(Don't Fear) The Reaper

by DeafeningUnknown

Summary:

Daniel Molloy pieces together fragments of his past in a New England cabin in an attempt to write his own memoir, but finds a missing year. A letter from his wayward maker inviting him to learn more kick-starts a journey of re-discovery.

A split-timeline story featuring an alternative Devil's Minion side quest, typical Armand mindfuckery, entirely too many Literary and musical references, and some good, old-fashioned toxic yaoi.

Chapter 1

“Daniel, I can only hold them off so long. You promised me a draft six months ago.” The voice on the other end of the scratchy phone call is whiney, incessant like the drone of a mosquito. “Please tell me you at least have something.”

“Ellen, have I ever let you down before?” Daniel grins, a cigarette held between the fingers of his hand not holding the phone.

“Several times…”

“You’ll have the first chapters by the end of next week. Scout’s honor.” He raises his eyebrows and lifts three fingers. 

“Daniel, you better follow through this time…” He ends the call and takes a drag from the cigarette. Gossamer smoke hangs on the chill October air and the coal at the end glows as brightly as his carnelian eyes.

He was never a boy scout. At least, he doesn’t remember being one.

Memory is a funny thing— a fact made ever more apparent by recent events. After the flames of Daniel’s blood dimmed from the scorching intensity of the Dubai sun to something more manageable, there was no longer any reason for him to remain there in the shambles of his maker’s domestic farce. The Dark Gift had returned some of his memories. Many still remained shrouded as if behind dirty glass or through the snowstorm haze of a bad analog television signal.

Then again, analog television doesn’t exist any more. Daniel shakes his head and exhales another slow cloud of smoke. Perhaps choosing to write his own memoir had been a bad idea. Sure, his agent thought it was brilliant. How else could he follow up on the success of one incredibly successful memoir? With another, of course! Disregarding the fact that most readers regarded his now-infamous ‘Interview’ as a work of fiction. How could the life of one sad, twice-divorced, sickly old man compare to the decades and centuries of his predecessors in undeath? Perhaps he should call Ellen back, explain that he’s hit a roadblock. Ask for another extension. Reach out to Arma… No. 

There was nothing his maker could do to help. Nothing he could do to make up for the years of radio silence. 

Crushing the cigarette under the heel of his boot, Daniel stands. It’s still a wonder to him that his bones do not protest the movement. Even in the chill night air, his joints feel as nimble as they were back in San Francisco, all those decades ago. Probably more so, considering that his blood runs with a more powerful sort of drug these days. If he had known then how his life would change, would he have gone into that shitty little bar? Would he have taken Louis up on his offer?

There are a couple similar little bars in the nearby town. It’s not much, barely a blip on a map. The only reason anyone ever comes here is for the college or for the foliage. New England is like that. It’s far from the most ideal place for a fledgeling like him. Here, they lock their doors at night and whisper prayers each Sunday. The townsfolk get suspicious if one of their own goes missing too often, and the college kids have parents to still check up on them. How times have changed since he himself was in school. 

No, it’s safest to pick off tourists and travellers. Vagrants passing through are uncommon, but adequate. His thirst has dulled since he was first turned, and there are plenty of squirrels and other small creatures to drain, if needed. Louis had laughed at him when he’d asked for pointers on pursuing non-human prey. 

Daniel sighs and swings open the screen door to the cottage he’d rented. Robert Frost was bullshitting when he said that time spent alone in the wilderness stimulates the muse and inspires creativity. The yuppie hipster city kids who hole themselves up in these mustard-painted cabins every summer are paying for pretentiousness and placebo. 

“Pretentiousness and placebo…” he mutters to himself, sitting heavily on the deflated couch in the sitting room. “That’s a good one.” He scribbles at the corner of his notebook with a dying ballpoint pen until it bleeds blue ink, jotting the words down among others. None of it comes close to a cohesive narrative. Maybe memoir isn’t his calling after all and the inspiration Frost spoke of only applies to poets.

This would all be so much easier if his mind wasn’t as drafty as the cabin’s wooden walls. Bitterness lances through Daniel as surely as if he drank from a lifelong housewife. There are memories there, somewhere in the dusty cobwebbed corners of his mind, buried beneath acetate layers of post-production. Of all the maladies for the Dark Gift to neglect in its wholesale rejuvenation, the gaps in his past hurt more than anything else. 

They come in bits and spurts, chunky like old blood caught around fingernails. A flash inspired by a whiff of coffee. The shake of a brunette head. A dream of nights spent warm and kept and loved, only for the cruel grip of consciousness to pull him back again. Even the parts of his past he does remember fall under suspicion. How much does he remember, and how much is yet another red-rimmed lie?

He wishes he kept a diary, as stupid as that sounds. Of course, young Daniel, so confident in his capacity to remember, was never one to write anything down. Why bother recording one’s own story when that of others was so much more interesting? Then again, he hasn’t changed very much in that regard. 

The coffee table in the cabin is covered in scraps of paper and photocopies of old articles. They’re all that remains of his own recorded record. There are no rough drafts— most of those were discarded shortly after creation. Any notes he ever took are long lost to the streams of time. He looks fondly on some of his early work. Amateur, yes. Ambitious. Even cocky. The fascinating boy with a point of view. Before the world got to him, his style was looser, more flamboyant. The rhythms of the beat poets and a gentle folk-music lyricism conveyed his messages, a far cry from his current, more restrained technique. 

Drugs, certainly, had a part to play. What was a recreational fascination the first time he met a vampire quickly spiralled into an all-consuming addiction. For a period of time, there are no published works for him to reference. It is a dark era, raked bare in his memory. For the longest time, he assumed that the years were lost in the bottom of a bottle or burned at the end of a piece of glass. Now, he’s not so sure. 

The cottage is too quiet. Daniel’s thoughts are too loud between the creaking of the floorboards and the nesting of mice beneath. Their tiny hearts pound out a whirred rhythm, audible over the gentle sigh of wind outside. He selects a record from the oak cabinet and slides it from its envelope. Bob Dylan. It will have to do. The needle falls into its groove and a plucky guitar overcomes the silence. 

Selecting an article from the pile, Daniel approaches the far wall. Spring 1978. A fluff piece about some new nightclub opening in San Francisco. He’d written the whole thing zonked out of his mind on quaaludes or something, it’s a wonder that the words made any sense at all. It joins the procession of pieces, tacked up beside the last one. A thin, red strand of yarn runs through the haphazard collage. 

Whose brilliant idea was it for the amnesiac to write a memoir?

Oh yeah, his own.

Fucking asshole.

Post-it notes with major life events dot the timeline. The birth of his daughters. His Pulitzers. The weddings and subsequent divorces. On their own, they detail a full life. A life well-lived, his pretentious dickhead of a maker would say. But on the wall, surrounded by words he knows he wrote, Daniel can’t see anything but the gap. Something just south of his soul creaks like the rafters above him. He’s missing something. He’s missing something, and he knows who has it. 

There’s no proof that his maker had anything to do with the missing year or so. In fact, this year was already dotted with known events, some of his favorite memories. That year he’d taken to the road. He’d seen the country. He’d met Alice. If only he could ask her, but, no. An impossibility. His heart aches with that phantom limb sensation of grief. She really deserved better than the bitter old man he became and would eternally remain, and certainly better than the plain pine box she rests in now. 

Still, he had come to New England. Here, where it all started. Maybe the woodsmoke in the wind and the rustle of fallen leaves would stir some sort of recollection from his autumnal mind. So what if the amber foliage reminded him not of Alice’s gentle hands, but of that infernal man’s? So what if the sugar maples turned the color of his eyes as he told Daniel to rest, rest, rest… 

There is no time for rest! Daniel paces back to the coffee table and finds another article, this one not written by him. He swallows back a lurch of discomfort as he reads. It wasn’t front page news. Little more than a current event, really. Car crashes into bay, driver saved by good Samaritan. It goes up on the timeline at the very end of the missing year. 

It had to have been the drugs.

Why else would he have done something so monumentally stupid, and when his life was otherwise going so well?

Another mystery to solve. 

Daniel scrubs his hands up over his face, pushing his glasses up on top of his head. The nosepieces tangle in his silver curls. They’re mostly habit at this point, the lenses replaced with plain tinted glass when the Dark Gift rendered his vision superior than that of a mere mortal. 

The man’s thoughts are louder than the crunch of dead leaves beneath his tires.

Stupid rich fucks, always finding the most inconvenient places to hide out. Who does this guy think he is, anyway? Some sort of transcendentalist? God, I hated reading Walden in high school.

Daniel is across the room, drawing back the heavy velvet curtains in an instant. Headlights from a shitty little Honda Civic with a bad catalytic converter sweep across the front of the cottage. Local high schoolers looking for a place to drink cheap beer and smoke ditchweed? No, the man’s thoughts are driven. He’s been paid to drive up the mountain and find Daniel. Another vampire, bitter about his exposé? The steady sluggish rhythm of the man’s heart says otherwise. He is human, though that does not rule out the possibility of interference from another of Daniel’s kind. Not long ago, fear would have gripped him at the idea. Now, it’s more like a challenge. 

The man— a boy, really— is young, tall, with dark, sad eyes. By the time he slams his car door closed behind him, Daniel stands on the rickety front porch. He knows he strikes an imposing figure, lurking in the shadows with a touch of his maker’s dramatics. 

“Jesus!” the boy yelps, a hand to his chest. “Fuck, man, I didn’t see you there.”

“Can I help you?” Daniel’s gums itch where his fangs ache to descend. When was the last time he ate? Those through-hikers a couple days ago? An unsatisfactory meal, the blood like soy milk.

“Uh, yeah,” the youth clears his throat and reaches into his jacket to withdraw an envelope. “Are you… Daniel Molloy?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Wait, hold on.” The boy takes a tentative step forward, squinting at Daniel’s face. “I knew your name sounded familiar. You’re that author, right? With the vampires? I heard your NPR special…”

A delicious thrill runs through his blood— adrenaline to accompany the lingering buzz from a spliff smoked on the drive up. Something in Daniel’s expression must give away his impatience.

“Oh, right! Your letter!” The boy stumbles forward the few steps to the porch, holding out the envelope with a hero-worshipful smile. Fuck, was Daniel just as pathetic when he was that age? A stupid question— of course he was. It’s what got him into this mess in the first place. He almost feels a twinge of pity for the boy. Almost.

The letter is heavier than it looks. Made of thick, creamy cardstock, the envelope is sealed with a shiny red dollop of wax bearing an antique coat of arms. The paper smells faintly of red wine and incense and, if the drama of the whole situation hadn’t already given the sender away, that scent would have done him in. 

“Motherfucker,” Daniel mutters under his breath, sliding a nail under the seal to pop it open. The boy watches him intently. “Don’t you have something better to do, kid?”

“I was instructed to wait for a response,” he says, eyes slightly misty with that inescapable influence that comes with an order from so ancient a vampire.

“Of course you were.” Daniel withdraws the letter from within and skims the first page. It is different from the others, on the same heavy paper as the envelope. The penmanship is immaculate, as expected, deep oxblood in color and bearing the distinctive flair of a calligrapher. Each letter’s angles are sharp as if they were inscribed with a knife or a quill pen. 

That dramatic bitch probably did write it with an honest-to-God feather quill, just for the bit, Daniel thinks. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

The letter is short.

Daniel,

I know you have little reason to read this. I would not fault you if my words were consumed by flames. We have much to discuss, as you have much to remember. I hope that the pages I have enclosed will entice you to join me. I await your response at our place in Boston.

“Armand,” Daniel growls, reading a signature not present on the page. It’s an effort for him not to crumple the pages in his hands as he considers the message from his maker. Three years. Three long years, and this is how he decides to return? With a pretty little note and an invitation to dinner? It’s almost quaint, considering the hell Daniel has been through— first after the disastrous interview of ‘73 and then again after Dubai, and all at the hands of that conniving, manipulative, petty, dangerous, terrible, beautiful…

He turns the page to distract himself, finding a page clearly torn from a notebook of some sort. The pages are lined and bible-thin, bearing messy blue ink scribbles around the edges. Lines are scratched out. The ‘a’s list a little to the left.

“What the fuck,” he furrows his brow, bringing the page closer to his face, though he can see it just fine. At the top of the page is a date.

May 30, 1979.

“Hey, are you good, mister?” the boy says, trailing after him as he pushes back through the cottage door. 

1979

The timeline on the wall taunts him with its blank space and he holds the torn page up like a missing puzzle piece.

The sticky note beside it bears the same scrawled handwriting (it was never very good, even before the drugs and the disease took it away).

“White Line Fever,” Daniel reads the underlined title written at the top of the page. Memory rattles through him like a coin in a slot machine. Like a loose screw in an engine pan. Like ice in a glass. 

He is once again young, eyes set on the East. An entire chapter of his life appears like the rising sun— burning, painful, inevitable.  Each forced, fruitless gasp of air brings no relief. How did he forget so much?

Armand.

With a snarl, Daniel turns over the pages again, rereading his maker’s missive. The words are just as detached as always, but he finds a small note scrawled at the bottom.

The boy is for you.

With a scarlet haze of rage overcoming his vision, Daniel’s fangs drop at the suggestion. 

“Woah, man. It’s just a letter,” the boy says, finally taking a step back. His dark eyes are large, round, rimmed with mink-soft lashes. Daniel lunges at him, slow enough that he can see the terror in those eyes that remind him so much of the man who he’d rather tear into. 

The blood is hot and sweet on his tongue, with just a suggestion of weed in the aftertaste, and gone entirely too soon. Daniel drops the boy’s body with a wet thud and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“That fucker was trying to bribe me,” he says to no one in particular. The secondhand high files away the sharpest edge of his anger, but the molten core of it remains just under the surface, pulsing in time with the fresh blood in his veins. He collects the pages of his old journal from where they fell to the floor and runs a finger down the torn edge. 

It’s the break he’s needed. The opening lines of the story— a novel, he remembers, dredge up memories he barely has the sense of mind to process. Clearly there are more pages, and all it’ll take for him to recover them is the acknowledgement of his deadbeat maker. Of that infuriating, absent, pretentious, aloof, precious… of that asshole that waited until he was old and one foot in the grave already to give him the Dark Gift. 

Daniel’s fist leaves a dent in the plaster wall beside the sticky note labeled 1979.

If that little shit wants a confrontation, that’s just what he’s going to fucking get.

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Daniel and Armand meet up in Boston

White Line Fever- Chapter 1

Have you ever driven down a road for so long that the miles fold in upon each other like so many chicken-scratched pages that they form a novel of the journey? That story whose resolution only comes at the arrival at one’s destination defines the driver- their experiences compiled within creating identity as much as informed by it. 

Generations of American men, buoyed by their knowledge that indeed their perspective on this topic is pivotal to the greater human understanding of existence, have attempted to compose a narrative that encapsulates that great journey. From the first tales of the pioneers who walked the paths carved by this land’s ancestors and called themselves trailblazers to those who to this day set off on their noble bildungsroman quest to see from sea to shining sea- all have shouldered the arrogant duty of sharing with those less enlightened the beauty of the road. They must share that siren song of empty asphalt and by-the-hour motel rooms to those who cannot hear its call. They attempt to put pen to paper and translate something ephemeral into a commodity, but the road cannot be sold. The road takes in these men and writes its own stories- cannibalizing its young and aimless offspring.

I will share with you now one such tale.

 This is the story of a man- a writer, a driver, a son, a friend. It is a story told long as the highways, as many times as there are stars in the sky. It is a story told over and over again and one forgotten by those who need it most. 

This is the story of the son of the highway.

The greatest journeys begin with a choice.

As I set out to follow the muse’s sweet song, I know my life will never be the same. I adjust my mirrors and slide on my shades as I pull out of the driveway. My hands tighten around the supple leather of my ride’s steering wheel. Its smooth, cool caress grounds me as we pass over the familiar roads. 

The pavement beneath me rumbles and changes as I turn off those familiar San Francisco streets. I’ll miss them, in a way. There’s a certain comfort to travelling a route so well-worn that you can just allow the mind to wander, to dream. The act of driving becomes secondary to the stories I tell myself. I spent the better part of a decade riding these old roads and dreaming of where I’d go next, more if I count the years before I could choose my own path, make my own turns. No more. 

I turn up the volume of my radio and let the music drown out the last aches of California. The Son of the Highway has no past. He has no set future. There is no such thing as fate. Anyone selling predestination as a philosophy for life has something to gain from complacency. We all have the capacity to blaze our own paths, make our own choices. Sure I might make a few mistakes along the way, but I’m only human. And isn’t that the most beautiful thing? 

As I drive east, the roar of my engine barely audible over the music, I feel the most alive I ever have. The sun dips ever closer to the horizon but it’s as if the rising moon mirrors my own rebirth, and how appropriate? Now I am a figure of the night, armed with my pen and paper to cast light on these sublime pleasures of life, just like those who came before me. 

I’m not so arrogant as to think I’m the first to hear that ephemeral song and heed its call. If anything, I’m honored to be among the chosen. The Highway has selected me as one of her beloved. We Sons understand what so many ignore in their mundane, day to day drudgery. It is our calling to bring to light this beauty, to spread her word as far as we may travel. 

In choosing to answer this call I reject my past. I reject the name my mother cried into my shoulder as I left and the weight it carried. I reject the pressure to settle in any one place, for longer than necessary out of comfort or convenience. I devote myself as an ascetic to the road, an acolyte of her true calling. My art will sustain me and my ride will be my only constant company. 

My reliable steed whines as I push her to her limits as we fly down the highway away from the city, that great bastion of human ingenuity and hubris. My heart stutters at its electric beauty in the rearview. Lights glitter as far as the eye could see, red and blue and green against the never-quite-darkness. Before me is the great night, unblemished by human intervention. Here is the land of great possibility as promised by the road’s song. Here I can study humanity, be surrounded by life and art. I understood then perhaps what the settlers of this land felt while gazing upon these golden plains for the first time. 

Opportunity. 

Prosperity. 

Glory. 

Today is my new beginning. 

***

“Anyone selling predestination as a philosophy for life has something to gain from complacency…” Daniel mutters, highlighting the line in bright yellow. “Not bad, young me, not bad, even if the rest of this is garbage. Son of the highway? The fuck was I smoking?” 

The pages of his novel are spread across the hotel desk, beneath the re-created timeline from the woodland cottage. He remembers now, after his week of hell in 1973, after a couple years of floundering about, he’d packed his meagre belongings into his rented ‘67 Mustang determined to find purpose on the road. 

It was an adolescent dream, driven by too much cocaine and an enamoration with Kerouac, probably encouraged by Armand’s mind-meddling. A grand trip across the country is exactly what a promising young writer with a point of view would do.

Daniel’s mouth floods with a bitterness unrelated to the coffee he sips, once again more out of habit than anything. While aspects of his new existence came naturally, he can’t seem to shed some of the trappings of humanity. Something about an old dog and new tricks. 

The sun has just barely set, but he hasn’t been able to sleep since the night before, when that poor messenger boy arrived at his front door. The drive down to Boston only took a couple hours, but he spent the day reading and re-reading the scrap of narrative, looking for memories between the scrawled lines. He can recite the chapter from fucking memory at this point. The room is hazy with the smoke of a dozen cigarettes, damn the cleaning fees. He’s making Armand foot the bill anyway.

Tossing the highlighter aside, he pushes the chair back and treads the well-paced path to the bathroom to check his appearance in the mirror again. If only the legends of vampires were true in this aspect, he wouldn’t have reason to stare at his own saggy face again.

“Goddamnit, Danny, you’re actin’ like a kid on prom night,” he scowls at his reflection. “It’s just drinks. A necessary evil.” He runs a hand through his unruly hair and leans against the counter. With a comical hiss, he opens his mouth and watches his fangs descend, the tip of his tongue running over the razor edge. 

“Sure hope daddy dearest approves of how the prodigal son has developed,” he grumbles, nose wrinkling in a sneer. His maraschino-cherry eyes meet his reflection’s and the expression drops.

 Who the fuck is he kidding? He’s nervous as shit. 

A dusty part of his mind calls out for him to find a snack before going to the bar. A stumbling castout from a bar, or perhaps an opioid-hazed gutter kid. Something to take the edge off. Instead he grabs his leather jacket off the hook by the door and ventures out into the city.

Boston in November is sharp. The wind off the harbor cuts through clothing and flesh alike, and carries with it the signature diesel-seawater-colonial grime scent lodged between each cobblestone of the old city roads. Daniel’s hotel is only a few blocks from the bar, but he takes his time between the streetlamps. There’s a suggestion of winter in the air, carried on the backdrop of honking Uber drivers and the crass calls of seagulls. The few passing pedestrians are corporate shills or tourists, their thoughts a jumbled mess of conference calls, stock options, and plans to tour Old North Church. A passing child wields his rolled-up poster copy of the Declaration of Independence like a sword and quotes Nick Cage in National Treasure. His exasperated mother looks forward to the tiny bottle of gin in their minibar.

The crosswalk signal chirps a cheery admonishment to wait and Daniel looks around, lips in a tight line, feet shuffling with impatience. Even with his newfound speed, only an idiot would jaywalk in this city, so he begrudgingly complies. From the corner of his vision, he keeps seeing dark curls and slender-framed men who walk with the confidence of half a millenia. There’s a familiarity to the sensation, as if he’s the quarry of some apex predator, that does not sit well on his mostly-empty stomach. With shaking fingers he lights another cigarette with a lighter. If only he knew that neat trick the others had to use the Gift instead. Perhaps his maker will find it in his cold, dead heart to teach his one and only fledgling now, seeing as he’s decided to reemerge from whatever hole he’s been hiding in. 

The bar has a different name now, a different concept. In the 70’s, it was a grimey Irish pub like every other dive in Boston. Now it’s some sort of gothic Mexican joint. The bouncer doesn’t even bother carding Daniel and waves him through the heavy wooden door with its wrought iron grate over the small window. The cellar-like space, just off the river, is as dark as always, though the speakers pump out a lively bachata now. It’s so loud, he almost mistakes the distinctive, novel thrum deep in his chest for a bassline. Bypassing the main bar by the dance floor, he passes leather-upholstered, intimate booths filled with a sundry assortment of hipsters and trust fund kids. Their minds are blurred by mezcal and sangria and the sordid sorts of things only the young and generationally wealthy can afford to occupy themselves with. Let them enjoy the night, he thinks. What he’d give for that experience again.

The smaller side bar is just as full as the main one. It’s what he gets for going out on a Friday night. A giggling gold-digger in towering stilettos nearly spills her spicy margarita on him, but it’s no effort to sidestep her stumble. Her disappointment at losing the opportunity to talk to the ‘old man with good taste’ is palpable, even without skimming her thoughts. 

Daniel is grateful for his enhanced sight to discern those who sit at the bar, but ultimately, it’s the silence that he notices first. There, at the end, half behind a heavy, candelabra dripping in hardened wax. A gap in the cacophony of drunk thoughts where only that incessant thrum in his chest exists. He stops stock-still, lungs suddenly frozen from their habitual inflation. 

Perhaps time stands still, or perhaps it’s another of Armand’s little games. He would, just to extend the moment and relish in the drama of it all. Always one for the stage production, the light illuminates his tawny skin in just the right way that he glows like a goddamn Boticelli angel. He even wears a white suit, the theatrical bastard. There’s the suggestion of a smile in his hawkish eyes when they meet Daniel’s own.

The whole angel thing is the sickest sort of act. No one should mistake this devil for anything resembling godly.

It’s the longest dozen or so steps to cross that space. The man on the stool beside Armand stands, leaving a confused date behind, with a spontaneous urge to take a very long walk. The bartender is already placing a stemmed glass filled with deep red liquid and slices of oranges before him. 

“Put it on his tab,” Daniel calls, gesturing to the vampire beside him with the glass. The bartender gives him a weak smile and scurries off.

“Still an opportunist, I see,” Armand says in his perplexing, clipped accent. He holds his own glass in one hand and crosses his other over himself, swirling the liquid slowly as if it were some cherished vintage. Daniel takes a sip of his drink, swallowing tightly as the taste of blood mixes with the rich wine and orange of a sangria.

“That’s certainly off-menu,” he says, sniffing the mixture and taking another tentative sip.

“The staff here are accommodating.”

“You mean weak-minded.”

Armand hums a response into his own drink. The following silence is stifling and Daniel shifts in his seat. What does one say to their deadbeat maker after a year of absence? What does one say to the man who held him hostage for nearly a week, then poked so many holes in his mind that he lost over a decade’s worth of memories? What does one say to the prettiest girl in the room?

“So… Love what they’ve done with the place. You think they still have that glory hole in the last stall?” he eventually settles on. It’s a cheap attempt, but Armand’s eyes soften just a touch. 

“Vulgar as always. I rather appreciate the renovations,” he muses.

“Of course you do, it probably reminds you of some ancient Romanian crypt, you fuckin’ freak.” 

Armand cuts him a sharp glare, lips twitching with unspoken censure. A giddy heat rises in Daniel’s body, likely from both his laced cocktail and the sheer pleasure of getting a rise out of the other man. There is nothing more intoxicating to him than the look on someone’s face when he needles their inadequately-hidden truth from them.

“A lesser maker would punish you for speaking to him like that.”

“A greater maker would have stuck around to finish the job,” Daniel taunts. “What was it, first-time jitters? Couldn’t last?”

Armand has the audacity to look almost sheepish, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning with a renewed determination. The words fall from his mouth like sticky sangria.

“I… regret the circumstances of your turning, Mister Molloy…”

“Don't you fuckin’ ‘Mister Molloy’ me.”

“Daniel.”

“Armand.”

It’s unnecessary, even childish, but an instinctive response. Daniel holds his maker’s gaze, unwilling to cower, even though he knows he should. He did, once, and probably many times afterwards that he has yet to remember. But that was then, before the playing field was leveled by blood and time. The air grows thick between them and Daniel smirks at the knowledge that Armand can no longer read his thoughts or manipulate his body to turn the tide in his favor. 

And then the bastard tilts his head to the side and grins. The bond between them flutters like a heart just beats away from death. Daniel’s shoulders relax a fraction and he smiles too, a laugh bubbling from his chest.

Time slows once again, and Armand’s hand is gripping his chin, his nails digging into the skin. The world narrows to those tiny points of contact.

“Always so confident in yourself, do not forget who has walked this earth longer, boy,” he hisses, face inches from Daniel’s own. 

“Yeah, yeah, big scary vampire over here! Old as dust! Comes with daddy issues out the ass!” Daniel yells to the frozen bar, then turns on his maker. “You don’t scare me,” he sneers and pulls away from his hold. A nail scratches his chin, drawing a bead of blood to the surface. 

Armand withdraws his hand as if burned, glowing eyes fixated on the already-healed cut, then on the minute smudge of red on his nail. His lips part and Daniel can swear he can see his nostrils flare. 

“You should be afraid,” Armand says. With feigned nonchalance, he stirs his drink with that same finger, releasing his hold on the bar. It springs back to life with a flare of music and laughter.

“Fat chance. As I said, fuckin’ freak,” Daniel scowls. “You know, I didn’t have to come.” He seriously considers downing his drink and walking out. 

“And yet, you did.” The words hit harder than if Armand had slapped him across the face, delivered with that same flat inflection as if he was merely discussing the weather.

“Keep saying shit like that and I’m gonna change my mind,” he grumbles, leaning on the bar with crossed arms. “You know why I’m here.”

“The manuscript, yes.” From inside his coat, Armand withdraws a small, black notebook. “Not your best work, I’ll admit.”

“And you’re some sort of expert in that?”

“I’ve read every word you’ve published, Daniel, and many you have not.”

“Yeah? Well then, that makes one of us, apparently.” He can’t help the bitterness that seeps through. 

“I will not apologize for what I have done,” Armand grips the notebook just a little harder, pulling it close to his chest as if it could protect him from his fledgling’s wrath.

“Didn’t expect you to. If nothing else, you’re a convicted bastard, you know that?”

“What’s the phrase… Takes one to know one?”

Daniel huffs a laugh into the dregs of his sangria. The answering uplift of Armand’s lips is the closest he knows he will ever receive to penance for everything. It is at once not enough and more than he expected. 

“So what’s the deal here?” he asks, nodding to the book. “I forgive you for all the bullshit you’ve put me through and you graciously gift me a scrap of my own amature work? Seems I’m getting the shit end of the stick here.”

“I thought the expression was ‘the short end of the stick’.” Armand’s eyebrows draw together in that almost childish expression of confusion that does something funny to Daniel’s stomach. Or maybe that’s the wine. 

“Tomato, potato, boss,” he waves a hand. “Do I get my shitty attempt at the great American novel or not?”

“I am prepared to return the manuscript to you,” Armand nods and takes a deep, steadying, unnecessary breath. “But, in exchange, I wish to tell you my own story.”

Daniel lets out a low whistle. “You’re really taking this whole ‘fuck the Great Laws’ mentality to heart, then.” It’s more of an accusation than a question. “Which one was it? Number four? ‘Thou shall not keep a diary’ or something like that. From what I recall, Claudia died for less.”

“Not my story, Daniel. At least, not entirely.” Armand’s voice softens to the point only vampiric hearing can discern in a crowded bar, his expression taking on an edge of urgent vulnerability. “It is our story.”

And fuck him if Daniel hasn’t always been a slut for a good story.

Notes:

yes, I know I just published ch.1 yesterday. The brain worms are bad. I love these messy bitches.
unbetaed. comments and kudos give me life! let's yap about toxic gay vampires! I'm also on bsky as @grace_e_ludlow if you want to hear my random rambles

Chapter 3

Summary:

Daniel and Armand have a conversation. In 1979, Daniel leaves home.

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

I slammed closed the passenger’s side door of the rented Mustang and immediately regretted it as the loose locking mechanism fell into place. 

“Motherfucker,” I swore, the key in the ignition glinting as if to taunt my error. I wiped my face with the bottom of my t-shirt, leaving its impression in sweat upon the fabric. It was August and summer sat heavy in the air. The Mustang baked under the heat, her glossy red paint absorbing each succulent ray of sunlight as if she was some Malibu beach babe starlet. I ran my hands through my then-dark hair, turning upon my mother as if to cut her down as she laughed at my misfortune.

“It’s not fucking funny!” I snapped, storming past her toward the garage.

“Oh, come on, Danny. It is, just a little. You know, maybe you should wait until your father comes home and he can help fix that for you.”

I scowled. The old lady was delusional. My good-for-nothing scoundrel of a father wasn’t coming home, soon or likely ever. As far as I knew, that asshole was probably rotting in a jail cell or - worse- in one of those nowhere states like Missouri or Indiana. Far from me and the life I had planned.

With a grunt, I shouldered open the perpetually-sticky side door to the garage and flicked on the switch just inside. Fluorescent beams flickered to life, illuminating my father’s old workshop. It smelled of sawdust and oil, underlaid with the musk of the old man’s mutt. My heart stirred at the divot in the worn dog bed on the shop floor- memories of laying against the creature and paging through comic books while my father swore at the perpetually broken-down Tbird he’d worked on. The thing was a shitbox through and through, but eventually the old man had gotten it running enough to vanish into the night- a reality Ma had yet to fully accept even though the wooden blocks that once held the old steel chassis had sat empty for years. She stood in the doorway watching me dig through a jumbled tool chest.

“Your father is going to be upset you’re going through his things.” She wrung her thin hands. “Maybe I should just call Lisa, she’ll have the right tools…”

“No! I’ve got it,” I pulled a long, thin piece of metal from a drawer. “Don’t wanna see that bitch anyway.”

“Danny!”

“Peggy!” I turned and glared at her. Years of working in offices had left her pale and frail- more suited to a desk than the dust-covered workshop. Her age-thinned face softened before the incandescence of my frustration.

“You look just like him,” she said under her breath and pulled her shawl closer around her thin shoulders despite the heat. 

“Always the same shit.” I elbowed past her. “This is why I’m getting the fuck outta’ here.”

I had outgrown Modesto when I was still a teenager. The town’s narrow borders couldn’t contain me once I earned enough from my disastrous time in San Francisco and scratch pieces to rent the car. Only once behind the wheel did I hear what at the time I called the music- that haunting song that beckoned me forth. My dad had heard the song too- drawing him away from the little duplex and my mother’s incessant nagging. It was a sign, I was certain. I was called to carry out that ephemeral legacy, to write that next great story and secure my place in the world. I believed I had many things to say, but the roads of Modesto had already told their part. It was time for me to leave- to listen elsewhere.

“You’ll be safe, alright? Call me sometimes?” my mother said, trailing behind her only son like the tail behind a meteor. I didn’t bother with a response as I slid the metal piece in between the window and the door of his car. The mechanism popped open and I leaned in, taking keys in hand. They were warm against my skin and weighty with purpose. A set of metal dice on a chain- a gift from my father- jingled in anticipation against them. 

“Well, that’s everything,” I said, surveying the stuffed backseat. I rolled down the window of the passenger’s side door with steady cranks of the handle just in case before closing the door.

“You know, you really could wait and leave first thing tomorrow.” My mother eyed the vehicle with something like dread. “I hate the idea of you being out on the road at night. It’s already going to be dark by the time you hit Reno.”

“I’ll be alright, Ma. Quit your fussin’.” I pulled her into a reluctant hug. She closed her eyes and held me tightly, as if she never would again. 

“You know I worry. I’m so proud of you,” her arms held me as if made of Detroit’s finest steel. 

“I’ll be fine, promise.”

“Call me when you stop for the night.” She released me, though her arms lingered outstretched, as if I would return to her. Like a carved madonna, wrapped in her gauzy shawl.

I nodded my agreement and ignored the tears that gathered in her green eyes- so much like my own back then. I waved and slung myself into the driver’s seat, grabbing the sun-warmed set of aviator sunglasses from the dashboard. They sat perfectly on the bridge of my nose despite my uneven ears- an unfortunate inheritance from my father. 

Jamming the keys into the ignition, I relaxed into the asthmatic purr of the engine. Sure, it stuttered occasionally and there was that rattling from the engine pan that was probably not anything essential. The ride still ran great considering the number of miles already on it. I ran my hands over the flaking steering wheel and murmured a word of encouragement before shifting her into drive.  

The gravel driveway crunched beneath my wheels as I peeled out, my mother spectral in the cloud of dust I left behind. With her, I left most of my earthly belongings, save a handful. My journals, a guitar my father stole during some riot in the 60’s that I couldn’t play, a laundry hamper filled with (mostly) clean clothes, and the idea for the story of a lifetime filled the small car. There was a thousand dollars in cash and a pack of Marlboros in my pocket. With my mother in the rearview mirror, I also left behind my name. 

As I merged onto the highway, engine whining as I pushed it to the limit, Daniel Malloy died.

The Son of the Highway was born. 

***

“Alright, spill.” A second bloody sangria appears before Daniel, the empty glass of his last whisked away by a marginally paler bartender. “What’s the story so grand that it convinced you to show your face again?”

“What do you remember?” Armand asks, tapping one nail on the bar in an infuriating, staccato rhythm inaudible beneath the thrum of merengue from the speakers.

“Ain’t that the question,” Daniel exhales sharply through puffed lips. “I remember our lovely little staycation on Divisedero Street."

Armand winces minutely at that. 

“From there… it’s a bit blurry, but I think that’s the hash. Or maybe the coke? I don’t remember what I was on back then, all I know is it fucked me up something awful. Eventually I had to go crawling back to my mom’s place.”

“In Modesto.”

“Yeah… wait, how do you…?”

“You really think I just released you into the wild world after that whole debacle?” A sarcastic smile lights Armand’s face. “You were a hazard to self and others. It was all I could do to keep you alive.”

“But, Louis…?” Daniel stutters.

“What about him? He was in his own self-destructive spiral at the time. It would take until Y2K before he was well and truly stable again.” Armand’s smile takes on a bitter edge.

“Uh huh. So he was just cool with you fucking off for… fuck, how long were you just watching me? How did Louis phrase it… like some creeper?”

“You could fill a book- a lot of books, with things that Louis doesn’t remember, and you did. Which is why I read your work.”

“Did you just quote fucking Ratatouille to me?!”

“I rather liked the movie about the little French rat and his lumbering friend, it made many profound points and the animation was superb,” Armand sniffs, then sighs. “You’re still young in your immortality, be-Daniel. I hope you eventually come to see time in the same way we do.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still trying to catch up on the past 50-odd years. I remember leaving home, driving north, then east… It was a stupid thing to do, really. You know, I never really had a destination in mind? According to this shit, it was all about the journey.” He brandishes the notebook. “Famous last words for a broke-ass loser.”

“But poetic, in their own, self-important sort of way.”

“I only recently acquired my nepo-baby status, thank you very much. I wasn’t working on a proper poet’s stipend at the time,” Daniel grouses. 

“Were you not?” Armand raises one of those infuriatingly well-shaped eyebrows at him. He bets the fucker gets them threaded or something else equally vain. “Daniel, how do you think you funded your grand adventure?”

“I… I had a bit saved up…” he says, but the damage is done. Doubt pours over the memories in a crimson tide. Sure, a grand went further back then than it did now, but how long was he on the road? How did he afford the car, gas, cigarettes, booze? He surely hadn’t sucked enough dicks to pay for all the drugs. Armand just nods solemnly. 

“It only had to last me until I got East! Then Alice covered… my… ass… Holy shit.” When he looks up into his maker’s eyes, they’re a pink-stained gold. The soft, warm light of the bar casts shadows on his already delicate features, highlighting the caramel notes in his voluminous curls. He spins a golden ring around his left ring finger in a familiar nervous tic. Daniel stands suddenly, the stool scraping over the uneven floor with a world-halting screech. He leans over the bar and waves down the pale youth.

“Oi! Barman!” His voice is tight and the lights take on a reddish glow around the edges. “Check please!”

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

Many look back on their lives at the end and identify a point where everything changed.

For some, this point comes early. Children realize the promises their caretakers have made are lies. Girls learn of the unfortunate reality of their futures. Some face their truths later- Mothers holding the screaming death of their individuality in exhausted arms as fathers celebrate with shots of whiskey. Men retire from a lifetime of dedication to grocery store sheet cakes and defunded pension plans. No one wants to hire the journalist any more, his work overshadowed by the incessant barrage of live news.

Not all reckonings are tragic. Some truly believe that the moment they lock eyes with a beautiful other, their fate is indelibly altered. The Red String, the Platonic Ideal…. As long as humans have expressed love, they have shared this concept of matched souls. How many romantics throughout the ages have searched for their true partner? They believe no truer purpose exists but to find this person. Through their union, they’ll be finally complete. 

I once dismissed this mentality as foolish. Now, I am not so certain.

When my life ended and my eternity began, there was only one being who occupied my mind.

My very own reckoning.

***

Daniel bursts through the door of the bar into the chill midnight air, gulping great lungfuls of the stuff as if it could purge his body of its impending catastrophe. He clings to the iron railing that separates sidewalk from waterway. 

In the back of his mind, he knows that this is not the first time he’s faced a reckoning such as this. It calls to the memories of San Francisco, of Dubai, of Miami and New Orleans and Athens and Paris. 

And fucking Paris. 

How many times has this been taken from him?

How many times has he remembered?

No wonder his heart became stretched out like a pair of old underwear— the elastic failing at the waist and gapping around the thighs. 

He needs to leave. Needs to go… somewhere. Anywhere else. He climbs the stairs to street level, taking two at a time.

The door opens behind him, followed by the sound of fine leather shoes on time-worn brick. The panic from the other side of their bond resonates with his own.

“Daniel, I…” Armand starts, but he cuts him off.

“Don’t.” Daniel holds up a hand, his stride not faltering. The last thing he needs right now is platitudes from a liar.

“If you’ll only let me explain!”

“Explain?!” he turns. Despite Armand’s few inches on him, he feels so much larger than the slight, round-shouldered man, standing two steps above him. Armand looks up at him with those pleading, doe-like eyes.

“Yes, explain. You do not remember everything, or at least, you do not remember it as it happened…” Daniel turns back around and continues forward, his maker at his heels. 

“So now that you can’t erase the experiences again, you want to tell me your version of the story?” he spits, crossing the road in a burst of speed, despite the signal’s warning. A dark SUV still nearly hits him, laying on the horn and screaming a very creative combination of curses and slurs.

“I want you to remember, Daniel, is that so difficult for you to believe?”

 “Why? In the hope that I’ll understand? I see what you’re doing here, boss, you’re about as subtle as a baseball bat to the knees.”

“And what is that?” Armand steps in front of him, blocking his progress toward the harbor. His amber eyes catch the golden light of the streetlights and a sea-salt breeze blows a curl over his face. Daniel fights back the lunatic urge to brush it away. Instead, words like knives fly from his lips.

“This is your last-ditch effort to convince me that you’re some sort of the hero in all this! That Matrê knows best! You want me to believe that I’ve been your little bitch boy ever since you tied me to that fucking chair and interrogated me for fascinating your ex!”

A mocking, low blow. Even as he says it, he regrets it. Anger flashes across Armand’s face, a suggestion of fangs and the cold, hard expression of someone on the defensive.

“I am no hero!” Armand’s voice raises with Daniel’s, but he grits his teeth and closes his eyes. “I’ve never claimed as much. I know what I am- a monster. An aberration. I lie and use the people around me, regardless of my love for them, because of my love for them…”

“And this is the part where papa tells me I’m his special boy and he loves me so much, finally returned from the fabled quest for milk and smokes?” Daniel sneers in his face. “Well, congratulations, you’re stuck with me until I remember every. Damn. Thing you took from me.” He punctuates the statement with clawed jabs to the other man’s chest. Armand’s round eyes widen a fraction and he blinks.

“You’re… You want me to stay?” There’s a delicate sort of uncertainty to the quiet sentence, as if he turned over and showed him his soft, pale belly. The bond in his chest thrums with something like hope.

Daniel laughs, dry and humorless. 

“It’s the last thing on earth that I want, but when did that ever stop you?” He pulls his cigarettes from his pocket and reaches for his lighter. The end flares to life on its own, glowing like their eyes in the dark. “Fuck, you’ll need to teach me that one some time.” 

Armand’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Anything for you.”

They are so close now, practically chest to chest. A passing bicyclist on the boardwalk wolf-whistles at them and their heads turn in sharp unison. The man’s thoughts are lewd, and perhaps a shade jealous. He wonders if the pretty one would put out for him, if he paid as much as the crusty old fart.

“Daniel, are you hungry?” Armand asks with his signature refinement as he watches the man pedal away. With steady fingers, he plucks the cigarette from Daniel’s mouth and places it between his own lips. He draws in a breath, then exhales in the French style, smoke running over his upper lip. 

“I could eat.” Daniel’s eyes are locked onto his maker’s mouth. The stresses of the night have worn on him and not even the blood-laced sangria could quell the bottomless ache forming inside him. Already, his fangs descend, itching to sink into a warm neck. 

“Well then,” Armand turns a devious grin on him, smoke seeping between his teeth. “Show me what you’ve learned… Make papa proud.”

Daniel shivers and grimaces, ignoring the clench in his stomach and responsive pulse of smug satisfaction through the bond.

“Oh, come on, we are not making that a thing, but… you’ve got it boss.”

