louis rushed forward. Armand leapt into the air and landed in front of Daniel at the same moment Lestat moved. Louis’ fangs dug into Lestat’s arm. The blood seemed to fill Louis’ senses. His eyes closed. He could not stop himself from guzzling.

“Take him!” Lestat said.

“Don’t order me!” Armand lifted Daniel from the sofa without effort.

Daniel opened his mouth to protest but before he could say a word, Armand rushed to the door, opened it with his mind, and slammed the door shut behind them. Daniel could hear the locks clicking back into place. “You can – You can put me down,” Daniel said.

“Not yet.” Armand went to the stairwell. His grip tightened on Daniel and then he lit onto the railing before plunging down the stairwell at a rapid pace.

Dizziness overtook Daniel. His wrapped his arms around Armand’s neck and closed his eyes. The falling seemed endless. They landed with barely a tap of Armand’s shoes on the ground floor landing.

The fire alarms rang. Residents filled the stairs. Armand slipped out the emergency exit. Armand took several leaps, riding the sea breeze almost like a kite, carrying Daniel across highways lined with trees. Breaks squealed and multiple vehicles crashed. Sirens and smoke filled the air. Armand finally landed.

Daniel waited for the dizziness to pass. His feet touched the ground and he slowly let go of Armand. They stood near a bench in a pedestrian area surrounded by high rises. Fire and smoke rose into the sky in the distance. City lights sparkled against a narrow lake in front of them. The sky began to lighten.

“The serial arsonist strikes again,” Daniel murmured. He sat on the bench. His heart raced. He fumbled with his phone and stopped the recording. He closed out of the application and opened an incognito search window.

Armand’s thumb ran along his other hand. He watched the building burning against the dawn.

Daniel scrolled through his flight options. The flight he could afford had a few seats left. His eyes wandered to Armand. The sunrise colored the sky and the buildings. Their portion of the pedestrian area remained in shadow. Daniel licked his lips and said, “The airport is a half hour from here by car. There’s a flight to New York leaving in the middle of the night tomorrow. It has two stops, but there’s still enough seats left for both of us.”

Armand sat on the bench. He peered at the phone screen and scrolled through the flights with his finger. “There are flights with no stops and enough seats.”

“For over one thousand dollars,” Daniel said.

Armand stopped touching the phone. He searched Daniel’s eyes. “Are you inviting me to go home with you?”

Daniel let his phone rest on his thigh before it could fall from his fingers. “Yes. Don’t make me change my mind.” His heart finally slowed. Exhaustion began to take hold.

Armand retrieved his own phone. His thumbs flew across the screen.

Daniel did not remember closing his eyes but almost immediately, Armand’s cold fingers on his arm woke him.

“I’ve secured a ride and a flight.” Armand pressed Daniel’s phone into his hands and slipped his own phone into his pocket.

Daniel pocketed his phone. He followed Armand away from the lake and up towards the street. In less than a day, they would be back in New York City.

   The End  

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

(I'm still interested in the AU, but I'm slowing down on Snowflake requests just out of Very specific type of burnout. But if these two aren't the same Anon then they do have very similar tastes..)

Sammy felt cold, sluggish, exhausted, and just all around awful. It wasn't helped by the awful weather, awful heating system in the music department, and the awful, AWFUL pipes. He internally cursed his own body as well as the terrible timing it had on him. If he woke up feeling like this, he would have stayed home, but nope! Instead he felt just fine when he woke up and only felt this bad when he stepped in through the door.

"I swear if I didn't know any better I'd assume I was cursed..." the grumpy musician murmured under his breath as he wrapped the makeshift blanket around his shoulders, clicking his pen while trying to figure out the right notes for the newest song. "...Or maybe I was and I just didn't realize it-"

Connecting the dots, the musician bolted into the men's restroom just to double check in the mirror that there was no signs of spreading ink or magic doing magic things. But he was still on edge, just because it wasn't visible didn't mean he was safe...

"...Uh Sam? Are ya feeling okay?" The Janitor looked up from the sink he was scrubbing. "You're lookin' a little green around the gills there..."

"No."

"Regular sickness like the flu spreadin' around or Ink stuff?"

...Honestly it was a little concerning that they had to differentiate if it was ink or not, and what was slightly more concerning was the only answer he knew so far.

"I don't know yet, it's too early to tell which."

"Okay, well I've got a spare bucket just in case." Wally handed over the empty plastic bucket. "Hollar if ya need anything else."

"Thanks, either way yell at Joey for me."

"Will do." the Janitor half-chuckled. "But uh.. if its the former, do me a favor and keep da bucket close by. It's easier ta clean vomit outta a bucket than off da floor. Thanks!"

The musician nodded before leaving the janitor to finish his own work, he didn't feel *that* sick, but he also didn't feel sick at all when he was going to his job in the first place. Plus, he'd also rather not have to redo all his hard work thanks to a worsening stomach bug.

When he re-entered his office, he sat down and resumed comparing and contrasting the notes already on his desk, only turning away from them to scratch in a rough draft of a needed new theme. Only resting his eyes for a minute...

