#let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ]

[fortunebuoyed]

Daniel/ @sittimoranimiinterfectorem‘s Armand, mention of past Claudmand, 3.5k, beta read.

The music chasing after his fleeing feet paints Armand an altogether joyous thing. As he dances through the corridor, its high windows setting the streetlights to illuminate his hair like a blaze, the Vampire seems more a child than Daniel has ever seen him. Meandering after him, Daniel is led past a dozen eras, the Caliphate blurring into the Romanesque only a doorway apart, past a hallway offering glimpses of Velazquez and Goya standing at odds across from one another. This Spanish gallery offers a myriad of delights, if the pair have the time and inclination to discover them.

There are better museums in Spain, though. The terrible pair had not traveled so far just to settle on a speck of locked up art for its own sake. All that matters tonight is a single painting tucked away somewhere in a corner of the Renaissance exhibit. Peering again at the leader of their expedition, Daniel realizes too late that Armand has been talking, babbling about the piece they now seek. Words flicker through his pounding head, ‘furs’ and ‘silks’ and every decadent luxury that is a dozen lifetimes removed from Autumn 1982. Pulling his faded denim tighter around his frame, the mortal fishes in his pocket for the painkillers that will banish the previous night from the present..

The headaches come so often of late, spurred by a poor diet and endless adventures across his nights. In fact, the artisan of his migraines proceeds with an airy laugh through the empty gallery, offering a little spin of delight. These games always bring him joy. The sound of his laugh echoes inside Daniel’s beleaguered skull as he takes the pills dry. The things he does for love.

Armand vanishes through a doorway in a flash, before his name can properly form on the other’s lips. He calls it regardless, stopping adjacent to the path that had dragged the vampire away from him. “Armand--”

“I’ll catch up,” comes the reply. Violet eyes raise to study the placard beside him -- Romanticism. The soft lines and endless layers of the style seem ill-suited to the artist’s tastes, but Daniel proves grateful for the chance to let the pills percolate in his bloodstream anyway. Carelessly, he hounds the corridor for an out, ever obedient to the directions the sweet-faced woman at the desk offered him. Twenty minutes to closing, she advised, Castilian accent rounded out with matronly care. The words had chased him, Armand already tugging him along on their great quest.

As she had said, the Renaissance collection stood to the left of the endless stroll, nestled into the furthest corner of the first floor. He cannot fault the layout. The collection is worth the wait. His steps echo across the parquet flooring, shadow looming across the pale marble figure that stands guard over the paintings lining the wall. Harsh shadows and demure womanhood paint a fine enough contrast to soothe his aches. Snippets of frescos hang liberated above his head. He thinks, it is a pity Armand did not follow. Whether he feels at home or not doesn’t much matter. The exhibit is a feast for the senses, the kind that Armand’s breed so adores.

The boy ancient has a wall to himself, just as promised, his bare ass peeking out from between a silk-draped divan and the vibrant fur of some golden beast. The modern Narcissus stares spellbound into the mirror set before him, reflecting features that have remained unchanged in the long centuries since. Marius was -- is? -- a master of his craft, and the appearance is so accurate as to set the human desperate to touch the canvas, as if there will be flesh against his touch rather than pigment. 

He is in love with himself, Daniel decides, studying the awed expression that stares back from the mirror. Scoffing, he digs his fists into the pockets of his jeans, fleeing the rooms in totality. There is nothing left in the display to compare, and besides, their twenty minutes is almost up. If Armand is to discover this portrait of his unending youth, then he must be led swiftly to it. He is not, in fact, catching up. Abandoning the Renaissance without a glance towards the neighboring Gothic and Neoclassical rooms, Daniel tells himself that he must still be a little drunk, that the effigies seem too lifelike through the door out to the sculpture garden.

He has grown too accustomed to marble flesh and unsettling gazes. Yes, the statues appear alive to him now, but never in the way that Louis has described. His nails form perfect half-moons around his palms.