 

Notes:

I fear I'm setting an unreasonable precedent of daily chapters that will not continue forever. At least to start, large sections of this are already written, though need significant revision, but this means I can write faster.
As you probably noticed from this chapter, there are actually three different narrative lines in this story- White Line Fever (the book Daniel wrote in 1979), Don't Think Twice (Daniel's memoir), and the 2025 timeline. I'll do my best to delineate where the switches are, and they're all in different tenses/POV, so hopefully it's not too confusing.
Here we believe in Pixar fanboy Armand and Daddy Issues Daniel. They're evil and gay, your honor.
Unbeta'ed as always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos! It's nice to write for such an active fandom again.

Chapter 4

Summary:

Daniel and Armand leave Boston. In 1979, Daniel has a Reckoning.

The Son of the Highway- Chapter 2

Enter the Siren

The Son of the Highway is no stranger to women or men. Every town, every city lays home to those other nameless, faceless entertainers who amuse for a night. The Son does not require anything more- his devotion is to the Road and its call. However, he is tempted by that perfect being, the one whose beauty surpasses all others. This Siren’s song harmonizes with the song of the Highway, calling the Son home again. She is at once his greatest strength and most devastating weakness. 

She stands as a paragon of Americana. Eyes carved of shimmering topaz flecked through with flashes of ruby survey me as if our union was foretold by ancient prophecy.

Indeed in that moment when I first saw her I knew that there was a reason. There was a reason why I walked into that bar at that time. I was meant to sit on that stool as much as she was meant to turn and see my hand raised for a drink. I believe our meeting was the will of the Highway, that this ethereal being should enter my life and provide inspiration. She was made for me just as Eve was made for Adam- a gift for my devotion to the song. I find myself reinvigorated in my drive to create. 

My muse is a creature of purest beauty. The Siren as I call her has consumed my very existence. Willingly, I’ve offered up to her everything— my heart, my mind, even my very soul.

There’s nothing, no one else that matters to me like my lady— my muse.

***

Daniel wakes, stomach still churning with the bicyclist’s blood and the echoes of a dream on his mind. There’s definitely gore trapped in his teeth and it fills his mouth with a metallic, rotted taste. It takes a moment before he can block out the symphonic thoughts of the city. His eyes adjust instantly to the hotel room’s dim light. The lamp in the corner is on. 

That’s weird. He doesn’t remember turning it on. He doesn’t remember coming back to the room, actually. 

Wouldn’t be the first time he made it back to a hotel room without knowing how.

There’s something else he’s forgetting, though…

“Did you sleep well?”

Daniel sits bolt upright, fangs descending in the instant before he notices the man sitting in the desk chair. 

“Oh, you motherfucker,” he groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. Armand is downright cheery, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He holds the black notebook from the night before in one hand, his place held with a long finger. His curls are slicked back, held in place by one of those ridiculous zig-zag shaped headbands Daniel’s daughters would leave on the floor in wait of unsuspecting bare feet, and he’s wearing a loose silk shirt. When did the bastard have a chance to change? But more importantly…

“Have you just been sitting here watching me sleep off my dinner all day?” Daniel asks, swinging his legs off the bed. It doesn’t escape his notice that he wears only his boxers and an undershirt, his jeans folded neatly atop the bureau. 

“Of course not,” Armand sniffs, flipping the notebook open again. “For most of the time, I’ve been reviewing your story. Not much of a story, though, is it?”

Daniel just stares at him for a second, blinking slowly, like a frog sitting in a pot of lukewarm water. 

“There’s no real narrative line,” his oblivious maker continues. “It’s more of a philosophical reflection.” 

“Everyone’s a critic,” Daniel grumbles, standing. “It’s too fuckin’ early for this shit.”

“It’s not a shortcoming, Daniel, merely an observation.”

“Don’t you have something better to do than reading my coke-fueled delusions and listening to me snore?” He checks the bedside clock- 7:30PM.

“You don’t snore.”

“Tell that to my ex-wives… wife.” Daniel shakes his head and fumbles with the shitty plastic coffeemaker. 

“You don’t snore anymore,” Armand amends, waving his hand. A tall paper cup of steaming coffee lifts from the desk beside him and glides to a halt in the air by Daniel’s shoulder. He takes it with no small amount of reluctance. The high-quality brew tastes as terrible as his normal gas station-caliber sludge, but at least it smells nice. 

“Yeah, I’m sure I sleep like the dead now,” he sighs, sitting back on the rumpled bed. “My point stands. The fuck are you doing here?”

“We have an agreement, I intend to fulfill my side of the bargain.” 

“I don’t recall room service being part of the agreement. Three years later and you still can’t help yourself, can you, Rashid?” With a full stomach and a solid night of sleep, the jab comes with a complimentary wolfish grin. Armand’s mouth twitches in kind.

“I assumed that you’d be more pleasant to be around if you were comfortable, Mister Molloy. Speaking of,” he stands with unerring grace, placing the notebook back among the papers on the desk. “I’m disappointed in your choice of lodgings. Clearly, your taste is the same as it always was in that regard.” He eyes the peeling wallpaper and stained carpets with thinly-veiled disgust.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for those rubbery waffles.” 

“I fear you’re a little late for the continental breakfast. Or early, perhaps.”

“Mm…” Daniel nods through a mouthful of hot coffee. “Not particularly hungry, anyway.”

“You were… particularly thorough with your meal last night.” Amusement flickers in Armand’s golden eyes, along with something else. He slips his hands into the pockets of his dark, flowy trousers, looking down at his polished shoes with an almost shy smile. Daniel’s eyes narrow.

“Is that so?” he says and leans over for his glasses on the bedside table. “It’s, uh… a bit of a blur, y’know. Wanna share with the class?”

“You have a certain artistry to your hunt. Perhaps it was because you heard all of Louis’ rambling about how he and the girl floundered in their youth, but you move with efficiency.” A glazed look comes over Armand’s eyes, a light flush highlighting the tops of his cheekbones. “But still, you have the ferocity and enthusiasm of a newborn. The way you cornered that hideous man…” He closes his eyes as if reliving the scene, a shudder coursing through him. “Suffice to say, I’m pleased with your progress as a fledgling.” 

It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. Somewhere, between Daniel’s memories of his mother’s dusty hugs and the remembered sensation of Alice’s face pressed to his neck, a quivering small thing preens at the compliment. It’s almost enough to distract him from the obvious pleasure his maker takes at recounting his kill and the heat that flows through their bond. Daniel’s mouth is suddenly dry and he takes a too-large gulp of coffee. 

“Well, ack…” he coughs. “No thanks to you.”

The hint of warmth in Armand’s demeanor chills.

“Are you going to take every opportunity to mock me for my absence?” he snaps. Irritation shimmers down their bond like pop rocks.

“Depends.” Daniel sets his cup aside. “Are you ever going to explain why you left?”

“I…” Armand draws up short. “I will. Eventually, you have my word. But first…” He gestures to the desk and the timeline on the wall.

“Oh come on, can’t give me a sneak preview of the end? You know I always read the last page of the book first.”

“I’ve humored you enough, I think. If I’m going to tell you the whole story, I’d prefer to do it somewhere not rustling with cockroaches.”

“Snob,” Daniel snorts, standing again to dress himself. His shirt from the night before is suspiciously absent, but that’s probably for the best. According to Armand’s account, there was probably no saving it. He grabs a new one from his bag. “So, have somewhere in mind? Pretty sure the place in Dubai is booked this time ‘round.”

“That cottage you stayed in to the north will suffice. I’ve reserved it for the foreseeable future.”

“That shithole?”

“Call me sentimental.” Armand retrieves the black notebook from the desk and extends it to Daniel. It’s like the offer of a handshake, a peace treaty.

An order of execution.

Daniel takes it in steady hands.

“Sounds good, boss, but you’re driving.”

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

The bar wasn’t special.

It could have been any one of the number of roadside dives between the Rockies and the Mississippi. If you asked me to find it again, I’m sure I couldn’t tell you what state it was in, let alone the name. The establishment likely doesn’t even exist any more, and for good reason. The beer was flat, the bathrooms were disgusting, and the customers were even worse. I was coming down from twelve hours worth of uppers swiped off a trucker in Utah and stumbled in the place desperate for a drink and a story.

I’ve found that holes in walls like that one are the best source for stories. One doesn’t find authentic experiences at five-star restaurants or trendy bistros. There isn’t much to write about twenty dollar cocktails, unless you’re paid by the New Yorker. If you’re looking for the real, true experiences of average people, you’ll have better luck at the corner diner named after some grandfather named Joe or Steve than at a main street darling.

So— with my notebook and a raging headache, I sat at that sticky bar and raised my hand.

That was when I saw her.

Like my own personal angel, descending from heaven with a coaster and a crack of gum, the woman behind the bar turned to me with the most ethereal smile I’ve ever seen. She was tall and slender, with dark hair that fell to her shoulders and skin the color of whiskey.

Looking back, I should have turned tail then, but my fate was sealed.

“What’ll you have?” she asked, leaning on the bar in a way that emphasised the delicate swell of her chest. Rowdy young man I was, my eyes couldn’t decide where to land. I gaped at her like a fish out of water, completely useless in the face of perfection. 

“Uh… Dealer’s choice?” I finally sputtered. 

“Are you a writer?” she gestured to my notebook. She had long, narrow fingers tipped in scarlet and slim wrists. One wore a thick-banded watch, like a man’s. 

“Am I… oh, yeah! Yes.” I nodded jerkily. “I’m writing a novel. It’s a sort of… experimental thing, I guess… But it’s contemporary fiction, for the most part. Adventure, philosophy… I’m calling it White Line Fever.” The words came out in spurts and I cringed at my own inability to express myself. With a pen, I could convey every last thought and emotion that passed through my mind, but something about this woman- the flood ceased. 

“Sounds interesting.” She set a silver shaker on the counter and picked up a green bottle of liquor. “Gin?”

“Sure.” My mouth watered and I swallowed tightly. The incandescent light of the bar illuminated my alcoholic angel like a ray of sunlight. 

“Why White Line Fever?” She composed the drink with a fluid ease only attributable to repetition or natural skill, cracking the cocktail shaker open like an egg over a glass. 

“It’s a saying,” I said. A curious furrow formed between her dark, arched brows as she pulled a curl of peel from a lemon. The air was sharp with citrus and spilled beer. 

“It’s like that feeling you get when on a long road trip where the miles just… disappear,” I explained. “One second you’re driving and then the next…” I snapped my fingers. “Boom, you’re in the next state.”

“Ah, I see. One martini for the author.” She slid it across the polished wood.

“A martini?” I asked, eying the clear drink.

“It’s an American classic,” she shrugged. “Like baseball, jazz, and musical comedy.”

The liquor burned my throat as I took a sip and my eyes watered, but I couldn’t pull them from her. The song in my mind- that delusional call of adventure and purpose had never been louder, the melody drowning out the scratchy oldies that played from a jukebox in the corner. 

“Mm, that’s good,” I grimaced. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“I better be,” she laughed at me, the sound like the shattering of a glass. “What’s your name?”

“Me? Danny… Daniel Molloy” My ears warmed under her steady gaze.

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Mister Molloy.”

“Just Daniel is fine.” 

“Well, Just Daniel,” my angel leaned over the bar a few inches. “Do you want to open a tab?”

***

“I swear to fucking God, you’re going to kill me again,” Daniel ground out, clinging to the overhead handle of the Civic’s passenger seat. Armand rolled his eyes and looked over at him, his left wrist resting atop the wheel in a lazy display of confidence. It would have almost looked hot, if they weren’t going twenty over the speed limit on the Massachusetts turnpike. A Kia with a ‘Coexist’ bumper sticker swerved around them, careening toward the exit for Tewksbury. Daniel’s dead heart pounded in his chest and he did not loosen his white-knuckled hold.

“Is that really how you remember that night in the bar?” Armand asks, ignoring his panic. 

“No, I remember butterflies and rainbows, we drank daiquiris and fucked on the bar. Of course that’s now I remember it! Now can you please put your eyes back on the road!?”

Armand sighs and faces forward again. Before him, traffic parts like the red sea before Moses. The Civic’s engine protests loudly.

“I am not sure why you insisted on this car of all things, you know we could have procured something more comfortable, or at least capable of proper acceleration…”

“Look, you’re the one who wanted to go on a road trip,” Daniel snaps. “And I didn’t wanna brave Boston-Logan for a rental. The shitbox will have to do.”

“Always the same with you,” Armand mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said, I don’t remember it the same.”

“What do you mean, you don’t remember? Last I checked, you weren’t there!” Daniel pages back through the taped-together notebook. “All I’m seeing is the poetic ramblings of a kid who thought the waitress was hot. You’d think that a bloodthirsty twink would make the final cut.”

“I am not a twink!” Daniel grins as Armand flushes. “It was the seventies! Effeminate clothing was popular!”

“Sure, babe. Tell that to your bodacious… cleavage… oh God-fucking-damnit!” Daniel slams his head back into the headrest. The overhead handle tears away from the frame and falls into his lap. The dusty gears of his memory knock against each other and catch, whining like the Civic’s engine.

“I take it that you remember correctly now.” Armand’s smugness is palpable through the bond. “The bar was called Roller Rick’s, by the way.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? My ‘Great Muse’ was some 500-year old sadist in bell-bottoms?!”

“You were not complaining about my attire at the time.”

“I was half-conscious and horny! This is far from my worst transgression committed in such a state. Do you wanna explain why I refer to you exclusively as ‘she’ in all this?” Daniel brandishes the notebook as if it could catch on fire at any second.

“That… is my doing, I will admit. A small touch of the mind gift to cover my tracks.” The headlights of passing cars reflect in Armand’s hazard-orange eyes. “After San Francisco, I meant to keep my distance from you, and I did for some time. My observations were strictly conducted in a way that you would never notice. Most of the time, I didn’t even watch you myself. But when you left California, I was intrigued. You were— are so ambitious, and I had this… urge, this compulsion to be a part of your story once again. I meant for it to only be a glancing encounter. A passing conversation. Then I saw you in that bar and I heard your thoughts and I just… I could not take such inspiration from you. You looked at me, not as if I was something monstrous, but as if I was your answer. I let you walk out of that bar with the memory intact, thus damning myself to the next year of beautiful torture.” He laughed a small, brittle laugh. “I suppose it is the least I deserved after everything.”

“That’s all well and poetic,” Daniel swallows around something heart-shaped in his throat. “But, really? You met me in a god-damned gay bar. You’d rummaged around in my head enough to have a better idea of my sexuality than me at that point. You could have skipped the sex change.”

“I could have,” Armand shrugs again. “But then the story would be different. Besides, when you live for hundreds of years, the concept of gender fluctuates enough as civilizations rise and fall that it loses all meaning. I was content with you remembering me as your muse, even if it meant wearing a push-up bra and lipstick in those memories.”

The implications of the confession are enormous. Daniel sits for a moment under their weight. If the woman in the bar, The Siren— his great muse and the archetype which he would base his next choices— was truly the man sitting beside him, how many other tiny details changed? How much of the adventure had truly been fate and how much was the meddling of an over-theatric interloper?

“So this story,” Daniel brandishes the journal again. “My story was really co-written by the great directeur artistique the vampire Armand?”

“You could say that.”

“You’re a sick motherfucker, you know that, right?”

“So I have been told.” Armand weaves between a pair of semi trucks, just barely slipping through the gap. Daniel groans and tugs his seatbelt a little tighter over his lap. 

They cross the border into New Hampshire, a russet moon rising in the clear sky.

Notes:

Armand can't drive, change my mind.
Unbeta'ed as always, comments feed the brain worms!

Chapter 5

Summary:

Daniel and Armand arrive at the cottage. In 1979, Daniel reaches the Atlantic.

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

Despite my extensive research on the topic via Hollywood montages and concept albums, I was violently unprepared for the realities of the road. Sure, crossing the midwest was beautiful in a desolate, vast way. Oceans of amber grain and all that nonsense. Back then, there were fewer strip malls and larger stretches of empty asphalt. Texaco stations didn’t give you a second glance when you bought a breakfast of Marlboros and Modelo. You could still take a piss on the roadside without risking being put on a list.

But I hadn’t accounted for just how lonely the journey would be. 

As a journalist, I’ve made my living off of the lives of others. My profession is one of leaches and lepers. Largely rejected otherwise, we feed on the energy of those around us and transform scraps of truth into a tapestry worth hanging on the wall. Deprived of company beside my wretched self, I descended into a fugue state— the fabled White Line Fever.

My days and nights blurred together in a pattern of dashed and solid lines like a telegraph message. My legs ached from sitting on the slick leatherette seats of the Mustang. My mind ached for a worthwhile conversation. My heart ached for the woman from the bar, or perhaps that was the truck stop amphetamines. Hydration was an afterthought. At every opportunity, I wrote my half-hallucination observations on the things I saw. My pen was constantly tucked behind my ear, a cigarette behind the other. My notebook lay open on the passenger’s seat, ready for me to scribble whatever came to mind. The radio played a constant station-to-station array of rock and folk that I’ve never been able to replicate on a Spotify playlist. It’s just not the same without the AM static.

Between areas of strong signal, I had long, rambling conversations with myself. It’s probably for the best that I didn’t have the foresight to procure another tape recorder after mine didn’t make it out of San Francisco in one piece. Otherwise, I’d have probably spent more on tapes to immortalise my inane drivel than on gasoline and I wouldn’t have made it past Pennsylvania. Sometimes, I pretended to talk to my Muse-The Siren as I so creatively named her. Sometimes, I even thought I could hear her responses in the back of my mind, encouraging me on. 

The Siren was a fair and loving goddess— firm in her determination that I could become everything I hoped to be. Her words urged me on like some sort of reverse Manifest Destiny guiding me ever eastward. She was patient, tolerating but never encouraging the hardships I placed on my body.

More than a few times I pulled over on the side of the interstate to dry-heave into the packed-earth ravine beside it, making uncomfortable eye contact with roadkill. Have you really experienced peak Americana if you haven’t had a speed-warped stare-down with the corpse of Wile E. Coyote? The glassy, dead eyes like taxidermy scared the shit out of me. How could the highway, in all its profound wisdom, allow such death? I’d wash my mouth out with room-temperature beer and carry on, stopping only when oncoming headlights scared me into a motel room or pull-off for a few hours of restless shut-eye. The Siren would always praise me for these choices and I’d drift asleep to the phantom sensation of her cradling me in her arms. The thought of a kiss at my temple and the words ‘Rest, rest now, my brave boy. Tomorrow is a new day’.

My dreams were haunted by her presence, a constant barrage of half-heard secrets and slim wrists. I’d chase after her, my feet turning to sand beneath me as she laughed and stayed just out of reach. I’d sit unable to move in a chair while she stood before me, my vision fading as she removed her clothing piece by infernal piece, my chest wracked by great, bloody sobs. 

Inevitably, I’d wake and start over again, pushing myself to the very limit of my capacity. Over and over, until time had no meaning, until one day— I could not push any more.

The Atlantic laid at my feet, a pale wall of water, a blue line on a map.

The end of the road.

It didn’t occur to me that I was running from anything until I couldn’t run any further.

***

Daniel unfolds himself from the Civic’s front seat with a groan of relief.

“Sweet, solid land,” he sighs, a little unsteady on his feet after the three hours of terror. Well, it should have been three hours, Armand had managed to complete the journey in two and a half. Given the choice, Daniel would have chosen the extra half hour if it meant a few less close calls. “This is why I never let you drive last time.”

“No, I never drove last time because you insisted that I would shred the transmission, disregarding the fact that I’ve been driving since before headlights were a legal requirement…” 

“My point stands.” Daniel hefts his duffle out of the back seat, peeling a Taco Bell wrapper from where it had adhered itself to the bottom. “At least the ‘Stang was in decent condition, unlike this thing.”

“It will need to be disposed of, as well as its owner’s body, unless you already managed that part yourself?” Armand’s nostrils flare, searching for any hint of blood on the air.

“Give me some credit,” Daniel rolls his eyes, pulling the other bag from the car. “I know the basics of Vampire 101. Your exes were rather accommodating, despite their less than stellar record with socialising newborns. Besides,” He kicks the door shut with a grunt. “It’s common sense. Stashed him under the floorboards until I could figure out something better.”

“And clearly you’re so very accustomed to your newfound capacities.” Armand eyes the sizeable dent in the door with a raised eyebrow. “If I start hearing a telltale heart in the middle of the day, I will wake you to rectify it.”

Daniel gives him a flat, unamused look and throws his bag at him, which Armand catches, not even flinching away.

“So, do I even want to know how you knew I was up here to send your little message?” Daniel asks, unlocking the front door to the cottage. “The hand delivery was a nice touch. You do know we have these remarkable devices called cellular telephones these days? Much more efficient and they don’t require hiding bodies or cars after the fact. I’m sure Lestat would give you my number if you let him gloat a little bit first.”

“I thought you would appreciate a free meal,” Armand slips in behind him, staring up at the dusty rafters. “Cellular coverage is notoriously unreliable up here. I wanted to ensure you got the message. And I wanted to give you an opportunity to refuse without feeling guilty for leaving me on read.”

“You assume I know what that means,” Daniel grumbles. 

The cottage is much the same as how he’d left it. The initial reservation had been for a month, so no one had come through to clean the rental. Stained coffee mugs still sit beside the sink and the trash can overflows with crumpled sticky notes. A whistling draft rattles down the chimney into the cold fireplace like the ghost of Christmas past. Up in the loft, the bedclothes are still disheveled from his last restless sleep on the lumpy mattress. 

“Couch is over there,” he gestures, mounting the narrow stairs to throw his bag onto the bed. Armand’s lips press together in a thin line, but he does not protest, setting his velvet weekender on a side table.

“It is more… rustic than I remembered,” he says, eying a cobweb under active construction in a corner. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not like they have five-star maintenance crews up here. I didn’t want to spring for the luxury option up in Stowe, so you’re gonna have to make do. We’re lucky they evicted the family of raccoons who take up residence this time of year. Gentrifying the forest, how ‘bout that?”

“I see… there is a sort of primitive appeal to the concept.”

“Folks come out here to avoid such modern comforts as climate control and high-speed internet. Think you can manage, city boy?” Daniel tosses a couple split logs into the fireplace. They burst into flames unaided by tinder or flint.

“I somehow managed over four hundred years before man harnessed the power of electricity,” Armand smiles wryly, the flames reflected in his amber eyes. “I think I will survive.”

“You don’t have to give me the whole ‘ancient and eternal’ run around,” Daniel teases. “We both know you have games downloaded on that tablet of yours.”

“I do not see how that’s relevant to the topic at hand.” Armand grips the handle of his bag a little tighter.

“Well, at least you’ll have something to keep you entertained while I sleep. None of that creepy watching me bullshit again, alright? It gives me nightmares.” 

“Nightmares, right…” Armand’s eyes trace a scorching path down Daniel’s body, clearly aware of the half-assed lie. 

It’s still several hours until sunrise and they both know it. The forest around the cottage is void of life, all the creatures returned to their burrows and nests to wait out the witching hour. The mice beneath the floorboards stretch and yawn, but merely curl in closer to each other for warmth before falling asleep once again. A light patter of rain falls on the mossy shingles of the cottage’s roof. The silence stretches like too-cooked taffy— brittle and sharp. Neither man breathes.

“So… drink?” Daniel finally acquiesces.

“Yes, yeah, that would be… amenable,” Armand starts as if jarred from a daydream. Night-dream? Fantasy. The bond in Daniel’s chest thrums with an anxious anticipation like the moments before he set foot into the bar in Boston. 

The bottle of whiskey is where he left it on the counter and he busies himself pouring a finger (or two, or three) into a mismatched set of mostly-clean mugs. As an afterthought, he runs a nail over his palm and drips a couple drops of his blood into the wider one, licking the wound closed as subtly as he can. He hands the mug off to Armand and sits heavily in the chair opposite the couch. Just liquor is enough for him, this time around. His maker eyes the mug with suspicion.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he sniffs the drink and swirls it, admiring the rosy color.

“I didn’t share the pervert in Boston or the messenger boy,” Daniel sighs. “Do you want it or not?”

Armand hums and clutches the mug with both hands, drawing up his knees to curl into a ball on the couch. His eyes flutter shut and he takes a sip, slowly savoring it. Warm contentment resonates down the bond. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Why is the gorilla holding a Volkswagen bug over its head?” Armand suddenly asks, indicating the silkscreened icon on the side of the mug with the sharp click of a fingernail against ceramic and a curious tilt of his head. 

“Beats me.” The first sip of whisky washes away a little of Daniel’s discomfort at the situation. He’s stuck at an isolated, disused cabin in the woods with a bloodthirsty, ancient monster who has now openly admitted to manipulating his emotions and memories on multiple occasions, who once held him captive for nearly a week and has threatened his death repeatedly, finally making good on those threats and turning him into a monster in his own image. Of course he was nervous to agree to Armand’s terms. 

Still, that traitorous part of his heart that recalls the tenderness with which his maker wiped his first bloody tears repeats that he is safe here. It remembers his promises to never hurt Daniel. Didn’t Armand extend the proverbial olive branch of his own accord? Isn’t he returning the memories he once so cruelly took? 

All these questions and the one that stands out in his mind is- What did he mean by this place is more rustic than he remembered?”

***

White Line Fever- Chapter 3

The Worthy Adversary

There comes a time in all great journeys that a man will find need of an adversary. It is an opportunity for him to challenge himself and to grow beyond his humble beginnings. Without this challenge, he is vulnerable to the temptations of mediocrity. 

For the Son of the Highway, no mere adversary will do. No, this quest is far too important for an average opponent. I have already overcome the trials of blood and distraction. I have not allowed the claws of homesickness to scrape me back into my mother’s arms. I maintained my path along the road, driven straight and true by the song of the highway and the encouragements of my Siren, despite each aching morning when I swore I could not go on. I have not allowed her sweet voice to lure me to her island of vice and sloth. I remain pure in my vision.

As a reward for my commitment, I have finally reached that great expanse known as the Atlantic. The salt in the air invigorates me to continue my journey, so I turn to the North. I have explored this country from sea to shining sea, so what better quest now than to venture from top to bottom? I set out toward New England— that cradle of American culture from whence liberty was born. First, to that city of cities where the founding fathers first took the initiative to declare themselves free from tyranny. It is in Boston where I will find my worthy adversary.

The roads of the east sing with so lovely a harmony, compared to those of California. Beneath each historic turnpike lies the footworn paths of revolutionaries and traitors. At every turn, I find signs for historic places and stories long-told. They whisper secrets to me, but that is not why I am here. 

Even the modern roads speak with an unfamiliar accent. The rough-around-the-edges drawl of New Jersey where small men insist on pumping my gas and then demand tips. Before that, the cathunk-cathunk of Pennsylvania’s poured concrete and the flatlands of Ohio. 

I’ve skirted New York City. The Big Apple is not a place for the Son of the Highway. Already, too many stories have been written about that place. This story will be written in the cracks and on the bathroom stall walls, not in the lights of Broadway. 

I aim for Boston, not solely for the history, but with a purpose. It is there I know of a group of writers with similar goals to my own. I hope to find both companionship and challenge among their ranks. Art begets art, does it not? I believe that this narrative would benefit from the introduction of a new character— one which can push me to defend my truth to the bitter end. I fight for my Muse. I fight for the song of the Highway.

I will not surrender.

***

Daniel folds his glasses and places them on the table beside the bed. White Line Fever joins them, his page carefully marked with the notebook’s flat ribbon bookmark. A crackle of birdsong accompanies the low smoulder of the fire as daybreak approaches. He turns down the wick of the oil lantern so only a dull flicker of flame remains inside the sheer glass chimney.

From the sitting room below, Daniel can hear Armand’s nails clicking against the glass screen of his tablet. They’d spent a little time reassembling his timeline on the wall, carefully avoiding the spiderwebbed cracks in the plaster from his previous outburst. Now they’re papered over with newsprint and notes in Armand’s meticulous handwriting.

He knows that sleep will not come easy. It’s always been like this, whenever he’s had a story that he actually cares about. It’s as if the words exist in his head, under his skin, just waiting to spill out over the page like his lifeblood on the floor of that Dubai penthouse. His fingers twitch with the impulse to scrawl out a few more words, to type another paragraph. He wants to ask more questions, learn more of the story, piece together more of his own history, but that is no longer a solitary activity. He needs the contributions of his co-author to make the story complete. 

Daniel rubs his legs together like a cricket, even though the fire has rendered the cottage adequately warm, and turns over. The flannel sheets cling to his legs as if made from thistles. The single bed feels at once too large and claustrophobic. The eternal pit in his stomach yawns wider, yearning for something he can’t quite identify. He thought his hunger had come mostly under control, at least compared to those first few parched months when nothing with a heartbeat stood a chance in his presence. He turns over again, fluffing the anemic pillow.

“Do you need anything?” Round, reflective eyes like that of a cat shine from just atop the narrow stairs.

“Jesus! Fuck!” Daniel sits bolt upright, very nearly avoiding a low-hanging ceiling beam with his forehead. “I told you not to watch me, you fucking weirdo!”

“I could sense your distress,” Armand has the decency to duck his head as if ashamed. “The bond it… well, it’s stronger when you are close. I had forgotten the intensity that comes with it.” He wraps himself tighter in the voluminous plaid shirt he wears.

“Yeah, you could say that, hold on… is that my fucking flannel?” Daniel turns up the flame on the oil lamp, even though he can see just fine in the dark. Force of habit. Indeed, the other man seems to be wearing just the thin button-down over a set of silky pants. His hands just barely peek out from the ends of the long sleeves and it hangs off his shoulders in a childish slouch. The light dances around him, reflecting off his shiny dark curls and the exposed shelf of his collarbone.

“I, um…” Armand shuffles his feet and looks around as if armed guards would appear to incarcerate him for his crime. His fingers clench onto the cuffs of the shirt. “I got… cold earlier. While you were in the shower. And I… I apologize. I will find something else.” He turns as if to return down the stairs. Something in Daniel’s chest pulls tight and his hand raises from the covers.

“Hey, um, that’s… that’s alright,” he mumbles, warmth reaching the tips of his ears. “You can keep it. For now, y’know… it suits you.”

“It does?” The soft expression of hope on Armand’s face is as bright as the lamplight. 

“Yeah,” Daniel breathes. “Sure does.”

Notes:

Call me Danny Boy Molloy the way this story won't leave me alone.
Also, I wanna point out that a lot of the locations in this story are based on irl places. The bar in Boston is heavily inspired by a bar called Lolita's which does, in fact, serve excellent sangria. The cottage is loosely based on those at the Breadloaf campus of Middlebury College in Vermont (which I grew up near), combined with a few details (like the loft) that are borrowed from a cabin that a friend of mine in high school's family owned, also in Vermont. The gorilla holding up a VW bug is a real roadside attraction, though I don't believe they sell mugs.
I think the next chapter will introduce more characters, but the focus of the story will continue to be our boys.
unbetaed, kudos and comments make my day! Thanks as always for reading!

Chapter 6

Summary:

Daniel and Armand share notes and get dinner. In 1979, Daniel arrives in Boston.

“An interview with a different vampire, session one,” Daniel drones, pressing the space bar on his laptop to start the recording.

“You have perfect recall now, I don’t see why all this is necessary…” Armand sighs and slings an arm over the back of the couch. “Not to mention, I was there for both initial interviews.”

“Let’s say it’s for posterity. Now, I believe we left off somewhere along the Jersey Shore and headed north. I’m not thoroughly convinced that Boston of all cities was my idea. The logic is sketchy in the manuscript.” He raises his eyebrows at his maker over the rim of his glasses and pulls his notepad closer.

“As you shouldn’t be. I’m sure you recognize now that you operated largely under my suggestions at the time?”

“‘The voice of the Muse’, yeah, sure. The sweet nothings were the dead giveaway. No figment of my imagination would be so complimentary.”

“Once you reached the end of the road, I sensed a hesitancy in your resolve. You considered returning to California and abandoning your work. I knew you had more to say.”

“How altruistic.” Bullshit. “What’s the real reason?”

“I had… other reasons to visit the city. Certain commitments that could not be further delayed without compromising important relationships…” Armand’s eyes rove around the room, avoiding Daniel’s unwavering gaze.

“Louis was in Boston,” he deadpans.

“Louis… was in Boston.” Armand winces and pulls his legs up under him on the couch. “I could no longer avoid his requests to see me, so, to resolve both situations, I decided to arrange a worthy adversary for you.”

“Taunting Louis with a ghost of his past and tormenting me by pitting me against your hundred-year-old husband. Two birds with one stone, I can’t even say I’m surprised. How very like you,” Daniel snorts, sipping from the styrofoam coffee cup he’d run into town for shortly after waking. The biggest upside of post-Autumnal Equinox New England is the whisper-short hours of daylight. The coffee does little to temper the scraping, raw sensation in his stomach, but the hunt can wait until later. He has questions to ask first.

“So, does this all have something to do with the detail that even though you knew I was up here, your mysterious little love note insisted that I haul my saggy ass down to Boston like some Dropkick Murphy’s song?” he asks. “Surely you could have just cut out the middleman and caught up with me here. There’s only a seventy percent chance I would have slammed the door in your face.”

“I had hoped that returning to the place where our second chapter truly started would uncover some of your latent memories. It seems easier— on you, that is— when they return slowly and naturally rather than all at once.”

“A bit less of a headache, I guess. It’s emotional whiplash regardless.” Daniel shrugs. “Honestly, it’s been that way since Dubai. That whole decade is sketchy— I keep getting bits and pieces, but it’s never the stuff that I’m looking for. Does me no good to remember some sloppy head in a bathroom stall if I can’t remember which bar I was at, y’know what I’m saying?”

“Not in the slightest,” Armand smiles and tilts his head. He still wears Daniel’s flannel shirt, and his hands curl like paws around the cuffs as he fidgets with the gold ring on his left hand.

“Asshole,” Daniel grumbles under his breath. “So anyway… Louis was in Boston— why?”

“Earlier that year, there was a string of suspicious murders in the neighborhood of Roxbury there. All young women, nearly all black. Several men were arrested and tried in relation to the crimes, but Louis was convinced that there was more to it. Nearly thirty years after the girl’s death, he still saw her face in every dead child.”

“By ‘the girl’, you mean Claudia?”

“What other girl would Louis care about enough to willingly brave a recently desegregated Boston?”

“I don’t know, you were busy stalking me across the country. I wouldn’t blame him if he picked up a side project as well.”

Armand laughs a hollow laugh. “My Louis never allowed his distractions to survive the night, when he took them.”

“Uh huh,” Daniel eyes him with suspicion, making a note on his page. “And what does he think of this time period? Surely he would have told me if he recalled everything.”

“Louis recalls his time in Boston. He remembers my presence, and the girls, and his own self-pity. The beginning barely required any intervention on my part. It would become more difficult as we went, but Louis has always been particularly… susceptible to the mind gift. There is a vulnerability there where he already sometimes struggles to discern falsehood from reality, and so he is constantly in a state of self-doubt. From there, it only takes a small push in the right place…” he gestures with a slender finger, tilting Daniel’s coffee cup on its edge, perilously close to his laptop. His eyes hold that distant, damning fire that Daniel has come to associate with his maker remembering his own past, like the smolder of a wildfire on a distant horizon. Dirty brown liquid sloshes inside the cup, mimicking how Daniel’s stomach turns at the threat.

“Well…” he swallows and sets the cup back on the flat surface with a decisive tap. “I’m sure he’ll find this book more interesting than the last one, then. I don’t think the bastard has even opened the cover, and I sent him an ARC.”

“He and Lestat are well occupied as it is with their own complicated history, they don’t care to examine ours.” The tinge of bitterness in Armand’s voice glazes his words like icing on a lemon poppyseed cake. “His presence had little influence on that time anyway.”

“I doubt that, but we’ll work with it for now.” Daniel rises from the chair and peels a sticky note from the stack. It joins the timeline on the wall beside one that reads ‘Jersey Shore, late May ‘79’. With a sharpie, he writes ‘Boston, June ‘79, Louis investigates Roxbury Murders’ on the pale yellow slip. A heavy slap forces him to turn away from the timeline and his ponderance, back to where Armand has produced a thick binder from his bag onto the coffee table. It fights at its metal rings, bursting at the seams with slips of paper and plastic envelopes.

“What’s that?” Daniel points his sharpie as if it was a magic wand. “Also, what sorta Mary Poppins-ass bag is that anyway?”

Ignoring the second question, Armand opens the binder with reverent care. “I saved… well, I saved everything. This volume contains the year 1979, as well as the beginning of 1980. I believe the common term is ‘scrapbook’ these days, but I rather enjoy the name ‘junk journal’. It implies a level of curation that better matches my tendencies to retain otherwise valueless documents.” Daniel’s mind goes back to the floating shelves of the Dubai apartment. How many of the books just above his head had contained his own past?

“Jesus…” He leans over the coffee table, watching as Armand flips through pages pasted with receipts, news clippings, ticket stubs, food wrappers— an incomprehensible collage of mundane ephemera. “And you give me shit for wanting to make a recording. This is infinitely more obsessive. What happened to perfect recall?”

“The mind is one thing, a physical object is another. I like to hold my history in my hands,” Armand trails off, running his fingertips over a paper menu, stained with circular watermarks and a few rusty splatters. 

He’s not sure why, but Daniel’s hand joins his, covering it. The contact is like electricity, amplifying the ache in his stomach a thousandfold. He exhales sharply through his nose, clenching his eyes shut as he jerks his arm back sharply.

“be-Daniel?” Armand turns his face toward him, eyes wide with the concern that thrums through their bond. His pupils are wide and soft, ringed with gold. “What is wrong?”

“Uh… just… remembering,” he says, dodging the hand that rises from the book, aimed at his shoulder. “Y’know what, let’s leave this here for a bit. I need a snack. You want a snack?” With fumbling hands, he pauses the recording and nearly knocks the coffee cup over. Only a vampire-fast intervention from Armand preserves the functionality of his keyboard. 

“Yes, you should feed,” Armand nods, then tilts his head. “There are two men a couple miles from here, camping beneath some sort of platform in a large tree. Their wives believe them to be hunting, but neither came for the game. They have just finished their last moments of ecstasy. Shall we?”

“You’re changing first,” Daniel slips his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket without a backwards glance. “Don’t need you getting closet case on my shirt.”

Facing away, he cannot see Armand’s smug grin, but he feels it in his chest anyway.

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

Those familiar with my previous work will notice a certain degree of transference between this story and my Interview with the Vampire. As it seems, I have run circles around these creatures of the night for longer than I first believed. The Son of the Highway was not exempt from the nefarious interference of their cruel desires. 

This being said, it saves me the trouble of explaining the character of Louis de Pointe du Lac. If you are still unfamiliar, do me the favor of purchasing my last book. Thank you in advance for the fraction of a cent added to my royalties check. The series adaptation is currently optioned for streaming, but you know how these things go.

Louis in 1979 was just as charismatic as he was in 1973. He took to the disco age like a vampire to a vein, thriving in the social chaos of the era. He immersed himself in various causes, particularly those that fought for racial equality. It was one of these organizations— one that focused on the marginalized rights of Black women— that brought him to Boston.

Between January and May of that year, eleven black women between the ages of eleven and thirty-one were murdered in cold blood. Named the Roxbury murders, after the neighborhood where the violence took place, this wave of violence caused little stir. The Boston Globe reported on it, but national outlets ignored the massacre until, finally, a white woman also turned up dead. Four different men faced the law for the killings, but Louis was not convinced, nor were the women who fought for justice. He saw his Claudia in the victims and had notions of retribution on his mind.

But you’re not here for a history lesson. You’re here to learn what little ol’ Danny Boy Molloy was doing in Boston in 1979. 

On the wings of my muse, I rolled into the city as June broke over the horizon. Boston has always spoken to my sensibilities in a way that few other cities have. It’s a place where you can get a pint with your bagel, where the people emphatically don’t give a fuck about you. Conversely, it cares deeply for its own, defending those who call it home with claws and teeth. The dark alleyways and short summers make it an excellent city for vampires. 

I wandered the city for a few days before finding what I was looking for. It was an establishment custom-built for hedonists like me— one of a thousand Irish pubs, but with a punk edge. Beer was cheap, blow was common, and they held a weekly open mic event frequented by other pretentious douchebags with stupid berets. 

I stumbled out of the restroom, my zipper half-down and a slight nosebleed coursing down the back of my throat when I saw them. The overhead light that illuminated the small wooden platform that made do as a stage illuminated some long-haired hippie sort, but my eyes were drawn to the small table in the corner. 

In one chair, a man— dark skinned and light eyed with an angular coif of coily hair. He wore a neat suit jacket over a turtleneck and smiled at me, but the expression was not one of welcome. There was something cold in his demeanor that made the skin on the back of my neck crawl. He turned to his companion— a woman. She turned over her shoulder to follow his gaze. As uncomfortable as the man made me, his companion stole the breath from my very lungs.

Somehow, some way, it was her. My Siren. My Muse. 

I recognized her waves of black hair and the elegant sweep of her wrists. In opposition to the man across from her, she wore a studded leather vest over a man’s silk shirt— one of those flamboyant kinds with the wide, pointed collars and loud prints that was so popular at the time, belted around her narrow waist and a pair of black patent leather boots that reached her knees. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up around her elbows and she lifted a cigarette to her mouth in a look of cool appraisal. I was staring, but I could not look away as her soft, scarlet lips wrapped around the filter. Her eyes met mine as she exhaled, dancing as if made from candlelight.

Blood dripped down over my upper lip and into my gaping maw. I needed a drink.

***

The hunt has always come naturally to Daniel.

In the weeks and months immediately following his turning, it was all he could do to keep up with the bloodlust. Perhaps it was really a gift from his maker to leave him in a city such as Dubai where plenty of lost souls vanish on a daily basis. The first few kills were messy, over-enthusiastic affairs that left him sticky and underfed due to errors in his methodology, but he adapted quickly. 

Now, as he stalks silent through the forest, his mind is clear and focused. The two men are sound asleep together in the tent, limbs intertwined like the roots of the tree above them. Deliberately, Daniel picks up a thick branch and snaps it in half.

“The fuck was that?!” one of the men slurs as he wakes. There’s an air of cheap beer around them both.

“Huh?” the other turns over and snakes an arm around his friend’s bare waist. “It’s like midnight. Go back to sleep.”

“No, I’m not shitting you. I swear I heard something,” the first man insists as he detaches himself and slides out of their shared pile of sleeping bags and blankets. 

“It’s probably a goddamn raccoon or something. Get your ass back in here.”

Daniel breaks another thick branch, tossing the pieces into the brush.

“Shit!” 

Both the men are now fully awake, their hearts racing toward their final beats. After some rustling, they emerge, one after the other, long-barreled rifles clutched in their sweaty hands. The too-bright beam of an LED flashlight sweeps over the trees.

“He… Hello?” the first man says loudly, taking a tentative step forward. He’s a fairly handsome young man with nice teeth and a generic one-guard haircut.

“You think a fuckin’ bear is gonna talk back to you?!” the other hisses. He’s shorter, but stockier, with big ears and a mole on his cheek. A few greying curls escape around the edges of his baseball hat.