---

...A single, almost glowing white eye cracked open as the groggy monster peeled his inky body off of the floor. He cursed under his breath when he tried to wipe the sleep out of his eyes to be greeted with the irritably familiar slush that called itself ink while feeling more like a cold mud to the musician.

"Of course." He murmured bitterly to himself as he scraped up what was supposed to be his legs and managed to get them into the bucket. "It couldn't be just a damn cold, oh nooo. It had to be ink again. It's not like I'm running out of good clothes thanks to this nonsense." He scowled while trying to pull his sunken in shirt and pants out of his body. "Aaaaaand I can't dig my own clothes out of this gunk, great, lovely, EXACTLY what I needed today."

The ink man sighed as he set the makeshift blanket on the chair and sat down on his desk to inspect the damage. As he scanned his work for ink stains, he noticed someone left a box of band aids on his desk, alongside a freshly brewed cup of green tea, slice of chocolate cake on a plate, and a 'get well soon' card. He opened the card finding no signatures on it, no familiar handwriting, not even a doodle that could've hinted at who could've left these here. Just the cheesy yet well-meaning wishes already printed onto the card when it was made.

"Okay, there, we got him the stupid card too, happy?" Sammy overheard a gruff and grumpy sounding voice outside his office. "He's been out like that for at least thirty minutes already, he'll probably just sleep it off and continue like nothing happened after he changes back."

"...D-do you think we should also get him a real blanket?" replied the nervous, stuttering demon. "And dad recently mopped that floor too... s-so what what if he gets a burn from the ink remover if we leave him like that?"

Sammy slowly cracked open his office door. He still wasn't feeling ready to deal with anyone, but he figured he might as well confirm to the mechanic and the kid that he is in fact alive and not burning on the ground.

"Snowflake, he's a grown man and he's been through this song and dance more times than anyone here can count." The GENT worker rolled his eyes. "He's not one of those little toon rats who come to you with wide sad eyes and broken tails."

"H-HE'S A MELTED INK MAN, THOMAS!" Snowflake exclaimed with an urgency even the kid wasn't used to hearing in his voice. "This this isn't- isn't normal! I-it's not its not supposed to BE normal! I still really wanna a-ask Joey what to do... I wanna help him, I want to really help him, not just... just slap a band-aid box down on his desk and call it a day!"

"For Pete's sake! Whether it's 'supposed to' or not, it IS normal to the studio!" The man exclaimed back with slightly more irritation than usual. "And especially to Lawrence. That man is like a magical lightning rod! So can you stop wasting my time with this and let me go back to my damn job?!" The speckled imp shrank back as the man caught his breath. "Some of us have more important things to do than to play nurse to the studio's biggest butt monkey!"

"I-i'm sorry..." Snowflake sniffled. "I just wanted to help.."

"Well, next time, don't drag me into it! He. Is. Just. An. Ink. Creature. Not anything that's a danger to anyone els-GAaaAAH!!"

The sudden, cold and wet weight of a sheet of thick ink slapped itself on Thomas's back like a bucket full of slightly melted snow put precariously over a cracked-open door, startling both the imp and the GENT worker while the inky musician let out a few fake coughs before pulling himself free from the mechanic.

"Sorry *cough* *cough* about that I just have *cough* the worst luck today, having a TERRIBLE, *cough* POSSIBLY *cough* *cough* CONTAGAGIOUS cold *cough* on top of being turned into a toon... *cough*"

"W-wait, Mr. Lawrence, you're... you're a toon..?"

Snowflake blinked owlishly as he looked over the inky musician, taking note of his visible pie-cut eye, four-fingered hands, and altered, more distinctly recognizable silhouette. The prospect of a human being turned into a toon while being sick was a lot less horrifying to the kid than the notion that he was turned into a melting ink figure. But he still stepped back to give the man some space, while Snowflake experienced first-hand that toons melt when sick, Sammy must've been REALLY sick to be that melted.

"Yep, nothing *cough* too serious to worry about. It just looks worse than *cough* how it really is."

"W-well maybe I can ask Joey to let you go home and rest it off?" The timid imp offered. "We don't wan-want it to spread to everyone else..."

"Go ahead, but for *cough* now, I'll just quarantine myself in my office, okay?"

"Okay Sammy."

The ink man waved the kid off and shot the mechanic a glare once he was out of sight, which Thomas was quick to return.

"That was really goddamn low, Tom. That kid doesn't even have a single mean bone in his body. Treating him like that is like... yelling at a puppy that's afraid of everything."

"He has plenty of stupid ones in there and someone has to teach him because I know Wally wont."

"Teach him what, exactly?"

"To mind his own business and not drag other people into running all over the studio for a box of band aids and the other stuff! He wasted so much of my time with that stupid wild goose chase!"

"He didn't know what was going on and was trying to help how he could, you could have sat him down to explain what's going on to the kid for five minutes and then you'd be working on unclogging pipes that should've been unclogged months ago while Snowflake would be worrying less about the ink."