Armand’s stillness is so complete that, for the briefest moment, Daniel mistakes him for part of the collection. The redhead has not made it past the first room, stagnant in appraisal of a piece. It’s not like him. The terrible, unmoving moment seems wrong to tread upon, wronger still to permit. Rocking to and fro on his feet, the mortal casts a glance about the collection, looking at the pastel displays of nature and portraiture. Among this ephemeral flood, what can there be to possess his companion so? Slowly, cautiously, he approaches the other. How long has it been since I’ve hesitated with him?

Her dress is carmine, her hair a dark coil of curls braided around the crown of her head. The otherwise pleasant expression stares defiant out towards her audience, night-black eyes fierce despite the distance. Settling beside Armand, he recognizes the style immediately. The former stands there a long, long while, studying her features, his own brushwork. Daniel comes to settle beside him, feeling ceaselessly awkward for intruding. The apparent youth is no longer Narcissus staring into his own abyss. This face is a stranger.

Unnamed Mulatto, the little gold placard reads.

“Who was she?” Daniel whispers.

“They were the last human I fell in love with,” comes the confession, comes the breath catching in Daniel’s throat. He studies her, then the chain of gold around her neck, clutches the locket against his shirt.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, because what else is he meant to say? This dark woman, frightfully made, defiant even in facsimile, gives him little else to go on. There is something discordant in that face which makes him a liar, her soft smile at odds with her sharp stare.

“You should have seen them swordfight.”

“I didn’t think women could do that back then.”

And he's already thinking, what in me will you admire after I am gone? He studies those dark eyes, which seem so lifeless to him, a dark abyss in a sea of white, a grave come to swallow him. She is dead. He knows that as surely as his own name.

“They weren't a woman. But at the same time they were.”

Daniel doesn't understand it. He can't, in the parlance of the era, except that she -- they -- are singular in Armand's eyes. Or perhaps they make a matching set, he and this lost muse. Her warm oval face, offset by the chill of his realizations, seems unfathomably more abhorrent in the ensuing silence. Her mortality is his. It sours in his pit.

He doesn’t recognize Armand’s absence, his searching around for something sharp enough that he could rectify some flaw in the presentation. All Daniel registers is the horrific scraping as the vampire scratches their name into the placard: Claudia di Montoya. The spell breaks. Autumn 1982 rushes back into focus. Inhaling, Daniel discovers that the room is suddenly too hot for him. Sliding out of his jacket, he forces a new purpose into the air.

“Right. So. we have less than ten minutes, if that, before security picks us up, and I have to show you where I finally found your ass in this gallery--”

Bloodless fingers trace the new marks carved into gold, lingering over the syllables of Claudia, brown eyes boring into their own. The hand drops, and Armand drags himself up from the depths of memory. “Alright, Daniel. Lead the way.”

He knows that he must have done so, that they stand studying the canvas depicting a then human boy. He knows that Armand does not react with his commonplace amusement, his rundown of the events leading up to the pieces creation. This is not like Naples, or Prague, or Ontario, where they have found similar depictions of his life as a muse. The most the immortal offers is a slow smile, a hushed “There it is,” and Daniel understands very well what the difference is between Naples, Prague, Ontario, and Leon.

Why are they always named Claudia?

The question hounds him on their escape, down the city streets, into the bar where Daniel carves out a small meal of hot tapas. The two of them remain quiet among the ebb and flow of locals seeking a snack between dinner, and it’s so unlike Armand. It’s unlike Daniel, too, to go without his customary drink. Armand has dragged him around the world so he could be a part of it, but he sits consumed, contemplative. In this walled world of smoke and voices, a dozen languages flowing like wine, Daniel imagines the other a world way. In his own mind, the vampire must still be in another room, far from Venice, long before this bar. She dances up to him, crimson swirling around her ankles as the band plays a waltz through a gilded palace. She’s staring his keeper down like a shark, that awkward smile a threat, and like any proper storybook villainess, she devours her target whole. Skin, blood, curls, and lace, Armand is engulfed into her, a wooden puppet fed into flames. Daniel holds his glass all the tighter. 

That pensive mood fails to pass as they leave. There are no further stops along their walk to whatever passes for home, the rented room in a crumbling piece of ancient architecture. Daniel decides that he is tired of history, though he turns his question over until it is worn smooth.

