#repostuary?

[monstersinthecosmos]

Marius is in a mood.

The others don’t seem to notice. They don’t know him the way Armand does. It’s a thing that aches, deep in his chest, this realization that Marius hasn’t changed. It’s been five hundred years and he hasn’t changed.

Of course, to Armand’s logic, that means it’s still easy to provoke him.

It’s been a long time since he’s submitted to anybody. Sincerely submitted, in that way that chills him down to his bones and leaves his head in a pleasant fog. He realizes, as Marius falls into his trap, that he can’t recall anyone putting him in that place since Marius himself. It’s been five hundred years.

With others, when he submits it’s all posturing. Louis was never really in control, neither was Nicki. He’d let Daniel beat him bloody so many times and it barely registered. Maybe he’s become complacent, maybe he doesn’t remember. It’s naive that he thought provoking Marius could result in so much as a shred of control. [read on AO3]

[monstersinthecosmos]

“There’s something wrong with your eyes,” Daniel tried again. He reached to touch and stopped himself, not sure if he should, and pet the sides of Armand’s head, instead. His hands were trembling.

“That isn’t want you wanted to say,” Armand said. His voice was soft and worn out, but the words held the weight of accusation. His mouth was twisted and scowling and he looked up at the ceiling to avoid Daniel’s eyes. Beads of red hung in his eyelashes. Daniel could feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat.

“I…” God, that wasn’t fair. His face flushed hot with the shame of it. It didn’t matter that he’d forgotten what he was going to say, forgotten why he was mad, didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually said it. Armand had still heard. “I’m sorry.”

Armand sniffed and touched his fingertips to his forehead.

“Really though,” Daniel knelt down next to the bed, wedging himself between Armand’s legs. “You’re bleeding.”

The blood was pooling heavy in Armand’s eyes. Daniel could smell it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. For whatever it was. He rubbed Armand’s thighs. “Really. Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” Armand pulled his shirt sleeve down to his fingertips to wipe his face. And it clicked. Oh.

Oh.

It had startled him, of course, and the idea that Armand was hurt or ill had given him a visceral sense of panic, but that it was… just tears…

He felt cold all over and didn’t know if it was better.

“‘Just tears,’” Armand muttered.

[read on AO3]

[monstersinthecosmos]

The pain is heavy in his limbs, his chest. It hurts when he breathes and he wants to sleep. He wonders if he should get away soon, maybe hunt, because he can feel the obsessively manicured demeanor fading on the outside. There’s hunger beneath it, anger. If he can kill something he can submit to the id.  

But Santino is here in his apartment and they’re left with the awkward silence. Be nice to him, a lot has changed, Pandora said. But the grief is everywhere, every inch of his skin, stinging in his very pores the way the fire did. It’s closing in around him now, suffocating and dark, and he suddenly needs to be alone.

He presses his fingers to his brow, too exhausted to know what to do. He can’t look at Santino and wants to be underground. Somewhere cold.

I should have been different.

Santino hovers by the door. His mind gives nothing away, but his posture does. Uneasy, and he seems like he wants to leave, too. It gives Marius some small degree of comfort, like it’ll remove the need to dismiss him.

“Marius, I…”

You are very very wrong. [read on AO3]

[monstersinthecosmos]

Small, Shiro called him, and he feels small again, in Shiro’s arms like this. It peels at the corners of a memory, buried deep where Keith hasn’t touched it in years. One of the ones he doesn’t like to think about because it still hurts too much. But it flashes to the surface and he goes tense.

Shiro must be able to feel the way his muscles seize.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Keith mumbles. Shiro is still hovering behind him, wrapped around him, teaching him the right way to move. And the memory is itchy in his brain, taking on more color as the seconds tick by. He remembers the sun on his face and the smell of cut grass, his dad’s arms around him just like this, teaching him the right way to swing a baseball bat.

Another bot comes towards them and Shiro guides Keith again to disable it. Keith steps back as it falls at their feet, straight up against the solid wall of Shiro’s chest. He shudders and Shiro rubs his human thumb in a circle on the back of his hand.

He calls for the program to pause and Keith almost protests, almost asks him why, but Shiro’s voice by his ear makes him stop.

“I had fun last night,” Shiro says. He squeezes once over Keith’s hands before he starts to pull back, touches him over his hips, pets him gently.

“Y-yeah,” his voice is dry, scratching out. Shiro’s fingers trace the hem of his shirt and he almost loses his grip on the baton, but puts all his energy into focusing on it, into staying cool.

For a moment Shiro just breathes there, into his hair, like he’s mulling over what to say. His hands stop and he drums his fingers against Keith’s hip bones.

“Were you really jerking off when I messaged you?”

From anyone else the question would sound desperate, like he’s fishing for reassurances, insecure in his own performance. But Shiro just seems amused, and it’s ironic that it makes Keith feel insecure, instead. His face burns and he looks down at his shoes.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Heh,” Shiro chuckles next to his ear. Keith twists the baton in his hands for a lack of anywhere else to put his nervous energy. “Is that normal for you?”

God. Why is Shiro like this? [read on AO3]