"Okay fine, in hindsight I should've knocked some sense into him, told him that the ink does that to you all the time, and to buzz off before he dragged me all over the place. Happy?! I learned my lesson."

Sammy gave him the most deadpan glare he could muster with only one eye and his other facial characteristics consumed by ink. "Hey, speaking of lessons, do you want to learn something about the Ink that we've learned through years of experience?"

"What?"

"It hates not having a spiteful asshole that it can throw magic at around. It only manages to last a full week at most before it will try to latch onto anyone who 'deserves to be the lightning rod'."

"...So?" the mechanic raised an eyebrow.

"Soooooo... *cough* *cough* With my TERRIBLE *cough* CONTAGIOUS disease, I think it's best for my health and the studio as a whole if I take two weeks of sick leave, *COUGH* maybe even three just to be safe." The ink creature gave the smuggest, most insufferable grin a somewhat humanoid glob of gunk could manage.

"You... You're making that up just to scare me, aren't you..?"

"Only one way for you to find out, Butt Monkey Junior."

[veiledinviolet]

There are many memorable and deeply moving moments in Goncharov, but none can compare to the scene of his death. Not just because of the raw emotional impact but because of the way it refuses to grant closure of any kind, neither positive nor negative, catharsis nor despair. Goncharov's alienation from his new home and the resulting isolation, that feeling of never quite belonging no matter what is a central theme of the film, and one of the main ways it is expressed is though weather. It is why Goncharov keeps complaining about the heat: Regardless of how long he has been in Naples, he can never adjust to its climate because no matter how much he knows he cannot return he never quite managed to leave Russia and his past life behind.

And now here he lies, fatally wounded, dying beneath a gloomy grey sky in a city that even after all these years still doesn't feel like home. Church bells ring as blood spreads through his shirt. And then the impossible happens: It begins to snow, in Naples. First it's only a few tiny crystals, but then the balalaika starts to play, Goncharov's motif, and as the melody picks up so does the snow, now a dense white flurry. Winter has finally come to Naples, just as the man who so desperately yearned for it is departing.

Did he still notice it, feel it? Did he spend his last moments in blissful peace, finally at rest as his old friend embraced him one last time to bury his body beneath white snow stained bloody red? Or was he already dead when the first flakes fell, a final cruelty of fate's irony? The way the scene is shot it's impossible to tell, and that is very deliberate. It would have been so easy to tip the scene into cheesiness, violins singing their elegy as Goncharov closes his eyes, a content smile on his face. But Matteo JWHJ0715 is better than that. Goncharov's death is not a serene farewell, but it's not the opposite either, not gritty or nihilistic. Regardless of whether or not Goncharov himself was still able to witness his snow, the scene is undeniably beautiful, and the meteorological miracle is a poetic representation of the mark Goncharov left on the city and it's people. It is this ambivalence, the tragedy, the beauty, the ambiguity that makes this scene so iconic.

…and then we immediately cut to the city center, the melancholy music and quiet of the dead replaced by the honking cars and cursing drivers stuck in the chaos caused by the mundane reality of snow in a city utterly unprepared for it. And by the evening all that remains of Goncharov's snow is dirty slush as the city continues on as always, ever restless. There it is again that contrast, that whiplash, that ambivalence: Nothing is eternal—but that does not mean it is not meaningful. The clock is ticking, yet for just a moment

Winter came to Naples.

[chaos-event-horizon]

👅🗣️💇? If you wanna of course

👅 - What are some of S/I's favorite flavors or comfort foods? How do you feel about them?

Toshinori: I've noticed that Rian takes great comfort from Midwest American "fair food". Coney dogs, milkshakes, cheesy fries, slushes, and the like. I'm also a huge fan!

🗣️ - How would you describe S/I's voice? What do you like about it?

Toshinori: "Like crystal" sums it up. His voice has a clear quality, but can be made very deep or very light. He's a classically trained singer, so it's also got a bit of an airy quality, and he has a distinct accent that changes and gets thicker or lighter depending on his mood... I adore listening to the kid talk. Especially when he's excited.

💇 - How happy is S/I with their haircut? Would they prefer another?

Toshinori: *smirks* He loves his hairdo, mainly because he does it himself. That undercut is all him. Shaping it, dyeing it, trimming it, the works! Personally, I'm impressed. I think his hair is the physical trait he most loves about himself.