It is the sole question he can tolerate. It is the only one without a clear or meaningful answer, and if he dares to branch out from it, he’ll be heading straight for bedlam. The overlap of names can mean nothing but coincidence. The golden chain, the choice of words, the melancholy that has settled inside of his jailer, these things carry far greater meaning. Thoughts, and his desperate attempts to block them, consume him so deeply that he hardly notices Armand slipping away when the moon is at his highest. In his absence, Daniel finds little to do but lean against the worn metal lining the balcony and smoke.

Armand returns, but not alone. Like an alchemist, he has gathered his tools, ready to perform some magic on the task he has chosen. He places the late beloved upon the desk with such care, the rags and chemicals he has brought along burning at mortal senses. His paints and brushes are at the ready, and Daniel feels fire build in his chest. Uncaring, the other begins his careful undertaking, hardly needing light to go about his restoration.

Daniel hates it, actually. hates this memento mori lurking under this rented roof, hates that this is all he will be one day. In another hundred years, will Armand point at some ash-haired man in a gallery and say to someone else 'That was Daniel, I loved him very much, he was a fool, but he was beautiful when he was in his right mind' ? His latest cigarette burns too close to his fingers. He drops it, careless, to the streets below, staring at the tiny, irritated mark it has left behind. Nothing is said, but the night grows cold, and his tactical retreat is pyrrhic. There is warmth within, yes, but also the ghost Armand chooses to set between them.

Shutting the door to the world outside, the pair become locked into that harsh company, the spectral Claudia with her hands around her lover’s throat.

Slumping into what passes for his chair, the human passes the next hour in silence, so pointedly ignoring the work that it consumes his every thought. Dexterous digits dance along the desk, seeking oils, seeking brushes, seeking that which will return his dead beloved to him. Daniel’s own hands twitch uselessly against the arms of his seat. Here, he is powerless, less than a thought, less than a long-dead stranger. The silence is broken at last by the devil himself.

“They never believed me, about any of it. I told them everything, Vampires, my past, and Claude always thought I was lying through my teeth. Even faced with proof, they blamed my theatricality and my staff’s skill with stagecraft. It never broke them, the truth, not like others.” Fondness colors his voice in spite of it. For every way in which this person might spite him, his voice is heavy with reverence.

Daniel must ask, in that soft, hesitant voice, “Is that why you never turned them?”

“No.” Armand does not pause as he speaks, a slip of a brush still swirling against the canvas. “They had a life. They loved someone else, their princess, named Haydee. They had children eventually. They had a human life, and I wouldn't take them away from that.”

How gracious, then, for the bloodsucker to show restraint with those that desired it. He’d never done a damn thing for those that actually want anything from him, after all. “Good for them,” Daniel says, and he reaches for his cigarettes, lights one. Standing, he resigns himself to the curiosity that colors his distaste, clears the distance between them to study Armand's undertaking so far. There's so much yellow paint. and he thinks, I am here, and I love you, only you. What does a human life have to offer me? But he simply exhales, silent, as smoke hangs in the air between them.

If he loves himself in death as he did in humanity, then Daniel need only reflect the vampire as clearly and coolly as Marius’ mirror. If he loved another and let them go, then there are no assurances between them, no safety net to catch Daniel as he struggles towards death or immortality. The architect of his salvation could choose to damn him instead, wholly untouched by his plight. He imagines the pitiless creature before him pristine as the white button up clinging to his form, absent of any trace of paint. The palette of Daniel’s desire for him, for everything he is, might never reach him.

Armand must feel the emotions rolling off him, but he ignores it in favor of continuing to fix the painting. The restorers cannot have ruined the original too deeply for as quickly as he rights their wrongs. The whole of his focus narrows to knifepoint over the abyss that had so captured his companion, which remain defiant in the dim of their quarters. Daniel watches her stare blaze to life under Armand's steady hands, gilded and bright. People have always spoken of his own eyes, like violets. Is this what the other likes best, the fire in eyes that give the rest of the world pause?