“I don’t fuckin’ know!” 

This is, perhaps, Daniel’s favorite part. He licks his lips and lets his fangs descend in anticipation. Across the small clearing, beside the men’s pickup truck, he notices a flash of movement, too fast for any wildlife. 

Armand.

An uncharacteristic wave of nerves passes through him. Something deep in the ancient blood he carries tells him to impress his maker. Prove himself as a worthy fledgling. Earn his keep. He shakes his head to clear the thoughts away, like a red-framed etch-a-sketch. Who gives a fuck what the old man thinks? Hell if that’s not a familiar line. He’s so caught up in his head that he almost misses the perfect opportunity to strike.

Almost.

“Hey, Dean, do you believe in, like, Sasquatch?” the tall one asks, looking around as if a cryptid may step out into the light.

“Uh, I dunno,” his friend responds. “Never thought about it much.”

“How about vampires?”

The line is a little corny, sure, but the look of terror on the tall man’s face is worth it. His tanned skin blanches in the moment that he notices Daniel behind him and his scream is cut off by a wet gurgle as the vampire’s fangs sink deep into his throat. 

“Holy shit!” Dean squeaks, dropping his rifle to the leaf-covered ground. A dark stain covers the front of his sweatpants and his eyes go blank as Armand appears before him. He does not struggle as the ancient creature drains away his life. 

The blood dampens the incessant burning in Daniel’s stomach and he has to suppress a groan of satisfaction. Blood and pleasure flood his senses. 

When he first hunted, he made a point to try all sorts of prey. Old men, young men, women of all ages and blood types— none were safe from his ravenous appetite. Eventually, he settled on a tendency toward young men, especially those with active lifestyles and hearty diets, even if it did sometimes make him feel like a dirty old pervert. He didn’t usually fuck them first, just to avoid the moral dilemma. It was just a preference, as much as preferring Coke over Pepsi.

“Daniel, if you’ll handle some superficial… wounds…” He rounds on Armand, who halts in his approach. An inhuman hiss rattles from his chest as he defends his kill, blood dripping from his fangs onto the leather of his jacket. A sliver of his rational self knows that there is no threat, but the greater part of his consciousness is overtaken by instinct. He’s never hunted with another of his kind before, and he’s not willing to share.

“When you’re finished, then.” Armand lifts his hands in a placating gesture, though blood glistens from his own lips like lipstick. The warmth of his meal pulses through his body, making him that much more alluring in Daniel’s frenzied state. How delicious it would be to lick that blood from his maker’s lips? How satisfying would it be for him to drink from Armand, his flesh supple with the flush of a fresh kill? His throat aches for the sensation of fangs in its side. The corpse of the young man falls to the forest floor with a crunch.

He can feel it— his maker’s satisfaction, his pride through the bond. Armand watches him like a man possessed, hypnotised by his feral creation. Daniel steps over the boy’s body and straightens slowly. He wipes blood from his mouth with his hand. Armand does not move as he wipes the bloody fingers down his cheek. The touch is electric once again, but insulated by the plush blanket of satisfaction. 

Daniel opens his mouth, but finding no words, closes it again. He takes a half-step back, his senses slowly returning to normal.

“You got a lil’ somethin’...” he gestures to his face before turning to dispose of his kill. Fuck, his one-liners need work.

Notes:

I honestly thought I wouldn't get around to writing a whole chapter today. Seems I was wrong.
For the record, the Roxbury murders as mentioned in this chapter were a real event. I don't want to get into the details of the crimes too much in the fic, but it's worth a look, if you're interested.
Scrapbook goblin Armand is a whole vibe in and of himself. I know I tagged this eventual smut, and that's still true, but I hope it's evident by this point that it's a slow burn in both timelines. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy all the juicy tension.
Unbeta'ed, I love every one of you who has subscribed, bookmarked, or kudos'ed, but especially the lovely commenters! You make my days!

Chapter 7

Summary:

Some tension and the timeline. In 1979, Daniel and Alice finally speak

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

My hands were sweaty wrapped around my happy-hour pint of something cheap and soapy. Great crescent-moon stains snuck from the armpits of my shirt. My mind careened over the edge, Thelma and Louise-style. How had my Siren appeared here? I was convinced that I would never see her again after that first, fateful night, and here she was, casting sly glances my way across the room. The skin-shaven man behind the bar knocked on the wooden top.

“Oi, you good, kid?” he barked in that pseudo-indifferent way common to the city. “Need some water?”

I shook my head, taking a sip of my beer. 

“Women troubles?” he asked. “Or man troubles? I don’t give a fuck.” He was older, with soft creases around the corners of his eyes. 

“Something like that,” I sighed. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

“What, like some predestined bullshit? Nah. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, but there’s no point in forcing something that just ain’t workin’. You gotta take love where it comes to you.”

“Yeah…” I said, but I was distracted by my Siren. She stood and placed a soft kiss on her companion’s cheek, then crossed the room to take the stool beside my own. Her legs were as endless as the highway, clad in black net stockings and she smelled faintly of cinnamon.

 “...Or maybe I’ve been listening to too many of these damn poets.” The barkeeper gestured to the bongo-wielding artist on stage. “You a writer too?”

“Another round, Julian,” my muse said, her voice the same low purr that had haunted my dreams for weeks, as familiar as the bottom of a glass. “Well…” she turned to me. “Are you?”

“Am I… oh, yeah, yes.” A powerful wave of deja vu rocked me in my seat. “Well, kinda. I write… prose, more than poetry. Some journalism, I’m working on a novel… Hey, haven’t we met before?”

My mouth has always gotten me in trouble. It got me into trouble with my mother when I called my father a ‘pathetic bastard’ as a child and she washed my mouth out with a bar of soap like that kid from A Christmas Story. It got me into trouble in school when I asked too many questions. The same thing happened in San Francisco, and that night in Boston, it happened again. Sometimes, I think my life would have been far, far simpler if I’d just learned at some point to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t think so,” she trailed her scarlet-tipped fingers down the chain of a long necklace that disappeared into her cleavage. “I think I would have remembered a fascinating creative like yourself.”

“Yes, beloved, it is me. I have found you again,” said the voice in my head, sweet and ephemeral. I fought the urge to sink to my knees in worship at her feet. The corner of her mouth ticked up in a knowing smile.

“What is your name?” she asked, dark-rimmed eyes imploring. 

“Danny… Daniel. Daniel Molloy.” Again, my memory itched in recognition, or perhaps it was the undeniable sensation of her companion’s eyes boring into the back of my skull.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Molloy,” she extended an elegant hand. I took it, dumbstruck into submission. “My name is Alice.”

***

A carefully folded receipt from the bar joins the parade of notes and documents on the wall. The ink is so faded that it’s barely legible, even to Daniel’s improved vision, but it marks a turning point in the story.

“Y’know, I think it would really jog my memory if you got all dolled up in that outfit again. Or did Louis repossess the shirt afterwards?” he taunts, only half-joking. He shifts on the couch, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee to disguise his body’s interest in the idea. 

Armand scoffs and fixes him with a half-amused glare. “And you accuse me of lacking subtlety.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Daniel sweeps his hands out to the sides in a casual shrug. “Remembrance is a multi-sensory process. Might as well cover all my bases.”

“Louis tore that shirt from my body in our bedroom that night, his teeth in my neck as I rode him until daybreak,” Armand’s head tilts in that predatory way it always does when he wants his words to hurt. “It was, unfortunately, unrecoverable.”

“Kinky…” Daniel merely raises an eyebrow at him. “I take it he wasn’t amused by your little, ‘my boyfriend and I noticed you from across the bar and really like your vibe’ schtick.”

“The ‘free love’ of the era did little to quiet his jealousy. Not that that affliction had an impact on his activities when we were apart, but I digress… He questioned my motives for allowing you back into our lives and found your presence in Boston suspicious, but I did what I could to quiet those thoughts. He was easily distracted by his pursuit of the Roxbury killer, who he was convinced was a singular wayward vampire.”

“Was it?”

“No, but it was simple to plant evidence and witnesses that made it seem that way.”

“Why keep him in Boston anyway? I mean, wouldn’t it have been easier to convince him away from the city?”

“Perhaps… but you needed someone to challenge you and, as you’ve so delicately pointed out, I enjoyed watching him quiver under the weight of his past.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t notice.” Daniel rolls his eyes. “Not like that was the entire purpose of the Dubai interview in the first place.”

“What can I say? When you’re the only one that remembers history for what it truly was, there’s a certain satisfaction that comes from watching the rose-colored glasses come off.” Armand’s voice fades away into absent wistfulness. He spins his ring around his finger. “I must admit, though, part of the reason why I’ve enjoyed your work so thoroughly is the difference in perspective. I hoard data— raw facts and dates. You— you retain sensation and subtext. Dipping into your mind was always like sinking into a warm bath. I could feel your emotions, even if there was no context.”

“Like the bond.”

“That’s… not a bad comparison, actually.” Armand tilts his head. “So you feel it too?”

“I didn’t, not until Boston, but since then… yeah.” Daniel nods, tapping the end of his pen against his notepad. “Nothing too intense, but occasionally, a bit of something slips through.”

“The bond’s intensity is affected by proximity. I’m sorry, this should have been a topic covered in the earliest days of your new existence. My memories of the sensation seem… inadequate compared to this.” A shiver courses through Armand’s body. “It’s been quite some time since I experienced it.”

“That’s a funny way to say you forgot.”

“I did not forget,” he snaps. Solid-steel shutters crash down over his vulnerable expression. The shadows of the room seem to pulse with his ire. It creeps a bitter taste up the back of Daniel’s throat.

“Misplaced the memory, then?” his stomach thrums with that intoxicating thrill of poking a very dangerous beast with a too-sharp, too-short stick. “I’m not saying the word hypocrite, but if the shoe fits… hell, it looks an awful lot like a black patent go-go boot.”

Armand takes a slow, dignified step forward. The flickering light from the fire silhouettes him like the flames of Hell. There’s an animalistic glow to his hooded eyes.

“Funny, my memories of your thoughts about those boots are pristine,” he hisses, the words all teeth. He floats a couple inches off the ground. “As I recall, you were imagining them under your sharp little tongue, wondering just how my heel would taste. Tell me, do you remember exactly what you wanted me to do to you, wearing only those boots?”

“Is this an offer? Cause sweetheart, there’s a few things we should probably discuss before dipping into role play. Speaking of…” Daniel adjusts the notebook on his lap. “Was the Alice persona a full character, or just a pseudonym? Is this a fake Rashid situation or an Amadeo one?”

He could have pushed further. Perhaps, in his old age, he’s lost a little of that shard of coldness that encouraged him to hold the knife to a subject’s throat. Perhaps Dubai cautioned him away from it. Perhaps the humor is the easiest way he knows to diffuse a situation rapidly approaching a critical level of sexual and violent tension that he knows that his maker will not diffuse, no matter how much Daniel’s heart aches for it.

Armand’s socked feet land softly on the floor once again. A lovely little crease forms between his eyebrows. The sudden change of topic has confused him. “It was… a bit of both, I suppose,” he says, fangs retracting. “Alice didn’t have the baggage of Armand or any of my prior personas, but I did not pretend to be anything I was not. Except human, of course.”

“You weren’t pretending to be female? The mini skirt fooled me.”

“I told you, fashion was very effeminate at the time!” Armand throws himself onto the far end of the couch away from Daniel and clutches a floppy throw pillow to his chest. “Though it was fun to play around with androgyny again for a little while,” he adds in a smaller voice.

“You have the legs for it,” Daniel says flippantly, though he carefully avoids looking at the limbs in question. “Can’t say the same for me, hell I probably went through twink death shortly after all this happened anyway. From there it was a slippery slope into middle-aged paunch and my slow transition into the flabby, wrinkly brisket of dried beef you see before you.”

“You are still a very beautiful man, Daniel.”

That peels his eyes from the page before him. A flush of blood from their earlier hunt colors the rise of his maker’s face and the bond shimmers with something effervescent. Daniel’s own face warms at the undeserved compliment.

“Does vampire sight degenerate over time like humans’ does? Cause we might wanna find you an optometrist. Fuck, I thought I was done with all that shit.” He takes off his glasses and polishes them on the bottom hem of his t-shirt.

“You don’t believe me,” Armand says softly, his fingertips digging deeper into the pillow. “A tendency to self-efface…”

“You don’t exactly have the most stellar track record for honesty.” Daniel holds the glasses up and squints through them at his maker, even though the glass does nothing to improve his already perfect sight. He sighs heavily “But I believe that you weren’t pretending outright to be a woman. I’d done a few lines too many that first night just before we met and it didn’t matter anyway. I was so far gone that I wouldn’t have remembered any of this, even if you didn’t fuck with my head. My mind probably just made the assumption and ran with it. So what happened next?”

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

I made it a week in the city before my money started to run out.

When you're young and stupid, a thousand dollars feels like more money than you could ever need. Gas, food, my hotel room— it all started to add up faster than I could keep track. Of course, it didn't help that I was spending every evening at the bar hoping for another glimpse of her.

With fresh material for my fantasies, Alice occupied my every thought— waking and asleep. I couldn't blink away the image of her sitting beside me, smile soft and cinnamon-scented. I tried to write. I tried to wander the city, to find new material to reflect upon, but inevitably, my feet would carry me right back through that heavy wooden door to the same stool night after night.

It was one such night, when I was perusing a trash-can copy of the Boston Globe for odd jobs that I began to doubt in earnest. 

The absurdity of the situation hit me like a brick to the back of the skull. Here I was, over a thousand miles from home with my last $20 in my pocket, waiting on a girl who I had met once, maybe twice to walk through the door so I could do what? Stare at her like an imbecile again? While her intensely menacing probable-boyfriend gave me the evil eye? How pathetic had the Son of the Highway become that this was how I spent my time, not pursuing truth and purpose on the open road? I questioned why I had stayed in one place for so long already. 

I folded the paper with disgust. Maybe I could call my mother, like she had asked me to, and request enough money to get me back to Modesto. I stared into the last pale dregs of my glass, pondering whether I could drown myself in them instead. It would be more dignified.

“Another round for the boy, Julian.”

And just like that, my doubt vanished in a haze of cinnamon and amber.  My Siren had arrived.

“Daniel, right?” Alice said, taking her place at my side. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, most eloquently. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She tilted her head at me and sniffed a little laugh. In the dim bar light, she was just as beautiful as ever. That night she wore a short jumper-style dress over a ribbed collared shirt. Her dark hair was pulled back with a thick headband and large pearls decorated her earlobes. She was a vision, like a girl on television or the cover of a magazine. My own personal centerfold.

With smooth confidence, she accepted the stemmed cocktail glass from Julian as he handed us our drinks. A single olive floated in the clear liquid, skewered through with a twisted toothpick.

“No particular reason,” she said. “I was just looking for some company, I suppose.”

“What about your… er… boyfriend?” A surreptitious glance around the room had revealed no sign of the serious man.

“Louis is busy tonight. He works very hard, you see, so I often need to entertain myself. This time, I thought who better to entertain than that fascinating boy at the place by the riverside?” Her lips lifted in a devious little smile.

Fascinating boy—the words rattled through my head like teeth down a drain. Of course, there was no way for me to recall their previous connotations, but memory is funny like that. Even without a direct connection, the strings of time will catch and tug at each other, never quite releasing their hold.

“What is it that he does, if you don’t mind me asking?” I was desperate for a detail, if only to hold just a tiny bit of her life in my hands.”

“Louis? He’s a… reporter. Investigative journalism, crime stories, that sort of thing.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing particularly creative. I’m the one who made him come to that open mic the other night. I prefer poetry.”

“So Louis… he is your boyfriend?” I asked, a weight building in the region of my diaphragm. Of course this perfect creature was already spoken for, and by an accomplished man at that. Anyone would be an idiot to let her slip through their fingers.

“So curious!” She laughed again, but I detected a note of something else beneath the humor— bitterness, perhaps? “If you must know, he and I have an arrangement of sorts. We live together and often spend time together. We go way back. A term like ‘boyfriend’ doesn’t quite capture the nature of our relationship.”

“Sorry, I’m a nosy bitch by nature,” I groveled. “It comes with the whole journalist thing. Somehow I always find the worst questions to ask and I can’t shut up when it’s best for me.” While I knew that her roundabout excuse wasn’t carte blanche, it did make me feel marginally better about hitting on her. At least they weren’t married or anything. The thought of Alice in a white dress made my heart do that funny thing that I had only ever felt after chasing diet pills with vodka. 

“Is that what brings you to Boston, then?” she asked. “You’re clearly not a local. Let me guess— West Coast?”

“California, actually. Spot on.” I took a sip of my drink and leaned back, examining her. “You’re not from here either… further north? Upstate New York?” There was something almost… Canadian? To her accent. It wasn’t a broad Boston drawl or the sharp bark of New York, nor the molasses-slow current of a southern tongue or the recursive loop from the midwest.

Her mouth formed that mysterious little smile. “Something like that. Nowhere you’ve ever been, surely.”

“I dunno, lady, I’ve been all sorts of places at this point.” The beer had inflated my confidence enough to file away at the edges of my insecurity. “I made it this far, though I’m probably gonna have to stay in one spot for a bit, at least until I can afford to move on again.”

“Are you not employed?” She always did have a strange way of phrasing things— almost as if she were a time traveller, unused to modern vernacular.

“Not at the moment. I’m trying to write my novel, but that doesn’t really pay the bills.” I scratched the back of my head. “I dunno how I’m going to cover my room for much longer.”

“Do you need a place to stay?”

I squinted at her. “I mean, yeah, kinda.”

“It’s settled then!” She stood and pulled a few bills from her purse to toss on the bartop. “You, Daniel Molloy, will come stay with me.” Her small, cold hand grabbed mine.

Like an absolute, brain-dead idiot with no sense of self-preservation (which, admittedly, I was and probably continue to be), I followed her from the bar.

Notes:

I knew I couldn't keep up the daily updates! Close enough, though. Thank you to everyone reading for your encouragement! Your comments are really too kind.
first looks at Alicemand, how we feeling? The poor blorbos, I must torture them a bit more before they get anything too fun. Old man Daniel fundamentally thinks he's undesirable and the gremlin is dealing with his canonical daddy Issues and they're just gonna keep hurting each other until something gives. but we'll have fun while they're at it, yeah?

Chapter 8

Summary:

A tense moment and new beginning

White Line Fever- Chapter 3

On Possession

The Son of the Highway trades not in dollars and diamonds, but in experiences and perspectives.

That being said, the road comes at a cost. 

When I left most of my physical possessions behind in the care of my mother, I had an idea of the difficulties that lay before me. At some point, the pocket would turn out empty. I’d love to just submit to the call of the Highway and live off the thrill of it alone, but sometimes, a life of transience requires periodic moments of rest to continue its forward momentum.

For now, I rest in Boston. I chafe to explore once again, but the city has provided a new sort of diversion. The voice of my muse sings to me a new song and her name is Alice. 

Just as the Son of the Highway must unhand all physical possessions, so too must he release the concept of possession when it comes to his relationships with others. It was easy enough to release my attachment to my home and my mother. Stepping out from under her shadow was a freeing experience, as if I were a plant finally allowed to reach up to the midday sun. 

I’ve never been much one for committed relationships. Why limit myself to vanilla when there’s a whole world of flavors to try? I’m still young. There’s no need to attach myself to a single anchor, like some of my associates from school have done. There’s more joy and adventure in taking whatever the road may throw my way. In the words of a wise man, “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, but there’s no point in forcing something that just ain’t workin’. You gotta take love where it comes to you”.

I realise that I am not a paragon of impermanence. There are still things that tempt me into possessiveness. I covet my Muse more than anything now. She has taken my hand and laid bare the path before me. It is by her depthless generosity that I can remain in this city and hone my craft. 

Still, she is not mine to truly possess. She hides behind veils of shifting silks, always just out of touch. Between us there is a vast ocean with pale eyes and a resolute brow. And could I ever really be considered worthy to possess her? Me— in my lowly, destitute state with little but my words and my wheels to lay at her feet.

No, if there was one of us to be possessed, it would be me. I would give her everything, if she would let me. I would hand her my bloody, beating heart if it was what she desired. With my last breaths, I would sing her praises. Why would I need my own life when her presence fills me with such a certain sense of purpose?

Alas, I must worship her from afar. It is more than I deserve.

Is this what madness feels like?

***

It is several hours until dusk when Daniel wakes. His eyes shoot open as if to catch a glimpse of the imagined hands that run over his chest, tipped in red lacquer. The dreams are so real, and getting worse. He hasn’t dreamt like this since Dubai. He can practically smell the cinnamon on the air, the malty perfume of dried beer tacky on his tongue like the residue of a meal. 

The fire has burned low in the grate and Daniel eases himself down the narrow, steep stairs from the loft to its embered glow. He hasn’t quite mastered the silent movement of Armand, or even Louis’ preternatural grace, but he manages to avoid making too much noise. In the kitchen, he peeks through the heavy velvet curtains. The sky outside is a steely grey, with the threat of snow on the horizon. It’s as dark as it will be in a couple hours when the sun finally sets properly. He’s just about to assume that his maker has stepped out for a while when the sound of soft breath draws his attention to the couch.

There, once again wrapped in his flannel shirt, Armand has fallen asleep, his scrapbook in his lap. His fingers twitch minutely and he breathes evenly through parted lips, looking smaller and more his age than ever. More human than even his masquerade as Rashid. Daniel’s chest tightens at the sight. 

His maker is a right bastard of the highest degree. He’s done terrible things for hundreds of years, murdered more humans than Daniel can imagine, manipulated every person in his life in the same desperate urge to avoid being left behind. Armand. Rashid. Alice. Amadeo. Arun. How many names has he worn, how many faces, just to make himself more appealing to someone who would inevitably leave him? And after all of it, why did he abandon the one person who would have stayed by his side for all time, not just once, but over and over again in a constant cycle of rejection and obsession that will now play out until the end of time?

Still, as he watches this delicate youth draped in plaid, he doesn’t think that it’s such a terrible fate. 

For him, at least. Sure, at one point, he was just as young and fascinating. Back on Divisidero Street, he had a sort of boyish appeal. Tight, willing, capable… now dessicated into a forever-69-year-old body with an immortal soul. The young man on the couch is flawless in his beauty— truly an undead work of art. The low glow from the fireplace highlights the warm tones of his skin and reflects a coppery sheen to his curls. One falls over his face, resting along the classical curve of his nose.

His maker deserves someone as beautiful as himself, not a shambling bag of bones with almost seven decades’ worth of baggage and bad habits. He should have turned Daniel in the ‘70s. He should have found someone else.

The ache in Daniel’s chest borders on bittersweet. They had their time together— before, as Danny and Alice. Each new detail of their story together scrapes away a little of the scab over that open wound. It was bad enough when he’d believed that his erstwhile first wife had left him before her untimely demise. The truth is a thousand times more painful. It is hot needles under his fingernails. It is the tooth-rattling ache of a detox. Daniel’s hand shakes as he reaches down to remove the heavy binder from Armand’s lap.

“Be…loved,” the ancient vampire says, his eyes still closed, hands spasming where the book is taken from him. The bond between them resonates with a distinct sensation of longing, as deep as the oceans and as wide as the country. Daniel gasps and takes an unwieldy step backward. With the resonance comes a profound gong-ring of emptiness, as if he’d neglected to eat for a week straight, like shouting down a dried Venetian well. His fangs descend and he hisses at the pain, clenching his eyes shut. The binder falls to the floor with a crash.

“Daniel?” Armand is on his feet in a flash, eyes an amber glow of concern. “What is wrong?”

“Nothin’” he grits out tightly, stumbling to the couch with a wince. “All good here.”

“You’ve never been a proficient liar, it’s one of your many charming faults,” Armand says, watching him with a penetrating intensity. “Besides, I can… I can feel your discomfort.” He raises a hand to his chest, just over the flannel shirt’s pocket.

“It’s fine, just… growing pains. I guess. I dunno, you’re supposed to be the big ancient vamp with all the institutional knowledge, alright?” Daniel pinches the bridge of his nose. It feels as if the acid of his stomach is surging forward to eat through his abdominal wall. A knife in the gut would be less painful than this.

“Have you… felt like this since your turning?” There is real concern in Armand’s voice as he crouches beside the chair.

“No… yes? Sometimes? It’s been worse recently.” He sighs. “My meals are not as fulfilling as usual. I’m always hungry.”

“You are still a fledgling. Regular hunting is to be expected for the first couple centuries.”

“I get that, but this is… it’s different. I know what it feels like to skip a meal. This hunger is deeper. I… I can’t explain it.”

“It feels as if you will never be satisfied again. Like you could drain a hundred men and still feel empty.”

“Exactly!” Daniel’s head whips up to see Armand’s face set in a mask of devastation.

“Did I do something wrong?” his maker asks, voice breaking around the words like a tide. “Do you live in pain because of my ineptitude as your sire?” 

Armand is so precious in his pain. A crimson sheen rises in his eyes and he lifts a hand, but does not permit himself to touch. His other hand clenches into a tight fist in his lap, the tips of his nails biting into his palms. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Daniel grumbles, grabbing him by the wrist and hoisting him up onto the couch. Its old springs groan in protest at their combined weight. The touch sparks with that same electric sensation as before, but he forces himself through it. His nostrils fill with the scent of cinnamon and amber and he is home.

Armand curls against his side like a cat, draping his legs over his lap and it is so natural to cradle him in his arms. Daniel takes his injured hand and peels back the clawed fingers like petals from a rose. 

“Look, this is a new thing for both of us, yeah?” he says softly. 

“It’s my fault.” Armand’s shoulders curve inward further. “I had forgotten… rather, I made myself forget.”

“Shh…” 

“No! It is because of my absence that you have suffered!” His eyes are wide and wild and sad when they meet Daniel’s own. “I thought that you would benefit from the distance, that a bond wouldn’t form in the same way that I once experienced it, but I was wrong! I was wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!” His hands fly up to hit himself in the forehead with each exclamation until Daniel holds them immobile between his own. Without the physical outlet for his distress, red leaks down his cheeks in frustration.

“That’s enough of that,” Daniel says, as calmly as the panic through the bond will allow him. He’s never been good with the whole ‘reassuring parent’ thing, even with his own kids, and the situation is further muddied by the fact that he’s comforting his own progenitor, but something drives him to try anyway. With a determined effort, he is able to push his own steadiness back through the bond enough that Armand’s sobs settle into little hiccups. His limbs no longer resist Daniel’s hold and he becomes boneless in his grasp.

“That’s it.” Daniel wipes away a blood-red tear with his thumb. On instinct, he licks it, just to clean the skin, but it’s too late. It’s the cleanest high he’s felt in decades— immediate and enlightening. His maker’s blood blooms across his tongue with the warmth of a fresh cinnamon roll and the bouquet of the finest Parisian perfume. It’s like a drink of water in the middle of the Kalahari. The electric sensation that had been gathering on his skin coalesces into a single point. His vision goes black for a moment and when he comes to, his teeth are at Armand’s throat.

“No-ope!” he yelps, depositing the other man firmly on the other side of the couch. Armand’s eyebrows draw together and he wipes at his face with the heel of his palm.

“Daniel…?” he starts, but Daniel is already pacing the room to his jacket. 

“Just gonna hop out for a snack, be back later.”

He doesn’t bother closing the door on his way out.

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

If anyone of a similar age is reading this story, do not, let me repeat, do NOT, do what I did at 29. I followed the pretty lady who paid for my drink out of the bar. After gathering my meagre bags and my car from where I was staying, we crossed the city to her house, where I would stay for the rest of my time in Boston.

The house was far more than I expected from such a young couple. A stately brownstone bedecked in creeping ivy, it had three narrow floors. The first two floors were for Alice and Louis, and had all the trappings of a proper home. The third floor, however, had sat empty.

“I’ve been trying to convince Louis to rent it out to a college student or something,” Alice shrugged as she showed me around.  

The house smelled of coffee and old books and was furnished richly. The wooden floors were covered with thick shag carpets and the kitchen looked practically stripped from the Sears-Roebuck catalog. It put the duplex in Modesto to absolute shame, let alone any of the holes I’d rented throughout the years.

The old wooden stairs groaned in protest under our feet as we ascended as if sensing the tension in the space. If I had any other real choice, I might have questioned my decision to play pawn in what was clearly a domestic disagreement, but a free bed was more than I could ask for at the time. Alice’s presence was just the cherry on the proverbial milkshake. 

“Here we go,” She unlocked the door to the third-floor apartment and handed off the key. I strung it on my keyring beside the one to the Mustang, shoving the clinking mass back into my pocket.

Inside, she flicked on a lightswitch to reveal a tiny kitchenette.

“There’s a hotplate and the refrigerator, empty for now I’m afraid, bathroom’s through that way.” She gestured toward a narrow door. “We’re all on the same water heater, so be mindful not to use up all the hot water. Louis has done that a couple times. Makes doing the washing-up difficult.”

I walked past her, eyes drawn not to the sloping ceilings of the small sitting area or even the dust-encrusted bookshelves that lined the walls, but to the sliver of nighttime skyline visible through the sheer curtains covering the tall windows on the far wall. I reached out to draw the fabric aside, breath catching in my chest. The single-pane glass sparkled with the lights of the city beyond— a perfectly framed view of the triple-stacked bridge over the harbor. Headlights twinkled in their bumper-to-bumper full-speed procession, the cacophony of their horns melting into the distant city-sounds- a distant echo of the song that surged in my heart. Alice’s sigh pulled my attention from the view.

“Can’t get views like that in California, can you? Reminds me of the work of Charles Bukowski. Getting lost in a city, surrounded but alone… Louis just doesn’t see the poetry of it all.” Her fingertips came to rest against the glass, her dark eyes round and sad and longing for something I wished desperately to give her.

“How could he not?”

It was a valid question. How could Louis not see the beauty in front of him? But then again, I hadn’t remembered our first interview, and our second was still decades away. I couldn’t then and I can’t now understand how he can see the world as a parade of commodities, rather than the intrinsic artistic value of existence.

“He is not… fascinated with beautiful things, as we are.” Alice took a step toward me.

The moment stretched thin and delicate like a bubble of gum between the teeth of a major-league baseball player.

“I am!” My mind cried out as if she could hear it. “I am fascinated by beautiful things, and you are the most beautiful of all!”

My mouth instead formed a question, as it always does.

“Where is the man of the house, anyway?”

Alice’s mouth set in a firm line. She turned for the stairs once again.

“He’s working and likely won’t be home until morning, if at all. Sometimes he finds himself so absorbed in his work that he is gone for days at a time.”

“And do you? Work, I mean?”

“I am fortunate enough that my expenses are taken care of. It gives me time to pursue other interests. That is to say, I spend much of my time here at home. If you need anything, feel free to let me know.”

“Oh, um… ok.” I tripped over my own feet to follow her to the door. “I really can’t thank you enough for this, I owe you one, big-time.”

“It is no bother at all, Mister Molloy,” she said on the doorstep. Side by side, it was all the more obvious that she was tall— taller than me. Now, I’m not a short guy, but even without the platforms on her shoes, she was easily a solid six feet tall to my respectable 5 foot 9 and a half. Not that it mattered to me. From this angle, I could look up at her like the celestial creature she was.

“Daniel,” I breathed.

“Danny.” She swooped in and laid a cold, cinnamon-scented kiss on my cheek.

As her footsteps descended the creaking stairs, I turned back to the windows, pulling the curtains wide open. I gazed with childish wonder toward the city and fell into one of the saggy-seated chairs by the windowsill. 

Things were going to be alright.

Notes:

oooo they're really pining now. Poor old maniel is really going through it.
Thank you all so much for reading and for all your lovely comments! I try my best to respond to them all and they really do make my day.
Bit of unfortunate news, I seem to have come down with a cold of some sort, so updates may spread out a little, but to be perfectly honest, I'm still shocked I've been able to put out this much this quickly for this one.
anyway, Unbeta'ed as always, thank you, byeeee

Chapter 9

Summary:

Daniel and Armand have a heart to heart. In 1979, The Siren pays Danny a visit.

Notes:

just a note to start- this chapter contains sexual content, though it's not as explicit as it could be. check the updated tags

A single snowflake sizzles on the end of Daniel’s cigarette. His feet dangle some-thirty feet off the ground from the abandoned tree stand of the hunters that he and his maker killed the night before. The bodies are still there, covered in scratches and bite marks. Whenever their families come looking for them, it will appear to be a bear attack. Daniel is thankful for the chill breeze that carries away the scent of their blood and rot.

Tonight, he has drained one four-point buck, two raccoons, a bobcat, and an unlucky partridge whose flight path intersected with his as he ran up the mountain. There are still feathers in his hair. His stomach is full to the point of discomfort, rounded like a kitten’s, but still it aches as if empty. The miniscule drop of Armand’s blood from earlier had only stoked the fires of his appetite. 

It made no sense. He’d been fine for years without his maker’s blood. Why, now, did his body seem to yearn for it? He feels like a junkie who just broke sobriety. Despite how his insides slosh, his fangs descend at the transcendent memory of Armand on his tongue. He tilts his face back to the starless sky, allowing the sparse flakes of ice that tumble from the clouds to land on his blood-flushed skin.

Perhaps his maker was right. Maybe something went wrong with the creation process and this would be a disability he’d need to adapt to for the rest of his existence. If the bond didn’t form properly, they’d never share the closeness that Louis and Lestat have, or even the troubled attachment they both had to Claudia. He takes another bitter drag from his cigarette. At least he doesn’t have to worry about the tobacco rotting his lungs out of his chest any more.

It’s a complicated dilemma. On the one hand, he is not worthy of Armand’s companionship. He proved that time and time again during their years of pursuit. Even after a decade of hot and cold intimacy, Armand had left him and taken the memories to boot. He’d turned Daniel out of spite, and abandoned him on eternity’s doorstep with little more than a note. Daniel owes him nothing and expects nothing in return.

And yet, his undead heart has other plans.

If it was just the memories of him and Armand, that would be one thing. Daniel’s love for the man had clearly overshadowed any that was returned. 

But Alice. 

Alice had loved him in a way that no other had, before or since. When she finally left him, he’d forfeited the concept of finding a love like that ever again, but to now know that she and his maker were one in the same? He cannot find it in himself to write off everything they had as yet another of the ancient vampire’s many mind games.

It had been real.

And what about Armand’s insistence on sharing this story again? What benefit does it serve him? The apathetic, rational part of Daniel tells him that it’s just to torment him. His maker feeds on the discomfort of others and delights in torturing those close to him in the most sadistic of ways. 

But it’s so hard to reconcile that knowledge with the small, tear-streaked thing he had held in his arms before the fire. He knows better than to take Armand at his word— the man has half a millenia’s worth of acting experience— but he wants to believe. He wants to believe that he had meant that tiny unconscious ‘beloved’ for him. He wants to think that he could possibly be worthy of love like they once had again.

But that’s wishful thinking, and he doesn’t have a genie or a falling star, or even a dandelion to carry the sentiment. All he has are the steadily falling snowflakes, each a unique messenger of the coming cold.

The aged wood of the tree stand bends slightly under Armand’s weight.

“Couldn’t take the ladder like the rest of us plebians?” Daniel asks, but there’s no real bite to his words. His mind is far too occupied to bother itself with attitude.

“And give you the chance to run off again?”

“I wasn’t running, I just…” Daniel sighs and stubs out the cigarette in a puddle of melted snow. “I had a moment of weakness. You wanted space so the bond wouldn’t force us into anything you don’t want, and I don’t wanna fuck that up for you.”

“I don’t understand.” Armand worries at his lower lip with his teeth, his feet kicking in the air over the edge.

“Clearly you have no interest in resuming our prior… arrangement, I guess.” The words prick at Daniel’s insides like broken glass. “I don’t blame you, really, I’m a downright intolerable bastard most of the time, and I don’t even have to benefit of being pretty any more.” 

“Daniel…” Armand starts, but the words are coming now and there’s nothing Daniel can do to stop them.

“I understand why you didn’t want this bond with me. Hell, I didn’t even register that it was going to be a thing. Tied to me for eternity? You already married me once, why the fuck would you do that again? What I don’t get is why you insisted on coming back to tell me this story. You could have just let it be.” Panic edges into his voice and pink rims his vision.

“Daniel!” 

“I wouldn’t have remembered, and you’d be free to do whatever it is that ancient vampires do. Go suck hot babes in Cancun or something, I don’t know. Hunting me down and Clockwork Orange-ing me though our sordid love tale does nothing for you but make me suffer. I know you get off on that sometimes, but then why are you freaking out over the bond making me feel like my heart is missing? Unless this whole thing is some sort of fucked-up self-harm situation, in which case, I don’t want anything to do with it. You can’t use me to hurt yourself!” He’s on his feet, tears of blood leaving frosty tracks across his face. Each forced breath is like inhaling metal shavings, the cold sting of cocaine without the rush. His stomach churns with the inadequate blood of innocent creatures. He’s gonna be sick.

“DANNY!” It is Alice’s voice that rings out through the frozen forest and pulls him from his downward spiral. He blinks away blood and finds Armand standing before him, his hands cupping his face. Daniel’s face crumples and he rubs his cheek against his maker’s hand, relishing the electric sensation like the sting of a love bite. 

“Please…” he begs, feeling once again like that young man in San Francisco. “Please, just make up your mind. Love me or leave me but do not hurt us both like this.”

“Oh, beloved…” Armand sighs, pressing his forehead to Daniel’s. “Would I be here if I didn’t love you? Would I have hunted you down tonight?”

“You didn’t… you didn’t after… after I changed…” Daniel’s world is upside down and backwards, and he flings his arms out at the first contrary thing that comes to mind.

“And I will regret it for the rest of my immortal life.”

“You… came for me.”

“Of course I did. You’re hurting.” Armand picks a single downy feather from his hair and eyes it for a moment before tossing it away. It floats through the air like any other snowflake. With a shuddering breath, Daniel nods.

“You know, after I turned and once I was on my feet again, I ran. I ran hoping that you would chase after me again, just like we used to. I hoped that eventually you would catch up with me so I could be… I don’t know. I wanted to be your prize again, but you never came.”

“I know, beloved.”

“Why didn’t you come for me?” The words are pathetic— the whining plea of a child, but he needs to know. Armand swallows tightly.

“I thought… I didn’t want you to be reliant on the bond. When I was a fledgling, all those years ago, I leaned on it too much and fell for it. I wanted you to be stronger. I need you to be stronger.”

The forest around them is silent save for the microscopic sound of snow on dead leaves. 

“So what now?”

“You require a different kind of sustenance, one that vermin cannot provide. When I…” Armand hesitates. “I’ve never known a fledgling to be apart from their maker for so long after creation, so I did not recognize the significance that reciprocal feeding has on development. I thought that avoiding each other’s blood would prevent a bond from forming, but it seems it has only strengthened the hold it has over us both. This is my error.”

“So what,” Daniel sniffs, wiping his face on his jacket sleeve. “I have to feed from you to go through vamp puberty? That’s pretty Oedipal.”

“That would be ideal, though I seem to have avoided the ill effects that you’ve experienced by ingesting small amounts of your blood,” Armand muses, as though discussing a particularly complicated science experiment. “Then again, I have several centuries’ worth of experience to temper my bloodlust, so it would be best to err on the side of overcorrection.”

“Small amounts?”

“The drink in Boston and your, um… ‘fortified’ coffee yesterday. Perhaps it was your latent fledgling instincts that encouraged that.”

“I don’t think that a few drops in my martini is gonna hold me over, boss.” Daniel’s mouth already waters with the idea. If just a drop of his maker’s blood had given him the best high he’s had since the ‘80s, a full feed will be ecstatic.

“I wouldn’t think so. You’re a growing boy, after all.” Armand’s grin is as sharp and white as the snowflakes. “I suppose I’ll have to indulge you once again.”

“You coulda just said you want my big, thick vampire fangs in your neck, but this works too,” Daniel smirks. “Race you back? I don’t wanna be making a mess of the crime scene under us.”

“I’ll be right behind you, my beautiful boy.”

***

White Line Fever- Chapter 4

A Night with The Siren

She came to me like a vision. Like a dream. Silhouetted in blue against the faint dawn glow from outside, she hovered in my doorway like death itself.

I do not fear death. She is but another lady to whom we all return. Her arms open like a mother’s, wrapped in her dark burial shroud. I feel that I have seen her before, in the deep and hazy corners of my mind. There have been moments when I have heard her sweet harmony to the song of the highway, whistle tones above and a faint drone below.

And perhaps my Siren is, in fact, an angel of death. It is her temptation that has lured me here, as enthralled as Odysseus and soft as wax. The mind is as weak as the flesh to her seduction.

The lamplight shone through her sheer gown as if it was made of the lost Dhaka muslin. I could write sonnets about her body, the trigonometric curve of her waist and hip, the delectable peaks of her breasts. I was struck dumb and paralyzed in her presence. Something in my heart surged forward as if it knew that she is mine and will be forevermore.

“Come here, beloved,” she beckoned and I jumped to answer her call. “Kneel,” she demanded and I sank to the floor. Her long-taloned fingers threaded through my hair, the nails scratching a delicious path over my scalp. Shivers cascaded down my body in waterfalls of sparkling wine. It was the most beautiful form of torment to watch her and to not touch, but I followed her directions to the letter. Anything for my lady.

“What should I do with you, you beautiful, fascinating boy?” she asked, though I could not form an answer. My mind raced with a thousand possibilities, each more depraved than the last. Alice’s amber eyes peered into my own as if watching a film of my deepest desires. Her perfect mouth quirked up into that little half-smile she gives me whenever she holds in a laugh or a secret.

“All in good time,” she said lightly and released her hold on my hair. I leaned forward slightly to chase the contact. “For now, I just want you to watch.”

She crossed to perch on the edge of the chair beside the window in the sitting room and arranged the sheer billow of her gown around her before turning her attention back to me.

“Come,” she said, gesturing to me as if I was her dog. I was no better than a dog the way I crawled over the uneven floorboards to kneel before her once again.

“Very good, Danny.” My name on her lips sent another shudder through me. I was already hard and wanting, but this drew a tiny groan from my chest. Alice smiled her knowing little smile and drew aside the folds of her gown. She wore nothing beneath. My eyes widened to behold her damp sex. 

“Now, beloved, you are going to watch me very carefully,” she said, stroking herself slowly. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

“Yes…yes,” I breathed, finally able to find words. I took in every little detail of how she touched herself. My mouth dropped open as if I could taste her on the air, tongue lolling out for a drop of her sweet release. Her forehead crinkled with the effort, her chest heaving with every stroke. With her other hand, she pulled down the satin cups of the gown to free her small, pert breasts. She tossed back her head of wild curls as she tweaked one of her dark nipples. I couldn’t help it, I pressed a palm to my raging erection and she froze in place.

“Did I say that you could do that?” she said, soft and dangerous. Her eyes flashed a warning in the darkness. 

“No, no… I just…” Against all logic, my blood surged in pleasure. Hot tears gathered in my eyes. 