[4kdegreeskelvin]

clarkesworld #205

possibly just about a couch by suzanne palmer: take a journey from the dawn of the universe to the heat death of our solar system and beyond through the context of a primordial, indestructible red sofa. this was an interesting little story, with a wordy writing style i really like for doing that thing where some portions are written vaguely and distantly, never touching on much in great detail, and other portions zoom in seemingly at random to describe and focus on singular, random beings and their time spent with the couch. the couch holds memories of everything but doesn’t think anything of it all because, after all, it’s just a couch. the writing feels sincere but not cheesy, with a fun circular ending. it’s abstract and doesn’t seem to care whether or not you choose to interpret it all as a metaphor. enjoyed it :)

the blaumilch by lavie tidhar: a citizen of a small town on mars struggles with his lack of purpose, until he meets an odd, canal-digging individual who changes his perspective. this was a fine story; i didn’t dislike any part of it aside from a few small tense-changes that i found strange. it definitely wasn’t bad but didn’t blow me away in any sense of the word, either. i did think the themes of purpose and identity and doing things you enjoy were fairly interesting!

down to the root by lisa papademetriou: cute little story about rebirth and the nature of death and rebirth. idk, i personally kinda felt like the ending betrayed the character’s wishes of not being reborn after his death? but that’s ok ig. this one was fine as well. not bad, not amazing. didn’t love it but didn’t hate it. an interesting plot idea and generally well written so i can’t complain much but it didn’t really grip my attention either

such is my idea of happiness by david goodman: a story about the way capitalist grind culture will consume everything necessary for a person to live a decent life, including the chance to rest and recuperate. this was a good one! not amazing, but the writing style was enjoyable to read, the characters were sympathetic, and i love a good anticapitalist message. andrew just wants to get some sleep 😔

de profundis, a space love letter by bella han: i didn’t like this one. it’s hard for me to express exactly why without just coming across as a hater, but it felt extremely shallow and fake deep to me (and those are things i generally will go out of my way to not describe art as). it seems to be about a spacefaring traveller in the distant future who finds a “mausoleum of poetry”, in which he quickly becomes addicted to reading real, actual novels (that have slightly radioactive ink, so they’re slowly killing him all the while) instead of the slush produced by machines (sound relevant?). i’m not entirely sure how to feel about the obvious anti-ai art stance because frankly i’m not well versed enough in that whole world to have a solid opinion, but my problems mostly lie with the fact that it leans into the “machine-produced stories don’t have the SOUL that this human-made work does” argument rather than any interesting commentary on workers’ rights or art theft and the like. the writing style was difficult to parse in my opinion and the characters weren’t interesting in the slightest, but mostly the entire thing felt too saccharine while trying very, very hard to be ~profound~.

post hacking for the uninitiated by grace chan: this one was good! the characters were interesting and it held my attention all the way through. the writing style was really immersive and visceral, and is great at making you feel like you really understand what the main character is going through even though it’s something you’ve probably never experienced yourself—unless, of course, you’ve had your semisynthetic mind hacked and all your primary functions slowly stripped away from yourself by a mental invader. i would say this is one of the two strongest stories in this collection, up there with the couch one.

rafi by amal singh: in a tightly controlled dystopia where mechas pulverize civilians’ homes and streets in response to contraband or dissent, rebellion is sparked by a cactus-human creature raised in secret, who sings forbidden songs and wants to be allowed outside. i didn’t dislike this! the writing style felt a tad bit surface level, and stories about rebellion against dystopian governments are hardly unique, but the characters were enjoyable to read about, especially rafi itself. i’m not immune to a story about music as a moving force that can bring people together, and the plot about a woman raising something inhuman that seems to exist largely to set them free is a bit vague but still touching. this was a solid, not half bad story that i’m not going to complain too much about.

you can read clarkesworld #205 for free online or purchase this issue here

[slicesofapple]

A Late Flight

Fandom: Attack on Titan

Relationship: Eren Jaeger/Jean Kirstein

Summary: Jean has a late flight home

Teen and up

Tags: alternate universe- modern AU; aged-up characters; not cannon compliant;  Romance, Idiots in Love, Getting Back Together, Idiots, Fluff, Mild angst

Posted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36368296

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

         Jean is tired. The work trip sucked, in addition to sucking every last bit of energy out of him. It also sucks that it’s a Saturday, he’s on an evening flight which won’t get in until after midnight, and now his weekend is gone, too.

             He buckles into his seat, feeling wholly beaten down by his horrible job, the frigid air in the plane, being squished into a too-small seat with no leg room, and, to top it all off, he can’t seem to keep thoughts of Eren out of his beleaguered mind.

             Maybe because he remembers, all too clearly, sending Eren an itinerary of this very trip, way back when he had booked it, ages go. He had been so excited to ask if Eren wanted to come with him, spend a few nights in the city together. Eren hadn’t been able to go, which Jean had been disappointed about at the time; but that, of course, certainly worked out for the best in the end.

             He sighs. It’s been months already, and he should be well over Eren, but he’s not.  He misses him so much, it’s like a physical ache, like a literal hole in his heart. At the same time, he’s so freaking angry at him, too, the stubborn motherfucker.

             Almost as angry as he is at himself, for starting the argument in the first place.

            He had been grumbling about his job, ranting about it, really. Eren, naturally fed up by this tirade, had finally said, “Then get a new one! You don’t have to spend the rest of your life as a corporate tool!”

            It was a perfectly reasonable response. Jean has no idea, now, sitting on this cold, dark, plane, an empty apartment waiting for him back home, what had possessed him to bite back with such venom.  Probably simply because Eren had been there, and Jean’s such a shitty person that he couldn’t resist letting fly at the easy target in front of him.