Once the golden irises are right, the master artist goes to refining the rest. The changes are small, but somehow urgent. Armand moves furiously to make the portrait as it should be, as it was originally. The barest twitch of his fingers transforms the image into something greater. Red curls slip free of the scrunchie that bunches his hair to a low bun against his spine, turning the vampire to a mess as he keeps at his artistic endeavors. 

His lover might have kissed that pallid neck and drawn him from his efforts, were Daniel any more forgiving of this intruder and how Armand forces her into their life.

“She's not smiling anymore,” Daniel notes at last, when the change is finalized. Her face pulls into harmony as her mouth turns to a hard line. “Was that her mood then, or yours now?”

There’s age in the way he sighs, true age. For a moment, Daniel imagines himself catching a glimpse of what Armand should have been, had the chance to grow and dedicate himself to his first talents. Hunched over his workspace, world narrowing to his subject alone, the youth becomes a master. Daniel hates this, too, this thought that would mean his master’s death, nothing other than a historical footnote. He deserves more than that. He deserves more than this momentary obsession that tears at whatever trust the two have rebuilt in the months since Daniel’s return.

“They're not smiling because someone dared to touch their portrait that was not my hands. It's what they would want.”

Those hands dance smoothly across the stolen art, ensuring his vision return to the world. He must not want this ancient Lenore to return from her sepulchre to damn him for the mistakes of other artisans. Dead is dead, the mortal knows, and they are owed nothing. When had Armand last spared a thought for this loved and lost before the museum so rudely reminded him of her existence? She doesn’t belong here, this poorly lit room with yellowed wallpaper, because it is theirs, and she is worth far more than the entire building.

“Mm,” Daniel hums, and doesn't have much else to say. In spite of his mood, there is something riveting in this, actually, watching the master at work. He had been born far too late for the Palazzo, for the golden days when the boy in front of him assisted in his Master’s artistic pursuits. He’s only ever been left with the aftermath of that golden age, the pieces scattered across museum displays and private collections the world over. This should be a great gift, watching his lover keep at his ancient craft. But he's still so bitter about the shape his night has taken.

“What pendant is she wearing?” he asks, once he is properly braced for the possibility that the locket around his neck belongs to a cycle. He had once thought it was his own, a gift passed between lovers that said whatever else his keeper was, he was protective of what counted as his.

The other offers a comfortingly familiar shrug that sets his shoulders colliding with his ears, saying simply, “Some pendant. I don’t know. Perhaps a piece Haydee gave them.”

Daniel relaxes. Comforted, he steps away from their shared obsession, slumps into his chair, snuffs out his cigarette on its upholstered arm and flicks it towards a pile of books. Dragging a hand through his hair, he concedes there exist small mercies in Armand's presence.

He does not know what time passes in the euphoria of that small victory. He keeps time in the fact that it has been long enough for him to get lost in his thoughts, for the night to grow ever smaller. Whether it is minutes or hours later, Armand finishes his first phase of restoration and throws himself into Daniel’s orbit. The former’s body fits perfectly against his, straddling him, pushing him backwards with insistent hands as kisses the warmth from Daniel’s lips. 

“You and Claude are not the same. For one, you love me back. For two, they are long dead. I loved them once, but that love is in the past. I only wish to honor them now by making sure their portrait is in hands that will care for it properly. I'll send it off to the Montoya estate in Sardinia once it's finished being restored.”

The mortal lays there, dispassionate, as he listens to these assertions. and what can he possibly say to that? God, his lover thinks he's jealous. If he compares himself to this fallen woman, it isn't in self-pity -- it is to outdo her, to look at where she failed and he might yet succeed. But he allows Armand to kiss him, kiss his lips cold as marble, and says nothing of how he refuses to be another portrait to be repaired. His mind is made. All that’s left is to make a plan of it.

Armand keeps up the kissing, down to his neck, to play at biting only to merely drag his teeth along pale skin. His hand reaching down to rub Daniel through his pants, falling into a pattern so familiar that it would be boring were it any less fulfilling. He recognizes what Armand thinks, mind gift or no. Perhaps sex will get his mind off of all this.