Like the gentle goddess that she is, Alice reached down with one hand and cradled my face. A wet smear of her arousal marked her fingers’ path over my unworthy skin.

“That is alright, beloved,” she crooned. “If you cannot take any more, I can leave you be…”

“No!” I gasped, falling forward to grasp at her hem. “Please, please…” I begged. I didn’t even know what I was begging for, just not for her to leave. All I wanted was for her to stay. Stay with me. Always. Forever. 

“You know it can never be,” she said sadly.

“Ple…ease… Anything!”

For a moment, I truly believed that she would stay good to her word. I waited for the thin fabric to be ripped from my greedy fingers. I waited for the inevitable smite of my goddess, but it did not come. Something about her softened around the edges and she lifted my chin, holding it before her face like Hamlet. Alas, poor Yorick! Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.

And kiss them she did. Alice tasted of wine and cinnamon and was just as intoxicating. The force of the kiss must have split my lip as the metallic taste of blood bloomed on my tongue, but it did nothing to damper my passion. In fact, it seemed to intensify the sensation, lending the kiss an edge of desperation. Her hand slid to the back of my head and held me in place tightly. She rained a litany of kisses and nips down the arched side of my neck. I still bear some of the marks, along with the twin scars that remain there after an accident some years back. 

My mind becomes hazy after this point, and I would not want to delve too deeply into the details of our lovemaking. Those belong to me and to Alice and to no one else. Suffice to say, I still question if it was all truly real life or a dream. I know that I will live the rest of my life chasing the high that came with laying next to her, my face in her curls and the taste of her on my tongue. It is like the purest heroin, shot straight into a vein. It is the top shelf whiskey, neat. It is that flash of cold bliss before death comes to take his dues. It is a mother’s caress.

When I woke again, I was alone. The bed was undisturbed. The space beside me was cold. 

But yet— the pillow smells still of cinnamon.

Notes:

oops, I managed a chapter today even though I'm still not totally back in business. The brain worms persist, despite the horrors! I'm sorry for the fade to black in this chapter, but I felt it would be out of character for young Danny to include too many details in his writing. Luckily, we have the modern timeline for more explicit fun.
Thank you as always for reading! I appreciate each and every comment (as long as you're not a bot) <3

Chapter 10

Summary:

a vision

Notes:

I apologize for the delay in this chapter. However, there is a situation that has come to my attention that I feel the need to address and I’d like to do it publicly. Rest assured, it should not affect the continuation of this story. To the person who I know is reading this (and anyone who wants to be nosy just ‘cause, I won’t judge), continue in the details below. The rest of y'all can just skip to the main event.

Details

This story is not about you. This story was never about you. To think that you see yourself in these characters and in this narrative sickens me, and I’m trying my best not to let it negatively affect my enthusiasm for this story. Your reading comprehension must truly be through the fucking floor if you’ve read this far and you believe that the Son is a sympathetic character. The entire purpose of this story is to show the delusional nature of him and his perspective. He is the pathetic, derivative dream of a despicable man. It is not a happy story. The relationship is not healthy in any timeline. You would know that if you cared to watch the source material. Our relationship was not happy or healthy in any timeline. You would know that if you cared to think for one second about me as an actual human being and not just some plot device. I am not your Eurydice, or your Muse, or your Siren. Do not reduce me as such. I am your nothing. I didn’t care enough to block you on anything until you imposed your presence on each platform. One by one you have lost access. And now you’ve followed me into a space that is mine alone and dare to have the audacity to impose your shadow over my art. This is a deeply disturbing violation of my privacy. I do not know how to make it more clear to you. It has been over two and a half years. You will not get another message. Go away. Move on. I will be blocking you in 24 hours.

“So… How do you wanna do this?” Daniel rocks on his heels. What should he do with his hands? In his pockets? No, that feels weird. By his sides? That feels even weirder. He settles on crossing his arms over his chest.

The air in the cabin seems to weigh twice as much as it should and if he could sweat, he’d probably be pouring buckets. Armand, on the other hand, is razor-focused. He flits about the cabin like a trapped songbird, draping the couch in towels and sheets. A carefully folded damp washcloth sits beside a bowl of water on the coffee table. His scrapbook is tucked away in his impossibly capacious bag. It is at once tender and clinical— the staging before a surgery.

“It won’t be very different from your normal feedings, though obviously you won’t be draining me completely.” He pulls his hair back with the same zig-zag shaped headband, securing the lengths with an elastic just to be thorough. 

“How will I… uh… How do I know when I’ve taken enough? How do I stop?”

“Consider it an exercise in self-control.” Armand raises an eyebrow as he unbuttons the top of his henley. “You will not harm me, if that is your concern. I can stop you whenever I like.” He pulls the shirt over his head and Daniel is a 20-something year old boy all over again. 

The firelight illuminates Armand’s body like the last rays of twilight. Each shifting muscle beneath his glowing skin speaks of centuries as a predator, but there is still enough boyish softness around the edges to temper the danger. His trousers sit just over his hip bones and Daniel forces his eyes back upward to his maker’s face. Despite his expression of cool indifference, there’s a notion of trepidation there.

“Are you sure about this?” Daniel asks, his mouth dry. He wants it more than anything, but he has to be sure.

“You are hurting. I can help.” Armand says it like it’s a well known fact. The sky is blue. The night is dark. Daniel’s maker will help him when he is hurting. The bond sings the truth of the statement, undercut by a tremor of nerves. 

“Feel like I should be handing you a liability release waiver or some shit,” Daniel grumbles, but he sits beside the other man on the draped couch.

“I am more than capable of fending off vampires far more ancient and powerful than you.”

“Well, yeah, but you’ve been known to overindulge me, historically speaking.” He’s stalling, but he doesn’t know why. Wasn’t this something that he lied, cheated, begged, and stole for countless times over the course of his life?

“Then consider this my penance for my absence.” Armand stares deep into his eyes and tilts his head, baring the smooth, sinewed expanse of his neck in offering. 

“We really gotta work on that martyr complex.” Daniel’s fangs descend and he leans over. The angle is awkward and he shuffles a little on the couch, the side of his leg pressing against Armand’s. He raises one unsure hand to gently hold the far side of his neck, cradling it like a precious fruit. He feels like a mouse with one foot on the cheese of a trap. Surely it can’t be this simple?

Armand tenses slightly at the first contact of fangs on skin. He inhales sharply as they puncture through. 

The first burst of blood in Daniel’s mouth is like a sip of fine mulled wine. He cannot hold back the groan of pleasure that slips through against his maker’s skin. The ache in his stomach flares once, then dims. He is lost to the sensation. All there is in the world is him and Armand and blood and memories.

Memories…

***

I am lounging in the living room of the Boston brownstone, flipping through some dry text about human genetics. It’s one of the books that Louis stole from the MIT library a few weeks back in his pursuit of justice. All things considered, this wild goose chase has done him some good. Louis always does best when he has a task to keep him occupied. It dulls some of his crueler natures and ensures that he spends the nights out of the house. 

Leaving me to do as I please. 

The boy is pacing his room upstairs, back and forth, an incessant patter of feet on floorboards. He is a beautiful creature of instinct and habit. There are no secrets with him. Not like Louis, who has never truly been mine. Not like Lestat, who used me as a diversion while it was convenient. Not like that man who hoisted eternity onto a boy’s shoulders. Daniel is simple. Daniel is safe. Daniel can be broken again and again and sewn back together with promises of love.

Because that’s what I do with things I love.

I break them.

“Come downstairs,” I suggest to the boy’s open mind. “Seek me out.” Eagerly, Daniel complies, always eager to please. Of course, the boy thinks it’s his own idea. It is best to use the mind gift prudently— not too much, or too bluntly. It is a scalpel, not a broadsword.

I survey the space, ensuring that it is up to my standards. Even now, when there’s no doubt about the boy’s devotion, everything must be perfect. I must be perfect. The lighting must be flattering. I run a nervous hand down the front of my jumpsuit. It is tight and clingy and leaves nothing to the imagination— all the better to stop the boy in his tracks. His blood is always that much sweeter when he’s beside himself with pleasure. 

“Alice?” he asks at the doorframe, so sweet and cautious. The false name nags me like an itch I can’t quite scratch. But this is how things must be. To him, I must be his Alice. I must play my part.

His eyes widen as he takes in my carefully-arranged set. Something unobtrusive and jazzy playing on the stereo. The stocked bar cart in the corner. Everything is warm and welcoming and yellow. 

“Ah, there you are!” I exclaim, taking my time as I rise to my feet. A touch of the cloud gift adds to the ethereal impression. The cavernous sound of his heart doubles in rhythm and the air is heavy with the scent of his need. The chain belt around my waist jingles merrily, like windchimes before a storm.

“Come! Sit!” I beckon him in. He’s so docile, there is no need to use the mind gift on him. His only purpose is to obey and serve.

“Uh, sure,” he shrugs. “Is Louis out again tonight?” One does not need to hear his thoughts to understand his real questions— Will you touch me again? Will you possess me again? Will you take away this burden that is choice and grant me the privilege of your attention?

“Yes,” I say. “It is just us once again. Would you like a drink?” His blood already smells of liquor and nicotine and the fading buzz from a line of cocaine.

“Sure.”

My Danny is always so agreeable. As I fix him a drink, I permit him to ramble on about something or other. Probably whatever it is that he is writing at the moment. I have seen the pages of his journal. It is amateur work, with a sprinkling of genius. I have faith that, given time, he will find some renown for his words. 

Yet like so many other young artists, he is fragile in a way that threatens his future. I fear he is building glass houses and colliding with the walls. This obsession that he has with me will only spell his doom. It only speaks of my own wickedness that I watch from above with glee, laughing each time his face meets glass. 

He is addicted to me, like any other drug, and I encourage it. A few drops of my ancient blood into his martini and his eyes take on that precious doll-like glaze. It is better than using the mind gift. This is him choosing me, time and time again. This simple boy does what no other has ever done for me. He always comes back.

His breath is hot against my chest as I swing one leg over to straddle him. My knees cage his thighs and his hands brush over my hips with solemn reverence. He is so beautiful, my boy. Surely if he had existed as long as I have, his face would grace countless paintings and sculptures. His downturned mouth and rounded eyes are those of the great tragedies. I take fistfuls of his riotous hair to guide his mouth to mine. 

I understand now why the Great Laws forbade us human lovers. Danny is a sacrament on my tongue that I will never stop preaching. I greedily swallow his gasps for air. What does he need air for? He has me. He has me and I have him and that is all we will ever need.

I am bartering with my desire, just like my fascinating boy. He is so warm and smells of coffee and the sea and those terrible cigarettes he smokes. I have offered to buy him others, but he insists on these. It is a peculiar tendency of his, to ask the least of anyone. It is almost as if he wishes to take up as little space as possible, not realizing that he is already my entire world. 

Thoughts of such sentimental things flee my mind as he rocks his hips upward. I pull at his clothing, urging it off so that I can feel more of his skin against my own. He plucks at the stretchy fabric of my jumpsuit, but can’t seem to figure out the zipper.

“Let me,” I breathe. 

I have spent my time on a stage. I know exactly how to enthrall an audience, even if it is just one person. I stand and turn up the volume on the stereo. The neighbors have been told to ignore any noises from the house already, but it adds to the ambiance. I give my Danny a sultry look over my shoulder.

There’s a deliberate rhythm to my motions. Hands running over my body. The unclasping of the chain belt, tossed teasingly at him. A long, slow tug of a zipper. I turn around so he can see the sleeves come down off of my shoulders, the top of the jumpsuit pooling at my waist. He knows better than to try to touch before I tell him to. 

My boy is dumbstruck and aching by the time I shimmy the jumpsuit over my hips and down my legs. 

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, wondering, not for the first time, if it is all a dream. I want to reassure him. To tell him this is all real. But instead, I let the mind gift seep between his thoughts like smoke. Danny’s Alice has a womanly curve to her waist. Her breasts are rounded and the neat patch of curls between her legs holds a slick, inviting cunt ready for his pleasure. It is a perfect illusion. I am his perfect fantasy.

“What do you want, beloved?” I ask him, using the honeyed tones that always work so well on men.

“I… I want…” He reaches his arms out to me like a young boy for his mother.

“Yes?” I encourage him, taking his hands in mine. I have already prepared myself for the evening, so there is little need for preamble when I finally return to sit in his lap. 

“I want to feel you.” His voice is a thin, warbling thing, shot through with untethered lust.

And so I oblige him, sinking down onto his searing length. It is like hot stones on a cold day. It is a flare over stormy waters. I cannot contain my cries of joy. 

My soft, beautiful Danny— he is ever a passionate lover. I could ask the moon and stars of him and he would cut them from paper just to try his best. My nails dig into his solid shoulders, but he only whimpers at the pain, thrusting harder up into me. The air fills with the floral-salt scent of his blood— like ripe olives fresh from the tree and an ocean breeze. My fangs itch to descend. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. 

He tilts his head to the side, just offering me that which I desire. 

“Oh, fuck, please,” he begs and I cannot deny him. A quick flick of a nail along my collarbone and he latches on like a babe to a teat. Even after all my efforts to mold his mind, his body recognizes its own needs. He takes and takes and I grind ruthlessly down onto him to motivate his release. My teeth sink into his neck and it is hot, sweet ecstasy— a seismic resonance deep in my being that cries out to possess and be possessed. I wish to drink so deeply from his well that I can see the bottom and then pour myself into him until there is no delineation between our being. 

But I cannot. Even through his final tremors of pleasure with the hot evidence of his claim deep within me, I cannot give him what he wants. I cannot give him what I want. I cannot end his story so soon. My own release is silent and heartrending. I seal away the evidence of my hunger. My boy cries saltwater tears into the valley of my chest. I have broken him again.

The stereo plays on, but I cannot bring myself to move.

If only for another moment.

***

“What the EVERLIVING fuck was that?!” Daniel groans as he blinks back spots and the amber haze of memory. The real world comes back into focus like an old-timey movie theatre just starting a new reel. The picture shudders around the edges, or, wait… The shuddering comes from under him. It is then that he realizes that he is no longer perched awkwardly beside his maker, but rather that Armand is beneath him on the couch. It is an exact mirror to the memory that just invaded his mind, except now it is Armand who is crying and clutching him like a child.

“That has… I’ve never done that before…” he hiccups, not loosening his hold. 

“I, pffff… yeah, can’t say I have either. Talk about a mindfuck. Jesus, I get it why you didn’t wanna change me back then. Never realized just how fucking pathetic I was.” Unconsciously, his arms wrap around Armand’s shoulders and rub reassuring circles on his back. 

“I never… I never knew how you saw me. Daniel, Alice was beautiful.”

“I know.” He swallows around the knowledge that Alice was never real. She was a creation of Armand’s need to feel wanted, crafted with his every desire in mind to be the perfect drug. The ultimate Amy Dunne cool girl. He had no chance of resisting her… him… whatever. But even more disturbing still is the lingering sensation of true affection that had permeated the memory. Alice had truly loved him. Armand had truly loved him. The truth slices deep and precise into the core of his being.

“This reminds me of that time I had you try MDMA before I fed from you,” Armand sniffs. “But somehow less erotic. I thought I understood from using the mind gift, but to actually experience it… How did you survive so long while feeling so much?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, boss. Maybe sometime you can show me that memory too.” He buries his uncontrollable grin in his maker’s hair. “In the meantime, you look like Lizzie Borden’s long-lost sibling. Let's get you cleaned up.”

Thanking his newly-young knees, Daniel stands and takes the prepared washcloth in hand. The water is warm still, and plumes of blood quickly dye it a hazy scarlet. Armand sits still and distant, holding one upper arm with his other hand in a half-defensive, apathetic pose. His caramel eyes are distant and he moves to Daniel’s instruction, but no more. 

“Hey, um… I’m just gonna…” he gestures at the bowl with the washcloth. “You get changed, ok?”

Armand nods, still impassive. Daniel glances over his shoulder as he whisks away the mess, knowing in his core that there is still something not right about the whole situation. His stomach is so full from his double meal that he regretfully tips the bloody water down the drain. Such a waste of perfect blood. He should really ask for some tips on how to be a less messy eater. His mom had always given him shit for his table manners. Seems that some things never change.

By the time he is done and has set his own bloody shirt to soak in some cold water, Armand is once again sitting on the couch, knees tucked up and wrapped in Daniel’s flannel shirt. He looks so small, like a partridge plucked from thin air, the towels and sheets around him like fallen feathers. 

“It is almost dawn,” he says softly. “You should rest.”

Rest. Rest. No longer a command, but a suggestion.

“Would you… like to rest? With me, that is?” Daniel points a thumb at the narrow staircase. “The bed is marginally more comfortable than that old thing.”

An offer.

Armand’s head lifts and he blinks. Slow and purposeful.

“I think I would like that very much.”

Notes:

phew! We got all the drama this time lol and a new POV! I hope I don't have to explain that both Danny and Armand are deeply fucked up individuals in their own messy ways.
Like always, no beta, and thank you all for reading. I adore all of your lovely comments <3 see you again soon

Chapter 11

Summary:

Daniel and Armand have a slow morning and go on a trip. In 1979, Daniel has an idea.

When he wakes, Daniel’s mind spirals into panic. He cannot move his limbs. Terror shoots down his spine. He is once again bound by incorporeal restraints to that shitty chair in San Francisco. There is blood dripping down his neck and he can’t feel his hands or his feet. His eyes fly open and all he sees are… pillows? 

He looks down and finds that there are arms around him, not invisible bonds. The dripping on his neck smells of blood, but it is not his own, and tinged with saliva? A faint snorting huff comes from just behind him and the long arms tighten just a little.

“Five more minutes,” Armand mumbles. “You’re so warm…”

Memory clicks into place and Daniel worms his way around through the tangled bedding to face the other direction. To face his maker, who is currently tucking ice-cold toes up the bottoms of his pant legs to warm them against his skin. Armand’s curls spill over the pillow that he has invaded, disregarding his own which is somewhere on the floor beside the bed.

“Oi, Count Drool-cula, wanna share the sheets?” Daniel pokes him in the ribs. “I fucking forgot how much of a menace you are in your sleep.”

“Hmm?” The drowsy vampire merely smiles and burrows himself in closer to his chest. Daniel spits out a mouthful of hair.

“As much as I like a good snuggle, we have things to do, boss.” He can feel Armand scrunch his face up through his threadbare t-shirt. It would be so simple to just remain there together for the rest of the night. There’s a familiarity to it that’s like returning to your own bed after a long vacation. Everything is just right. He’s not even all that hungry…

“I’m not hungry,” Daniel says, disbelieving. “Holy shit, it actually worked.”

“I told you it would work,” his maker grumbles, finally extracting himself and opening his eyes. 

“No, but, like, it really worked. I haven’t felt like this since probably Dubai.” Indeed, there is an energy in his body that’s so genuine and natural that it almost feels artificial. There is no haziness, like he would experience after a large feeding from just humans, that blood-drunk stupor that on more than one occasion left him sleeping in dumpsters and other less-than-ideal places just to avoid the sun.

“That’s what the blood of an ancient will do for you.”

For the first time in a long time, Daniel feels like the boy in the story that they share. He springs from the bed, unashamed of his half-aroused state (when was the last time he’d woken up like that?) and shoves his legs into his jeans. Armand’s eyes follow him, a half-reverent, half-ecstatic pride in their golden glow. He props himself up on one elbow to watch his prodigal fledgling zip around the room.

“Y’know what, fuck the interview tonight. Do you wanna go do something?” Daniel asks. His manic fervor is too much to be contained to the cottage. The road calls to him.

“Something… like what? Aren’t you on a timeline?”

“Well, yeah, but I have enough to get Ellen, that’s my agent, off my back for a bit. C’mon. What’cha say?”

Armand’s face breaks around a sentimental smile. The bond tremors with a bittersweet affection.

“Only if you drive.”

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

Living in Boston was a delicate business. I spent most of my days in my little attic room, slamming my head against the page enough for words to come out. Occasionally I’d wander my way through the city. I remember many a misty sunrise sitting by the harbor with a coffee and a cigarette after a night of revelry. Every morning (realistically, more like afternoon), I would wake with a fire in my blood and a zeal for life, despite the relentless headaches and hangovers I had from my nights of excess. Sure I was pale and withdrawn, a shade of myself, but I had purpose. I knew my place. I was living in a fantasy plucked from the tightest recesses of my brain.

Louis, for the most part, tolerated my presence in his home, at least to my face. I was like a particularly noisy cockroach, or perhaps a poltergeist. Most nights, he prowled the streets searching for a fictional killer. I never saw him during the days and never thought twice about it. Why would I care where the big bad wolf fucked off to? Some evenings, he and Alice would sit in the living room and read or watch television. I would occasionally join them, though I avoided it, if possible. My tender sense of self struggled to talk to Louis and not gloat about the time I shared with his companion. It would have been so easy to stoke the temper that so clearly simmered under his carefully curated facade, but my adoration for Alice curtailed me.

One night, I recall, I joined them after a sordid evening out. 

“So, Louis,” I said, if only to break the tense silence that lay over the sitting room like a cloud of hookah smoke. “Where are you from? Surely not around here.”

“N’Orleans,” he said in that refined cadence I’d recognized already as cajun. “Haven’t been there in some time, though.”

“What, really? Not even for Mardi Gras?”

“They cancelled Mardi Gras this year.” 

“Why the fuck would they do that!? That’s, like, the only reason to go there, unless you’re some neo-romantic gothic freak who wants to tour mausoleums or get cursed by some hoodoo-ass whatever.”

“The police went on strike,” said Alice smoothly. “A labor dispute.”

“Because they couldn’t stand workin’ under a black mayor,” Louis added bitterly. “First one the city has and the pigs throw a fit.” His shoulders bowed with some invisible weight.

“Of course, that didn’t prevent the city from carrying on regardless. But New Orleans holds some… difficult memories for Louis.” Alice gave her partner a tentative glance. 

“Nah, I get it,” I lit a cigarette and leaned back on the velvet couch. “I’m not a big fan of my hometown either. Too much history there, you know? Not to mention family…”

A sarcastic smile twisted Louis’ handsome face. In all honesty, given the opportunity, I would have slept with both of them. Individually, at the same time, I wasn’t picky. They both exuded the same lyrical mystique that complimented my worldview so prettily.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, boy,” he said in that dismissive way he always had when he addressed me.

“Oh come on, you can’t be much older than me,” I jibed, never able to let an opportunity to needle someone pass me by. “How old are you two, anyways?”

Louis gave Alice a dark look. She shook her head and pursed her lips. It was as if they were having a conversation that I could not hear. 

“I am thirty-three,” he said, in a flat, rehearsed manner that didn’t fool me for a second. “She is thirty.”

“See, not much older than me. The way you act sometimes it’s almost as if you’re old enough to be my dad,” I played along. I’ve found, in my years behind the page, that sometimes it’s best to let people believe they’ve convinced you of their lies. That way, it’s easier to trap them with their own sticky truths.

“Daniel, could you be a dear and go fetch me some juice from the kitchen? It should be just inside the refrigerator door,” Alice asked. Helpless to her requests, I stubbed out my smoke in one of their many crystal ashtrays and complied.

Now, the thing with old houses is— most of them were not designed with privacy in mind. Sure, the walls may be thick plaster and board, but the vents whisper and voices carry in unexpected ways. I knew that Alice was trying to get me out of the room so she could speak to Louis in private, but since when had I ever cared about privacy? Closed doors are not a barrier, but a challenge. I took my time fetching the pitcher of cherry juice, making my steps as quiet as possible and straining my ears for snatches of their conversation.

“I told you this was a bad idea!” Louis hissed.

“He’s just a boy! What harm could he do?” Alice said lightly.

“He’s too curious for his own good!”

“I will take care of it. Do not concern yourself, my love.”

“Do so, or I will.” 

A lump formed in my throat like a pomegranate. It was not fair. How dare this man not cherish the beauty that he had? How could he resist the urge to supplicate himself before her as I did? Was this a moral failing in myself, or in him? It never crossed my mind then to blame Alice for our passive antagonism. To me, it seemed that Louis was a jealous lover with a weak will, unable to provide for his lady or to control her desires. I envied him and cursed him with the same breath. A worthy adversary, indeed.

I returned to the sitting room with the pitcher and handed it to Alice. 

“Thank you, dear,” she smiled as she always did. “Louis, would you like a drink?” Louis looked between her and me for a moment, almost as if he were trying very hard to remember something. Then his face smoothed out.

“I think I have some business to attend to.” He stood from his seat. “Don’t wait up for me.” He kissed her on the cheek, gave me a reticent nod, and left, shutting the front door perhaps a little harder than was necessary, even if the old hinges were not the most cooperative.

“Don’t mind him,” Alice poured herself a coupe of the juice, splashing some clear liquor over the top and dropping a single olive to the bottom like a despondent eyeball. “He’s always been prone to periods of unpleasantness.”

“He wants me gone,” I said. There was just enough alcohol and residual coke in my system to loosen my tongue, but then again, I could never stay quiet with her. Also, it was an objective fact, I just felt the need to voice it. An unfortunate compulsion of mine. She sighed and draped herself over the couch beside me, one long leg tucked beneath her, an arm over the back.

“He is… unsure of the current arrangement. I think it irritates him to have another object of my affection so close at hand. Typically, there is more space to soften the blow.” 

“So, he’s jealous.”

“He’s emasculated. It’s never about his feelings for me, only the fact that he has me.” Alice’s sad eyes peered up at me through her thick, dark lashes. “To him, I am a thing to be kept. A shiny doll on a shelf. An achievement. Yes, he treats me well, but is that any way to live?”

“You deserve better, more.” I ran the back of my fingers down her soft cheek. “I wish… I wish there was something I could do to help you. It seems like I’m only making your life worse.”

“You are making life bearable, beloved.”

“Life shouldn’t just be bearable, though! It should be treasured! Cherished! Celebrated! You should have the freedom to choose for yourself.” My heart pounded in my chest, that familiar rhythm. After so many days of rest, the Song of the Highway had returned to me at last. I would be the hero. I would rescue my muse.

“Let’s leave. Tonight,” I said, gripping her hand in my own. “Go somewhere else, anywhere else. Let me show you the freedom of the road.”

“Tonight?” Her pretty little mouth dropped open. “But, Louis…”

“Fuck Louis! We don’t need him. Pick me. C’mon, babe, what’cha say?” My blood sang with righteousness. 

Alice seemed speechless for a moment, but then she set her drink aside and wrapped her arms around my neck to breathe her answer into my ear.

“Yes. I will always pick you, my beautiful boy.”

***

“That is the cheesiest, most pathetic, brat-pack-ass ‘80s movie exchange I have ever fucking heard,” Daniel laughs.

“You were ahead of your time, then, I suppose.” 

The cemetery is unlit, save for the faint gibbous light of the moon. The grass is frosted in a crystalline layer of frost that crunches beneath their feet. Obelisks and rounded tombstones like broken teeth stand sentinel in irregular lines. Their grey-white limestone and marble faces are spotted over with yellow and greenish mosses and small drifts of snow cling around their bases. Tall pines embrace the clearing like shades of Hades.

“So, uh, any particular reason we’re perusing the dead tonight? I mean, I’m as down as any other creature of the night for a little graveyard shenanigans, but I feel like there are more lively places to be.” Daniel shivers and shoves his hands in his pockets. He exhales an experimental lungful of air just for it to turn to ghostly vapor. 

“There’s an ancient oddity here that I’ve meant to seek out for some time,” Armand says over his shoulder. He leads the way, using the flashlight on his cell phone. The screen illuminates his face in an almost comical way, as if he was telling a scary story at a preteen sleepover.

“Well, now there’s two ancient oddities, ba-dum-tsh!” Daniel jokes. “Get it? ‘Cause you’re old…”

“Hilarious. Ah, here we are.” 

The light illuminates a simple grave marker, rectangular in shape, its inscription worn away to near-illegibility. 

“Ashes of Amun-Her-Khepesh-Ef, aged two years,” reads Armand. “Son of Sen Woset 3rd King of Egypt and his wife Hathor-Hotpe, 1883 BC.“

“Didn’t the Egyptians mummify their dead?”

“They did. This poor child was taken from his resting place in his homeland millenia after his death. A man in this town purchased him from travelling merchants and hid him away in the attic of his museum because of the poor quality of his preservation.” Armand’s voice takes on that distant, detached nature that always accompanies his infrequent discussions of his own past. “Nearly sixty years passed before a well-meaning curator had the remains cremated and interred here, with a full Christian ceremony.”

“Seems rather… disrespectful.”

“Any more disrespectful than the grave robbers that disturbed his eternal rest in the first place? The merchants who threw him into their ship’s hold like any other antiquity?”

“I mean, the whole situation is fucked, in a very British Museum kind of way. The kid died before he even had a chance to live and even in death, he can’t catch a break.”

“The Egyptians believed that the soul is kept in the heart. It was the only organ returned to the body after the preservation process was complete. It would be weighed in the afterlife by Anubis to determine the worthiness of the deceased to proceed to the afterlife.”

“I know, I’ve seen the NatGeo specials.” 

“What weight could the heart of a child hold?”

Daniel is caught off-guard by the fragility of Armand’s voice. His maker seems half his size, wrapped in his ridiculous, billowing camel-hair trenchcoat. Sparse snowflakes land on his hair and cling to his eyelashes. His eyes do not move from the grave.

Of course. Armand maker sees himself in this tiny, long-gone prince, taken from his home and treated as a commodity. Amun, Arun— the parallels are obvious. 

“And yet, by all those injustices and insults, we can stand here and remember him today,” Daniel says softly. “He was defiled and reduced to ash, but never forgotten.” He crouches down in front of the stone, running a finger over the carved ankh and bird hieroglyph at the top. He carefully brushes the snow away from the base, exposing a small metal toy car and the waterlogged remains of a plush animal.

“There is so much kindness in the modern world. So many beautiful people who care for things that have not done anything to deserve it.” Armand sinks to his knees. The half-frozen ground seeps into the knees of his fine wool trousers. 

From one of his pockets, Armand withdraws a small model, wrapped in cloth. With a funerary delicacy, he unwraps a finely carved boat made of wood and gilded around the edges. He places it beside the other toys. 

“I don’t think kindness is a modern phenomenon,” Daniel says, placing a hand that he hopes is reassuring on his maker’s thin shoulder. The bond between them thrums with melancholy. “Somehow you had the capacity to care for me, even at my weakest, my most deplorable state. For some incomprehensible reason, you cared enough to seek me out again, even after I ruined your life for, what, the third time?”

“Fourth,” Armand laughs tightly.

“Fourth! You could have killed me and not brought me back on countless occasions.”

“Is the absence of cruelty the definition of kindness?”

“Boss, you’re the cruelest creature I’ve ever encountered. A dickhead beyond imagination. The prime douchebag, if you will. You terrify me shitless and have as long as I’ve known you, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still here and will be forever, outside interference notwithstanding, because you wouldn’t let me go.”

“It’s what you always wanted.” Armand’s eyes are glassy as they search his fledgling’s face. “I only ever wished…”

“I know.” The memory they shared the night before is still fresh in Daniel’s mind and there is no doubt.

Armand leans forward, his hand holding the side of Daniel’s neck, one thumb brushing his jawline just as he did so many years before.

“My fascinating boy, my one and only,” he whispers.

Their lips come together like the sun and the skyline. He tastes of blood and wine.

 

 

Notes:

aww a little domestic DM and a little sad Armand, but we have a smooch! old man smooch!
as far as stuff mentioned in this chapter- Mardi Gras was indeed cancelled due to a racially-motivated labor strike from the police in 1979. The grave of the Egyptian prince is also a real thing, including the inscription and the story behind it. I never visited it personally, but it's a local curiosity. It was a convenient coincidence that his name was Amun.
like always, no beta, thank you all for reading and especially for your lovely comments <3 see you again soon

Chapter 12

Summary:

An escape and a dance

White Line Fever- Chapter 5

Is this Heaven?

This is why I first ventured forth on this noble quest. This is the coalescence of my being. I am the vehicle for my muse’s fulfillment. Together, we ride forth into the unknown, hand in hand, ready to embrace the night and all that it brings. 

We have left Boston and its city-sludge skyline behind. I can breathe freely now that we have escaped its smothering grasp. For now, we have gone north, to a cabin which my Siren has arranged for us. It is small, barely more than one room, with a raised loft for a bedroom and only the most basic of modern amenities. There are no other signs of humanity around us and it is the most transcendent place I have ever seen. 

I will forever cherish the memories of our journey here. We left late in the night, with nothing but a couple bags and our love. Alice fit into the passenger seat of the Mustang like a tooth in its socket. We sped out of the city, threading between traffic with the surety of a surgical instrument. Boston’s notorious congestion was no match for my determination. We surged forth into the pine-flanked highways of New Hampshire, where there are no lights but the stars. 

In scanning the radio, Alice happened upon some esoteric college station that was playing a recent release from a new group out of the UK named, for some reason, after an obscure German architecture collective. It was a long, droning, post-punk affair that called to mind the wail of wind through a crypt. 

“Bela Lugosi’s dead,” it said, over and over again, “Undead, undead, undead”. Alice swayed back and forth to the tune, the fringe of her dark lacey shawl swaying like a holy censer. She smoked clove cigarettes that filled the car with their intoxicating smoke. “Undead, undead, undead.” Her little hand slid over my thigh, holding fast to me as I pushed the Mustang to its limits. 

“Who is Bela Lugosi, anyway?” I asked.

“Was— He was an actor, Hungarian originally, best known for his role in the classic film Dracula from 1936.”

“Huh, that explains the bats and capes, I guess.”

“It’s a theatrical depiction, like every other adaptation of Stoker’s work.”

“I dunno, I think it’s kinda hot,” I gave her a cheshire smile. “You can suck my blood any time, baby.”

She tipped her head back and laughed, white teeth shining in the moonlight.

We crossed the Connecticut river in record time, coasting into Vermont. My knowledge of the state is minimal, largely limited to basic facts. The capitol is Montpelier. Calvin Coolidge was born here. I think there are cows. Regardless, it was our goal. We quickly deviated from the highway and onto back roads that twisted and turned like serpents through the green mountains. In the early morning dark, farmhouses leapt from the shadows like ghosts. The air was heavy and green with the scents of summer.

Up Route 100 we drove, chancing each blind turn as if it would be our last. I know my ride— how much I can push her to remain on just this side of control.

When we finally arrived, I carried Alice over the threshold like a bride in black. She giggled and clung to my neck, running the cold tip of her nose down the tendons there. Now she lays in bed while I write this seated in one of the wooden Adirondack chairs on the lopsided front porch.

It is wonderful to once again be on the move, answering the Highway’s call with my lady at my side. Together, we will learn the mysteries of its song.

***

The return trip to the cottage is inexplicably not tense. Daniel’s motorcycle hugs the curves in the road like a lover and Armand holds on to him like something much more intimate. He doesn’t even complain when Daniel revs the engine to pass a slow-moving Subaru with a pine tree strapped to its roof. He just tightens his hold around his fledgling’s middle a little more. 

He’d protested when they first left, saying that he’d rather walk than sit behind Daniel on the bike, but had eventually acquiesced after Daniel pointed out that he hadn’t brought shoes that could tolerate the effort. The messenger boy’s Honda was long-gone, so that wasn’t an option. 

When the motor cuts out outside the cottage, the night air is once again filled with crystalline silence. They share a cigarette on the front porch, content to watch the smoke hover over the ground like a pre-dawn fog. Daniel’s eyes catch on the sin-sweet arches of his maker’s lips. His own tingle with the memory of how they felt— as familiar as a mother’s lullaby. Their fingertips brush as Armand hands back the cigarette and he can swear he tastes him on the filter. 

“So… You wanna talk about it?” he exhales. Better to rip the bandage off now. One kiss in a moment of emotional vulnerability was not a declaration of enduring love. But then again, hadn’t Armand admitted to as much already? Several times, in fact? Can never hurt to be safe, surely.

“Does it warrant discussion?” Daniel hears the careful hesitancy to the words. 

“I dunno, does it? Or do we wanna skip right to the good parts?”

That earns a chuckle from the ancient vampire. 

“Never change, Daniel Molloy. You’re still every bit the eager, brilliant boy I remember from our first time here.”

“Not much of a boy anymore, but it’s good to remember why this place is so familiar. Fully, I mean. Like, I knew it was important. There were bits and pieces still in there. But now…”

“You know that I own this place, right? I have since we first came here. Handed off management at some point and paid them well to ensure that it remained undisturbed, unless you wanted to return.”

“Explains why exactly nothing has been upgraded since the ‘80s. The place is a fuckin’ time capsule. And also explains how you found my ass.”

“I may not have made myself known, but I kept track of you after your turning. Always… always at a distance, of course. Your return here, though, made me consider that part of our story.”

“We didn’t even stay here very long, but out of that whole year, it’s the part that stuck with me the most, I think.” The final bits of ash fall from the cigarette and Daniel tosses it into an ice-rimmed puddle. “There’s just something about this place.”

“Despite my reservations, I couldn’t take this from you,” Armand looks to the front door. “You were never this happy again, not for a very long time. It was a spark of joy I could not extinguish, your most treasured memory.”

“We’re not gonna ruin it by freezing our asses off on the front steps,” Daniel grumbles, though something in his chest stirs. “C’mon, up you go.” With a strength he hasn’t felt confident in since his 30’s, he sweeps Armand into his arms. The other man lets out a small, undignified yelp of surprise.

“Let me down!” He clings to Daniel’s shoulders, the tips of his fingernails leaving tiny pinpricks in the leather. “I’m your sire, not your child!”

“Yeah, yeah, bite me,” Daniel grins. “Lemme have this, for old time’s sake.”

“You’ll regret this.” Armand’s face presses into his neck as he carries him into the cottage. 

“What, don’t like being reminded of the dashing young romantic I used to be?” 

Armand makes a dismissive noise as he’s dropped on the couch, but his mouth fights to hold back a smile. The fireplace flares to life, along with the oil lamps. Daniel tosses his jacket over the back of a chair and makes a decision. The pull of memory is too great. He traces the familiar path to the record player and leafs through the stack. There it is— Led Zeppelin. The fourth, untitled album, decorated with its meaningless, esoteric symbols. Still pristine in its case.

Side one, track four. Daniel guides the needle to the groove in the vinyl. The familiar intro begins to play, soft guitars and the hooting, ethereal tune of recorders. He turns, his heart in his throat. 

It is not August 1979 any more. He is not a fascinating boy, or the son of the highway, or even a human. The world has moved on and changed, uncaring to the unresolved past. But now, Daniel extends a hand to his maker, who watches him with large, unsure eyes.

“May I?” he asks with a small bow. Armand’s hand is cold and smooth in his.

“You may.”

They fall into a loose embrace, Daniel’s hand at Armand’s waist and his on the other’s shoulder. They sway to the song, making a slow orbital path about the room. 

“You know, there was a rumor at one point that if you played this song backward, it had secret hidden satanic messages,” Daniel jokes.

“Typical human superstition.”

“Those damn kids and their rock-n-roll music, summoning devils and engaging in lascivious acts.”

“Like you’re one to pass judgement,” Armand chides. “Though I was a far more benevolent force, at the time.”

“Positively saintly, by your standards. Only the occasional murder and a minimum of mindfuckery.”

“What can I say? I was otherwise occupied.”

“Distracted by my rakish good looks and endearing personality, is more like it.”

“A terminal affliction, it seems.”

The song breaks into its second-half solo, rife with guitar and ascending rhythm. Still they sway slowly, drawing into each other as surely as the pull between stars. Their clasped hands drop to knot behind each other and their embrace tightens, front to front, moving only in tiny shuffling steps. It is an echo of the past and a promise for the future. How many times had Daniel bargained with the powers that be for the chance to return to this moment?

“Beloved?” Armand asks.

“Yeah?”

“It is not in my nature to be nurturing. I cannot… I am not your Alice. I’ve held your secrets for fifty years, selfishly hoarding the truth, perhaps to protect you but also in self-interest. Reliving this with you is agony of the sweetest kind. A testament to my weakness. I… I am sorry that I cannot be her, no matter how much I want…” His eyes waver and he sucks his bottom lip in to hide a tiny tremble. 

“Hey.” Daniel presses his forehead to Armand’s, forcing him to look him in the eye once again. “Have I ever told you that you talk too much?”

The song ends on one last, extended line before lapsing into static silence. 

Armand inhales as if to say something else, but he never gets the chance. Daniel’s mouth presses to his, sliding home as if it’s 1979 and they’ve just arrived from Boston. If their kiss in the graveyard before had been a small slip, this kiss is a mortal sin. Fifty years’ worth of longing and need condense into the single point of contact. It is every bit as beautiful as Daniel remembers it— from the arch in Armand’s back to his sharp nails along his scalp, tangled in the now-sterling curls. 

Without such barriers as mortality in the way, their passion escalates. Clearly, his maker had been holding back before, unwilling to break his human plaything too badly. Now, with tooth and claw, Armand latches onto Daniel with parasitic enthusiasm. A sharp, ferric edge coats their kiss. The bond hums with desire and possession.

“Yes,” Daniel thinks. “This is what I’ve missed. This is the thing that I’ve been looking for.”

He separates from his maker just enough to lift him. Armand’s long legs wrap around his waist and he drags Daniel’s mouth back to his own.

“Demanding,” Daniel teases against his lips. The answering growl at the back of Armand’s throat is enough to encourage him forward and up into the loft. His spine tingles with that same heady combination of fear and arousal that he remembers so well now. From San Francisco. From Boston. From this very cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere. It is the feeling of walking into a panther’s cage wearing a jockstrap made of raw meat. It is that moment before the fork goes into the socket. It is the seconds before the car hits the water and everything goes black and dark and cold. 

The bed is unmade and smells of them both already as Daniel places Armand earnestly in the center. The wrought-iron frame creaks under his weight. He looks so small surrounded by rumpled sheets, his hair disheveled from its smooth curls into a half-frizzed mess. Daniel’s heart aches at the familiarity of it all. He toes off his sneakers and tugs his collared shirt free of his beltline, sinking to his knees at the foot of the bed as he fumbles with the buttons.

His maker tilts his head in appreciation, smiling that little, mysterious smile that reminds him of smoke-filled nights and shady theatres. He crawls from his place on the bed to help guide Daniel’s shirt from his shoulders. Armand’s hands slide over his shoulders and back down his chest, plucking at the cotton undershirt as if it’s personally offended him. Daniel can’t peel it off quickly enough. His mind is rapidly approaching the dizzying, euphoric state where he would do anything, regardless of consequence, if it was asked of him. It is an addiction he hadn’t remembered, but his body hasn’t forgotten and he pants, head falling back to display the unprotected expanse of his throat. 

“That’s my Danny, there he is,” Armand breathes, running the razor tip of a nail down the swell of his Adam’s apple to the hollow between his clavicles. “My boy, always so eager. Look how beautiful you have become.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” The response is automatic, though the compliment could not possibly be true. It doesn’t matter. None of the lies matter. He has been reduced to need. What was it that Louis said were the three human needs? 

I need to eat.

Armand smells like the most delicious meal in the world.

I need to fuck.

The man above him is sex personified, a veritable angel of eroticism.