             “Oh,” he had said, his voice dripping with condescension, “I should do what you’re doing? Saving the world one fish at a time?”

            Jean had been staring right at Eren, chin out and eyes narrowed, and so he had seen all too clearly the look of deep hurt flash across Eren’s face, before it had tightened in anger and he had spit out, “I’d rather be saving a fish than pillaging the planet and screwing the disenfranchised.”

             Even though it was an old argument between them, it was not usually phrased so baldly, and Jean had immediately lashed out, the words pouring out of him like a waterfall of toxic waste.

             “If you think you’re actually doing something, actually saving even one fish, you are more delusional than I ever thought you were, and that’s saying a lot.” Even while he was saying the words, Jean had been appalled.  They in no way represented his actual feelings on the matter. If anything, he was incredibly impressed with Eren, how he had managed to establish a working career as an environmentalist.  He was good at what he did, good enough that people paid him decently to do it, at the same time working his ass off to make the world a better place.

             Eren had sprung to his feet, his face so thunderous that Jean had braced himself for a left hook. It was a familiar dance for both of them, using their fists – it had been their primary means of communication throughout college. That was in the past, though. They had both mellowed considerably in their twenties, at least towards one another, and by this point had been together, practically living in one another’s spaces, for more than a year.

             Instead of hitting Jean, however, Eren had blinked twice and then his face had smoothed over into a frighteningly blank mask before he had said, in a robotic monotone, “Goodbye, Kirstein.”

             Jean could only watch, stunned, as he had methodically gathered up the work he had spread out on the table, then gone into Jean’s bedroom to retrieve the few books he stashed there, then to the kitchen for his favorite mug, and finally to the bathroom to collect his toothbrush.

             He had not looked at Jean again.  

             Jean had had a terrible, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he had fucked up for real this time.

            And it was true. He had. Because after that, there was nothing: no texts, no calls, no emails, and definitely no visits. Not even any angry ones.

             Eren was gone for good.

              Even when Jean had eventually woken up and tried to contact him, fully ready to apologize (which he planned to do, right after telling Eren off for being his usual annoyingly self-righteous dickish self),there had been no response. The only email Eren answered had been the one asking what Jean wanted him to do with the few articles of clothing he had left at Jean’s apartment. All Eren had said was to leave them outside his door the following Thursday, and he would pick them up.

             He had done so while Jean was at work, leaving nothing behind.  

            And as much as Jean told himself that he was well rid of the kind of jerk who couldn’t even do him the courtesy of giving him a chance to apologize, he knew it was a lie. He missed Eren like crazy, and the whole damn thing had been entirely his fault.

-----------------------------------------------------

             Armin had called a few weeks later.

            He had said, with his usual eager enthusiasm, “We’re going to surprise Eren by taking him out on Friday. Does that work for you?”

             Jean had had to swallow the lump in his throat – apparently, Armin didn’t know.

            All he had said was a terse “No,” and had been about to hang up the phone, when Armin had offered up a different date, and then another (“Eren will really want you to be there, Jean,”), until Jean had had enough. He had hissed into the phone, “We’re not together anymore.”

             “Oh,” had been Armin’s surprised response. “That explains a lot.”

             “What the hell does that mean?” Jean had asked, voice rising in self-righteous indignation.

             “He’s been looking like one of the Walking Dead. That’s why we wanted to get him out, actually.”

             And if that hadn’t stabbed Jean through the gut, he didn’t know what would.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

            Jean shifts in the airplane seat, vainly trying to find a more comfortable position. Once more, Eren’s terrible, hurt face swims up in his mind, and he wants, more than anything in the world, with a hopeless, crazy passion, to be able to go back in time, to stop himself from showering vitriol on the person he had loved most in the world.

             Still does, if he’s being honest with himself.

            But he also knows Eren, and once Eren has decided something, especially about people, that’s it; there’s no going back.

            Jean, unfortunately, isn’t able to sleep on the flight. By the time he arrives, he is cramped, cold, and utterly exhausted.

            The airport is surprisingly busy at this late hour, and Jean shuffles his way through the disembarking horde, moving one foot steadily in front of the other.  

             Just one more leg of this journey, and then at least he’ll be home and able to crash in his own bed.

            He stuffs aside the unhappy thought that Eren won’t be waiting for him – why can’t he just let it go? Eren’s gone. Gone and never coming back, you dipshit, he admonishes himself. There are some mistakes that simply can’t be fixed, and this is one of them.

            Once off the plane, he runs a tired hand across his face, shifts his bags more securely on his shoulder, and starts the long trek out.

            By the time he makes it past the security checkpoint, he’s picked up the pace, eager to get home, moving at such a rapid clip that he almost bumps into the figure looking up at the giant screen listing all arrivals and departures.

             It’s someone with a familiar shade of brown hair, and a familiar build, and when he turns, it’s a familiar face, too.

             Jean stops in his tracks, feeling like he’s unknowingly gone into hyperspace and ended up at an entirely different location than he had planned. He looks around, bewildered, but – yes, he’s still at the airport, and, yes, it’s still the middle of the night.