He lets Armand believe that it will. Lets himself give in, already deciding to make his stand, yet another escape. Tomorrow, perhaps, when the sun is up. Perhaps taking the unfortunate girl with him. It will be cruel, beyond any attempt he’s made in the past, to deprive the vampire of his companionship and a newfound project. It must be done, however, to speak what cannot be conveyed properly in words. There will be a statement in this even if he does fall again, consumed by the need for Armand, for his slender arms and white-hot blood. 

He won't be content to be art.

#let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ] #cutting each other without even knowing [ DANIEL X ARMAND ] #heaven sends and heaven takes [ claude & armand ] #drabbletagtba #this is the first longform oneshot i have written in.... years.

[landinoandco]

An Unlikely Grand Prix

Daniel Ricciardo x reader

Warnings: flufffff

Word count: 2.1k

Requests are open :)

The Belgium Grand Prix was one that was highly anticipated - not only did it mark the end of the summer break and start to the second part of the season but it also promised some quality racing with its high speed corners.

You and Daniel were sitting in your hotel room on Sunday morning, a drink of coffee in your hand and a vitamin smoothie in his, your laptop open in front of you as you made some edits to the latest version of your book. You were an author and about to finish the final edit of your new novel.

“Have you seen the weather forecast for today?” He asked, leaning onto his forearms. You looked over your laptop lid and nodded, taking off your glasses.

“I have, you better be careful. It was bad enough in qualifying yesterday - “ You paused, saving your work and closing your laptop down. “I don’t care what people say - wet races always make me nervous. They shouldn’t have sent you out in Q3, it was hard to watch.”

A silence fell between the both of you, Daniel watched with a softness in his eyes. He knew exactly how you felt and he loved how supportive you were of him. You were his biggest fan and he could not be more thankful for it - you were there for him every weekend through rain and sunshine and through good races and bad races. You knew him better than anyone.

“I will be as careful as I can -” He reached across the table and took your hand in his. “I really feel like I’m getting somewhere though - P4.” He exclaimed, a smile flashing across his handsome features. You brushed your thumb over his hand.

“It was a really good lap - especially given the weather.” You agreed.

You moved your gaze to the window - the steady sound of rain hitting the hotel window filled the room.

“It’s definitely going to be a tense one.” Daniel muttered, pushing his chair back and getting up. You followed and made your way to the door, shrugging on your coat as you went.

The rain was pouring down as though the heavens above had opened - Daniel held an umbrella above both of you, sheltering you from the downpour. Members from different teams raced around the paddock to dry shelter - the buzz of conversation could already be heard from the grandstand in front of the pitlane. You admired the dedication of the fans; it was far from just a shower and for those exposed without even the slightest of cover would be drenched to the bone even by now and the grand prix was far from starting.

You looked over to Dan, his eyes twinkling and a spring in his step told you that he was looking forward to today’s race. His eyes flickered down to meet your gaze, bumping his shoulder into yours causing you to chuckle.

It was incredible to think about all of the things you two had managed to fit into 3 (going on 4) years. You met each other on the top of Table Mountain in Cape Town, you were there plotting for your next novel and Daniel was there hiking with his friends…

You were sat on a rock, looking out to the city of Cape Town tucked away under the mountain range - you were out in South Africa on an escape from the cramped conditions of London. You had a deadline quickly approaching to come up with a plot for your next book and as of that moment you still weren’t any closer to coming up with the next bestseller. Sure, you had ideas but they were yet to set a light a fire of motivation in you.

You had zoned out, your gaze attached to a bird soaring across the landscape ahead of you when a sudden voice pulled you swiftly out.

“Whatchu’ writing about?” The man asked, his tone was bright and as you looked over at him you saw the beaming smile stretched across his features. His eyes showed a confident but kind manner, brown curls stuck to his forehead and the beginnings of a beard covered the bottom half of his face.

“If I knew, I would tell you.” You quipped back, turning to face the man in order to see him properly. He had a muscular physique, no doubt a sportsman - you had thought at the time - an explosion of colour seeping out from his shorts caught your eye as you clocked the tattoos; they weren’t the only ones either as little drawings were littered over his hands and arms.