I need to go home.

This is home. 

Daniel takes the hand on his chest in both of his own and presses a reverent kiss to the palm. His fangs, having descended long before he found himself once again on his knees, ache at the proximity of his maker’s wrist. He tempts fate by running his tongue along the vein line there, his desire a keening, incoherent thing that overtakes every other thought. 

“Oh beloved,” Armand sighs, taking his chin in a firm grip. “I wish I could hear your thoughts right now. How I miss the intricacies of your mind, the tapestry of your genius.” The pad of his thumb runs over Daniel’s lower lip and his mouth drops open as if commanded. “But I can feel you now. You are always with me, the heart within my heart.” His thumb pushes into Daniel’s mouth, the claw scratching his tongue. Blood leaks from the shallow cut and he whimpers. He needs something, anything, just more.

It is a relief when Armand leans forward to replace his hand with his mouth. The kiss is slow and filthy, as mind-bending as any drug. A fang nicks Armand’s lip and Daniel could cry at the taste of their combined blood. It is salt and sweet and spice and he needs it like he once needed air. Luckily his maker seems to have the same idea, moving his lips to the side of Daniel’s neck. 

“Ah… Hold… hold on,” he gasps. He springs to his feet and shimmies out of his pants (best not to get them dirty, right?). He thanks the miracle of vampirism for his steady hands as they guide Armand back against the pillows. It is as if his birthday and Christmas and every missed anniversary (how many years has it been?) all come at once as he pulls Armand’s thin sweater over his head. A shudder runs through his body at the press of skin on skin.

Years of practice and instinct return to him as if it was yesterday. He knows exactly where to mouth at Armand’s neck to draw forth the precious muffled moans that he tries to hide in the pillow. He knows just how much he can play with a hardened, dusky nipple before fingers tangle in his hair to pull him away. The claws down his back are as sharp as ever, but the glorious, stinging pain is never overwhelming. He feels as if he could take it forever. He could take more. Always more. Wasn’t the saying that too much of a good thing is just enough?

Daniel’s cock is harder than it’s been in decades and the damp tip chafes at the front of his briefs, but he can’t be bothered by his own pleasure. He lays adoring kisses to the peaks of his maker’s hip bones, nuzzling the sparse hair that leads downward from his navel. The woolen fabric of his trousers feels as soft as silk and slides from his legs as easily as a pair of stockings. 

Faced with the luminous beauty that is Armand, Daniel fights the urge to cover himself. His aged hands look hideous as they run over perfect, unblemished skin. The backs are marked by liver spots and the veins stand out in greenish-blue contrast to the pale, crepe paper-like wrinkles. He’s painfully aware of each fold and swell in his flesh, so unlike the boy from his maker’s memory. He bites his lower lip and closes his eyes, willing away the image.

“Beloved, what is it?” Armand reaches up to him like the creation of Adam, plucked directly from a Sistine fresco. 

“Are you… I know things look a bit, y’know, different from last time.” He gestures to himself. “I wouldn’t fault you if you’re not really into it any more…”

Armand forcefully grabs his hand and yanks it down to caress the tented front of his (very soft, probably exceedingly expensive) boxers.

“Does this feel like I do not desire you?” he snarls. “If you do not believe me, I will make you.”

In a flurry of movement too fast for the human eye, he turns them both over, crouching over Daniel like a feral creature. His eyes glow a frightening pumpkin orange in the lamplight. He rolls his hips and Daniel believes. 

“Drink from me,” he begs. “Please, I want…”

“And from me,” Armand answers, already setting his teeth against his fledgling’s neck. 

Skin gives way like that of a peach and memory flows over Daniel’s tongue like wine.

Notes:

oops hey hi this one took an extra day bc I was sick and sleepy.
sorryyyy about the cliffhanger again, I promise the next chapter picks right back up, I was just at my word count and it was a tidy place to cut it. old man smut incoming.
as for the history things in this chapter- Bauhaus's Bela Lugosi's Dead, which many consider the first true Goth song, did in fact release in August 1979, though the likelihood of it being on the radio in new england at the time is pretty slim. I just really like the imagery of Alicemand as an early tradgoth, especially with the vampire imagery in the song. The song that the boys dance to is the classic Stairway to Heaven, which was always the last song they played at my middle school dances for some reason.
anyway, thank you all as always for reading this unbetaed braindump of a story. your comments make my days. if you ever wanna see more of my unhinged unemployed ramblings, i'm on bluesky as grace_e_ludlow and I've been poking around Tumblr again these days as thedeafeningunknown. see you all again soon!

Chapter 13

Summary:

old men fucking, but also angst

Even here, in an Eden of my own design, there still are serpents. 

My boy rests easy at my suggestion, the evidence of my hunger healing under the influence of my blood. He is soft and sweet, wrapped in just a sheet like a corpse. 

“Arun,” another voice calls to me across the span of space and time. “Are you satisfied with yourself? Have your appetites been sated enough to return to me, mon cher?”

“Is your business in the city complete?” I asked over the intangible network that connects the minds of all of our kind.

“Found jack shit. Whoever it was moved on, I think to Atlantic City. They’ve been having some trouble down there.”

“Is there evidence enough to continue your hunt, then?” I know there is. I placed it where my naive husband would find it, a blood trail of red herrings that would lead him ever southward.”

“I’m gonna find this bastard, and if it’s who I think it is, that motherfucker is going to pay for what he’s done.”

I ignore Louis. He could never understand. Or perhaps it is that he understands too well. Despite our decades of companionship, he still endures for his maker. Their bond is unlike any I could hope to replicate. He claims to love me, but I can feel the truth. I can taste it in his blood.

Unlike my Danny. 

I run a slow fingertip down the rise and fall of his chest. The heat of August has covered him in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes move behind closed eyelids in an unconscious examination of something. I slip into his mind as if it were a negligee. He is reliving our first time together. Frozen in place in a dream-hazed apartment, blood dripping down his forehead… but not afraid. Just like then, he is fascinated by the other in the room. I exit his dream before I can see myself. I know how I looked then. It was not the refined skin that I wear now. That was Louis’ Armand— a desperate, vengeful creature of wrath and cold violence.

Not Danny’s Alice. 

Danny’s Alice is kind and patient. She never asks twice for anything, never has to. She deserves to have the world laid at her feet. Poise and dignity are her virtues, but they are natural. There is no effort behind her perfection.

It’s exhausting.

I fear I have made a most grievous error. Each moment I spend with him is tempting fate. The illusion cannot sustain forever. I live in terror of him finding the cracks in my mask and pulling it away to reveal the monster beneath. He does not deserve that. I wipe away the memories of my sins, but their taint remains. I am corrupting this beautiful boy, surely as the sunrise.

His eyes flutter open and my chest aches. They are such a perfect, crystal blue and still blown wide with the effects of my blood. 

“Am I still asleep?” he asks and extends a hand to caress my face. How many times have I clung to someone, only for them to never reach out to me in kind? The desire, the need is enthralling. I am helpless to its pull.

His touch is warm, though I can tell I pushed him to his physical limits earlier. His limbs are weak and sluggish. There’s a sickly pallor to his skin, driven by too many late nights and a reliance on my blood. Without access to his usual poisons, he has dedicated himself to this vice alone. 

It should bother me more than it does, but alas, I am a selfish creature. It is not even pure love that drives his desire to please me. Behind the sex-glazed veneer of his submission is something equally selfish to my own depravity. He does this because he thinks it fits his narrative best. It is his own character development that drives his supplication. I sometimes wonder if he would devote himself so fully to the aberration beneath the mask rather than the flawless goddess he chooses to see instead. Alice is at once my creation and his. The changes I make to his memory, the act that I put on, it is all tailored precisely to his fantasy. Does he want me, or does he want the beautiful lie?

I tuck myself under his chin, inhaling the salt-sweet scent of his skin. 

It cannot last, but I will cherish it while I can. After all, stolen moments are more than I deserve.

***

“Holy shit,” Daniel unlatches from Armand’s neck. “Never gonna get used to that.” The other man only wheezes out a broken moan. The memory lingers, overlaid with reality like a projection. Daniel’s skin tingles with phantom sweat.

“Let me… May I feel you, beloved?” Armand’s dark curls flicker around the edges with the remembered volume of Alice’s wild mane. His hips move in little grinding thrusts and Daniel’s hands are quick to guide them. 

“Don’t mind if I do,” he grunts, shoving his maker’s boxers down impatiently. Not to be outdone, Armand’s nails slice through Daniel’s underwear, tearing it away in strips. 

“Show off,” Daniel grumbles, but his sights are set on a far more valuable prize. “Get that pretty little ass up here.”

The memory flickers. Alice had never allowed this, and knowing what he knows now, Daniel can understand, but all the more reason to make up for lost time. 

“Wha…?” Armand hesitates, just long enough for his fledgling to strike. Before he has a chance to protest, his thighs are around Daniel’s ears and a hot, wet tongue laves over his thoroughly unprepared hole. It is a genuine mewl of delight that falls from his lips and he squirms, but strong hands trap him in place. 

Daniel vaguely thinks that it’s lucky that they have all eternity together now. He could easily spend the next several hundred years here, nose pressed to the underside of Armand’s balls, coaxing louder and louder noises from him until his cries shake the snow from the mountaintops. There are fingers in his hair and the steady throb of blood in his maker’s femoral artery by his ear. Maybe he really did die in that penthouse on the other side of the world. 

Nails rake up his body and twist in the sparse, wiry hair on his chest. 

“Daniel, beloved, please!”

The begging is almost sweeter to the wet sound of tongue on skin. How long has it been since he was in this position? Admittedly, options became slim after the second divorce. It’s been him and his hand for a while now. The memories of Alice are tattered around the edges like an old Playboy magazine. No one ever did it like her. 

Or like him, apparently. Armand shoves himself back onto Daniel’s chest, thighs quivering in anticipation. 

“Enough!” he pants, looking deliciously disheveled. His hard cock bobs just before Daniel’s lips like a cobra dancing from a basket. When his mouth opens, his maker shoves two delicate fingers onto his tongue.

“Suck,” he commands and the response is immediate and enthusiastic. When he pulls his hand back after a few seconds, a gossamer strand of saliva connects them and Daniel whines at the loss.

“Always, ah… so obedient.” The word is a sigh as he slides down and reaches behind himself. If only there was a mirror in the room, or a better angle. Daniel wishes to watch the slow, incremental stretch, but there is time. They have all the time they could ever want, and if he has his way, he will watch the love of his life fall apart again and again in every imaginable way and he will be there to put him back together again. It’s all he can do to make up for the countless times Armand reassembled the shambling mess of a human that he was.

For now, he contents himself with watching his maker’s face as he works in yet another finger. It is an expression pulled from the most ecstatic of paintings, the most thinly-veiled depictions of pleasure that the ancient world recorded. Armand looks down at him like a vengeful god, distraught at the prospect of punishing his most favored acolyte. He is dreadful in his radiance, cataclysmal in his glory. There is a thesaurus of things that cannot compare to the preeminence that is Armand, his maker, his cherished memory.

“You’re… beautiful,” says the winner of two Pulitzer prizes and bestselling author. It’s not a conscious choice to say it aloud, but once he does, there’s nothing he can do to take it back. Armand’s breath hitches and his nails sink into the flesh over Daniel’s heart, right where the bond thrums strongest.

“Again. Say it… hah… again,” he whimpers. 

“You’re beautiful,” Daniel says again, but with more intention this time. “Better than… better than I remember, oh fuck!” His long-neglected erection is suddenly at the forefront of his mind as Armand withdraws his fingers from himself to give him a swift, firm stroke. He grits his teeth at the proximity of his climax, thinking very hard of something un-sexy. Baseball. Taxes. Days-long psychosexual torture… nope, not helping. 

“Again!” the ancient vampire hisses as he sinks down slowly onto his fledgling.

“So… so beautiful, like a fuckin’ fallen angel or… or a dream or something. Fuck, babe, you’re trying to kill me again,” Daniel mumbles, overcome by sensation. Armand is surrounded by stars and the faint haze of memory. Even without the rounded swell of breasts and hip that his dishonest recollections of the past wear, it is the same perfect feeling of completion.

“Good, I’m the… the only one allowed… to… ah!” Armand falls forward as Daniel’s hips rise in a rolling thrust.

“Still got it,” he grins, fangs and all. “I remember all the important parts. Like how you like it when I do this.”

Whatever retort that formed on his maker’s lips dies in a cry of satisfaction as they fall into a languid rhythm. The iron bedframe rocks with a gentle squeaking. They move together as if dancing, retracing an old choreography that still lives in their bodies. It is muscle memory for Daniel to fist his hand in Armand’s hair and for his teeth to scrape over his throat. He laps at the dried blood there from the earlier bite, as sweet as hard candy. 

“Beloved, I need…”

“Yes.” 

A few soft strokes between them send Armand over the edge, his teeth sinking into the meat of his fledgling’s shoulder to muffle his sounds of pleasure. Daniel is not far behind, his eyes rolling back at the force of his first good orgasm in forty years. The bond between them shudders with reverb, just this side of tolerable in its intensity. 

By the time his vision returns and he can feel his legs again, something in the room has cooled. 

“Babe?” he says, running a hand over Armand’s back. “Hey, you good?” His maker’s face is still buried in his neck, but he does not move. The bond no longer shimmers with pleasure, but with a clammy, sinking sensation. Daniel’s heart sinks. Something is very, very wrong.

“Armand?”

As carefully as he can, he turns them over, slipping from his maker with a wince of discomfort. He quickly stands, grabbing a towel from the floor and turning up the oil lamp on the bedside table. 

When he returns to the side of the bed, Armand is curled in a ball, as small as his lanky frame can permit. His hands cover his face and his feet rub against each other in a nervous, irregular rhythm. 

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Did I fuck up? He doesn’t want to say it aloud to give the words meaning. Sure he has his issues with his maker still. They’re as essential to the relationship as the tenderness he feels now, but that doesn’t mean he actually wishes the man any sort of harm. Carefully, he kneels and pulls back Armand’s hands from his face. The palms are covered in the blood leaking silently from his eyes.

“‘Opá?” The word is tiny and shattered, accompanied by an expression of fear and childish openness.

“Fuck…”

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

How different would my life have gone if I had only ever learned to shut my big stupid mouth?

For the first thing— I’d have never learned about vampires. I probably would have gone home with some other twink hopped-up on coke from that tiki bar in San Francisco. I’d have never met the love of my life, or my second wife for that matter. I’d probably not be a father, or a journalist at all. Who knows? Maybe I’d be dead at the bottom of the bay.

Here I was, during the most picturesque moment of my life, laying in bed with a beautiful woman, coasting the edge of a buzz, and I just had to say something to ruin the moment.

Alice was quiet that evening, spending more time staring at the pages of her book than actually reading them. She fiddled with the edge of the paper, dog earring a corner over and over. Her eyes were filled with that resigned melancholy I recognized from Boston.

“You’re thinking about Louis again, aren’t you?” I said. She fixed me with one of those stares that made it feel like she could see into my thoughts.

“I just hope he is well, that is all.” Sometimes when she would talk, especially when it was about something she didn’t want to discuss, her accent would get stronger, more pronounced. It clipped the edges of the words so close that you could see skin beneath.

“Where’d you even meet that sucker anyway?” I was fishing for details, like always, uncaring that my hooks cut and maimed. Perhaps it was an exercise in masochism to learn about my Siren’s other paramour. What did he have that I did not that retained her mind so?

“I found him while… studying. In Paris.” She said the French capital’s name like a true native speaker.

“Paris,” I let out a low whistle. “Pretty far from Bourbon Street.”

“He and his sister were travelling and they attended one of my performances. The rest, as they say, is history.” One of her sad smiles flickered over Alice’s face. “We came to America together shortly after.”

“And the sister?”

“She… remained overseas. They had a falling out, of sorts.”

“Too bad. Hey, maybe we can find her some day.” 

“We?” She raised one of her dark eyebrows at me.

“I’ve never been to France,” I shrugged. “Seems like the sort of place where you wanna have a guide familiar with the city. Besides, I’ve heard it’s the most romantic place in the world.” I’d never exactly heard that, but it made sense in my head. A city whose reputation precedes it— a place flowing with wine and cigarettes where art is as important as bread, and they take their bread very seriously.

“Whoever has said that has never truly been there,” Alice laughed. “It is a rotten place, down to its very core. Did you know that there are catacombs beneath the streets? Millions of dead, their bones stacked like bricks to support the pretentious facades above.”

“Well then, how ‘bout New Orleans?” I suggested. “We can drive there. It’s an awful lot closer. We can work our way up to the big leagues.”

Now, I’m not sure where that idea came from. Sure, after a few days of sitting around the cabin, I was itching to return to the road, but there wasn’t a destination in mind until I said the city’s name out loud. 

“New Orleans? Are you sure?” That adorable fold in Alice’s forehead that she got when she doubted my logic appeared and I kissed it away.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” I said, my confidence in the plan growing by the second. “I’ve always wanted to visit there! And you said Louis never goes back there, so we won’t even have to worry about him. We can take the scenic route down, stop at every weird roadside attraction we see. It’ll be great, I promise.” 

Alice’s mouth formed a reluctant little smile. “Well, alright,” she said. “But tomorrow. Tonight, let’s enjoy our last moments of solitude.”

 

Notes:

you thought I'd let those old men fuck without some more angst, you're wrong! I love torturing the blorbos. It is my favorite pastime. We're on to the next major arc of the story!
No history notes on this one, but a note that it may be a little longer between updates again. It's my birthday this weekend and I'm on a little bit of a trip today/tomorrow, but I wanted to drop this before I got too busy.
Thank you as always for reading and for your lovely comments. It's really the best feeling to know that there are people reading my silly little story and feeling the same things I feel for these characters. Y'all are the best <3 see you soon

Chapter 14

Summary:

a tense night and an awkward ride

Notes:

just wanna drop an extra warning here that this chapter mentions Armand's past with Marius. It is not explicit and rather vague, but important to his character at this point.

The rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of Daniel’s foot is the only sound in the cottage besides the crackle of the fire and the lonesome drone of wind from outside. 

Technically, it’s several hours after dawn, but he can’t sleep. The bed is too wide and too empty to occupy by himself right now. His thoughts are too loud. They scrape at the windows like bare branches. There’s an essential aching exhaustion in his bones, but it’s like he’s coming off a multi-day bender. There are things his mind still needs to process before rest is possible.

Rest.

Always that word. Rest, rest, rest. Daniel rubs his dry eyes. How can he rest before he knows what happened? 

It’s one part him being the nosy bitch he’s always been. There’s a string, he has to pull at it until it comes free or until the fabric unravels completely. He can’t leave a perfectly good question hanging. It’s what’s maintained his career for so long. 

But also, more than his innate curiosity, he’s concerned. Forty years ago, maybe he’d also be driven by the leaden despondency in the bond which weighs his own mood down like an anchor, but maybe the decades have taught him a sliver of compassion. It’s a confusing blend of worry that he did something wrong, selfish fear for his own safety and the continuation of his… relationship (?) with his maker, and instinctual concern for someone he’s come to accept that he cares about deeply. 

He can’t lie to himself. Not anymore, not about this. The spark of affection that’s been flickering in the dead lump of muscle in his chest since his reunion with Armand has merged with the eternal flame there that he’s carried for Alice since they first met. Together, they’ve rendered his heart into a glowing ruin. Perhaps it’s glowing with a toxic sludge radioactive green and he's going to start turning blue like a dog from Pripyat, but he’s never had much of a sense of self-preservation anyway. Shacking up with a 500-year-old murderous theatre kid with obvious daddy issues ranks fairly low on his list of all-time-worst decisions. If he has all of eternity left to make bad choices, he might as well start off with one that’ll make him happy as long as it lasts. What’s the half-life on immortal codependent companionships, anyway?

He didn’t get any answers out of his maker after the sobbing stopped. They’d laid together for the better part of an hour, Daniel petting Armand’s hair like he was some sort of overgrown kitten as he clung to his side. Eventually, he seemed to emerge from the silent fugue state, peeling away to dress himself with quick, jerky movements. He brushed off Daniel’s awkward attempts to offer assistance and spoke with the detached coolness befitting an ancient being such as himself. Posh. Dignified. A far cry from the vulnerability he’d shown not long before. 

It wasn’t personal. At least, Daniel is trying really really hard not to take it personally. He’s been there. There was definitely a guy somewhere in Amsterdam that he’d never called again after the time he accidentally called the dude daddy while getting his guts rearranged. He’s not about to think too much about the older man he’d found after that encounter who had encouraged that sort of thing, no he doesn’t have a type, thank you very much, but that’s neither here nor there. This isn’t about his daddy issues. 

It’s about Armand’s.

He’d left with little more than a curt ‘I will return shortly’ and a gently-closed screen door. It was disconcertingly quiet and, for some reason, that made it all the more uncanny.

Daniel stands and paces the room again. He’s faintly surprised that there isn’t a groove in the floorboards from his back and forth meditation. This isn’t the same as when Armand left in Dubai. That was a blood-hazed half-hallucinated affair. It’s not the same as when he left as Alice, all those years ago. Probably. They’ll get there. It’s not the same as San Francisco, or Miami, or Athens… it’s something new altogether. This time, Daniel remembers what he’s missing. He’s the homely housewife waiting up late for the wayward husband. Is this how his second wife had felt? Is this what kept his mother up by the front window, years after his old man had driven away?

He needs a distraction. 

Every time his mind runs away with itself like this, he always can rein it back in with work. The timeline on the wall is still incomplete, though the gap is closing. Armand has helpfully integrated bits and pieces from his binder of many things. It seems, at some point around the southward push, either he or Daniel had gotten their hands on an instant camera of some sort. It’s an uncanny sensation to see himself in situations still ill-defined in his memory. There are few shots of his maker, or Alice, he supposes. Those that show her are blurry or at obscure angles that disguise the subject to an extent. Still, Daniel can practically smell the cinnamon-clove sunset aura within. Part of him wonders how he could have forgotten that time. 

But he had, and he knows why. This diamond of his life had been carved out and replaced by dusty glass. He lets the seed of bitterness distract his mind from the worry eating at its edges. There’s no time for sentimentality. He has work to do.

There’s a map on the wall with the route he drove from the cottage south toward New Orleans highlighted in yellow like a river of piss. Somewhere, between point A and point B, something had gone wrong. They never made it to New Orleans. He lights a cigarette and crosses his arms, staring at the map.

Why hadn’t they made it to New Orleans?

***

White Line Fever

Chapter 6- On the Road Again

I thought I knew beauty when I left California. I thought I knew beauty when I crossed the Rockies in all their majesty. I thought I knew beauty in the big-sky expanse of the midwest and the crash of the Atlantic and the whispering pines of New England. Every part of this country that I encounter broadens my understanding of just what beauty can be, and Appalachia is no different. 

After the monotony that was Pennsylvania and the blink of Maryland, we have deviated from the interstate onto the Blue Ridge Parkway. Alice made a case to stop in Washington D.C., to visit the countless museums there, but I convinced her that this was a more worthwhile venture. Why stare at relics on lit podiums and dusty antiquities when there’s living, breathing history available at your fingertips? She managed to convince me to stop at a few different roadside landmarks and has been incessant with her little Polaroid camera. I don’t know where she got it, but I can hardly drive an hour without its obnoxious flash going off. Perhaps I’ll be able to convince her to let me take some artistic portraits now that we’ve stopped to rest. I’d love a few shots of her in my wallet.

Given so much time together, we’ve had the chance to talk at length about a variety of topics. She is so brilliant, my Alice. Clearly that fancy French education did her some good, as she is eloquent about all sorts of things. She is my equal in nearly every way, though her knowledge of American literature and philosophy is somewhat limited. Music, too. While she could run circles around me in a classical Socratic debate, that’s nothing on some Dylan and Reed.

This road is so different from any other I’ve travelled. It curves and sways as if to compliment the landscape, rather than conquer it. Occasional tunnels slip right through the lush green mountains, curtailed as they are by thick, deep fog. Each bramble and holler is choked with magnolia and kudzu. It feels as if I’ve been transported to another world. Occasionally, the shambling remains of a house or barn peeks through, or perhaps the stone spine of a wall. This is the history I like to see. There are stories to be told here.

As we cruised through Shenandoah, Alice asked for one such story. She asked me about the shining metal dice that hang from my rear-view mirror.

“They’re my old man’s,” I said, rolling my eyes. 

“Your father’s?”

“Only thing he really left me when he vanished. I was sixteen, I think. He handed them to me one day and said, ‘Boy, you best hold on to these. They’re lucky.’ Was gone the next day and haven’t seen him since.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry…”

“Nah, I was glad he finally fucked off. Did me no good loitering around the way he did. Of course, my ma’ never quite got over it, but, hey, that’s life, am I right?” I laughed. “Every hero has his tragic backstory.”

“Is that so?” Alice’s mouth turned up into a sarcastic little smile. 

It’s an objective fact of the hero’s journey, I explained, that he comes from a place of lacking. How else is he to grow into his full potential? The backstory, the adversary, the climactic conflict… all challenges necessary to develop a boy into a man, a character into a hero. Take, for example, Johnny Cash’s Boy Named Sue. In order for Sue to grow up as tough and mean as he did, he needed the challenge of his name and the absence of his father figure. Was it cruel? Maybe, but it was necessary. Odysseus, Sal Paradise, Billy Pilgrim, I could go on forever. My father’s inadequacy was not a handicap, but in fact a great strength. 

Through all this, Alice’s eyes took on this distant, vacant expression, and I could tell that I’d lost her. Of course, it isn’t really something that she could ever fully understand. There’s something so essentially masculine about the experience. She slipped on that large-rimmed set of dark glasses that she wears so often.

“So,” I asked, mostly out of courtesy. “Where are your folks, anyway? You got family?”

“I was… adopted. My birth parents are long-deceased, I do not know any further specifics, but I never knew them. Even if they were not dead, there would be no way to find them after the partition. The man who raised me was the closest I had to a family. He was Italian and I travelled extensively with him during my youth throughout Europe. He passed soon after I came of age. It is his inheritance that sustains me now.”

“Makes sense,” I nodded along. “Sweet deal, though. Wish my old man had left me something more than a shitty trinket.”

“We all bear our legacies in different ways.” She wrapped herself tighter in her fringed shawl. “I… I still do not know if I miss him. Do you ever miss your father?”

“Who, me? Nah. Life’s more or less the same without him as it was with him. Why, you miss your dad?”

“He was never truly a father, but my ‘Opá… he was a mentor to me and the others he fostered. I was a favourite of his and that afforded me certain privileges of his time and attention, but he never needed me in the way I needed him.” 

Now, I’m not a total blockhead. I can read between the lines. Clearly there’s more to Alice’s past with this guy than she wants to tell me right now, and that’s fine. No one is that hot without some sort of skeleton in the closet. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s taken this long to show its bony self. I didn’t pry any further into the matter. She’ll tell me what she wants to tell me when she wants to tell me it. I know I’m normally the first one to stick fingers in wounds, but even I’m not a huge enough asshole to make a girl talk about something like this. It sickens me. There’s a simmering rage in my stomach at this man, dead as he is for what he did to my Siren, even if I don’t know the specifics of his crime. All I know is that it continues to hurt her, like a scar that never quite healed right…

***

“That’s wildly out of character…” Daniel says, drawing a large highlighter square around the last paragraph of the chapter. Even with his mind altered and high off his ass on vampire blood, young Daniel was right. Normally he would have been a huge enough asshole to ask further. Yet another instance of Armand’s interference, the confusion evident on the page. The handwriting, too, is even less legible than it was before. Daniel’s head hurts trying to remember this part of the trip. For so long, it had existed in happy snapshots in his mind without any clear narrative. Now, flipping between the shots and including the cut footage, it’s not so much a feel-good montage as the build up to something catastrophic. It’s the chase sequence before the big twist that kicks off the third act— all momentum and suspense. He’s almost so caught up in the action that he misses the door opening.

“Fledgling, why are you awake?”

Daniel turns around as if he was a teenager caught with his pants down and a jar of peanut butter. There’s a cold authority to his maker’s voice that calls to the bond and whatever instincts the Gift instilled in him. 

“Just, uh… getting some work done. Catching up in the book, y’know. We’re up through Shenandoah now, I think. It’s funny, I don’t remember a word of any of this.” He’s rambling and he knows it. His big mouth, here to steal the limelight like always. Armand watches him, moving only his eyes as Daniel gestures to the wall with the open journal. 

“I mean, I must have been high off my ass for some of this shit. Comparing myself to a Vonnegut protag? In what world does that make a lick of sense…”

“You read the part about my… father, then.” The title seems to physically pain Armand to spit out.

Daniel nods. What else can he say that won’t make him look like as much of an asshole as he was in his youth? Armand’s shoulders sink an inch. The snowflakes in his hair have melted. With a sigh, he removes his long coat.

“I suppose there’s no delaying the inevitable, though I wish you’d slept after I left. It’s a conversation better had while well-rested.”

“We don’t have to… y’know… talk about it now, if you don’t wanna…”

“Will you rest until I explain myself?”

“... no.”

“It is decided then.” Armand perches on the edge of the chair near the fire. 

Daniel sits opposite him on the couch. It is as if there’s the width of the night sky between them and he wishes that his maker would tell his story while wrapped in his arms. The last glowing embers in the hearth reflect in Armand’s flat, distant eyes like the ruins of Pompeii.

“You know the skeleton of my past thanks to Louis, but there are things that I never told even him. There was no reason for me to explain the chasm in my being to someone who could never fill it. He wouldn’t have understood anyway, not really. He and Lestat, tumultuous as their relationship is, share a bond as we do. Despite Louis’ best efforts in Paris and afterwards, it never truly severed. There was always a small piece of Lestat in him and I could not fault him for his longing for that connection. I would only ever be a stopgap, a bandage on a mortal wound, but still I chose to play the role he needed from me.”

“You were jealous of Lestat,” Daniel says, taking up his notepad. It is so instinctive for him to slip into interviewer-mode. Armand’s lips press into a thin line.

“Have you ever heard the phrase that the most intimate experience that two people can share is death?” he asks.

“Sure, I guess.”

“It’s mostly true, but I like the addendum that the only way for someone to truly possess something or someone is to consume them.”

“I assume we’re not talking about cannibalism here.” Daniel gives him a wary side-eye.

“Not exactly,” Armand sighs. “The bond between maker and fledgling exists somewhere between those two truths. It is through the fledgling’s death that the two are brought together and by the reciprocal feeding that their souls are intertwined. Not only does the maker possess their creation, but their creation possesses them in kind. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh— it’s not hard to fathom why so many makers turn their lovers or pursue intimacy with their fledglings after creation. It’s almost involuntary. An instinctual drive to continually reaffirm that connection and possession.”

“Gee, you make it sound so sexy.” Daniel furiously scribbles down the wording, though. Seems that the Socratic eloquence endured despite the decades. Reluctant admiration flares in his chest.

“My maker and I were… no exception to this. I assume that you know now that his name was Marius. An ancient of ancients and very powerful, he sought me out for my physical beauty. Initially, he never planned to give me the Gift, but I managed to hold his attention and favor long enough that he developed a sort of affection for me. When I became ill and begged for immortality, he acquiesced. He did not desire the bond, not like I did. In my adolescent hubris, I thought that it would draw us closer together again. I thought I could possess him in the same way he possessed me. I thought it was love. In reality, that intimacy was short-lived, even by human standards. He had other fledglings, other boys to divert him. I lived in the bottomless hunger that you experienced for years before the flames took him and our bond finally fell silent. For centuries after, I tried to ignore the void that he left and I swore never to create my own fledgling. Lestat, Louis, the theatre, my coven… I couldn’t fill the place that Marius left. And then you came along and ruined it all.”

“I’m honored. So you fucked off after you turned me because you didn’t want me falling in love with you again because of some weird vamp instinct?” Daniel’s chest feels as if it’s filled with kudzu, the vines growing between his ribs. 

“I left because it was what was best for you, beloved.” Armand closes his eyes, eyebrows drawn together as if in pain. “I could not burden you like this.”

Daniel stands and tosses the notebook aside. That’s enough of that. He’s had enough of the pity party. He rounds the coffee table and takes his maker’s face in his hands, tilting it up to him like a sunflower to the sky. His amber eyes, the same color as his own, are filled with devastation. 

“Since when have I ever cared about what’s best for me?”

 

Notes:

aww some healthy (for them) communication! I promised that Danny would be there for his girl <3 I know last chapter may have been a bit of a surprise, but they'll figure it out together.
history stuff- Armand references the Pakistani-Indian partition, which timeline-wise, would make sense if he was the age that he claimed to be earlier. Daniel makes reference to the protagonists of both On The Road by Kerouac and Slaughterhouse-five by Vonnegut, both of which were still more or less in the cultural zeitgeist, if a little older. He also mentions Bob Dylan and Lou Reed, which I imagine as some of his favorite artists at the time.
I wanted to give a big thank you to everyone who's reading this story and especially to those of you who leave lovely comments. It was the best birthday present I could ever ask for to wake up and find that this story has become my most well-received of the whole year, by the numbers. We're very close to 2k hits and have blown my other stories out of the water on subs and bookmarks, with kudos not far behind, and it's all because of you lovely folks. Thank you for believing in my silly little story. <3 I'll see you all again soon

Chapter 15

Summary:

oops, hi. sorry this one took a lil bit longer than usual. I got stuck for a bit. it's a little longer than usual to make up for it.
slight warning for some slightly cannibal-ish wording? but not really, it's right at the end. otherwise, this is just a lot of arguing and smut leadup

“Since when have I ever cared about what’s best for me?”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Armand stares at him as if he just admitted to breaking all of the Great Laws at once.

“And this is why I have done so for you, as long as I have known you,” he says, just barely containing his simmering frustration. “You do not understand the lengths I have gone through.” He pulls away from Daniel’s grasp and stands, pushing past his fledgling.

Self-preservation has never been a strength of Daniel’s. In fact, his love affair with autoerotic destruction has always been a cornerstone of his personality. He flirted with death until it came for him, and even then, he bought her a drink. Drugs, booze, sex, speed. All microdoses of the true temptation. Some would call it masochism, but it’s more than that. There is no servitude in his relationship with oblivion. He has always sought to race it, to snatch himself from the dripping maw of Cerberus at the last second with a taunting jeer. 

“I never asked for a savior!” he yells. It is too loud in the small space and Armand shies away from the sound, before rearing back to lash out himself.

“You didn’t have to! I am what you needed! Without me, you’d have nothing! You’d be nothing!” Their fangs are bared and the room sparks with energy. Daniel’s blood is electric. This is the creature he ran from for all those years. 

“Bullshit, you could have left me to OD on the streets of Boston. You could have ended this all in San Francisco like I asked, but no. This is all about you and your pathological need to be seen as perfect. To fix people. Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but you can’t fix me. I’m stuck like this forever and it’s all your fault. For once, you found someone who wasn’t afraid of who you really are, and you just couldn’t let me go!” 

“And what of it?!” Armand hisses. “None of this would have even been a problem if you hadn’t gone digging for answers. I had it all under control.”

“Under control?! Yeah, right. Tearing pages out of my memory was a great way to fix everything.”

“I only took that which I gave!” Armand roars.

“What, like the box of birthday presents and hoodies left on the doorstep after you break up with your high school girlfriend?” The words come hot and fast like tears. “You can’t just take shit like that back! That was my life! You had no right…”

“Do you think I wished to take our time together? Do you think it brought me pleasure to erase my face from the most beautiful time of your life? Not because you wouldn’t have me, but because it was destroying you?” Armand’s expression breaks into one of profound grief like a coffee cup against concrete. “Do you think I wanted to walk away after I was weak enough to break the single promise I made to myself? My only boundary? I could lose anyone else, but it almost ruined me to lose you again! I endured only to ensure your continued happiness!”

As Daniel looks across the room at his maker, he understands at last why he’s danced this dance for so long. He was not meant to dominate death, ripping the sickle from her hands and holding it to her throat. That was the dream of a younger, stupider man. Death is not something for him to conquer, it is something for him to embrace. To nurture. He approaches Armand like one does a feral alley cat. 

“I know, I was just making a point.” With a shaky hand, he brushes back the curls that fall over Armand’s face. “You didn’t lose me.”

“Beloved, I…” His hands rise to cover Daniel’s. The bond between them throbs with uncertainty.

“You’re scared shitless, I know.” He can feel it. It’s the fear that comes from being swept up in a crowd— the panic of a child who can’t find their mom in the grocery store. He takes his maker into his arms, inhaling his cinnamon-wine scent.

“I don’t want to be. I can’t… not again. I know what I do to people. I take and I take and…”

“You’re a selfish bastard, I get it. I know. Trust me, I know,” Daniel laughs. “You think I’m still putting up with all your neurotic bullshit because I’m still in love with some manic pixie dream girl act you put on forty years ago? Fuck that.”

“But that’s what you deserve. I couldn’t maintain the illusion of perfection then, I can’t now. I’ll only disappoint you. You deserve a maker who’s interesting and inspiring and able to give you everything you need, not some boring, dull, damaged…”

“I deserve to choose for myself.” Daniel pulls back to look him in the face. “I don’t want what’s best for me, I want what I know and what I know is this insane, needy little shit that latched onto me when I was my most despicable and has never given up on me since, even when it would have been the logical choice. It is your nature, just as it’s my nature to chase things that want to fucking kill me. You are forever preserved in your 20-whatever state of needing others and I’m forever preserved in my almost-70 state of reaching for death.”

“You’re beautiful like this.”

“You should have at least turned me when my hair wasn’t so grey. A few less wrinkles perhaps…”

“I was selfless in not turning you when you were younger. I preserved your humanity so you could have a meaningful life.”

“No, you were being selfish. Selfish and afraid,” Daniel snaps. Armand winces, almost pulling away, but his fledgling holds him still. 

“I’m sorr…”

“Shut up.” His lips crash into Armand’s in a rough kiss. “Don’t you… ever… apologise to me… for being selfish,” he says between sharp nips to his lips. Armand nods, a high-pitched whine slipping from his throat. His fingers hook into the other’s shirt.

“Are you asking me? Or making me?” he gasps. Daniel pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes.

“I can’t make you do anything. I’m not stupid enough to think that I’m more competent or more intelligent than you. You could have killed me in a thousand different ways in the past ten minutes if you wanted to, and I would have let you.” Armand opens his mouth as if to say something, but Daniel cuts him off. “But… I’m asking you to let me in. No masks. No Alice or Arun or Amadeo. I want to have you as you are— selfish and broken and cruel. Give me a chance to love the creature as well as the man.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Armand’s voice is small, but genuine. Daniel presses a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Then I’m asking you to try,” he says softly. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“And when I disappoint you? Will you… leave? Again?”

“You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that to get rid of me, babe. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, right? You want proof? Let me show you.” Daniel pushes his resolve down the bond, and with it, a hint of the love he feels for the man on the other side. Armand shivers, sucking in a breath. His hands tighten on the back of Daniel’s shirt, pulling him in closer.

“That’s it, now tell me what you want.”

“I want… to try again. Another chance.”

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

It is a privilege to look back upon my life like this and to recognize the moments when I fucked up, and boy, have I fucked up a lot. 

I’ve fucked up more times than I could possibly include in this story and keep it entertaining. My second wife would be happy to provide a long and likely detailed list, with appendices written by my daughters. I’m sure Louis has some choice words, and I wouldn’t put it past Lestat to throw his opinion in the hat as well. Ellen, feel free to add your remarks here as you see fit. I seem to have made more of an impact on this world through my mistakes and failures than by any words I’ve ever written on a page.

But at least I’m here to keep writing, and it’s entirely due to the tireless efforts of one remarkable person. 

On the drive south from the cottage in Vermont toward New Orleans, my mental state was at an all-time low, though you’d never hear as much from me at the time. From firsthand accounts and my journals, it’s obvious that I was slipping into a dangerous bout of drug-fueled psychosis. I cycled between intense moments of manic elation and deep, regressive melancholy which set me at odds with the world, depending on what I could get at dive bars and truck stops along the way. I was irritable, incoherent, and a downright mean motherfucker.

But still, Alice stayed by my side. 

Each time I woke, she was there with a hot mug of coffee and a gentle smile on her face. She bathed me when I vomited all over myself like some colicy infant. She forced food into my hands and hunted down my next fix when I was too wracked by tremors to do it myself. There was always a look of mild disapproval on her face when she did so, but whatever I asked of her, she always pulled through for me, and I took advantage of her kindness. I believed myself worthy of her devotion, practically entitled to it.

Thinking back on it, I realize now that she was concerned for me and tried the best she could to keep me moving forward. Always my muse, she made sure that we stayed the course. She entertained all my erratic whims with the patience of a madonna, but even her saintly disposition could not endure my self-destruction forever. It wore on her, silently but surely. I believe that this was where the first seeds of our eventual downfall were picked up like foxtails between the toes of a dog. Invisible to start, they worked their way through skin and muscle until eventually they reached the heart some years later. 

I regret very little from my life, and I’ll never see any sort of heavenly paradise, but this is one of those few, heavy sins that I must bear.

***

Armand sits patiently on the bed, the sheets and duvet arranged perfectly beneath him, tucked in hospital corners at the ends. He chews at his nails, reducing them to blunt stubs one at a time. His back is ramrod-straight and he springs to his feet as soon as he hears Daniel at the stairs.

“Sit down,” Daniel shakes his head. The silver curls there are still wet from his shower and he tosses his towel to the ground. Armand bends as if to pick it up, but Daniel makes a chastising noise and points back to the bed. 

“None of that,” he says, giving his maker his best stern librarian look over his glasses.

“Yes, Mai…”

“And none of that either.” 

Armand’s mouth snaps shut, always the dutiful servant. He sits with eyes downcast and hands palm-up in his lap, though Daniel can feel his gaze when his back is turned. He slips into a pair of flannel pants. Just for now. 

“I can tell you have a question. You don’t need my permission to talk.” The bond quivers with uncertainty.

“Should I… what should I call you, then?”

Daniel sits beside him on the bed. 

“Call me whatever, babe, my name is fine, call me motherfucker if it makes you feel better. This isn’t some formal society bullshit.” He takes his maker’s hands in his, steadying them. “Hey, you trust me, right?”

Armand nods, his eyes still downcast. 

“Words, please.”

“Yes, I… trust you.”

“So then let me do this, ok? It only works if you let me.”

Armand’s eyes slowly, haltingly rise to Daniel’s. He practically quivers with nervous energy, but he nods again.

“Good, that’s good.” Daniel lifts his hands and dusts soft kisses over the knuckles. “If you want me to be in charge, we’re doing this my way, and that means it’s all about you, babe. You don’t like something? We stop. You want more? You tell me, and I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

It all sounds very logical and calm, but Daniel’s stomach is in knots. In all their years of chasing each other, all the likely hundreds of times they’ve slept with each other, it has nearly always been the other way around. Armand’s obsession with control and objective strength of body and will over him had rendered argument on the point completely moot. He’d been happy to submit to him over and over, and will do so again when given the chance, but that’s not what his maker needs. Not right now. For once, he needs someone else to shoulder the burden of choice. 