             Which doesn’t answer the question of what the hell Eren is doing here, right now, at the very moment Jean is exiting from his own flight?

            And he wishes his heart would stop hammering with excitement because, he reminds it, he’s angry at the jerk who’s standing in front of him - blocking his way, even, like the annoying prick he is.  

             “What are you doing here?” he growls.

            Eren doesn’t answer, just looks at Jean warily, like Jean is a rabid wolf and he’s gotten a little too close for comfort.  

             And then it hits Jean. Eren is here to see him! He was looking up Jean’s flight on the board! He came to find Jean!

            Nothing on Eren’s face indicates that to be the case, but Jean knows it’s true. Eren’s here to see him, and that means… that means, crazily, unbelievably, he still has a chance.

             And he’s not going to fuck it up this time.

            With a hoarse cry, he drops his bags, steps forward, and throws his arms around Eren. He swallows down the lump in his throat, takes a deep breath in, and – it’s a waterfall again, but this time he hopes it’s the right one.

              “I didn’t mean any of that shit I said. I was angry at myself, and I never should have taken it out on you, and I love you so much and I miss you, and please will you give me another chance,” he babbles like a raving lunatic, clutching onto Eren like he’s the last mast on a sinking ship.

             And then Eren’s arms are around him too, and he’s hugging Jean, tight enough that it’s borderline uncomfortable, Jean squeezing back, until they’re both having trouble taking a full breath in.

             And when Jean lets go, Eren grabs hold of his face and kisses him, hard, right on the mouth.

             Then he reaches down to take Jean’s bags, hoists them up onto his back, and says, “Want a ride?”

            Jean knows his smile is wobbly, but he can’t seem to firm it up, not with Eren looking directly at him with those eyes of his.

             “Only if you’re coming home with me,” he manages to say, his voice rough, but the words are perfectly clear.

             Eren’s face relaxes into a smile, his lovely, sweet, real smile, and he nods once, firmly, as he reaches out to take Jean’s hand in his.

[superhero--imagines]

A/N: My commissions are still open for a letter from your comfort character, info is here! Also feel free to drop in some requests!

Dick:

- Late night convenience store runs after you spend too long binge watching your favorite shows

- It’s too hot to go outside, or at least that’s what you both say, choosing to stay home and maybe getting a little drunk off of fruity drinks you and Dick spontaneously make with whatever you have in the kitchen

- Which results in the munchies, but no take out place is open at three in the morning, so you stumble to the bodega around the corner, grabbing whatever you’re craving

- “Should I get this?” You ask holding up a package you’re on the fence out

- Dick is literally pushing about twenty bags into his cart

- “Yes, get everything”

- It’s too bad neither of you has a single ounce of impulse control.

Jason:

- You go to the beach or a water park, maybe a lake.

- Spending the day by the water somewhere where it’s a little cooler

- Piña colada’s and snow cones

- And kissing so your blue tongue and his red one become purple

- Matching swimsuits and bright blue waves

- Reading under and umbrella, and eventually packing up when the sun starts to get to you, and the sand feels like it’s everywhere, and the feel good serotonin has run out

- “This is better” you say when you’re home, reading on your respective arm chairs in your air conditioned apartment

- “Way better” Jason confirms

Tim:

- Amusement parks and summer festivals

- Over priced food, that isn’t all that good

- “I kind of want to get another one though” he says

- “Okay good, because I want another too” you grin

- Goofy pictures with mascots, and staying to see the fireworks

- Falling asleep on his shoulder in the Ferris wheel

- Midnight drive back home where you stop at a gas station for snacks

Damian:

- Damian does the road trip thing

- Making it a mission to try a slush or at every gas station to see which has the best one

- Titus comes with obvi

- You take an suv and use the back as like a makeshift bedroom

- You stop at all the cheesy attractions

- And all the big ones

- “Woah”

- You’re speechless as you both stand at the railing at the Grand Canyon, you literally can’t get out any words

- “I know” Damian says, equally choked up

- Even Titus is in awe

Bonus:

Bruce:

- Late night galas and charity balls

- Black tuxedos, and shiny cuff links

- Elegant colorful gowns, and matching ties

- Champagne flutes for you, and ginger ale in his to keep up appearances

- Eating fast food in the car afterwards

- “Why do they never have food at those things?” You ask, eating a French fry

- “They do, it’s just not very good” Bruce laughs, taking a sip when you offer your soda to him

[dearrrabbit]

Cof request:Simon adopts a small black kitten who has his same disability and names her Kol (it was Sophie idea to get a pet at first Simon wasn’t happy about it but after spotting this little kitten he fell in love with it)

ohh thank you so much for the request! i hope u like it this was such an adorable prompt

Sophie’s the one who drags him out of his apartment, which seems to be the natural order to their relationship these days. She’s wrapped in some oversized coat to protect against the cold while he’s tucked a blanket around his legs, a scarf wrapped tightly to protect his face from the cutting winter wind, both clutching to their respective coffee and tea like lifelines in the cold weather.

“Ah, Simon, isn’t it bright? The holidays are here again.” Sophie comments dreamily, turning her face to the sky to let the flakes of snow kiss it, while he can’t help but chuckle at her wonderment.

“Too bright.” He adds in a gruff statement, “I say Bah Humbug.” The treads of his wheels are wet with slush, but he shakes his head when Sophie tilts her head questioningly at him, indicating the handlebars. “I’m fine, Soph. Let’s get inside somewhere, though. Soon.”

“Right! Of course,” Sophie nods, the distinctive glint in her eyes makes him think he’s fallen into another plot again, and Simon has to repress an eye roll. It was just like her to buy into ‘holiday cheer’ and attempt at surprising him with a gift. A kind gesture, of course, but ridiculously cheesy whilst he felt.. completely undeserving. He should be spending this holiday alone. “Simon..” She simpers, and tugs at his sleeve.

He focuses on the sign she points at, attempting to ignore the warmth of her hand through his sleeve. An animal shelter, garlanded with yew and red ribbons for the season, advertising the senior dogs with little festive hats. Simon almost groans inwardly.

“Sophie.” He says sternly. “I cannot go home with an animal today.”

Sophie tilts her head back with raspy bout of laughter, holding the door open for him. He rolls in despite his pet protests, relaxing as the heat from a radiator blasts their faces. The shelter’s interior is quaint, threadbare couches shoved to one side make a sitting area as a front desk is placed just so in front of the doors leading to the kennels. The walls are plastered with informational posters and sweet slogans, past shelter residents pictured with their new owners on one board.

Though the glass was meant to be soundproof, the dogs’ barking managed to make its way through, and he furrows his brow, too dubious of the noise to enter. Wheeling about, he gets the bearings of the area as Sophie chatters with the clerk at the kiosk, obtaining a set of keys and gesturing excitedly.

“C’mon. This room, Si.” She gestures to the door labeled for cats, and he puffs s breath of relief, shaking his head with a small sigh.

“Why do I feel like I’m being set up?” Simon grumbles, more sarcastically than anything, but Sophie pushes past it, opening the door again for him and clapping her hands together with a flourish.

“Look! Look at all these cuties!” She gushes. As he passes each kennel, he has to admit she’s right. Seeing cats play and nap together is just too cute to be reasonable, and manages to lift his dour spirits slightly.

There’s an employee at the end of the row, handling a sleeping black kitten. Sophie’s off on the floor, laying on her stomach to draw the free-roaming ones to her and offering the tassels of her scarf to chase. He casts a quick glance at her, not used to engaging others without her, as pathetic as it sounds. He felt as if he had to make his voice twice as loud, repeat things, like others were too busy ignoring him to hear what he says.

He clears his throat. The employee startles, and the kitten lets out a mewl, blinking yellow eyes up at him.

“She’s sweet.” He comments. “How old?”

“She’s two months..” The employee hesitantly says, rubbing an index finger down her face. “Her name’s Kol.”

“Kol.” He tests the name’s weight in his mouth. He likes it, how it suits the little kitten, who bats at the employee’s finger rambunctiously. “Is she reserved?”

“I wish I could say she was..” The other man sighs sadly again, “Nope. Adopters usually walk right past this cutie.”

“Why?” It didn’t make sense to Simon. Such a sweet kitten, he was sure she should have been nabbed the minute she appeared in the shelter. What adopter didn’t want a little black kitten?

Then the employee holds her out to him. “You can hold her, if you like. She isn’t temperamental.”

Simon glances between the kitten pawing at him and Sophie’s encouraging nod, and scoops her into his arms, a stilted motion that bowls the kitten onto his chest. She chirps at him.

It’s then he realizes he only feels three little paws on his arms, and worriedly lifts her to readjust the position he’d put her in, but Simon’s quick to realize that it’s because she only has three legs.

Where Kol’s back leg should be, there’s a little stump. His heart squeezes fiercely at the sight before melting all at once. Kol squirms out of his hands and onto his chest, nuzzling into his hood, and he lets her, surprised at the sheer willpower of such a tiny creature. He really, really likes her. She purrs in his ear, rubbing her tiny cheek against his and it’s like something in him is clicking into place, the soothing vibrations taking precedent over anything else.

Sophie approaches the two after brushing off the tufts of cat hair she’d accumulated on the ground, and smiles at the sight she’s greeted by - Simon, hushed and absorbed in gently petting a purring lump in the crook of his neck, and Kol blinking languidly at him, full of trust and affection despite just meeting him. - Clearing her throat, Sophie nudges Simon. Ever so slightly.

“Still leaving without a pet?”

He huffs at her, rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks up and his eyes have gone dewey and soft. “How could nobody want her, Sophie?” He says quietly after a minute. “She’s an angel.”

Sophie hums sadly, offering her hand for Kol to smell, smiling when the kitten mrrrps at her. “I know.”