Daniel’s lips skip up the length of Armand’s arm to brush over his shoulder. It would be so easy to take advantage of his maker in this state. If he wanted Arun the slave, he could have him. It was what Louis had wanted— someone to use and neglect in equal measure. If he wanted Amadeo the kept boy, he could have him. Marius had molded a scared young man into a perfect, servile mannequin, but that was another beautiful lie. It means so much that Armand trusts him to not act as they did, even if that trust is a delicate thing. Daniel cannot disappoint him.

“Lie back,” he whispers against his maker’s neck. “Let me see you.” The wrought-iron frame protests the motion of the mattress, but holds firm. He takes a moment to appreciate the lithe, powerful lines of Armand’s body, despite the rigidity with which he holds himself.

“Relax.” Daniel runs a hand down his chest, through the sparse hair there. “This isn’t an inspection. I’m here to give you what you need. What do you need, princess?”

The term of endearment slips out too easily and he wishes he could grab it from the air and swallow it back down again. His hand pauses wrapped around the side of Armand’s waist when he tosses his head to the side, spilling black curls everywhere like ink on a page. A tiny whine escapes from between the pillows.

“This is more difficult than I thought it would be,” Armand says, his voice muffled. “To let go.”

“It’s alright,” Daniel breathes a little sigh of relief. His hand resumes its gentle caresses. “How about this, do you want to feel more or less?” 

For a moment, his maker is silent, mouth twisting as though the words fight with his tongue.

“Both?” he eventually squeaks out. “I want more, but… it’s hard to focus.” His hands flex and tighten into fists at his sides.

“There we go.” Daniel smiles. Carefully, he takes each of Armand’s hands and lifts them over his head. “Hold here,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the bars of the bedframe. “Good.”

A shiver runs through Armand as Daniel presses a soft kiss to his forehead. 

“Daniel?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Will you kiss me?”

“I dunno, princess. Do you want me to?” Daniel teases. “Say it.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

It is a fight for Daniel to restrain himself to slow, chaste presses of lips on lips. His fangs itch to descend, to taste Armand’s blood mixing with his own on their tongues, but he endures. Instead, he focuses on pushing wave after wave of heady, warm affection through the bond. Slowly but surely, his maker softens under his touch, following his lead through the kiss. The pliancy is rewarded by a gentle tug at his lower lip and the slow slide of tongues.

Daniel’s hands continue their relentless catalog of Armand’s skin. Every glorious golden inch receives his reverence— the hard planes of his chest, the bow-like arch of his ribcage, the tuck of his waist and jut of his hip. Purposefully, Daniel avoids his cock where it lies hot and ready against his leg under his silk shorts. 

“Beloved, I want you to touch me,” Armand moans into the kiss, his arms already flexing from a desire to touch in return.

“What’cha mean? I am touching you,” Daniel jibes, coasting his hand up the length of his side. Armand’s answering growl of frustration tapers off into a whine of need as Daniel’s lips move to his neck. The sharp tip of a nail grazes his nipple and he jumps with a cry.

“Oh, like this?” Daniel repeats the action. “You were not very specific in your request.”

“You bastard, I… ah!”

“Shh, I know what you mean. I’m getting there.” His kisses run down Armand’s neck and across the bridge of his collarbone. With his nose pressed to his maker’s skin, his throat itches with that interminable thirst. 

Down and down and down, Daniel worships his maker with lips and tongue. He teases first one, then the other nipple with his mouth, coaxing them to sharp peaks. He can tell that Armand yearns to bury his hands in his hair, but the order to keep them on the bedframe prevents it. Instead, his stomach tenses with each sucking kiss and scrape of blunt teeth. 

“There we go,” Daniel says as he slides Armand’s shorts off finally. He runs a thumb over his hip bones, letting the nail just barely scratch the skin there. Tiny beads of blood well up in its wake and he licks them away, unable to restrain his groan of appreciation. 

“Please, Beloved, Daniel, I… I need you…” Armand gasps and squirms against his self-imposed restraint.

“Need me to?”

“Need… your mouth. On me. Please!”

“Good job, you can let go now.”

Armand’s hands fly to knot in Daniel’s hair as he swallows him down. He exhales sharply at the sting, shuffling his knees wider to give his own painfully hard cock space to hang. Armand’s cry of pleasure is like the voices of angels. Daniel’s reminded of the saying that too much of a good thing is just enough. It’s been years, maybe decades since the last time he sucked cock, but he sinks deep into the blissful empty-headed sensation of pure physical instinct. It is like a sneeze, or like sinking his teeth into a frat boy. His throat spasms, but he bobs his head, taking more. Armand holds him down, his nose brushing his maker’s pelvis and blood-tinged saliva dripping from his mouth. How great it is to not need oxygen. 

Still, he gasps as he’s pulled off, perhaps the remnant of some long-dormant muscle memory. Armand is long past any sort of coherent speech and pulls Daniel up his body, rolling them over to grind against the front of his pants.

“You need something, princess?” Daniel says, voice unsteady and hoarse. His maker lets out an inhuman snarl, sinking his teeth into the side of his neck while clawing at the drawstring waist of the pants. 

“Ah, words, please.” Blood drips down Armand’s chin as Daniel drags him back by his hair. His eyes are closed, but open to glare down at his fledgling.

“Daniel, if you don’t let me fuck you, I will personally ensure that you never leave this shack alive. They will be finding pieces of you at the bottom of the lake in centuries and will wonder why there are teeth marks on your bones.”

Daniel’s cock twitches in interest.

“If you wanna consume me, I’m all yours, babe,” he says breathlessly, bringing Armand’s mouth back to his neck. His own fangs trace the sinewed lines of his maker’s throat.

“As I am yours. Do it,” Armand demands. “I want you to do it.”

And who is Daniel to deny him?

Notes:

a lil soft dom Danny as a treat to help Armand's daddy Issues. I realize I left this smut scene at more or less the same spot I left the last one, but it'll continue in the same way next chapter with a fun lil Alicemand flashback.
thank you as always for reading, I love and appreciate every one of you, especially the lovely folks who leave comments <3 I love talking about my stories, so I try to respond to as many as I can. see you all soon!

Chapter 16

Summary:

a sad-smut-sad sandwich!

Notes:

just some specific warnings for this chapter- there's some kinda icky puke stuff in the first flashback scene, you can skip that section if you're not ok with it. There's also explicit hard drug use, again, totally skippable. The scene is summarized from the other POV at the end of the chapter with less explicit detail. The middle scene is alllllll smut, so have fun

The door to the club bathroom swings open with a bang. I probably shouldn’t have pushed it so hard, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is the beautiful, idiotic boy collapsed in the third stall, the metal door not even closed behind him as he slouches over the shitstained toilet. His cheek lays on his arm, thrown haphazardly over the cracked seat, and his breathing is shallow. A needle lays discarded on the floor, still uncapped beside cotton and foil. It’s as if he stabbed me with that needle directly in the heart.

“Oh, you fucking dunce,” I mutter, pulling him upright. He’s so light, these days. His cheeks are sunken and his eyes roll in their sockets. No matter how much food I place in front of him, it’s never enough. He’d rather shoot up or smoke his life away than sustain himself. It’s a personal insult. Am I not enough of a reason to keep living?

There’s nothing in his stomach now but grain alcohol. I force him to his knees before the toilet and hold his head upright by the hair.

“This is for your own good,” I tell him before shoving my fingers down his throat. It seems like I’m telling him that more often than not, these days. As much as I adore Danny, I hate this part. It is another job that I did not want, but I am good at it. His knuckles blanch where he grips the porcelain, retching putrid liquid that dribbles from his nose and mouth. Tears leak down his face and he sobs, half-conscious from the effort. 

“Ugh… Alice?” he slurs, blinking up at me with the uncoordinated, sequential expression of a frog. Even in his near-death stupor, he grins up at me as if I’m his goddess. Something in my chest fractures just a little bit more.

“I’m here, beloved,” I tell him. He groans, eyes sliding shut once again, and spits into the toilet. 

“You shouldn’t be here, it’s the men’s room,” he protests. I can’t contain the reflexive eye roll at that. Despite the trim fit of my outfit, he’s the only one in this club (which I directed us to specifically because of its decidedly open-minded clientele) that sees me as female. Even then, I can see in his mind, he wouldn’t care either way. He’s so inebriated that he won’t remember tonight anyway, mind gift or no. It’ll be another late morning and short day tomorrow before we end up in another similar club or bar. It’ll be a miracle if we make it to New Orleans at all at this rate. 

On shaky legs like a baby deer, Danny tries to stand. He leans heavily on the walls, hands leaving clammy marks on the dented metal beside scrawled phone numbers and crude drawings of genitalia. After a shuffling step, he half-stumbles, half-falls against me. Even surrounded by the rank stench of vomit and piss, I catch a whiff of his sweet olive scent. His blood is tainted now with the heroin, but it tempts me regardless. His mind is a cacophonous mess that the drugs cannot silence. How can I be the quiet that he longs for when I cannot quiet my own thoughts? This boy will be both of our ruin if I allow this much longer. 

“‘M sorry,” Danny mumbles into my shoulder. “I suck.” 

It’s like the last time he clung to me, covered in cold sweat and blood on Divisadero Street. Once again, I hold him to me.

“Let’s get you out of here.” I haul him out of the stall and prop him up against the sink. A man wearing leather chaps and a sharp cap enters the bathroom and slips us a sidelong glance before sidling up to a urinal. I wipe Daniel’s face with a damp paper towel and he stares at me with glassy, starry eyes.

“Got your boy proper fucked up,” the leather-wearing man says to me with a respectful nod, zipping up his fly. “Looking for a third? I’m sure he could take it.”

The man doesn’t mean it with any sort of malice, but rage flashes through me regardless. 

“Leave,” I hiss, coercion in the word. I remember him for later, after Danny is asleep and I need an outlet for my frustration. My boy’s head turns to watch the man practically goosestep out of the restroom.

“He didn’t wash his hands,” he whines pitifully. “Fuckin’ gross.”

“You’re not much better off yourself, right now, beloved.” I tuck a sweaty curl behind his ear. Even in his disheveled state, he is beautiful. If only I could keep him like this forever— sweet and beautiful and pathetic. He needs me. I’ve ensured as much.

So why does it make me feel like a kept boy again?

If anything, I am the one who keeps. Danny is mine and mine alone. I ensure his safety and happiness, though, then again, that doesn’t seem to be going very well. I’ve given him everything he’s asked for. Why is it not enough? 

Will I ever be enough?

My chest is filled with an aching emptiness that I have not experienced in hundreds of years. It’s not quite the same, there is no fiery hunger to accompany it, but it’s close enough. 

I can’t do this.

It’s what I do with Louis, and it doesn’t work there either. He makes messes and I clean them up. But at least Louis isn’t fragile like my boy.

And I always break the things I love.

Danny looks up at me, lower lip trembling as if he realises the conclusion I’ve come to. He searches with that most human hunger for connection. It is that expression that most tests my resolve.

“I wish you could fuck me,” he says with tears in his brilliant seafoam-green eyes. “I love you.”

My beautiful, fascinating boy.

“I know you do,” I reply.

I can give him this, if nothing else.

I kiss him softly and he tastes like shame.

***

A wet, red blur covers Daniel’s vision. His mouth is still against Armand’s neck, and he runs his tongue over the puncture marks there. They’ve already begun to heal, unlike the deep-set desolation within the man above him. His maker’s limbs are still languid from the exchanged memory, but the hard cock at his hip is the same as before. If anything, the secondhand intoxication seems to have deepened his need. 

“You good, sweetheart?” Daniel murmurs against his skin. He tucks his nose into the furrow behind Armand’s ear, leaving feather-light kisses along his jaw. 

“Danny, please.” His voice is broken and ragged. A hand quests between Daniel’s legs to palm his balls. They’re high and tight already, no thanks, in part, to the preparation he’d given himself in the shower earlier.  Soft fingertips trace the fluttering rim of his hole.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” he sighs. For once, he wants to do this and to keep the memory, exactly as it occurs, with no alteration, interference, or intoxication to muddle the experience. He drags Armand’s mouth to his again. How could he have forgotten this bliss?

Daniel swallows down his maker’s moan of appreciation as a finger sinks into him with no resistance.

“Need to feel you,” he says, digging his nails into Armand’s ass. “Already took care of that.”

“Still my beautiful, eager boy.” Armand ignores the instruction, instead adding another finger. “How long has it been since you let someone do this?”

“I dunno, when was the last time you fucked me? Oh fuck!” Daniel’s back bows at a particularly vicious twist of his maker’s wrist that brushes against the sensitive place within him.

“That’s it, I want to hear you, beloved. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, well it won’t last much… Hah… longer if you keep doin’ tha-at!”

“What happened to a fledgling’s stamina?” Armand’s nose wrinkles with his teasing smile.

“This fledgling,” Daniel growls through gritted teeth, “is an old man who’s barely gotten laid in the past twenty-five years, so if you’d be so kind…”

“Oh darling, I don’t think anyone has ever called me kind…”

“That’s ‘cause you’re not, princess, and I love you all the more because you aren’t. Now stop playing finger puppets and fuck me or I’m gonna have to do it myself!”

Armand’s forehead falls to Daniel’s with a stifled moan at the confession. His fingers slip out of him carefully, rubbing the lingering lubricant over his blushing cock. He tugs his fledgling into place with strong hands and positions himself at the loose, twitching clench of his hole. For once, Daniel wishes his maker could still read his mind so he could hear the incessant litany of ‘yes, please, more, need’ that pounds through his mind like the footsteps of soldiers. Instead, he radiates desire and possession through the bond. 

The pressure and stretch of Armand within him is nearly too much. He forces air through his lungs in the vain hope that it might help him relax. Slowly, they come together, a singular quivering creature of need and sensation. There’s a sense of prophecy to it all, like returning after a long journey. Daniel’s heart pumps his maker’s blood through his veins and he is home.

“Still perfect… after all this time… as if it was yesterday,” Armand breathes against his temple.

“Move!” Daniel gasps in a punched-out, hoarse whisper. The slow, slightly-dry drag of his maker within him is nearly overwhelming, but the sliver of pain quickly vanishes into pleasure. He almost misses that pain, but just as fast as it’s gone, Armand lifts one of his legs and sinks his claws into the soft, pale flesh. Between the novel angle and the bite of skin giving way to supernatural strength, he cries out, his hands flying out to grab at the bedsheets.

Slow thrusts make way for a frenetic pace, each stroke pushing further into Daniel in an incessant quest to draw louder, more desperate noises from his open mouth. 

“Oh shit, fuck, I can’t…” he whines, squeezing his eyes closed in fear that the sight of the man above him will push him over the edge.

“You can and you will.” Armand releases his leg and leans down over him, grinding forward in a deep thrust aimed directly for his source of pleasure. Their bodies press up against each other, the planes of Armand’s stomach a wet slide against the head of his neglected cock. Daniel’s hands wrap around his wrists and hold on for dear life, his head turning from side to side at the overwhelming sensation. If he were more flexible, he’d wrap his ankles around his back and hold him here forever.

“Look at me, beloved,” his maker commands, though the effect is somewhat compromised by his breathy voice. “I want you to look at me when you come on my cock.”

“Whatever you say, boss, fu-uck!” He’s ruined as soon as he sees the adoration in those amber eyes. Hot red cum spills between them, catching in their chest hair. Daniel’s vision narrows to the voiceless cry that falls from Armand’s lips, open and angelic as he reaches his own climax. How can a creature so fundamentally corrupted be so perfect? Then again, wasn’t Satan once an angel as well?

He pulls his maker down against him, disregarding their mutual mess for now. The duvet is dark-colored, and no one else will ever come here, anyway. It is their place, just as it always has been. 

Eventually, they separate enough to clean themselves and settle between the sheets. Once again, Armand clings to his fledgling’s back like a jockey, limbs wrapped around him.

“Beloved, you should feed some more. I do not require the levels of sustenance that you do, and I fed while I was away.” He offers Daniel a wrist.

“You sure?” he responds with a yawn. It is nearly noon, long past his bedtime.

“What sort of maker would I be to my one and only fledgling if I neglected your most basic needs?”

“You’d still be my maker.” Daniel takes his wrist anyway, drinking gratefully from the vein. Despite his protests, the physical activity and proximity had left him still hungry despite the earlier feeding. It is comforting to take slow, languid sips of the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted while wrapped in a lover’s embrace. His eyelids begin to feel heavy.

“Beloved? What… what do I taste like? To you? I once heard that fledglings taste like the foods their makers miss the most and vice versa.”

“It’s like… a cinnamon roll. But a fancy one from some expensive European bakery where they put, like, cardamom in them, or something. And wine. Something even Louis couldn’t afford.”

“Fascinating…”

“And what do I taste like?” Daniel presses a kiss to Armand’s now-healed wrist, licking away the last traces of blood. He tucks it beneath his arm and holds it to his chest.

“You taste of olives, picked fresh from the tree. They’re not like the ones you have here. They are far inferior by comparison. The flavor is milder and almost floral, but with a hint of spice. And there is lemon, like a peel twisted over a martini. There’s sea salt and a little smoke… altogether something unforgettable. Beloved?”

But Daniel is already fast asleep.

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

My heart broke for the first time in Roanoke, Virginia.

It’s not much of a city. I barely remember anything about it in particular. We’d hopped off the parkway for the night and had gone out to a club just to get some drinks and score a little something to make the night go by a little faster. It was a swanky little place with speakeasy vibes and a ‘members only’ sign at the door, but my Alice got us in, like she always did. 

The club was colorful in the way that Folsom Street is in September back in San Francisco. We were an odd pair out among the leather-clad and bedazzled regulars. I distinctly remember eying up a particularly busty drag queen whose platforms put her at easily six inches taller than me, which was really saying something back then. Alice drank her cocktail with a melancholy air, but I chalked it up to just a long day on the road. It had rained so hard that afternoon that we had to take refuge at a rest stop for a while and the Mustang’s soft top was leaking in a few spots. I think some of the water got on her camera, which put her in a foul mood. 

As much as my own emotions were veering too far in one direction, hers careened in the other. I was twitchy and sleepless while she often dozed during the day. I caught her staring out the window often, her face set in a pretty little frown. Part of me knew that it was probably my fault, but I didn’t know how to fix it. My frustration with myself pushed me to drink more, to seek out harder drugs at each stop, which made her more despondent, and we tumbled into a downward spiral.

That night was a breaking point for the both of us. I don’t remember much of it, only flashes of tweaked-out moments. I scored some smack off a greasy-looking kid and ended up face-first in a toilet until Alice came in to smack some sense into me. Even in her anger, she was so beautiful, I blubbered like a groom at the altar as she forced up my dinner of Everclear and Moon Pies. She didn’t deserve this. Why was she demeaning herself for a fuck-up like me? A man wandered in and leered at her, making some comment I don’t remember. She scowled at him fiercely enough that he walked right out. For a brief, lunatic moment, I wished that she was a man so that she could kick my ass into shape like that. 

We, and by that I mean I, stumbled back to our shitty motel room, supported by her. The place smelled like Newports and Lysol, but I had insisted on it rather than the fancy hotel Alice had wanted to stay at. No point in making a fuss over an overnight stop and I was starting to feel self-conscious about how she covered the tab every time. There’s nothing more damaging to a healthy 20-something man’s ego than to walk up to a desk at a hotel, ask for a room, and have to defer to your girlfriend to pay the bill. They’d still usually hand me the key, which bothered Alice to no end, but the damage was already done.

Either I passed out as soon as we got there, or she fucked me into oblivion. She was good at that. I have a hazy recollection of our limbs tangled on the bleached sheets, her head on my chest. Her shoulders shook with some unspoken grief that I’m sure I caused. I should have comforted her. I should have said something, or done something— done anything to be the man that she needed me to be. Instead, I stared at the cracks in the ceiling and faded from consciousness before I could even tell her I loved her.

I really did love Alice. That love has never really gone away, I think. They say you always remember your first love, that it leaves some sort of indelible mark upon the soul. My Alice did more than that. She took the whole damn thing.

When I woke up the next morning to a carefully-folded note on a cold, cinnamon-scented pillow, I knew she was gone, and my heart with her. 

Once again it was just me and the open road.

Notes:

fuck that old man, amiright?
Unbeta'ed and largely unedited as always- thank you as always to all you lovelies for reading and especially those of you who leave comments. they really make my day. Also, big thanks for pushing this story over 2k hits! It's a big milestone for me. Honestly, this story has gone way beyond expectations on my end. I started the month wanting to write just a little every day, and it somehow evolved into near-daily updates. We're launching into the last arc now, so I'm predicting another 3-5 chapters, depending on where the story leads me. Thanks for joining me on this journey. <3 see you soon

Chapter 17

Summary:

a letter and the descent

My dearest, beloved Danny,

I will not be there when you read this, and I hope you will understand. I fear that if I wait, I will lose my resolve, but if I do not go, it will destroy us both. Please forgive me this act of cowardice.

It is at this point that our roads must diverge, just as the woods turn yellow around us. You will take that path less traveled by, and I hope with all my heart that it will make all the difference. 

There is so much life in you and I cannot hinder you from your calling any longer. My own obligations beckon me, as well. I hope that some day we can see Paris, just as you promised. Until then, please take care of yourself. 

Continue to shine as brightly as any star in the sky.

All my love,

Your Alice

***

The note has been folded and unfolded and refolded thousands of times since Daniel found it that morning in Roanoke. Over decades, countless moves, two divorces, two children, a career, and more, he’s kept it safe. The creases are as deep as those at the corners of his eyes and the paper threatens to give way. A drop of water has smeared the signature at the bottom into a blue-grey haze. Daniel pins it to the wall, a neon testament to his failure.

“I do understand. I do now, at least,” he says, hands falling to his sides. “Didn’t at the time.”

An invisible weight lifts from Armand’s narrow shoulders where he sits on the couch beneath a blanket.

“I never expected that you would. You were a headstrong boy, though I suppose that hasn’t changed all that much.”

“Yeah, yeah, I wouldn’t have wanted to watch me self-destruct either. I get a feeling that there’s a lot more puke and piss left in this story. Still don’t forgive you for dipping when I was a risk to self and others, but hey, what’s another entry on that list?”

At least now he understands what went wrong. They never made it to New Orleans, and he’d suffered some sort of psychotic break at the loss of his muse. There’s only a week or so left of missing time before that final, terrible news article from the East Bay Times. He returns to the couch and picks up the journal, thumbing through the next few pages.

“I stand by my decision, though that didn’t make it any easier to watch you drive away,” Armand says, tucking himself into Daniel’s side. “I wanted to intervene, but…”

An unspoken agreement hangs in the air. This isn’t just about what happened in 1979. It seems that they are once again stuck in their eternal cycle of separation and reunion. Daniel slings his arm around his maker’s shoulders and holds him in place. He buries his face in Armand’s soft curls, closing his eyes. It’s too sweet and it can’t last. That would require forgiveness that he can’t give. The softness of the moment chafes at him like sisal rope against bare skin.

He doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to think about what happens next— the events that would lead him into cold, dark waters. 

Still, he has to know.

“After Roanoke… what happened next?”

***

White Line Fever

Chapter 7?- Who is the Son?

I return to the road a changed man. These past weeks have been a distraction from my true purpose. The Siren’s call pulled me off course with promises of pleasure and safety. It is well past time that I re-affirm my devotion to the Highway and her song. 

Who is the Son of the Highway?

The Son is an enigma of Americana and asphalt. He is a self-determined man, untethered by attachments. His identity is one of rugged individualism. He does not need the approval of others, nor their interference in his grand quest. He has purpose.

I have come to the conclusion that the East Coast is no longer the place for me. Autumn has come to the Appalachians and I fear the decay that comes with it. A great electric-lit star stands sentinel over Roanoke and I will follow its guidance westward. I belong there, where the sky is big and the grasses play a lyrical melody. My passenger’s seat is empty as it should be. Now, once again, I can blaze my own trail.

Even now, my memories of the Siren fade into the distance behind me. I do not fault her for leaving in the way that she did. I am, after all, a lowly being unworthy of her care. She has returned to her keeper and her voice no longer determines my path. I thank her for everything she gave me, but there is no value in lingering in the past. Perhaps someday, our paths will cross again, but for now, I set out alone to chase the setting sun. 

I am a bright young author with a point of view. This is the mantra that I live by that carries me through the darkest nights, pounding like blood through my skull. I step on the gas, each mark on the speedometer an obstacle in my way.

Five miles per hour.

Ten.

Fifteen.

I roll down the window and let the cool wind wick away the perspiration on my brow. I am baptised in its purity, ready to start anew. My hands tighten around the wheel.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

Thirty.

The radio is on and playing some old Woodie Guthrie number. I feel the music in the steady beat of my heart, each note an artery. My ride responds in kind, her pistons pounding to drive me ever forward. I do not look in the rearview mirror. I do not need to. All that matters is ever forward. 

Thirty-five.

Forty.

Forty-five.

The road rumbles beneath my tires. I am driving away. Ever away. All I do is leave and drive and run. Am I running? Why am I running? What am I running from? I must go faster. Faster. Faster! It is not enough!

Fifty.

Fifty-five.

Sixty.

No matter how fast I go, I cannot escape this pounding in my head. It is tires on asphalt. It is blood in a vein. It is bodies against walls and the wolf’s teeth at my neck. There is something I’m missing. Something I need, desperately. There is a piece of me missing and I cannot find it. The answer is forward. Ever forward. 

Sixty-five.

Seventy.

Seventy-five.

I’m afraid. I don’t want to die alone. Death does not scare me, but I cannot die alone. I want my angel. I want my Alice. We were supposed to go to New Orleans. Paris. I will never see either. I will never see her again. Who is an artist without his muse? Who am I without her steady guidance?

Eighty.

Eighty-five.

Ninety. 

I hear the voice of an angel. He calls to me over the song of the Highway. I am his. I am his! He speaks so clearly and beckons me ever forward. I will find him. I will claim him. I will consume him. There is no God, there is only this angel and I exist to serve. I follow the star like a magi. May it guide me ever forward. 

***

“So you dumped me,” Daniel says flatly. “I suppose it’s pointless to ask where you disappeared to. That leather daddy in the bar didn’t make it through the night, did he?”

“I may have removed myself from your life and ensured that my tracks were covered, but that doesn’t mean that I left you entirely to your own devices,” Armand sniffs. “It was… less stressful to play the invisible angel than to have an active role. I could compartmentalise and focus on ensuring your safety. And yes, that man made for an excellent distraction while you were sleeping off some of your high.”

“Yeah, well I probably didn’t even deserve that. I don’t remember much from that return trip, so you’re going to have to fill in the blanks from here on out. It looks like I didn’t know what was going on at the time, either.” Daniel frowns down his nose at the journal. “This whole thing is a bunch of masturbatory nonsense.”

“I’ll admit it’s not your best work, but at least you were focused on yourself again. You had a story to tell and I was happy to observe.”

“That’s a funny way of saying you like to watch. So, you didn’t go back to Louis?”

“I thought having a scapegoat for my absence would make it easier on you.” Armand stiffens slightly, bringing a hand up to his mouth to nibble at a fingernail. “But it didn’t seem to make much of a difference,” he adds softly.

“Yeah, I probably didn’t even make that connection, to be honest. Likely blacked out after reading the first couple sentences of your precious little love note. Life-shattering news will do that to a guy. To be completely fair, I probably wasn’t entirely sober yet, but it explains why you dangling Louis in my face in Dubai felt weirdly familiar.”

“What can I say, I like you when you’re jealous.”

“Fuckin’ freak…” The insult is affectionate. 

If Daniel wants to be completely honest with himself, he likes it too, only to be outdone by when Armand is taunted to jealousy himself. The games they have always played with each other have never been fair or conventional. Perhaps it’s their way of compensating for the emotional distance they keep between themselves and anything good that comes their way. They’re so alike in that sense. Maybe they both get off on cruelty. Another similarity they share. Daniel’s heart clenches with the rush of antagonising his maker. 

“Also, not to shit on your attempts to keep me alive,” he needles, “but they were only barely enough to compensate for my apparent determination to self-terminate.” The article on the wall is an impending stormcloud. 

“Beloved, it was not the first nor the last time that I saved your life. I predict that given your tendency to play with fire, that obligation is one I still carry.”

“What a strange thing for the man who killed me to say. Though I suppose that’s your M.O. anyway— the gremlin or the good nurse? He who hath given shall taketh away and all that.”

“Do you resent me your immortality? After so many years of begging for it?” Armand’s voice is defensive and he pulls away. There is hurt in his eyes, edging on the anger that Daniel seeks.

“I’m saying that perhaps whispering into the mind of a strung-out kid with a tenuous at best grasp on reality wasn’t the best move.”

“I could play your lover or your mother, but not both. Have you ever tried to love someone determined to make it as difficult as possible?”

“Pot, kettle, sweetheart.” Daniel raises an eyebrow and bites back his smile. “Whoever said that absence makes the heart grow fonder was blowing smoke out their ass. Pretty hard to make up for your mistakes when you’re talking to yourself in an empty room.”

“It was for your own good! Every time!” Armand stands and throws the blanket in Daniel’s face. “Ungrateful, willful child!”

“Woah there, boss, ‘boy’ is one thing, but ‘child’…”

“Are you not a child in comparison to me? Have I not had to treat you as such for the past fifty years?”

“I dunno, I know they were a little more lax on the whole age gap thing when you were mortal, but you certainly weren’t treating me like a child twelve hours ago…”

“You go too far!” Power flares through the room, the flames in the fireplace leaping and then collapsing into embers. Daniel’s mouth goes dry at the display. Armand’s fists are clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The taste of his blood lays heavy in the air.

“Bet you’re wishing you could shut me up now, like all those weak-ass flunkies at the theatre,” Daniel breathes. “Maybe throw me against a wall for old time’s sake.” 

God, he wishes that was the case, as if it doesn’t make him the most pathetic immortal north of the Mason-Dixon. But what if? Surely if he was powerful enough to prevent Armand from manhandling him, he was powerful enough to control his own resistance? 

A muscle twitches in his maker’s temple, the only hint that his words had any impact. 

“There he is, the monster beneath,” Daniel gloats, putting the blanket aside and standing himself. “I knew you were in there under the kisses and cuddles.” 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” Armand says, voice low and vicious.

“Maybe not. Maybe I wanna see a bit of what you wanted to do to me back then. You can’t claim you didn’t wanna kick my ass for being such an idiot, I don’t believe the benevolent chaperone narrative for a fuckin’ second. Even Lucifer was once an angel. Either way, I won’t break any more, so why the fuck not? Give me your worst.”

It’s dangerously close to begging. The room still thrums with power and their bond crackles with a heady blend of wrath and lust. It is familiar, comfortable. It feels like satin against Daniel’s skin. Biting his lip, he exhales steadily through his nose and pictures the iron-banded siege gates around his mind opening to the onslaught of Armand’s fury. They creak open with the stubborn rust of three years’ worth of neglect.

“What… what are you doing?” Armand asks, the storm of power around him abating as if they stand in the eye of the maelstrom. Hesitancy flickers across his face.

“Giving you what you need,” Daniel smiles slowly. “A chance to show me who’s boss. Unless you’re too much of a bitch to follow through?”

His maker’s influence slams into him like a battering ram, forcing him to his knees. His arms snap to his sides and his head drops back in an involuntary groan of surrender.

“You will regret this.” Armand approaches him with purposeful, predatory steps. A bloody hand comes up to hold his face, thumb leaving scarlet streaks over his cheek. His eyes flutter shut as he succumbs to the sensation.

“Make me,” he says— one final inflammatory encouragement. 

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

Now, it may come as a shock to those of you with average reading comprehension, but I’ve never been a man of God.

When I was young, my mother insisted on dragging me to church. She stuffed me into collared shirts and shoes with laces, tucking my hems into the least-holey jeans I owned. I think regular church attendance gave her a discount on my grammar school tuition, and we needed the help. My father was still trying to make ends meet as a used-car salesman, a job that he was never quite successful at. Swindling is only enjoyable when you aren’t looking the swindled in the face, apparently. He never came with us, preferring to spend Sundays worshipping at the altar of engine repair. 

I hated the sit-stand-kneel-stand song and dance and spent the interminable services staring out the stained glass windows. Old Saint Stanislaus Church was a marvel of mission-style inspired architecture. The mass was still held in Latin back then, so of course I didn’t understand a fucking word, Omnus Dei and all that nonsense. Relics of a world long gone. I listened to sermons on humanity’s sinful nature with half an ear, absorbing only that which instilled a deep sense of shame and inferiority without the corresponding dogmatic fanaticism that promised eternal life.

When I first met Alice, I thought her a goddess, or at least, an angel. Through windowpanes of youth and drugs, she seemed perfect in every light. She spoke to me in a way that the scriptures never did, though I probably understood her just about as much as I understood Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. When she left me the first time, I simply accepted her departure as punishment for my innate wickedness. Her presence in the first place was something to be thankful for. I was unworthy. Her absence was the just and fair punishment for my natural condition. I had done nothing to earn her mercy.

When I sat in that penthouse in Dubai and heard a butler claim that he served a god, of course I had reason to doubt. I knew enough about vampires to know that they are not divine creatures. Every vampire that I have ever met has been a selfish, insecure, vengeful creature of spite and jealousy. They do not care for others in the way that humans do, nor in the ways that the priests always promised that a loving God would. They are not selfless angels of salvation.

Vampires are devils.

I didn’t retain much from my Sunday-school tutelage, but I remembered the story of Lucifer. An angel bold enough to go toe-to-toe with his maker, to claim that they were equals and demand to be seen as such— you can see how the tale appealed to me. There isn’t much biblical evidence for such a thing, and further research shows that the entire concept is a medieval Christian construct meant to mimic ancient worship of Venus or the ‘morning-star’, a promethean light-bringer in a dark age, but for our purposes, it’s a fair parallel. 

A vampire does not accept their place among mortals. They choose to assert themselves over life and death, demanding equality with gods while also begging for recognition. There is an inherent egoism to the condition, and a similar obnoxious need to chain others to themselves to escape the eternal loneliness that pervades their existences. 

And perhaps this is why my fascination with vampire-kind endures. Sure, they may be death incarnate, but is that not a beautiful thing? It is an existence built on spite. They bear a torch to illuminate the most reprehensible aspects of humanity. I see myself in their mirror and it fascinates me. Why is it such a great sin to want?

I’ll see you all in Hell.

Notes:

oof this one fought me a bit, so it took a bit longer than normal. sorry y'all. also, surprise! There's Catholic guilt in there! Ik some people head cannon Daniel as Jewish, but there's no actual textual evidence for it, so I threw down some of my own religious trauma bc it makes sense in this story. Also, sorry if the transitions in this chapter are a lil rough, I had to chop up bits and rearrange them a bit. but hey, more smut incoming!
Thank you as always to everyone reading this story. It blows me away to know that there are so many of you invested in it. Special thank you to those of y'all who comment, kudo, subscribe, and bookmark <3 I'll see you soon

Chapter 18

Summary:

Danny's on his knees again

Notes:

literally 3.4k of edging and sexual deviancy

Armand's anger is an incandescent thing. It glows golden like a gas lamp in the shadows of the little cottage from which he watches prey. 

Words bubble in Daniel’s mouth, but do not spill forth. His maker has made sure of that. His knees are starting to ache and he casts a pleading look at the creature in the shadows. A cigarette smolders with the same cherry-red embers as Armand's eyes.

“You think I didn't realize what you were trying to do?” the creature asks, though he expects no answer. “I should have known that you'd resort to this sooner or later. It was always your favorite game to play. Let's lash out at the vampire until he snaps and then enjoy the fruits of his cruelty.”

You don’t have to call me out like that, Daniel thinks. His maker is, of course, not wrong. While he may not remember every time he needled his way into a rough fucking, his bones remember the satisfaction of the game. He feels like a dog caught chewing on slippers, if that dog for some reason really enjoyed the scolding afterwards. Really, really enjoyed the scolding. If his mouth wasn’t held shut by an invisible muzzle, he’d probably be drooling on the worn shag rug.

His expression must give away some of his desperation, else he’s projecting it so loudly down the bond that Armand can feel it, because he laughs, low and dry. His steps are silent as he crosses the room.

“Always such a needy little thing, but you can’t just ask for what you want, can you? Ironic that that’s what you asked for as soon as I let you take charge. You want me to communicate my desires, but cannot do so yourself. Don’t worry, though, beloved,” he tilts his head, exhaling smoke over Daniel’s kneeling form. “I know just what you need. I’ll take care of you like I always do, and you’ll thank me afterwards like the good boy I know you can be.”

All Daniel can do is blink as Armand crouches in front of him. 

“You’re going to be good for me, right?”

His mouth temporarily liberated from its supernatural restraint, Daniel releases a shuddering breath.

“Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t decided yet,” he says. “Are you gonna just sit there staring at me all night?”

Armand’s expression hardens into one of sharp amusement.

“You know what, beloved? I think that’s an excellent idea.” He stands too quickly and pulls one of the heavy chairs over with one hand. The old wooden feet scrape over the floorboards with a sound like teeth on chalk. He reclines in the chair, crossing one knee over the other, an elbow propped on the armrest. In a matter of seconds he is once again the director of a Parisian theatre troupe. 

“Feeling a little left out over here…” Daniel starts, but his tongue stiffens in his mouth once again with a wave of his maker’s hand.

“Quiet on set,” Armand says with a wicked smile. “Now, let’s see if you remember one of my favorite pieces. A monologue in pleasure, you could say.”

A delicious blend of fear and anticipation tingles across Daniel’s skin, or perhaps that’s his legs falling asleep under him. 

“The first act… a slow temptation. Go on.” 

It’s an unnatural feeling as Daniel’s arms raise of their own accord. The record player spins to life, a disc floating from the rack to lay on the turntable. An almost comically smooth jazz number plays from the speaker. He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off coyly, his shoulders moving to the music. When was the last time he felt sexy like this? Certainly it’s been a while, since before his daughters, at least. His maker’s steady, hungry gaze is enough to set him aflame with need. 

The shirt falls to the floor behind him and his fingers toy with the bottom hem of his undershirt. The hold on his legs has loosened enough that his knees can slide apart, which is both a blessing and a curse. He’s been hard since he decided to taunt his maker, but the total surrender of control has made it almost unbearable. The slow dance that Armand has forced him into compels him to pull the undershirt off incrementally, not nearly as quickly as he would have liked. He draws it up over his sternum and holds the edge with his teeth in a lascivious display.

“Beautiful,” Armand murmurs, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward as if watching an Italian opera. “And so much better when it’s not rushed. We have eternity left to torment each other, beloved, why hurry? That’s it, let me hear you now.”

“Armand, please,” Daniel groans through the fabric in his mouth, his own hands running over his body. His fingers tweak his nipples into stiff peaks, nails trailing over the skin too lightly to leave marks, but just enough to set him on edge.

“Already? I really thought you’d have more tenacity than that,” Armand clicks his tongue. “We’ve only just started.” He stands and approaches Daniel, the final burning stub of the cigarette between his fingers. “Shirt off, lean back.”

Daniel complies, shucking off the cotton, his hands behind him to support himself. He stares up at his maker, entranced by the cinder in his hand.

“You… you won’t,” he swallows, even though that traitorous little voice that yearns for destruction in the back of his mind says otherwise.

“I think I’ll do whatever I want. It adds a little… nuance to the piece, don't you think? And besides, it's not like you have any say in the matter. You'd do just about anything if it would please me, just so you can get what you want.”

Daniel feels the heat of the ember before it hits flesh with a sizzle. He cries out at the sudden, sharp pain just over his heart, the sound a little too breathy to be from the burn alone. Such a small wound will heal quickly, but he aches for it to remain. He wonders if Armand would carve his name into his chest with his claws, reopening the wound over and over so that he could be marked for all to see as his maker's possession. Whatever happened to that gaudy blood-filled talisman he once wore? The scent of charred skin lingers in the air.

“That’s my boy,” Armand gifts him a smile, teeth sharp and white. “Should I do it again? Draw a constellation of your supplication over your body?”

The cottage shakes at the impact of Daniel’s back against the wall. His head snaps back against the wooden planks, fuzzing his vision around the edges. A hoarse, startled laugh breaks from his chest. He hangs weightless, limbs akimbo like he’s strapped to some kinky apparatus from a Berlin nightclub. 

“Holy fuck,” he croaks, eyes wide and pupils blown. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” 

“Leave the commentary to me, beloved” Armand floats a few inches off the ground, observing him like a painting in a gallery. “I am the one who gets to watch, after all. No matter how much I want to touch you, to run my fingers through your spun-sterling hair…” His hand extends, stopping just short of Daniel. “But no, you’re the one who suggested that I sit back and observe. It’s not as if that hasn’t been my duty these past forty years. You don’t know how many times I’ve watched you bring yourself pleasure, your mind calling out a name it does not remember into a lonely, silent night.”

“Probably would have had a better time if I knew I had an audience, could have put on more of a show,” Daniel grins. “You get off on being a creepy little pervert, though, so I suppose I’m in good company.”

Armand’s answering smile is feral. A tight pressure closes around Daniel’s throat— just tight enough to make itself known.

“That’s right, and now that I have you, you’ll never have a moment alone to yourself like that again. I own you, fledgling, every part of your wretched existence. If I say that you are not allowed to come without my approval, so it will be. No more thinking of Alice or Dev Patel or that one Emirati flight attendant with the sizable breasts from your flight to Dubai,” he taunts. “It will be my name on your lips. My touch that you beg for. Though, I have to admit, you had some very interesting ideas for what you wanted to do to Rashid the rent boy. I may have ensured that Louis didn't hear those thoughts of yours. Couldn't have him getting any ideas, hm?”

Daniel swallows back a moan, as if he isn’t on the brink of begging as it is. Anyone else beside his maker is the furthest thing from his mind. 

“Whatever you say, boss,” he chokes out, head dropping in deference.

“That’s my boy. Now, you were in the middle of something?”

The dance resumes as Daniel’s limbs spring to autonomous life once again. It’s unwieldy, hanging in the air and attempting to remove his pants in the seductive manner that his director conducts, but he manages alright. Briefs and socks fall to the floor, joining the pile of clothing like dead leaves. 

“As much as I enjoy the whole ‘Vitruvian Man’ schtick, think we could move this somewhere a little more comfortable?” he suggests. “Old bones and all.” The Dark Gift may have rejuvenated his joints and lent a youthful spring to his step, but even that could not erase every trace of his long mortal life. 

Armand tsks and frowns, but obliges his fledgling’s request, lowering him to the floor.

“I rather enjoyed admiring you like that,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “Though, I suppose, it is time for the second act.” His compulsion drives Daniel back to his knees, but does not hold him there. “Come here,” he beckons with a crooked finger.

The command resonates through the fledgling’s body with deafening surety. In front of any other being, mortal or immortal, living or dead, Daniel Molloy would never consider crawling on all fours like a dog, but this is Armand. His maker. His tormentor. His Muse. His submission gushes forth in torrents and the shag rug is knotted beneath his palms. He looks up at the ancient creature that gifted him eternity with wide, wet eyes.