“It’s not.. right.” Simon says, a hushed fierceness to his voice, “She’s just as good as any of these other kittens.”

“We should adopt her.”

Simon’s cheeks flare red. “We.. we should?”

“Simon, I think if I have to watch you leave her behind, I’ll start crying.” Sophie fixes him with a stern look, nose scrunching up to show she was far from serious. “But.. Really. We should. You have the space, you clearly care a lot about her.”

Simon leans his cheek against Kol’s little body, feeling the purring increase tenfold. Sophie continues to gently pet her, knelt in front of Simon in order to do so. At some point, her fingers brush against his cheek and he finds himself closing his eyes at the contentment of it. It’s few minutes before he opens his eyes.

“Okay.” Simon nods. “Let’s do it.”

Sophie smiles, and almost as if she knows what’s being discussed, Kol lets out another little mewl, making Sophie gasp excitedly and Simon cough a little smile into his fist.

“You’re going home, isn’t that exciting, little one?” Sophie coos, “Your papa’s going to take good care of you, you know.”

“C’mon, I don’t think I’m her papa.”

“What are you then?”

“I’m just gonna be the one she lives with, Soph, I’m not her dad.”

They bicker softly over it until the employee approaches with the necessary paperwork to take Kol home. After a detour to the local pet supplies shop before Simon’s apartment, they’ve gotten everything set up for the kitten in her new environment. Sophie had missed her train back and elected to stay with him, curled up on the couch to his side as Kol kneaded steadily into her lap.

Simon watches fondly as Kol circles once, twice, three times before sprawling out between Sophie’s lap and his leg, claws likely digging into his thigh, though he was unable to feel it. He scritches between her ears. “Welcome home, Kol.”

After a beat, ensuring Sophie’s still asleep, he adds. “Happy Holidays too.”

[bettsfic]

writing advice: make the climax the inciting incident

last night i read a fanfic that, idk, was so ashamed of what it was trying to be that it backed away from its own premise. like it was leading up to something really interesting and then all the characters stepped back and were like, yeah no nevermind. and that was it. that was the whole fic. and like, obviously every writer can do whatever they want with their fics, but i sensed that this was an issue of hesitation or trepidation on the author’s part, and not what they had actually sought out to do.

i’m also doing a significant amount of slush reading for a well-regarded short story contest. i’ve now read up to 50ish short stories and i’ve only given a pass to 3. for the most part these are very competently written stories, really solid at the line level. but most of them are trying so hard to be subtle and Realistic and clever that they’re just so fucking boring. nothing is particularly at stake, and the story isn’t rushing anywhere, just kind of meandering along until a conclusion. it’s not immediately apparent that the characters actually care about anything.

i notice this in many published novels, too. there will be some forward movement for the first half of the book but then once we get to that breaking midpoint, the tension just dissipates. i’ll be honest, i set down a significant number of novels at the halfway point. sometimes i go ahead and skip to the last 20 pages or so to see how it concludes, but that second act stretch? unbearable.

i used to think all of these situations at the same root problem: an absence of the illuminating moment. in a short story, it’s the moment that sheds light on the rest of the work and allows us to see it in a new way. in a novel, it’s evidence of character growth or change, some kind of breaking through, an epiphany. or maybe it’s more literal, like a fire or an explosion. 

the problem is, a lot of these stories i encounter that are good but not quite there yet do have an illuminating moment, a culminating moment, a climax. whatever you want to call it.

it’s just, by the time we get to it, if we bother to get that far at all, i still don’t really care about anything that’s happening. generally this is because what stands for the illumination is the only thing in the whole story that possesses some kind of consequence or direction. 

so, one of the most frequent pieces of feedback i give is this:

take the biggest moment of the story and make it the first thing that happens.

even just as a thought experiment. what if the climax becomes the inciting incident? how does that raise the stakes of the story? how might it drive your characters into more elevated states of drama, desperation, need? how does that elevated state expose their true colors?

if your climax is like, the end of the world or whatever, maybe this won’t work. but i do think it’s worth thinking about how you can present your character with a moment that possesses natural consequences very early in the story. for a short story, the first page. for a novel, the first chapter. what matters to them? what are they obsessed with? what do they care about so much they’ll perish if they don’t obtain it?

obviously stories are more complicated than this. characters don’t always know exactly what they want. characters can be self-sabotaging, unreliable, wishy-washy, etc. but you, the writer, can box them into corners, shove them toward an uphill climb, or better yet, push them off a cliff. 

very often, i think we have to write the lowkey draft in order to find the big moment. so i don’t want you to stare down a blank page and think like, damn i gotta head off with an explosion. it doesn’t work like that. you have to meander a bit while you write. discover the world and the characters. and then, if what you’ve written is Just Okay, you can rewrite it, and elevate the work by putting the end at the beginning. 

so don’t shy away from the drama of the story. i would rather read a story veering toward cheesiness and melodrama than one that resembles a dead fish. at least with cheesy/campy/cringey things, characters care about stuff. 

tl;dr please, i am begging you,

go all in.

my carrd | writing advice masterdoc