“Woof, woof,” he says, though his voice is a little too strained to pull off the flippant tone. His cheek comes to rest against the inside of Armand’s knee. The bamboo viscose of his sweatpants is soft against Daniel’s faintly stubbled skin and he nuzzles into the fabric, eyes closed.

“Is this you asking for more, beloved?” Armand asks, tilting his face up with light fingertips. Daniel nods, blinking through the warm haze of compliance. His maker no longer needs to influence his actions. They are powered entirely by his desire to please. A high, pitiful sound slips from his throat as Armand’s fingers slide into his hair, the nails just scratching his scalp. The tantalizing sound of blood beneath the thin skin of his maker’s wrist tempts his fangs to descend, but he clamps his jaw shut. 

“Don’t hold yourself back on my account, darling. As you said yourself, I do have a history of indulging you. You've always had such a way with words… tell me, what degenerate little fantasies have you come up with since I lost access to your mind? I rather miss your creativity for the profane.”

“Can I… can we do the thing again? I can’t… I don’t know how to explain. I need to show you, please.”

Armand’s thigh tenses beneath his touch, a sharp, barely-noticeable inhale. 

“Of course, beloved. Come here.” The chair isn’t really large enough for the both of them, but Daniel manages to clamber into his lap. His clumsy fingers worm underneath his maker’s sweater and pull it over his head in a desperate attempt to balance their uneven state of undress. As soon as it’s tossed to the floor, his hands are on Armand’s face, pulling their mouths together.

It’s not graceful, but fuck is it satisfying. Their noses bump against each other and the taste of blood fills their mouths as Daniel’s teeth drop from excitement. His tongue chases the source, licking into Armand’s mouth with ravenous imprecision. Only a sharp tug on his hair draws him back.

“Such enthusiasm,” Armand coos, using a thumb to lift Daniel’s upper lip to examine a fang. “You really are a perfect specimen, large teeth, clear eyes…”

“You can’t just tell a guy that,” Daniel groans, snapping his teeth at the offending hand. “Now how do I do this? I assume all the visions or whatever were your choice before?”

“Just focus your mind on the memory. Let the blood guide you.” Armand pulls him down, mouthing lightly at his neck. His own blood moves thickly beneath his skin, making Daniel’s mouth water. He wants it. Wants it more than anything in the world.

Wait.

Focus. 

A memory. A real one, something novel. 

His teeth sink into soft flesh.

***

It is the year 2024.

I have been dead for one year.

I am hungry.

These are the three truths that run through my mind as I prowl the streets of Denver. One should ask me, Daniel, why Denver? Why would a creature whose survival depends on the absence of sunlight wander one of the closest cities to the sun in the United States? I’d have to defer to Ellen for that one. She scheduled this stupid book signing. At least it’s winter and that infernal star disappears behind the Rockies fairly early in the evening. It’s one of those weird things about the front range— it’s sunny until it’s not.

Right now, it’s decidedly ‘not’, which is good for my eyes. They’ve become even more sensitive in the past year than before, curse my blue-eyed genetics. I suppose I should also curse my maker, though that’s a given at this point. Fuck that guy. At least now I know that he isn’t poking around in my skull any more.

The signing wasn’t a particularly exciting affair. There was your usual selection of goths, housewives, twinks, and some weirdo who dressed up like the vampire Santiago. I did my due diligence, scribbling a half-assed signature on the end pages of each book they shoved in my face. The faux-Santiago also asked me for a selfie, but changed his mind when I signed the book with regards to his husband without him asking. His Party City plastic teeth nearly fell out of his dumb-ass mouth, fuckin’ hilarious. I find entertainment where I can these days. One can only jack off to hazy memories of one’s ex-wife so many times.

And this is how I’ve found myself in yet another tiki bar. Ok, it’s not really a tiki bar, it’s some weird Carribean-Indian fusion place that sells shitty 20-dollar martinis flavored with mangosteen or some shit, but it’s dark and distracting and close enough. My mind strays to Polynesian Mary’s. I get it now, why Louis chose that particular bar to pick up boys. Every body in this place smells of pineapple and rum. 

It’s just not appetizing. 

My thirst is a daily struggle. Most nights, I need to find someone or other to drain. Finding targets hasn’t been terribly difficult, but none of them satisfy me entirely. There’s always a lingering craving at the back of my palate for something sweet and rich. I want him, but we can’t all get what we want.

There’s a cute 30-something here, making eyes at me across the bar. Not my usual type— a little too pale and bespectacled. His mind tells me that he’s an academic sort in town for a conference, which is all well and fine. He smells of gin and old books. It’s a nostalgic sort of scent, reminds me of late nights in college. I put on my best leather daddy persona and make my move. Kids these days and their fixation with older men. Hey— at least it works in my favor.

The boy chokes on his jalapeno old-fashioned as I introduce myself. His mind is so loud, but at least it drowns out some of the city-babble from around us. A few well-placed compliments, a snarky remark or two… it’s almost laughably easy. I swear, I’ve had more luck on the bar scene in the past year than I ever did in the 70’s. It probably has something to do with the fact that I don’t have a bloodthirsty orange-eyed creature stalking my every move, melting the minds of anyone who dared think anything over PG about me, but eh. Doesn’t matter. I’m hungry and that takes precedence.

Back in the boy’s hotel room, he shares a well-rolled blunt with me, his eyes growing more and more red until they’re almost as bright as mine. He’s shy— twitchy and blushing at every off-color joke I crack, though his thoughts are decidedly less coy. Oh yeah, he wouldn’t have survived the ‘70s— or the ‘80s for that matter. His limbs are long and soft from the weed by the time he’s stripping for me. That deep ache in my stomach yearns for his hot, cannabis-laced blood. 

Perhaps my technique isn’t the most refined. Hell, I’ve only had a year to learn. The concept of opening one’s mouth wide enough to accommodate an adult human neck is a technique practiced in only the most sordid of gay bars. Sue me for being out of practice. The boy’s skin is soft and delicate like that of a nectarine. I snake a hand around his body and lay it flat against his chest to hold him in place. His heart flutters beneath the inadequate protection of his rib cage. He doesn’t even notice when my teeth pierce his throbbing artery.

Heat and salt and iron, with an undercurrent of something like aged port and the distinctly vegetal flavor of weed— the boy is a real treat. I feel his life filling my own body like wine poured into a decanter. The blood flows strong and sweet, leaking from the corner of my mouth down his chest. It’s messy in the way that the best blowjobs are. Vampires hundreds of years my senior would scold me for the waste, but they’re not here. I can be as messy as I please as long as I clean up afterwards. The boy slips into unconsciousness and I slip into a blood-drunk bliss. Only a few things would make this a perfect night.

Bolstered by the boy’s contribution, my body remembers another night on the other side of the world. It was similarly bloody and blissful, but with one significant difference. I recall the glow of orange eyes from the shadows and I groan. If only my maker could see me now. How proud he’d be, how fascinated. My cock rouses from its disinterest and I flop to the boy’s empty hotel bed. It might as well get some use before morning, and, well, I’m stoned and horny.

I shimmy out of my pants, wrapping my hand around myself. It is still sticky with the boy’s blood, the reddish smear stark against my skin. I wish I could share in this with someone else— a companion. The other vamps always speak so reverently of companionship. My spotty memory helpfully provides a name and a face. 

Angelic, severe, gentle, Armand. 

My head tips back at the thought. There’s a throb in my heart that feels a little too close to longing. What would his hand feel like on my cock? Would he paint me with the boy’s blood? With his own? I ache for the sensation of teeth in my own neck.

My hand is a stuttering blur, my body following the steps of a dance that I do not recall. Muscle memory is a more reliable sort of recollection, anyway. If only my hand was smaller, softer. I want, I want, I want…

“My beautiful boy, my one and only,” Armand’s voice is as loud in my head as if he were standing there watching me. It is at once too much and not enough. My release leaves me hollow and hungrier than I was before the boy. I lay in the tacky evidence of my inadequacy. The room is a mess. I’m a mess.

At least the night is still young.

Notes:

thank you as always for reading <3 I appreciate all your support. We probably have another 4-ish chapters left of this guy, but I wanted to mention that updates are probably gonna be a little bit slower. I've hit the part of the story where I have to think more about what happens next (hence the smut interlude) but I have a general concept at least.
see you soon.

Chapter 19

Summary:

smut and also the road goes ever on

“Oh, my precious boy…” 

Armand’s voice pulls Daniel from the shared memory. His forehead rests on his fledgling’s shoulder, arms wrapped around Daniel’s torso with vicelike strength. A fine tremor runs through their bodies as if they both stand on a high wire.

“I don’t know which is more of a mindfuck— being shoved into your head or back into mine,” Daniel chuckles, running a hand over Armand’s hair. The other man holds him tighter, a shudder tensing his shoulders.

“I didn’t realise how much I missed your thoughts,” he mumbles into Daniel’s shoulder. “I was so worried that first year, I didn’t… I couldn’t know how well you’d taken to the change and I was so afraid that you’d struggle with the hunt and adapting to immortality. I should have had more faith in you.”

“Yeah, well, I inherited my maker’s cockroach tendency to survive. Had big shoes to fill, and all. It’s rough being the one and only fledgling of the legendary ancient vampire Armand.”

“Mhm, yes, I suppose that’s true.” Armand pulls back just enough to admire Daniel. “And you did so very well. I love watching you hunt.”

“Yeah?” Beneath his maker’s gaze, Daniel shifts, bringing his attention back to his still-significant arousal. The leaking tip of his cock brushes against Armand’s stomach, not providing nearly enough friction.

“Yeah…” Armand’s hands skate down his back to settle on the dimpled curve of his ass. Ten sharp points dig into his skin and hold him in place like fish hooks, arresting any further movement. His maker’s smile is predatory and hungry.

“Maybe… maybe later,” Daniel says tightly. “But first, I’d really, really like to finish what we were doing before my nuts turn purple and drop off.” 

“I don’t think that’s physically possible, beloved…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you want me to beg? Arma-ah!” Daniel’s arms fly around his maker’s neck as he stands, lifting him as if he was made of paper mâché. 

“As much as I would enjoy that, it won’t be necessary tonight. I’m feeling particularly indulgent.” With sure steps, he carries Daniel toward the loft.

“Y’know what they say, spare the rod, spoil the fledgling or whatever…” 

“Are you asking for the rod?” Armand asks, tossing Daniel onto the bed.

“Heh, well…” he waggles his eyebrows and makes an obvious look between his maker’s face and the tented folds of his sweatpants. “I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s the point here.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Despite his words, Armand smiles and shakes his head, shoving down the pants and straddling him. “Crass, greedy, shameless… Most makers wouldn’t tolerate such behavior.” He punctuates his statements with kisses starting at Daniel’s sternum and moving up toward his throat. Each one is like a note plucked on the resonance of their bond.

“Yeah, well I’m daddy’s special boy.” He bats his eyelashes with an exaggerated pout. 

“Mm, that’s right. You know…” Armand takes his jaw in one hand, the nails catching on his perpetual stubble. “I think I like when you call me that. Let’s see if I can get you to scream it.”

“Only if I get a pony,” Daniel rolls his eyes to distract himself by the twitch that the suggestion sends through his cock. His pout crumbles into a shit-eating grin.

“Beloved, you can drain the whole paddock afterwards, if that's what you desire, as long as I get to watch.” Their mouths come together in a hot mess of teeth and tongue, directed by Armand’s sure hold. “Now, be a good boy and let daddy take care of you.” The word is coated in a sticky, rich ichor. Lust surges in Daniel at the realisation that his maker is just as affected as he is by their taboo exchange. Fuckin’ freak, he thinks fondly.

With a swift display of his ancient strength, Armand turns him over, lifting his hips, his knees spread. A small, cool hand holds him down between the shoulder blades, forcing his back into a sloping arch. He grunts into the pillows, feeling suddenly exposed. 

“Shh…” Armand runs his other hand over Daniel’s ass and hip. “I have you now. Just relax for me. Let go.” A click of a cap and cold wetness sliding down his crack makes him jump.

“Fuck, could give a guy some warning-ngh!” A quick, feather-like brush of fingertips over his rim sets his nerves alight. His cock bobs hard and leaking against his stomach, balls pendulous beneath him.

“Would you rather I fuck you dry? Take what’s mine with no regard for your comfort? I do these things for you, beloved, I always have. Would you prefer that I use blood, like in your vivid little fantasy?” The room blooms with the scent of Armand’s blood, drawn from a quick slash to a palm. Daniel jerks forward as the warm, bloody hand wraps around his throbbing cock.

“Oh, fuck!” he gasps, mouth dropping open at the sudden stimulation. As quickly as it comes, it’s gone again, the blood drying tacky on his skin. “You motherf—”

“Ah, what was that?” Armand’s fingers trace up the backs of Daniel’s trembling thighs and he delivers a quick, stinging swat to the place where they meet his ass. “If you’re going to act like a brat, this can go very differently.”

“‘M sorry, need… need more, please.” Daniel’s knees slip another couple inches wider and he rocks into his maker’s circling touch. 

“Please, who?”

“Daddy, please!” Daniel’s voice breaks around a jagged moan. His body yields easily to the incessant press of Armand’s fingers within him— first one, then another soon after. The small twinge of discomfort quickly gives way to waves of pleasure. 

“Beautiful, perfect creature, you take me so well,” Armand murmurs, focused on his singular task. “I could do this all night and all through the day, just bringing you to the edge of oblivion over and over. You’d beg me for release and you’d wait for my permission because you’re such a good, obedient boy. Isn’t that right?”

Daniel nods, saliva forming a damp stain on the pillowcase beneath him. The only noises he can make are thin whimpers and high-pitched cries with each targeted, deliberate stroke against his prostate. The world has slipped into that cozy, liquid fog like the blood of a mother— amniotic and comforting. Only the sensation of his maker’s hands on his body tethers him to the Earth. 

“Luckily for you, I don’t have the patience for that tonight. I must have you,” Armand murmurs into the back of his neck, pulling his hand free with a wet sound. Daniel makes a sound of protest, but it slurs into a moan of anticipation at the catch of Armand’s cock at his entrance. 

“Arma— Daddy, please,please… fuckngh-ah!” His legs threaten to give out at the overwhelming sensation of fullness as his maker slides home. 

“So… so perfect, always mine,” Armand nuzzles into the hair behind his ear, rocking in small, slow thrusts. “Always have been. Always will be.”

“Yuh-h-ess, need… you.”

“That’s right, you need me, just as I need you, Beloved.” 

As if accelerating down an endless highway, Armand’s thrusts come faster and harder with each snap of his hips. The cottage is loud with the sound of skin on wet skin and Daniel’s crescendo of pleasure. His hands clench in the blankets and he sinks his teeth into a pillow, eyes welling with bloody tears. He’s close— too close, and each thrust reminds him of his neglected cock. He sneaks one hand under himself, questing for his release.

“And just when I thought you were going to be good for me,” Armand chastises, pulling the hand away and behind Daniel’s back with a brutal grind of his cock deep in his fledgling. “How unfortunate.”

“No! I’ll be… ah!… I’ll be good! I promise! Fuck, please! Da-addy! I’mma be goo-od, ngh! Oh, fuck, you ca-an’t just do that! I can’t…” The words pour from Daniel’s mouth like words on a page— unedited, unfiltered, brutally honest. He wails as Armand manhandles his other arm behind him as well and pulls him up, leaning back. The position is uncomfortable, and his back is bent further than any 70-something’s should be capable of outside of a yoga studio, but it doesn’t matter. Armand’s other hand falls to Daniel’s cock, caressing it with a fresh coating of his blood from a new slice on his palm. 

“That’s my boy, hold on for just another moment, darling.” His voice is tight, the only indication of his impending climax. Daniel sobs, biting his own lip to hold back. He has to. He has to be good. He has to wait. Only his stubbornness allows him to endure the delicious torment of sensation from his hole and cock. 

“Pleasepleaseplease, I gotta… I gotta…”

“Do you love me?”

“Wha?” The question distracts Daniel for a second before another brutally deep thrust draws a sharp cry from him.

“Do. You. Love. Me?” There are teeth at his shoulder, biting, claiming. 

“I… I, oh fuck. Yeah, yea-ah!” He doesn’t quite mean to say it, but it’s true. There will be time to figure this all out later. Now is all about the pain and pleasure and Armand.

“Say it,” his maker snarls through a mouthful of blood.

“Iloveyoufuckyes! Yes!”

“And I, you, my beloved. You may let go now.”

Oddly enough, the only thought that goes through Daniel’s head as the world whites out around him and pleasure overwhelms him is Of course that bastard would say ‘You may let go’ rather than ‘come for me’. 

Good thing it doesn’t matter whatsoever.

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

My memories of that final flight from fate are hazy at best. If the drive from California to the East were powered by gin and amphetamines, I chased the dragon back west. The resulting endeavor was significantly slower and itchier, forcing me off the interstate and into some truly despicable corners of the midwest. Either by overdose or second-ammendment touting tweakers, I should have died a dozen times over, yet still I endured.

I crossed the Mississippi in Memphis and continued along a more southerly route than I’d first taken. Arkansas, Oklahoma, the top hat of Texas— all a dusty blur. I didn’t even notice the ache in my right leg with the amount of opiates in my system. If I was ever sober, it was a mistake quickly rectified. It’s a wonder that I didn’t end up in a ditch or jailed like Sailor from Wild at Heart. Actually, the whole road trip reminds me now of that film. It was a surreal, David Lynch-directed saga with questionable casting and a bloated budget. I didn’t think about how I always woke up with the same amount of money in my wallet as when I fell asleep. If I noticed, I just assumed that I’d slept my way into a fix or else made a very good friend for the night. Notably, none of these anonymous benefactors were ever there come morning.

The car became a matter of concern around this time. Now, it was a solid car. They built them different back then, and everything was much easier to fix, but sometimes, your luck just runs out. I was probably thirty miles outside Albuquerque, on that left turn that Bugs Bunny always missed when the ‘Stang finally stalled out on me. September or not, the desert is hot at midday, and I had more liquor than water in the car to cool her off and I wasn’t about to waste that. Alone on the road, I resigned myself to misery and began schlepping my way along. 

Southwest sunshine and my pasty ass did not make for good bedfellows. I was half-drunk, half-hungover, and the ground moved beneath my feet. My mouth felt like I’d just eaten a whole sleeve of saltines with no soup. Heat rose off the pavement in shimmering vectors of pain. Sweat stung my nearly-blind eyes. Doubt dogged my steps. If a cel-shaded roadrunner passed me by and drew a tunnel through a rock, I’d have probably followed it to a faceful of sandstone in search of some shade. 

The only thing that kept me moving forward was the thready melody of the Highway’s song. My mind helpfully provided lyrics in Alice’s voice, reassuring me and encouraging me to put foot in front of foot. I could swear that I felt her cold little hands cupping my face and pulling me along. At times, I thought I could see her, her brows drawn together in that way that I never deciphered as either concern or condemnation, wearing a diaphanous hooded gown of black and wearing those big sunglasses once again.

“Beloved, you are such a fool,” she chastised me with a voice like the hiss of a rattler’s tail. 

“A fool for you,” I responded, though my voice was hoarse. I tripped over my own feet and flung my hands out to catch myself. The sting of dirt and gravel in my palms brought back a sliver of lucidity. A rock from that fall ended up staying lodged in my skin for almost two years, until Alice finally excised it with a set of sharp tweezers in the little bathroom of our house in Fishkill, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I hadn’t earned my second chance yet, that day outside Albuquerque. When I looked up, squinting at the sun, my Siren wasn’t there any more.

But a sign stood in the near distance, tall and proud over the shiny silver sides of a diner. A gas station and half-derelict motel formed the rest of the roadside stop.

I was saved.

By the time I staggered through those swinging doors, I probably looked like a roadkill lizard. My hair was stuck flat to my scalp and my knee was crusted over with blood from my tumble. My lips cracked as I deposited myself into a booth and shot a pained smile at the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

“You alive, hon?” she asked, looking me up and down and snapping her gum with an expression like I was a particularly juicy hairball found by a bare foot at 3am. 

“Yeah, yeah, jus’… can I get some water?” 

“You gonna buy somethin’?”

“Yeah, I got…” I reached for my wallet, but found an empty pocket. Was it still back in the car? My face must have fallen like an atom bomb.

“I got ‘im, Donna.” A shadow fell across the table from me, sliding a plastic Coke cup of water my way. I clung to that thing with both hands, spilling it over my face like I was a toddler with a cup of Nesquik. I don’t know if I’ve ever drank anything more refreshing or delicious. It was the water of life, the blood of an immortal.

“Woah there, bud. Little sips.” The voice was vaguely familiar, and a sudden, sharp pain shot through my head. I gasped and winced, squeezing my eyes shut at the brain freeze. The man laughed and I heard the snap-sizzle of a lighter and cigarette. Memory locked into place with sickening surety.

“Oh, you have to be fuckin’ kidding me,” I whined, slamming my head back into the padded seat and immediately regretting it.

“Is that any way to say hello to your old man?” my father asked, grinning at me across the table like a skull.

***

“I ran because I thought you’d chase me again, y’know?” Daniel says, his cheek cushioned by the swell of his maker’s chest. “Could’a just rotted away in Dubai forever, but when I remembered more… I just thought you might be playing the same game all over again, is all.”

“As much as I enjoyed our years of evasion and pursuit, it didn’t occur to me that you’d remember, or that you’d want that again.” Armand’s fingers twist in his hair, wrapping a curl around a finger only to release it again like a spring. “If anything, I worried that you’d try to pursue me. Chase me down and exact your revenge for so many decades of deception.”

“The thought may have occurred to me. I had a book to write, though, so playing predator had to wait, and then with all the book tours and TV features…”

“Those were particularly entertaining.” 

“I figured that you’d find me when you wanted to.” Daniel shrugs minutely. “If you wanted to. And I had marching orders from my agent to start working on my next project.”

“The memoir.”

“I think it’ll end up more like an autobiography. Clearly my first memoir was more fiction than even the Interview was. I just wanna get the facts straight for once. Pick the lint out from between the crevices before I get a good start on immortality.”

“Will the Talamasca be revising this work as well?” There’s a small, sharp edge to Armand’s voice, and he twists a curl a little tighter than perhaps necessary.

“Probably, but it’s not gonna be the same level of exposure. I’ll leave the big reveal till the end, keep folks on the edge until the last minute before I give away your secret identity. It’s a juicy twist.”

“Hm, yet another scandal that will likely result in a target upon your back. You’re awfully talented at painting those, beloved.” Armand presses a soft kiss to the top of Daniel’s head. 

“I’m not worried,” he yawns. “Big daddy vampire will watch out for me, like always. I’m more interested in seeing what creative things people call me for being such a prick back then.”

“Misguided, perhaps, grandiose in your ambition… I believe the general public opinion of you is that you’re still a ‘prick’ as you say.” Somehow the insult sounds like a pet name from Armand’s lips.

“And I’m gonna have a hard time beating back the misogynist accusations again. Ellen is gonna have a field day trying to spin it in a way that won’t offend the Twitter crowd,” Daniel snorts.

“Perhaps, but that whole matter in the story is rather entertaining. Don’t you think it funny that your perfect American-dream woman was a man born on the other side of the world half a millennium ago?”

“Fuckin’ hilarious, babe.” Daniel turns in his maker’s arms, his face buried in the thin patch of hair in the middle of his chest. He slings a leg over Armand’s, holding him in place with his body weight. The fire is warm and the blankets are soft. The walls sing with safety.

“You should rest now, beloved.”

“Blow me.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

Rest.

Rest.

Rest.

“Promise.”

Daniel falls asleep to the steady throb of his maker’s heart.

Notes:

I will not apologize for the number of loony tunes references in this chapter.
huzzah! I actually got these two yappers to fuck! It will happen again! probably with even more daddy kink!
also, the last scene def isn't inspired by fandom drama that I don't care to interact with, but find entertaining to observe lol. we love our toxic kings and they love each other and that's all that matters.
thank you as always for reading this unbetaed braindump of a story. extra love to those of you who comment, kudo, sub, and bookmark <3 see you all soon

Chapter 20

Summary:

a conversation, an argument, an admission

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

To say that seeing my father at a truck-stop diner off of I-40 on that windswept steppe was a shock would be an understatement up there with ‘All vampires are murderers’.

At that point, it had been thirteen years since I last saw the man, an auspicious number by any account. He looked different from my memories— older, greyer, more haggard— but that was to be expected. A life on the road will do that to a man, regardless of what he’s running from. I recognized my own unruly hair, a similar set to the mouth and jaw. It scared the absolute shit out of me. When you’re young and think you have the concept of mortality all figured out, nothing ruins the illusion like staring your aged self in the face.

“What, no ‘fuck you’?” my old man asked. “You wanna get a few good swings in while you’re at it? Hell knows I’ve earned it. Thank you Donna.” He accepted a cup of coffee from the waitress who just rolled her eyes and returned to watching Wheel of Fortune on her little television. 

For once, my big dumb mouth didn’t do what it was supposed to. How many situations had I talked myself into and out of at that point? How many more times would I rely on that ability throughout my career? What was it about this decrepit, shambling corpse of a man that struck such inability into me? I blinked over and over, willing the sand in my eyes to clear to reveal the whole nightmare as just that— a dream. 

“Hm. Suppose you really did take after me, then,” he snorted. “Shit luck for you, kid. You really should’a listened to your mother.”

“I… fuck you, man!” I finally blurted out. “At least I didn’t leave behind a whole fucking family to do… something. You had no fucking right…” A rainbow-tinged aura formed around my father’s head and I squinted. Given a little care, my body had decided that it could finally forfeit to exhaustion and dehydration. My head pounded with a sluggardly headache like molasses through my skull.

“Yeah, yeah, save it for Saint Peter.” There was no remorse in his eyes as he shrugged. “I did everything I could for you.”

“I didn’t need you anyway!”

“Good, I didn’t think you would.”

“But mom…”

“Your mother didn’t need me fucking up her life any more than I already did. Believe me, kid, I did that lady a favor.” His mouth set into a familiar line. It was the expression I recognized from the mirror every morning when I told myself that I didn’t miss Alice. I didn’t need her. She was better off without me. I tried to swallow around the surge of bile in my throat, but my mouth was too dry. I took another sip of my water, coughing as it went down wrong.

“You didn’t have to watch her sit by the windows every day for a decade,” I finally wheezed. “You didn’t have to listen to her go on about how her husband would be back any day now, popping another pill to keep her complacent. She’s probably still in that fucking chair right now, and you’re, what? Turning yourself into beef jerky? Picking up lot lizards?”

“I make my way,” he responded opaquely. Still, his eyes narrowed. “And what brings you here, oh prodigal son? Conference for homophiles? Poetry slam, perhaps?”

Now, I wouldn’t quite say that the old man was a bigot. He didn’t mean anything violent by the questioning. My undiscerning attitudes toward sexuality were partially fostered by his own broad taste in pornography, which I illicitly perused often before his early departure from my life. However, along with my uneven ears and taste for good gin, I inherited his capacity for asking the right questions at the wrong times. 

“Just passing through,” I shattered an ice cube between my teeth. “Car gave out a couple miles back, needs coolant. Give me an hour and I’ll be on my way again.”

“From? To?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

“Hey, just makin’ small talk.” He raised his hands and leaned back. “Just thought I’d ask, since I have the chance. It’s a damn lucky twist of fate that you stumbled in this place, after all.”

“Lucky…” I snorted. 

“I normally don’t take this route, just filling in for a buddy to make an extra buck. Funny how the Highway guides us like that sometimes. Her Song truly is a mysterious thing.”

“You… hear the song?” I fixed him with as steady of a stare as I could manage. “What does it sound like… to you?”

He sat silent for a moment, staring into his coffee cup. His cigarette burned down to the filter and he stubbed it out in an ashtray before lighting another. Finally he exhaled heavily through his nose.

“I wish I could tell ya in a way that does it justice. I never had much of a way with words. Hell, I don’t know why I was chosen to hear it in the first place. It’s like the sound of a flame in the dark.” He flicked his lighter and stared at the orange-yellow flame. “It’s a lighthouse off the shore, or a billboard advertising for a titty bar. It’s a wolf whistle on the street and a dirge at a funeral. It’s the human audacity to consider ourselves meaningful in a world that doesn’t give a fuck. When I first heard it, it sounded like your mother’s voice.” His eyes hardened and he flicked the lighter closed. “Don’t sound like that any more, though.”

Silence settled for another uncomfortable minute before he asked me what I heard.

“I’ve been trying to find the words myself,” I admitted. “Been trying to write a whole book about it, actually. Words are my whole thing. They call me a brilliant young author with a point of view. For a while the Song sounded like this… person I met. Real standout, the full package, way out of my league, but I’m not sure any more. She ditched me back in Virginia, but I still hear her sometimes. Mostly, though, it sounds like engine trouble and rain on the windshield.”

“The Highway, she works in mysterious ways. She wears many faces. Fate. Destiny. The razor line between life and death. I figure you’ve talked to enough folks through your travels that have heard her in one way or another.”

“But, why? To what end does she call to us? What does she want?”

“That’s for you to discover for yourself, kid. You come from a noble lineage of drifters and derelicts. Selfish, arrogant, pretentious, miserable— we all surrender to the will of the Highway eventually. You just gotta keep movin’, it’ll take you where you need to go.”

Perhaps it was my half-lucid state, but I didn’t question the circumstances that resulted in my encounter with my father that day. I probably should have thought about it more. He bought me a cheeseburger and let me bum a smoke off him. At one point, I got up to take a leak and by the time I returned, he was gone— twenty bucks on the table in his stead. 

I can’t say I got answers out of him. The next time I’d see the man, ten years and one divorce later, he was stuffed into a cheap suit and a cheaper coffin. Still, so many years later, I’m glad that I got to have one honest conversation with him. It’s more than either of us deserved, especially me at that time. Even with his nebulous encouragement, rock bottom called to me, like the scream of wind over the Hoover Dam.

***

Among the many benefits of the Dark Gift, Daniel is most grateful for the resilience his body has acquired. Before, if he’d been fucked within an inch of his life, it would have been days before he felt back up to doing anything. That’s assuming that he’d even find himself in that situation, given his age and general personality. Finding someone to top a septuagenarian is a feat reserved for only the highest-end matchmakers, certainly out of his budget.

Good thing he doesn’t have to concern himself with such issues any more. Apparently all he has to do for a solid railing is pick a little fight, and boy howdy if that isn’t already one of his favorite pastimes. He feels as giddy as a 20-something again, waking with his arms wrapped around his maker, a bone-deep satisfaction heavy in his body. It’s disgustingly domestic and, dare he say, pleasant to receive such attention. It tests his propriety. Such a wholesome scene should be disturbed— a rubber snake on the dance floor. He’s tempted to mischief in a way he hasn’t felt in decades, the urge bubbling under his skin like champagne. 

“I can feel you scheming, beloved,” Armand says affectionately, setting aside his ipad. “Though I could not begin to understand why.”

“Spoilsport,” he grumbles, leaning over the other man to grab his glasses from the bedside table. “Can’t let an old man have his fun.”

“There will be plenty of time for that later tonight. First, you have a chapter to finish.” A fresh cup of coffee floats up into the loft from the kitchen below. Daniel snags it from the air with only a small huff.

“Keeping me on schedule now too, making me do my homework. Maybe I should have called you mommy instead.”

“Mhm, I was under the impression that you wanted to avoid the Oedipal implications of such a thing, but I can accommodate, if that is your wish.” Armand’s voice is teasing, but there’s a minuscule tightness about his eyes and mouth that sets off warning bells in Daniel’s head.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groans. “I thought we went over this.”

“Went over what?” Anxiety rattles their bond like caffeine jitters. Armand’s smile becomes brittle.

“You don’t have to ‘accommodate’ every stupid idea I have, that’s one of the reasons why we’re here in the first place.” This is most certainly not the kind of fight he was looking to pick, especially so early in the evening, but there’s no stopping it now.

“I fail to see how compromise is a negative trait.” Armand crosses his arms across his chest, hugging himself tightly.

“That’s the thing! It’s not compromise if you’re just compromising your own needs! You’re a serial people pleaser, babe, and it’s killed literally every single one of your relationships, including ours once already. Scratch that. Twice. Don’t try to deny it, I’ve heard all the stories already.” He holds up a hand to his maker’s stuttered excuses. “I’m not gonna let you do it again.”

“And what do you expect me to do instead? Disregard your desires? Superimpose my own discomfort? What happens when you get sick of me saying no!?” The anxiety in the bond escalates to full-blown Richter-level panic. 

“Armand.” Daniel puts his coffee down and swings a leg over his maker, holding his shoulders in both hands. “Look at me. Please.” Identical amber eyes meet— one set steady, one set shaking. “You can’t keep using me to hurt yourself like this. I don’t want to hurt you. I might be a prick, but I’m not a sadist, or someone who gets off on actual abuse. A lil’ consensual back-talk and some painplay, sure, whatever, but if you say no, or that you don’t want to do something, or that you don’t like something, I will listen. Stop making me into your oppressor, or this isn’t going to work.”

“It’s… it’s not that easy. I don’t know how else to be.”

“I know. Fuck, I get it. When all you know is self-destruction, anything else feels like indulgence. It’s an addiction like any other, and I’m pretty sure I’m the authority between the two of us on that particular subject. But if you’re not gonna think about yourself here, you gotta think about what it’s doing to me. I love you. Hurting you is the last thing on my to do list right now, even below finishing the damn chapter. You know what’s at the top of that list, though?” Armand shakes his head, eyes downcast. His thumbs trace worrying circles on Daniel’s hips.

“Top of the fuckin’ list is figuring this shit out so we can find a way to carry on. Together.” Daniel cups his cheek, running his thumb over the perfect rise and fall.

“You don’t understand,” Armand says, his voice small, but fierce. “You haven’t faced eternity yet the way I have. You don’t know what it is to watch the world break itself and piece itself back together, over and over, with no one to watch it with you. If you understood, you’d know why I have done everything that I have. No one deserves that loneliness. I did what I could to endure.”

“There’s that word again. Endure. Endure. What if I don’t wanna just endure? Huh? What if I wanna persist. Despite all the bullshit, I don’t just wanna just tolerate eternity. Give me something to live for. None of that ‘endure’ bullshit, I wanna enjoy forever if I have it, and I know more than anything that I want to enjoy it with you. If that means three, four, eight centuries of convincing you that you don’t need to force yourself to be someone else, then so be it. I’m nothing if not stubborn, and I already told you, you ain’t gettin’ rid of me so easily. All I’m asking is that you try.”

“In three, four, eight centuries, you won’t see it the same way.”

“Then we’ll deal with it when we get there, but for now, let’s enjoy ourselves, alright?” Daniel leans down and kisses him, soft and lingering.

“Alright,” Armand breathes, lips chasing as Daniel pulls away. “I’ll… I’ll try.”

“Good. Now get your pretty ass out of bed.” Daniel hops to his feet, offering a hand. “I’m feeling like breakfast out tonight.”

“But your chapter…” Despite his protest, Armand’s fingers slide across Daniel’s palm.

“Ellen can get fucked. She’ll get her words when she gets them. Tonight is about us.”

***

White Line Fever

Chapter… fuck it. 

No more chapters. 

I’ll edit them in afterwards, if I ever finish this fucking disaster of a story. As it is, I don’t give a fuck. 

Someone else will take up the wheel and answer the call. After all, I’m not particularly special in hearing the Highway’s song. I’m just the last sad sack in a long line of shitbags who’ve destroyed their lives searching for something ephemeral. For all I know, every other car on the highway could be another son, another born to ride the roads.

After Albuquerque, I meandered through the desert like Moses. My mind pounds with those hateful words that my father bequeathed me. Selfish. Arrogant. Pretentious. Miserable. Is this the legacy I am bound to carry? Is this all I’ll ever be good for? Arizona only knows. I say now that death walks those sandy valleys, whispering her honeyed words. She cries at night like a lone coyote, tears as numerous as the stars, begging me to join her. Sometimes I wonder if I should.

I write this from Boulder City, a small enclave of desiccation on the far side of the Hoover Dam. It nearly took my breath away to see such a feat of engineering and I paused for a moment to overlook the tenacity of man holding back the mighty Colorado. The height of the dam is dizzying and a convincing wind sweeps up its concrete side. I stood for a while at the edge, pondering the capacity of gravity. The river itself reminds me of another river further east, though its waters run clear and cold compared to the Mississippi's sludgy crawl. 

Perhaps, if I was not the man that I am, Alice and I would have met that river in New Orleans by now. We could be taking shots and dancing to jazz late into the night. I could have followed along on her tours of the French quarter and she could have chaperoned my raid of Bourbon street. How different would the Bayou be to this desolate wasteland I find myself in now? How different would my heart be, fed by the rushing torrent of her love rather than calcified into the hard, indifferent thing that resides in my chest?

I might as well get something out of all this. With Arizona behind me, I aim for that city of lights and debauchery— a beacon in the desert. Las Vegas beckons me into its extravagant embrace for one last celebration of life. After all, am I not owed some degree of pleasure after enduring such suffering? The Song demands that I offer it a sacrifice of consumption. If I cannot drink with my Siren, I will take all that Sin City has to offer— liquor, drugs, women, men. I walk willingly into the arms of the devil and partake in his sacraments of excess. Like Odysseus, I will lose myself among the lotus-eaters for a time and forget my sorrow. Who cares about this story, anyway? It’s just the pathetic dream of a nobody. A waste of time.

Fuck this.

Fuck it all.

I will burn it to the ground and rise like a phoenix from its ashes.

 

Notes:

poor Armand. I may be projecting a bit on to him, but that's what fanwork is for, right? anyway, we're headed to Vegas, baby! let's go! and it's date night for the old men!
thank you as always for reading, I appreciate all the support on this story! reminder that if you wanna see more of my stuff, i'm on Tumblr as thedeafeningunknown and bsky as grace-e-ludlow <3 see you soon

Chapter 21

Summary:

date night and Vegas, baby!

Burlington isn’t much, but it’s the closest thing that passes for a city within an hour’s drive of the cottage. Compared to Boston, or San Francisco, or Paris, or even sleepy Modesto, it’s barely more than a blip on a map. Still, it’s twice the size of Fishkill and fall break has thinned the typical crop of college students by half. The streets are as busy as they ever are, choked with Teslas and rusty Volvos. Daniel’s hands are half-frozen to the motorcycle’s handlebars by the time they find a place to park downtown. He gets his revenge by placing them on Armand’s exposed neck, a move that earns him a yelp of surprise and a crushing blow to the diaphragm.

The center of the city is dominated by a single pedestrian mall, four blocks long and flanked by shops and bars. The trees that line the street have already been iced in millions of tiny white lights in preparation for Christmas, even though it’s over a month away yet. The brick pavers beneath their feet are largely clear of any snow, but patches of ice remain. Daniel offers his crooked arm to Armand (just in case he slips, of course, it’s a matter of personal safety, no other reason). Armand’s face lights up like the trees overhead as he slips his own arm through and clutches it with his leather-gloved hands. 

The tall, white church at the top of the street stands a silent sentinel over the scene. This time of night, there are few pedestrians. A couple drifters hide in sheltered corners, buffered from the wind by makeshift hovels. People in varied states of intoxication cycle in and out of the handful of bars. Daniel and Armand stroll from one end of the street to the other and back, making the occasional small observation to each other, but largely in silence. They already know which bar they’ll target for the night’s entertainment. 

Within moments of entering the packed Irish pub, Daniel has narrowed down his potential victims to a handful of young men. If he’s going to take Armand out for a meal, then the prey had better be worth the hunt. The blood in the room runs thick with whiskey and stout beer, underlined with a peaty masculinity that promises a challenge. They take up a spot at a high-top table and nurse glasses of liquor as they survey the options. 

“What about him?” Armand asks in an undertone, lifting his glass at a short man with a sharp jawline and even sharper tweed vest. The boy has soft, kind eyes and he chews a toothpick, entertained by the loud conversation of the men beside him. His mind is melancholy, haunted by a past from another place. He’s come to this city for a new beginning.

“Nah, he’s got potential. I don’t wanna piss on his fire,” Daniel says dismissively. “How about that guy?”

The second man stumbles slightly as he emerges from the bathroom. He’s tall, with a runner’s build and a prominent Adam's apple. The blood pulsing through his neck has the faint fungal scent that comes with psychedelics. His eyes shift around the room, following the luminescent tracers that cascade from the dim sconces on the walls.

“Absolutely not. We want one who’s drunk, not tripping balls. Believe me, it’s not nearly as enjoyable as you might think.”

“Fair enough.” The scotch is hot in Daniel’s throat and stokes the fire in his belly. A tremor of nerves courses through him and his leg bounces beneath the table.

“Patience, fledgling. We’ll find the one soon enough.” Armand’s hand settles on his knee, stilling it.

“But I’m hungry,” he whines dramatically. 

“I don’t have to read your mind to know that’s a lie, beloved. Now focus.”

The sound in the room has as many layers as a midwestern party dip at a Super Bowl party. There’s the general raucous sound of a full bar, then the loud broadcast thoughts of the most obnoxious patrons. Beneath that, quieter and quieter currents of rumination course between customers— the best settling to the bottom like gold in a pan. That’s the best place to look to find potential meals. Only the most primitive emotions exist there, buried beneath the conscious thoughts in the mires of the subconscious. Guilt, lust, inadequacy, disgust. Daniel dredges the bottom in search of a tasty tidbit. 

“What about… him.” Armand’s mouth turns up at a corner when he sees Daniel’s target. 

The boy is broad in the shoulders and stocky in build, but carries himself well. He exudes an air of insecure cockiness and has been there most of the night, draining pint after pint to drown out the sound of his own thoughts. The old timers around him find him entertaining, if a bit obnoxious. There’s a girl somewhere out there, patiently waiting for him to respond to her messages, but he doesn’t particularly care about that. She’s in another state, after all, and too good for him. She wouldn’t approve of him spending the evening in the bar, especially since his ID is fake— he’s a college freshman home for break. There's another girl, too, far-away in another land. Ironic that he sits in an Irish bar while part of his heart is in Ireland itself. Vice after vice to hide the emptiness behind his breastbone. He was just considering closing out his tab and taking a walk down to the waterfront, since it doesn’t seem like anyone here is willing to take him home with them. He can’t take them back to his mother’s place, at any rate. 

“Expensive taste, but we won’t be back here for a while. After you, then,” Armand nods approvingly. He puts his long coat back on and lets Daniel follow the boy out of the bar, giving them just enough space as to not be suspicious. 

Daniel has to fight not to race the boy to the waterfront. It’s a wobbly quarter-mile or so, poorly lit, but the kid wouldn’t see him even if the whole place was lit up like Vegas. He’s too caught up in his dual-helix spirals of self-loathing and entitlement. It’s been a while since Daniel’s been able to drink from such a well-fed source. Back in Dubai, there were plenty of trust-fund kids fed fat on room service and custom catering, their blood like cream, but it’s been vagrants and nobodies for a while now. His fangs descend in anticipation of the rich feast ahead of him.

The waterfront park beside the lake is empty at this time of night. The lamps flicker an unsteady fluorescence, illuminating spots along the bike path like puddles of God. The boy meanders, sitting for a minute on one of the many swinging benches overlooking the water. It is not the first time he’s sat there, smoking the last of his pretentious Camel Turkish blend cigarettes. His fingers are a little too thick to make the motion graceful or natural. He came here once with a prom date during high school. She wasn’t the girl he wanted by his side, but he’d fucked up, like he always does, and dumped the right one when his heart started to take notice. He doesn’t remember much of that prom night after the boardwalk photoshoot. Too much gin and cocaine. Daniel almost feels bad for the kid. His own story isn’t all that different. At least this boy will receive the mercy of a swift, pleasurable death.

Sensing the boy’s intention, Daniel makes it to the derelict pier before him and lights a cigarette, hanging over the railing and watching the water. He can feel Armand’s attention on him and the mounting excitement through the bond. It’s been a while since he’s had to perform for anyone and the sensation is strange. No one ever watches old men do anything. The boy’s footsteps on the pier are an unsteady, uncertain herald of his fate. 

“Oi, you got any more of those?” he asks, sidling up beside Daniel. “I’ll trade ya some gin.” He pulls out a silver flask from inside his coat.

“Help yourself,” Daniel offers the pack. It’s the least he can do to send the boy off properly.

“Thanks, man, ‘preciate it,” he exhales a grey cloud over the water. 

“Rough night?” The gin is not bad— Bombay Sapphire, taken from his parents’ open liquor cabinet.

“Eh, not particularly. Not a particularly good night either, though, I guess. Just clearing my head.” The boy’s head is anything but clear. He wonders if he’ll end up like this old guy, cold and alone on a stinking pier.

“Gotcha,” Daniel nods. “Woman trouble, then.” He hands the flask back.

“I wish,” the boy snorts. “Struck out up at RíRa and everywhere else closes too goddamn early up here. God, I hate this place. You sound like you’re from the city- New York?”

“Here, there, and in between. I’m surprised a young guy like you couldn’t score, though. Bodes poorly for the rest of us.”

“Girls, guys, I would have taken whatever, but the only folks in there were old enough to be my parents.” He shivers with disgust.

“It’s rough to be young and lonely,” Daniel nods. “Been there, done that.”

“Ever figure it out?”

“Kid, I’m twice-divorced and still chasing the love of my life after fifty years. Here’s a pro tip. You never really figure it out. Better to just forfeit while you’re ahead.”

“Bleak outlook.” The boy’s mind is filled by the two girls, continents apart. The one stateside knows about the other, but the Irish princess does not know of her opposition. She’s the more jealous, more volatile sort. It’s what he likes about her. The one stateside is tolerant and witty. It’s why he keeps coming back to her. They’re fire and earth in his mind and he’s the water that will wash them both away in the end. 

“There’s a third choice, you know,” Daniel says.

“What?”

“To your little lady dilemma. I know you’ve considered it. Slipping away. Vanishing from sight. Starting over. You can let them both find the love they deserve if you’re not in their way.”

“Look, man, I dunno what you’re talking about…” The boy’s heart beats faster and he throws his cigarette into the water, taking a step back. “Thanks for the smoke…”

“Luckily for you, I can help.” Daniel turns upon him, slipping into the role of the predator with ease. The waterfront is empty. There are no witnesses. 

“Uh huh, alright. Sure, dude. I gotta go…” The boy’s feet do not cooperate, stumbling over themselves as his languid self-preservation catches up to the situation.

“I’m doin’ those girls a favor, kid.” Daniel’s hand clutches the nape of the boy’s neck, nails digging into the skin.

“Hey, what the fuck!?” he flails, hitting his assailant with impotent jabs.

“Shh, we can’t have that, can we, babe?” The boy’s eyes fly wide as he notices Armand at his other side.

“Who the fuck are you!?”

“Your way out, boy,” the ancient vampire replies with silky confidence. “Now, rest. Let us help you.” Tension drains from the boy’s body, his limbs falling leaden at his sides. His eyes slide out of focus, mouth open.

“Best high of your life, am I right?” Daniel says, pulling his nails from the boy’s neck. “Yeah, I know. Just let it happen. It’ll make this all easier for you.”

“I doubted your choice at first, beloved, but he is exquisite,” Armand purrs. 

“Only the best for you, babe.” The bond in Daniel’s chest pulses with pride. He’s pleased his maker. He’s done well. Together they lead the boy to a bench and take up places on either side of him.

“Woah, what’s… I mean, you’re a bit older than I normally go for…” The boy slurs, squinting at Daniel. His eyes slide to Armand, taking in his angelic face. “You’re pretty, though.”

“He sure is,” Daniel grins. He leans in to inhale the boy’s scent, draping an arm over the back of the bench.

“We’ll take good care of you, just rest.” Armand catches his chin as it falls, lifting the boy’s face and bringing his mouth to his neck as well. Together, maker and fledgling sink their teeth into his supple flesh.

The blood is thick and boozy like eggnog, a rich blend that coats the palate and runs down the throat. Daniel moans, his hand rising and tangling in Armand’s hair, holding him to the boy’s neck. It is as if they’re kissing, the wall of flesh and bone between them insubstantial as air. Armand’s fingers find his lapel and clutch it tightly. 

Together they see flashes of the boy’s pathetic life. Meeting his mother’s boyfriend, his father smiling serenely beside him. Touring a private school he didn’t want to attend. A girl with red hair at summer camp that reminds him of Ramona Flowers. He lends her his copies of the comics. They roll in his bed, stealing moments before his mother comes home. He steps out of her car, knowing he won’t see her again. She reminds Daniel of Alice, just a little. Hopefully this girl’s fate is less tragic. 

Life abandons the boy reluctantly, but eventually, the blood runs dry. Daniel unlatches from the cold skin of his throat with a groan. 

“Fuck, that’s the good shit.”

“A beautiful hunt, as well, beloved.” Armand’s eyes are bright in the faint moonlight. “Though, I do wish there was a little more of a chase…” With a sharp tug, he pulls Daniel toward him over the boy’s body, crashing their lips together in a desperate kiss. His hands are suddenly everywhere, plucking and pulling as if he intends to strip his fledgling right there over their breakfast’s cold corpse. 

“Woah there, tiger, let’s take care of the leftovers, then I’ll give you whatever you want, ‘kay?” Daniel pants into Armand’s mouth. His body is very aware of the young, hot blood he just consumed and sends it all to his cock. “I’ll even chase you if that’s what gets you goin’.”

“Would you?” His maker’s eyes are bright and hungry. 

“I did say ‘anything’, didn’t I?” Daniel raises an eyebrow. “What, you wanna play human for a bit? Let me hunt you down?” A shiver runs through Armand, palpable through the bond.

“Dump the boy in the water, then wait thirty minutes,” he says, low and breathy. “I’ll arrange accommodations for the day. The boundary is three miles around downtown. You’ll have until four to find me, otherwise we meet at your motorcycle and return home.”

“And when I catch you?”

“If you can catch me, I’ll leave that up to your discretion.” The smile on Armand’s face is feral with excitement. “I’m sure you can be creative.” 

“Whatever you want, babe.” They share a quick, sharp kiss. 

Daniel’s stomach swoops as he watches Armand leave the pier, his steps light and jaunty. The night still has plenty of surprises in store. Not bad for a last-minute date.

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

It was a lucky coincidence that Las Vegas landed on my route back west. For a hedonist such as myself, it represented a Mecca of sorts. The neon-lit land of booze and money. 

In retrospect, my weekend of excess should have been noticed as a cry for help. All the signs of my imminent stupidity were right there. I had succumbed fully to nihilism and all but abandoned my novel. Unmoored, aimless, fatalistic— all indicators of severe mental distress, not that the showgirls and card dealers gave a damn. I was just another stupid kid, willing to spend his last dollars on another game or another drink. 

I settled in the cheapest hotel I could find, some ways away from the strip. It was a sleazy joint, the sort that down on their luck guys check into and never check out of. The dry pool had been evidently closed for years. Housekeeping was practically nonexistent. I didn’t care. There was a liquor store across the street and a strip club two blocks away. Within a half-hour of wandering, I found a guy willing to sell me an 8-ball of China white. Funds were running low, but I found a fiver to toss in a slot machine, just to kill some time. A few lucky spins later and I had enough money for dinner and a show. Vegas giveth and she taketh away.

What sort of hopeless romantic brings their journal to the strip club? I suppose that despite everything that had happened so far on my epic cross-country road trip, I never quite lost that sense of wonder at the world outside Modesto. I’d seen plenty of tits at that point, interviewed enough dancers to write their memoirs rather than my own. Still— this was Vegas. There had to be something here worth writing home about.

Come to find out, the club near my hotel wasn’t your standard titty bar. The performers at this particular establishment were far more varied, offering something for every sort of degenerate and pervert that walked through the door. I was in my element. I got myself a grasshopper at the bar and made my way through the place. It wasn’t particularly busy, only a handful of patrons leering up at the stages and go-go cages that hung from the ceilings. Colored lights reflected off of mirrored balls. My fried nerves were immediately overwhelmed by the spectacle. Everything smelled of sweat and blue curacao. 

Near the back, I found a table beside a small, empty stage. With a blank page before me, I pondered my surroundings. Did I write about the women, wrapped in leather and vinyl like a car’s bench seat? Did I describe the men, whose outfits were more revealing? How about the customers? Did I record their leering as well as my own? And to what end? What role did any of them have to play in my grand narrative? I’d already lost the plot several hundred miles ago. My mind returned, as it always did, to Alice. She’d enjoy this sort of place. Would probably make some sort of witty observation that would get me thinking. 

The spotlight on the stage illuminated a silver pole at its center, along with a performer. He was tall and slim, with almost a woman’s build and deep skin beneath his sheer robe with its feathered trim. Black curls tumbled over his shoulders. I hadn’t seen him in the club’s overwhelming dark and disco, but now, my attention was fixed. A slow, slinky song played and he shifted into motion. Honestly, he could have been dancing to polka music and it wouldn’t have mattered. In my addled and only half-sane mind, I was watching an angel.

My dark angel.

A new muse.

 

Notes:

was this all a setup to dramatically murder my ex-boyfriend? ... no, of course not. you can't prove it. Quick! Distraction! next chapter will be old man primal kink smut and also stripper!Armand!
thank you as always to everyone who reads, kudos, bookmarks, subscribes and most importantly, comments. I love hearing your thoughts <3 see you soon

Chapter 22

Summary:

a poem, a pursuit, a performance, a plea

White Line Fever

No chapter

In this mausoleum of excess—

Such a lovely place

Offered flesh upon his altar

How can I describe divinity?

[assorted stains, smelling of mint and liquor]

She’s gone she’s gone she’s gone

I deserve this

I am a lamb, dead on the side of the road

Stabbed with steely knives

I am the Son of the Highway

Precious firstborn, one-and-only

The tawny angel-man, Tiffany-twisted

He floats on feathered wings

Picking at my pavement-baked corpse

Come on, baby, just a little bit closer

This could be heaven, or this could be hell

Not the same, he’s not the same

A rose in my desert

The Christ to my cross

He hangs upon his pole like a flag of surrender

[a smear of ink, words unintelligible]

Am I not owed this final ecstasy?

Am I not the chosen one?

Come on, baby, I’ll respect you in the morning

Wrap you in bedsheets like Turin

Clip your wings nice and tight

Kiss your eyelids closed

Lips like a cold pillow

Narcotic roses and wine

You can check out any time you like 

but you can never leave

***

If he’d thought about it with his brain rather than his dick for more than a half a second, Daniel might have asked to delay their foray into vampire-on-vampire hunting until he’d digested his large meal. His stomach sloshes a bit as he walks, despite the burst of energy that the boy’s blood provides. He takes his time in returning back to the pedestrian mall at the center of the city in the hopes that breakfast settles somewhat before the real pursuit begins. 

There are a few good places to start. Knowing Armand’s general preference for opulence, Daniel surveils one of the higher-end hotels for a bit before moving on. Of course, his maker would be more clever than to loiter around such an obvious place. He passes by a theatre, its marquee lit up for a high school performance. Armand would never stoop so low as to watch an amateur production like that, even if it was in the interest of winning a contest. Regardless, it’s too late for that. The doors are locked tight. 

For a moment, Daniel is distracted by a wave of greasy air emanating from a shop selling late-night fare before he remembers that his taste for such things disappeared with his humanity. It’s really a shame. After drinking from the boy at the waterfront, he buzzes with just enough alcohol that a bacon-egg-sausage-hash brown patty bagel sounds like heaven. Thirty years ago, when he could still tolerate such things, he’d have been in there in a heartbeat and a heartburn.

Daniel crosses the street— much less busy now that the hour approaches midnight— and into a park. The fountain at its center is dry and empty except for a few crunchy leaves. He takes a moment to clear his mind and focus on the sounds of the city. There are a few revelers at the last couple bars that are still open. He trawls their thoughts for any hint of Armand or his influence. Not that one, he’s too concerned with the woman sitting next to him. Or that one, who has an essay due tonight that she hasn’t started. Such trivial concerns, in the grand scheme of things. They’re just lucky that they’re going home alive tonight, unlike the boy settling at the bottom of the cold, dark lake, holes in his lungs so he doesn’t float back up again. A gift for his uncaring mother.

Daniel shivers. They’re getting that much closer to the end of the story. He knows how it ends. It’s one of the few things he always remembered, despite all of his maker’s meddling. One doesn’t forget their brushes with death so easily. It’s a mercy that he doesn’t need to concern himself with such things any more, for the most part. Memory is a heavy burden.

But he has a task to complete. He refocuses his mind and stretches his awareness to its limits. He can hear for a solid mile now, if he really tries and there aren’t too many people. Crowds give him migraines, but tonight, the mindscape is relatively empty. A police car passes by slowly, then continues up a couple blocks. The officer inside thinks for a moment that he sees a shadowy figure entering the parking garage attached to the old mall, but that thought vanishes just as quickly. He has places to be, after all. 

Bingo.

Daniel readies himself and makes for the tall structure. Of course, tall is a relative term in a city that banned skyscrapers decades ago. There is no guard at the automatic gates, so he can walk in without issue. His steps are crisp in the concrete space, resonating with deliberate ease. He whistles a little song— the chorus of Hotel California. The happy tune becomes haunting— a forbearance of what is to come. Above him, feet pause, waiting, listening. Then they move again, faster now. Daniel’s face breaks into a wide grin.

Oh yeah, this is the right place. 

His mind focuses to a razor’s edge as he lets his instincts take the lead. Two, three flights of stairs fly by in an instant. The metal storm door slams open as he passes through. The footsteps stop again. He can just barely make out the figure standing on the other side of the garage in the dark, frozen in place.

Gotcha.

Slowly, deliberately, he sticks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walks forward with an exaggerated swagger. Once again, he whistles his haunting song. Armand doesn’t run at first. It’s as if he’s entranced by his fledgling’s presence, or else as terrified as any human prey. Daniel wonders if he’ll commit to acting out mortal weakness, or if this will be a more even contest. He can practically smell his desperation on the crisp night air.

“What do we have here?” he says, his voice too loud. “A little late for you to be out on your own like this. Someone might snap you up.”

“Wh… What?” The tremor in Armand’s voice is almost convincing. “I’m just… I forgot what level I parked on…”

“Uh huh…” Daniel smirks. So that’s how it’s gonna be. In a blink, he’s right in front of Armand, with a little hiss for dramatic flair.

The playacted innocence is almost heartrending in its sincerity. Big, round eyes meet his, so vulnerable despite their telltale terracotta hue. Armand’s mouth hangs open just a smidge, as if he just took a frightened gasp. Daniel’s fangs drop as he leers. He just can’t help it. 

“What do you want?” Armand whimpers, backing up a few, scared steps. His heart betrays his excitement, as does the shimmer of thrill through the bond.

“Run,” Daniel growls.

And the chase is on.

***

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

Have you ever come across something that stops you dead in your tracks with its aching familiarity? A song, perhaps, that reminds you of a particular time in your life. The melody is so intrinsically tied to that experience that the two are inseparable. You hear it playing in the supermarket and find yourself staring a little too long at a jar of pickled onions, tears in your eyes. Maybe it’s a scent. You meet a girl in high school and she just smells right. You go home and jack off to the memory of strawberry vanilla or whatever, and thirty years later as you’re walking through a crowded subway station, you catch a whiff of it again and it makes you instantly hard. Our bodies remember better than our minds do. We wear our experiences like tattoos, embedded into our very being.

You can imagine my confusion as to why the song Hotel California of all things has always made me feel a certain sort of way. Objectively, it’s not a very sexy song. If anything, it’s melancholy and overplayed— a top-20’s darling that wasn’t part of my normal listening lineup at the time. If you tune into any classic rock radio station, even today, there’s a good chance that you’ll hear the familiar loping rhythm of one of the Eagles’ greatest hits. 

The man on the stage was a vision of beauty. My notebook sat neglected as I fell under his spell. The routine was simple, none of those acrobatic theatrics that seem so common in the clubs these days, nor any overt displays of sexuality. Nothing kills the mood more than bits flying out of a g-string prematurely because of some over-enthusiastic shaking. I could tell some real horror stories from the clubs up in Saskatchewan, but that’s besides the point. It seems counterintuitive, but in my opinion, less can most certainly be more. 

The dancer’s long limbs were emphasized by tall platform shoes with impossibly narrow heels. Satin ribbons wrapped around his ankles and up his shapely calves. At first, the rest of his body was obscured by his gossamer robe. It flared out around him like a ballgown or a shroud as he walked a restrained circle around the pole. Its white color took on the hue of the lights reflected from the rest of the club. His stage only required the single spotlight.

Now, call me out for having a type, but I’m just a sucker for dark, sad eyes and thick curls. The dancer’s face held a careful androgyny that captured my attention. His arms and shoulders were muscular, likely a benefit of his profession, but there was an elegant refinement to his face like that of a high-fashion model or an old-world painting. I admired the clean lines of his body as it undulated against the pole. What I’d do to take the place of that undeserving piece of metal. Standing up there in his white robe, lit from above, the man could have been Raphael, sent to smite me for my heresy. I’d have gladly submitted to such divine wrath.

Once he determined that his audience was sufficiently enthralled, the dancer pulled on the tie of the robe. Unhurried, confident, it slid from its knot. I leaned forward over my little table, as if it would provide me a better view. The dancer knew exactly how to prolong the seduction, turning around at just the right moment so I could only watch the feathered gauze slip from his shoulders to hang from the bend of his elbows. Delicate elastic straps criss-crossed his back, wrapping around his tiny waist. He glanced over a shoulder coyly, staring directly into my eyes. My heart stuttered as he dropped the robe with a flourish. 

I could spend half of this book talking about this man’s perfection. Maybe the memory is frosted with cocaine and cocktails, but the only beauty that could ever have compared to him was Alice. At the time, I didn’t recognize the similarities between the two. Stage lights will do that. I salivated over the firm curve of the dancer’s ass, his sculpted chest that was framed perfectly by the straps of his costume. He moved with such confidence, almost as if no one was watching him at all. Tendon and sinew stood out from his arms as he held tight to the pole and lifted himself in a spin, feet just inches from the floor. He walked on nothing, the illusion ethereal. All the while there was this… coldness to his expression that struck me. 

Most strippers will smile at you. They try to appear friendly, personable. Someone you wanna clear out your wallet for. It’s part of the act. They’re selling a fantasy. This man, though, radiated a contained fury. His eyes did not tilt up at the corners, nor did his mouth which was set in an unfortunate straight line. There was no mask, no fantasy. He was there for one purpose, though I couldn’t fathom what. All I cared about was how I could find a way to watch this desolate angel for a little longer. 

Effortlessly, the dancer braced his arms against the pole and turned upside-down, his long, long legs open and toes pointed before executing some clever move to use his knee to hold his weight. The motions flowed into each other, every pose taken from a Sistine fresco. Each move drove his momentum until he became a blur of skin and satin. In my inebriated state, it looked like he was flying. In a sudden, daring move, he slid to the floor and rolled, kicking his feet above him in dizzying circles. He knotted his fingers in his own hair, pulling at the black strands, eyes slipping shut in an unconscious display of eroticism, back arched like a bow.

I stood without consciously choosing to do so, tucking away my notebook and abandoning my drink (which is a very, very stupid thing to do, don’t be like me). No one else in the establishment seemed as entranced as I was. In fact, no one seemed to notice the dancer at all. It was as if it was just us two in a private performance. I opened my wallet and fished out whatever singles I had left— a grand total of about $13. A paltry offering, but I had to show him my admiration somehow. I nearly felt the need to genuflect before the stage, consumed as I was by this man’s sensuality. 

The dancer rose up on his knees near the edge, watching me with that indifferent, calculating gaze. His hands ran over his body and his hips moved in a suggestive wave. I held forth my offering, as penitent as a crusader. Long, nimble fingers plucked the money from my hand. My knees weakened at the hint of a smile I earned in exchange. The dancer dropped one heavy-lashed eyelid in an indulgent wink. So close, I gasped to realize that his eyes were not dark, but a bright, almost-orange amber color. They pierced me through like twin spotlights. The bills found a home tucked into the thin waistband of the barely-there thong that ensured his compliance with modesty laws, if only just. So close, the scant fabric held no secrets. 

The song ended entirely too soon. You’d think that six and a half minutes wouldn’t pass so quickly, but they did. With a lingering stare at me, he stood. I got another good look at his ass as he bent over to grab his robe, and then he was gone. 

The spell broke.

Once again I was aware of the club around me, pounding music and flashing lights. No hoots or hollers indicated that the stage had just witnessed the performance of a lifetime. Every drop of blood in my body had vacated my brain for sunny southern shores. 

I had to find him, talk to him, see him again. My aimless existence latched on to the new goal with brutal tenacity. 

But first, I really needed a cigarette.

***

Daniel really has to give it to him— nearly 200 years in a theatre gave his maker some serious acting chops. He can practically taste the terrified sweat on the air as he follows behind Armand, who runs at a human pace through the parking garage. Every little stumble and whimper of fright sells the illusion a little more. 

He's reminded of some of his first, desperate hunts in Dubai. With little more than a handful of telepathic pointers from Louis (and some less than helpful ones from Lestat), he relied on instinct more than anything to get him through those early, bloody days. Perhaps he'd been a little too cavalier in regard to cleaning up after himself, not discerning enough with his targets, but the thrill of the chase sticks with him still. There's something so satisfying about reducing a person to their primal urges. It makes him feel alive. Fight, flight, freeze… some are more entertaining than others. There are even the few, fateful ones whose response is to want to fuck their predator. Not that he knows anything about that, of course. Since his transformation, his instinct has only told him to hunt.

Armand rounds the corner and emerges onto the rooftop just seconds before Daniel. His momentum carries him to the very edge of the parking structure, overlooking the city. There aren't any cars up here at this time of night. Icebergs of petrified snow and ice occupy the corners and an ominous wind ruffles Armand's hair. He seems so young, backed up against the railing, lips shaking, looking back and forth as if there’s any route for escape. If he was actually a human, Daniel might consider showing him some mercy. 

As it is, though, he doesn't have to. He moves into the other man's space, too close to be considered polite.

“End of the road, sweetheart. I can hear your pretty little mind going a mile a minute. What interesting thoughts you’re having.” He wraps one of Armand’s curls around a clawed finger and pulls.

“What do you… what do you want with me?” The blood from their earlier meal lends his face a youthful flush. Daniel’s grin widens.

“I was going to have a nice dessert to go with my dinner. The blood is always sweeter when it comes from a scared donor, but oh… what’s this?” He tilts Armand’s face to his with a cruel grip at his chin. “You’re not afraid, are you, little one?”

“I’m not little!” The words are sharp and petulant, a small drop of the act, but Daniel only laughs.

“You are whatever I say you are. You forget who’s the prey here.” He tilts Armand’s head to the side, exposing the line of his neck. A light scrape of fangs against the skin leaves his maker pliant.

“Yes, I… whatever you say,” Armand says breathlessly.

“That’s what I thought. You’re one of those sick freaks that gets off on provoking a monster and reaping the consequences. It’s alright, sweetheart, I’ve got you. You don’t have to deny your nature. Now, what did you hope to accomplish by baiting me?”

“You can read my mind, why…?”

“Because I want you to say it.” Daniel nips at Armand’s earlobe. 

“Ah! Alright! Alright… I wanted you to chase me. I wanted to run and for you to catch me. I want you to… to have your way with me. Please. I could be on my knees in a second, just don’t kill me.” Daniel presses a fond kiss to his maker’s cheek, his hand sliding back into his thick hair. Then another kiss, at the corner of his open mouth.

“I wouldn’t kill such a fascinating boy. Not just yet, at least. I’ll give you a chance to hold my attention.”

“Fuck,” Armand whines, grabbing at Daniel’s jacket. His pupils are blown wide, nearly consuming the amber glow like a solar eclipse.

“That’s the idea.” Daniel swallows his snort of amusement with a searing kiss.

No one sees the strange couple in suite 700 of the Champlain hotel arrive that night, save a middle-aged man walking his dog who only glimpses an unusual shadow crossing the moon. 

A strange eclipse.

Notes:

y'all should know by now that I can't fit two smut scenes into a single chapter. next chapter should pick up where this one left off on both timelines. they gonna fuck nasty x2
snippets of the poem at the beginning are lines from Hotel California by the Eagles. also yes, I felt the need to include a poem. Poor young Danny isn't doing so hot in the head rn and it's the best he's got. also, I'm officially a published poet myself now! very exciting stuff. check out my bsky if you wanna learn more
as always, a big thank you to everyone reading this. this story is officially now my second most popular of all time which is insane considering it's my first work in the fandom. extra big thanks to the lovelies who leave me comments, I look forward to every email I get <3 see you all soon

Chapter 23

Summary:

a conversation, a scene, a weakness

An excerpt from Don’t Think Twice- an autobiography, by Daniel Molloy

If you’ve never spent any time in a desert, here’s a fun fact for you— as hot as it gets during the day, the nights are just as cold. It was still early September, but once the sun went down, Las Vegas was as chilly as the final layer of hell. Indeed, the city would prove my Cocytus— the site of my final betrayal before my due punishment. 

While I could have lit up inside the club, I ducked out a side door for my cigarette that night. The fresh air would do me some good. My breath formed foggy clouds, even without the aid of smoke. The door shut behind me, cutting off the raucous sounds of sin and sex with a slam. My ears rang with the sudden silence. 

I only had a couple cigarettes left in the pack, but I lit one up anyway. My blood still sang with the memory of the beautiful dancer, his lithe body wrapped around the pole like the ribbons around his legs. My eyes unfocused as I luxuriated in the image. One could write sonnets about such an angel. Maybe I would. Poetry wasn’t my usual mode, but hey— the novel wasn’t going anywhere. What harm was there in a temporary diversion? The door to the club opened again, releasing another burst of sound into the night. I barely noticed, as consumed as I was by my thoughts.

“Could I bother you for one of those?” 

At first, I didn’t realize that the question was directed at me. Then, a hand waved in my face, snapping me from my reverie. 

“Hey, anyone in there?”

“Yeah, sure, hold on.” I fished the last cigarette from my pack and held it out, only then realizing who had requested it. My mouth dropped open in what could have only been an expression of brain-dead astonishment. Very attractive, I’m sure.

The dancer had changed from his scanty costume, instead wearing a sharp set of trousers and a ruffled shirt that called to mind Romantic poets with feather quills. His hair was damp and combed back from his face, but a shadow of eyeliner still rimmed his unnerving amber eyes. He took the cigarette from my limp fingers, placing it between his lips and watching me expectantly.

“Oh! Hold on…” I fumbled with my lighter, but eventually managed to hold it out to light the end. The flame reflected in his eyes reminded me of a television program I watched once with my mother about Hawaiian volcanoes. They glistened like lava flowing down a mountainside, irreverent of the damage they caused.

“Thanks, love,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. There was something familiar about his accent that tickled the back of my mind. The thought vanished as soon as it appeared. 

“No problem,” I breathed. “I… um…” I coughed to clear my throat. “I saw your set. You were… I mean, wow.” Nervous laughter cascaded from my mouth like vomit. “I’m Danny… Daniel. I didn’t catch your name?” I offered a sweaty hand for him to shake.

“Danny… I’m Armand.” His hand was cool in mine, the palms surprisingly uncalloused.

“Is that your real name, or stage name?” I winced as soon as the words left my lips. “Sorry, I’m sure you get that a lot.”

“Mhm, are you always so eloquent?” Despite the burn of his words, he gave me a little smile, tilting his head at me. 

“Only when talking to pretty guys, I’m afraid.” My face stretched into a big, dopey grin. Dumb as I was at that age, I knew full well the effect that playing a little stupid could have. Being a ditzy pretty boy had gotten me into far more dangerous and questionable situations. Sure, it’s manipulative. I never said I was a good person, just that I was good at getting people to talk.

“Armand isn’t the name my parents gave me, but it’s adequate. What’s in a name, anyway?” he said flippantly. Still, there was a haunted look to his beautiful face. 

“Sorry, I have this shitty habit of asking too many questions. Side effect from being a journalist.” 

“So you’re a writer?” Armand asked, crossing an arm over his chest. The motion only emphasized the swell of his chest visible through his shirt’s deep neckline.

“I… I guess. I was working on a novel,” I swallowed. All I could think was ‘Don’t just sit there staring at his tits, you absolute buffoon’, dragging my eyes back up to his face.

A little furrow appeared between Armand’s eyebrows.

“Was?”

“Yeah, I’ve kinda hit a wall with it, lost the muse or whatever,” I laughed. “I went on this whole cross-country road trip to write about my experiences, but all I’ve found is my own uselessness. The words… they just don’t come to me in the same way any more. I’m sorry, you probably have to listen to sad sacks like me bitch about their lives every night. You probably don’t wanna spend your break doing it for free.” A leaden weight settled in my chest. Why was I like this? I couldn’t go five minutes of meeting a new person before burdening them with my trivial nonsense. Armand the dancer did not deserve that. No one did.

“On the contrary, I find your story fascinating Danny,” he said, fiery eyes tracing a deliberate line down my body. “And besides, I won’t be expected back inside any time soon. My shift just ended, if you’d like to tell me more.”

“Yeah?” My mouth was suddenly very dry, the heat from my cigarette nearly unbearable as it burned down to the filter between my fingers.

“Yeah.” Our eyes met again, but this time, I caught the spark of desire there. 

Now, when the pretty stripper in Vegas tells you that they find you fascinating, you absolutely should not believe them. It’s a great way to wake up married to a stranger. Also, you should not invite them back to your shitty motel. You shouldn’t chug straight from your bottle of bottom-shelf tequila to calm your nerves and under no circumstances should you ask to do lines of coke from between their gorgeous, sculpted abs. 

After this is published, no one should ever say that I didn’t give good advice, even if I never followed it myself.

***

The lock to the balcony opens on its own, allowing the sliding glass door to move aside before Daniel has a chance to press Armand against it. His feet hit the carpet and he just avoids falling flat on his face. The whole cloud gift thing is still unwieldy, considering he doesn’t possess it himself. Levitation, propulsion, velocity— he never passed high school physics. Too many numbers for him to keep up with during a first-period class. 

Armand falls back against the unreasonably large bed and looks up at him with that half-scared, half-desperate look. Daniel takes a moment to appreciate the view. 

“Right, where were we?” he muses, taking his time to remove his leather jacket and sling it onto a chair. “Let me take that coat, sweetheart, we wouldn’t want it getting messy, now, would we?” It’s a visible struggle for Armand to remove it slowly rather than tearing it from his body. He holds it out to Daniel, eyes pleading. 

“That’s a good boy.” Daniel tosses the coat over his shoulder, surging forward. He catches Armand’s shaky, stifled moan with his lips. It tastes like blood and deep, rich stout, and he can’t help but chase the flavor. His tongue licks into his maker’s mouth, tracing the retracted points of his fangs. How much control it must take for them not to drop, but then again, it would ruin the illusion. Soft, fragile human boys don’t have fangs. 

“You mentioned something about being on your knees…” Daniel suggests, his hand finding a home in Armand’s hair. “I’d rather like to see that.”

“Yeah, alright, whatever… whatever you say.” He slides to the floor with a liquid ease, eyes never leaving Daniel’s. His lips are kiss-swollen and parted, shiny from saliva. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip in anticipation.

“May I?” he asks, hands pausing at Daniel’s belt.

“Such an eager, insatiable thing you are. Go ahead. You’re practically drooling for it already.” A high, reedy whine slips from Armand’s mouth. The belt falls open in seconds, followed by the button and zipper of Daniel’s jeans. Eager hands push the denim down, along with his underwear beneath, just far enough that his throbbing cock springs free. Daniel has to grit his teeth at the soft gasp and exhale over his turgid flesh.

“Well, get on with it,” he says tightly, pulling Armand forward by his hair. “Show me how much your life is worth to you oh fuck!” 

Armand’s mouth is hot and eager, taking him down to the hilt in a single, smooth swallow. His tongue moves against his length in mesmerizing waves, the tip pressing against the vein along the underside with unerring precision. A muffled whine reminds Daniel to loosen his vicelike grip on the other man’s hair as he begins to bob.

“Fuck, sweetheart, where’d you learn to suck cock like that?” he pants. “Or are you just that desperate to be a monster’s toy for the night? Keep on doin’ that and I might even consider keeping you around. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be my personal fuckhole? My dinner and dessert? Yeah, I know. Shit, you’re a depraved little thing. I’m almost impressed.”

With a theatrical gasp, Armand pulls off him and looks up with wet eyes, coughing a little to sell the illusion shattered by his bloody tears. Daniel runs his thumb over his wet lower lip, collecting the dew there to feed it back into Armand’s waiting mouth. His tongue lolls out, the muscle uncoordinated and languid with lust.

“Mmm, gorgeous,” Daniel says, his chest full to bursting.

“Thank you.” The words are soft and dreamy, to match the expression on his maker’s face. Their eyes meet and hold as Armand leans in again, his hands wrapping around the outside of Daniel’s thighs to hold on tight. He makes a show of running the tip of his tongue up the length of Daniel’s cock before taking him into his mouth once again. 

Breath shudders from Daniel’s lungs in a jagged stream and he catches hold of Armand’s hair once again to shallowly thrust against his waiting tongue, slowly as to not push himself over the edge too soon. As much as he’d like to fuck the other man’s face to completion, he has other plans for the rest of the night, though every choked whine makes that a little more difficult to follow-through on. His breaking point comes when he buries Armand’s nose against his pubic bone, only to feel the wet slide of a tongue over his balls.

“Fuck, that’s enough,” he grunts, pulling on his hair to separate them once again. A strand of gossamer saliva stretches and breaks in the inches between ruddy cock and parted lips. Armand’s chin is wet and he stares up with an expression of fucked-out stupor, laced with the start of concern.

“I can keep going!” he exclaims, hands tightening around Daniel’s legs. “I can! Please! Let me take care of you!”

“Oh you will, sweetheart, don’t worry about that.” With a flash of speed and strength, Daniel lifts Armand from the floor and throws him onto the bed. He scrambles back against the pillows, eyes wide as Daniel kicks away his pants and strips off his shirt. His throat bobs in a convincing display of trepidation.

“Are you… what are you going to do to me?” he asks, voice low and quavering.

“Let’s see,” Daniel climbs up, caging Armand in with his arms. “First, I wanna see that pretty little body of yours. Get a good look at ya. Then, I wanna know what sounds you make as I fuck you,” he purrs into his ear. “If you’re good, I’ll even let you come. If you’re really good, then I’ll let you walk out of here in the morning. How’s that sound, sweetheart?”

“You’re not gonna drink my blood?” A shiver through the bond keys Daniel in to Armand’s real desire.

“Oh, I’m gonna taste you, that’s a non-negotiable, I’m afraid.” His fangs are sharp in the dim light. “I just thought I’d make sure you don’t ruin your little outfit.”

Armand does an admirable job of looking reluctant as Daniel undoes the buttons of his shirt. Luckily, the guy only ever does half of them up anyway. It falls away, followed by his pants and underwear, kisses pressed to the warm flesh at every chance Daniel gets. They may be playing one of their games, but after so long, he’s desperate to show his maker the love he’s kept in reserve. The sweet scent of his skin lulls Daniel into a hazy sense of complacency, so much that it takes him a millisecond to notice when Armand rolls away and makes a break for the door.

“You little shit!” he laughs, catching up easily to the human speed of the escape attempt. “Think you’re getting away like this?” He wraps his arms around Armand, spinning him around and lifting him against the wall. The impact shakes the room, ratting picture frames in a way that would be concerning to anyone on the floor, if there were any other guests. Conveniently, the whole floor is empty. Sometimes, being an obscenely rich mind-controlling vampire has its perks, after all.

But Daniel hasn’t acquired that particular skill yet, so he resorts to a more familiar tactic. With one sharp nail, he slices his wrist and presses the wound to Armand’s mouth, compelling him to drink.

“That’s it, you’ll feel much better about everything in no time,” he coos, guiding Armand’s legs around his waist. He nuzzles in closer to his maker’s neck, tonguing over the swell of his carotid. Sure he’s full of blood, but a little taste couldn’t hurt.

Could it?

He’s never been great at tempering his desires anyway.

***

Danny doesn’t question the reddish color of his drink when I hand it to him. Really, he should be more careful with this sort of thing. For all intents and purposes, I’m a random person that he just met less than an hour ago, and he’s putting his life in my hands like this? Shows how little he cares for such a precious thing these days.

My boy looks like hell. Despite my perpetual efforts to ensure that he has both funds and resources to take care of himself properly, he chooses to squander himself. He drinks half the glass of tainted liquor as soon as I hand it to him, my blood lulling him into a contented, blissful state. 

“So, Armand?” he asks with one of his sweet, lazy smiles. “Interesting name. It’s French, right?”

“Correct,” I nod. How lovely it is to hear my name from his lips once again. Not Alice, Armand. I do not need to fog his mind to my gender. The candid relief floods through me like warm blood.

“Huh, interesting choice, I guess. To each their own. I considered writing under a pen name when I was just getting started. Decided against it, though. I want my name to mean something eventually. For it to carry a meaning.”

“Armand means soldier or warrior— army man, if you want to be more literal.” I don’t know why I tell him this. It doesn’t matter and he’s not great at pretending to care, but still. It’s one of the few human instincts I retain— that infernal desire to be known.

“Huh, interesting.” He swirls his glass, as if he’s actually interested by the fact. “You don’t seem like much of a warrior, no offense. I saw you up on that stage. You’re an artist, just like me.”

“You think so?” I can’t help but laugh. If this boy knew the number of lives that I have taken throughout the centuries, human and vampire, perhaps he wouldn’t have come to the same conclusion. Still, it’s been a very very long time since anyone has accused me of being an artist. 

“Yeah, you’ve got real talent, man. You should be in Hollywood or on Broadway or something, not shaking ass for singles out here in the desert.”

“You flatter me. While the theatre has always been a haven for those of us who live… alternative lifestyles, I fear there’s still enough prejudice to dissuade such professionals from hiring someone like me.” It’s an unsubtle hint, but Danny was thinking it anyway. He invited the pretty stripper back to his room not to discuss career moves, but for something much more carnal.

“Really a shame,” he says, standing on unsteady feet. I let him come to me, just watching as he moves closer and closer. His hand is warm where it comes to rest on my arm. His blood sings to me much in the same way that his Highway sings to him. My heart aches at his proximity. I shouldn’t be here at all, let alone telling him my real name, so soon after leaving him as Alice and not wiping that from his mind.

I really should, shouldn’t I?

Would that ease his pain? Can I save him from himself, at the cost of our time together? 

The thought hits me like a physical weight. I feel as if I’m in a vault under Paris, drowning in innumerable white stones and locked away to waste into nothingness. 

“Hey, you ok?”

My darling, beloved boy’s hand slides up to cup my face. He is so precious, concerned for the lonely stripper he just met. 

“Yes, I was… just thinking.”

“How about we do a bit less of that, yeah?” His eyes light up like the Vegas strip. “Take your shirt off and lay down, I’ve got just the thing.”

I know what he’s planning, but I don’t stop it. If I am to take his joy from him, he should be allowed what pleasure he desires. The drugs are a poison, but still less harmful than the toxins that I’ve introduced to his life. I comply with his request, smiling at him as he creates little lines of white across my torso. His blood sings with every inhale, sharp and cold and pure as snow. 

Snow. 

In the desert. 

What an impossibility. 

When he sits up again, his mind is swimming with the cocaine’s effects, mixed with my blood. I guide him down onto the bed beside me, laughing with him at his incoordination. 

“Now you,” he says, pulling off his shirt with unwieldy arms. I don’t tell him that his human drugs have no appeal to me. Instead, I lean down and press my lips to his neck. He barely even reacts as my teeth pierce through to his vein. His blood dances on my tongue, all frosted olives and seawater. 

He tastes like ichor. 

He tastes like tears.

“Oh, fuck… Alice,” Danny moans. 

“No, not Alice, beloved,” I press my forehead to his, my body tense with the rush of secondhand cocaine, voice hard. “Armand. My name is Armand.”

“Ar…mand…”

“Yes.” Our kiss is bruising, too intense for a first, and flavored with both our blood. I can tell that his sharp mind is drawing connections, but I can’t bring myself to care. This is my Danny, my boy, and I am his, at least for tonight. 

The blood and the drugs and the drinks and the rage against the unfairness of it all drive me as I partake in his body. Why must it be this way? Why couldn’t he care for me like I care for him? Why do I sabotage everything I love with my disguises? Why was I not enough for him to want to live? His cries of ecstasy are like a funeral dirge, his own memorial. I cling to him as if I could keep his soul here with me, as immortal as my own.

I could turn him.

I could do it, keep him forever. There wouldn’t be any need for a mask any more if we’re the same sort of monster. He’s already on that precipice of mortality as it is, it would be so easy to drink away the last of his life and pour myself into him. 

But my boy does not deserve that. He deserves a full, beautiful life. He deserves to find mortal love and to grow old. I want to see his skin wrinkle and sag. I want his name to mean something some day.

I can’t do it. I can’t bind him to me like that. All fledglings come to hate their makers eventually. Immortality is a lonely condition. It’s better for my boy to die young and innocent than to face forever bitter and alone.

I bury my face in his hair and swallow back tears.

It is for his own good.

 

Notes:

ngl I'm gonna miss strippermand, he's been fun to play with. I'm working on some art of him, so stay tuned for that. I've mapped out the rest of this fic, and it's probably going to be 2-3 more chapters. thank you all for joining me on this journey, especially those of y'all who leave me lovely comments. I've turned on guest comments for a bit, so if you don't have an account and have been following along, now's your chance to say hi! <3 see you soon

Notes:

Hello! This is my first work in this fandom, and I have a tentative grip on show canon at best, but I've tried to double check dates and facts to the best of my ability. I haven't read the books (save half of IWTV), but it'll be fine. This is going to be a long one, and updates will likely be sporadic as I finish up other ongoing projects first, but the brain worms demanded I start this. If you saw my attempt to write this general concept under a different fandom, no you didn't. Unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine! I appreciate every read, comment, and kudo!