“Nice tattoos.” You complimented, nodding over to him. If it was at all possible, his smile grew larger and he put his fist out.

“I’m Daniel, by the way, Daniel Ricciardo.”

The rest was history - an adventure packed history. One filled with enough adrenaline to last you for the rest of your existence. The introductions had also prompted your next plot idea so the following week when you had returned to London you turned it into your agent - who had immediately loved the outline you had presented.

A few hours later and the start of the Belgium grand prix was approaching but still the track was resembling more of a spa - ironically - than a safe and functional track. Dan walked in from the drivers parade and shivered - his coat having provided no cover.

Frowning, you got up and handed him a towel, “What are the conditions like?” Nerves laced your tone. Dan sat down, shrugging, “They’re what we expected them to be like but it’s really rough. If we can even see 6 feet ahead it would be a miracle.”

A miracle was something they were all desperate for and before they knew it the race had been red flagged - deemed too dangerous to race so all of the teams were in their garages coming up with ways to entertain themselves.

You had made your way out of the McLaren garage to join Daniel who was wandering up and down the pitlane looking for a way to cause havoc.

You crept up to him and grabbed his shoulders and shouted: “boo,” in his ear causing him to jump up in shock and scream. You and many witnesses were doubled over in laughter as the Australian held his hand to his chest.

“I just came to say -” You started, “That you looked like you were about to do something mischievous and I wanted in on whatever your plan was.”

Dan looked at you with complete adoration in his eyes, a lopsided grin formed on his face. At that moment, he had never loved you more. It was a strange feeling that he couldn’t quite describe - it was just one he felt warming up his entire body. One thing he had always adored about you was the way you understood him - at the beginning of the relationship he knew you had found it hard to deal with his childish, devil may care attitude. As soon as you relaxed more around him, you two became more comfortable with one another - you decided to try his way of living. Letting fate take you to your next adventure and enjoying the unpredictability of it all. From your first adrenaline seeking adventure Dan had managed to persuade you to join him in - he knew he had found his partner in crime. Most importantly, Dan had taught you a way of living that was more enjoyable, a way of living that allowed you to get more out of life and push your comfort zone right to the limit.

“I have a few ideas.” He smirked, then grabbed your hand twirling you around as though you were ballroom dancing.

“What are you doing?” You giggled, the corners of your eyes crinkled as he pulled you into his chest, guiding one of your hands to rest on his shoulder as he grasped the other in his and held them up as though you were dancing the waltz; finally placing his hand on your waist.

“I don’t suppose you would have seen it but in 2015, the American qualifying was cancelled due to rain and to pass the time I danced with my teammate. I figured I would make a tradition of it.” He explained, twirling you around again.

“Did Lando not want to dance with you?” You questioned, the corners of your lips quirked up. Daniel stopped and took a step back. For a moment you thought you had said something wrong but then a spray of water splashed up the front of your coat. Gasping, you wiped the water from your face and Daniel’s smug smile came into focus. You looked down to where he was standing and saw a gaping hole that had now filled up with water.

“You little-” You had begun, a smile betraying you entirely as it crept upon your features. You wanted to pretend to be angry but he had caught you off guard.

“I thought that you would be a nicer dance partner - but apparently not.” He retorted, biting down on his lip in an attempt to stifle his laughter at your facial expressions. You looked at him and then down at the puddle, back at Daniel and then decided what your next move would be; before you could however he had picked you up over his shoulder, spinning around happily.

“Daniel-” You protested, having to close your eyes to avoid feeling motion sick. You heard him chortle then give in as you felt your two feet touch the ground once again. You pouted at him, strands of hair now stuck to your forehead - it was a sight to behold. Daniel’s heart skipped a beat, his breath becoming shallower as he brushed the loose strands of hair from your face. He had decided at that moment that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, he was ready to start the next chapter of his life with you. It would be a brand new adventure and probably the scariest yet.

“Marry me.” He mumbled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. He froze, an idea sparked, turning on his heel he fled in the direction of the McLaren garage.

Your eyebrows drew together in confusion, your heart thumping against your ribs. Drawing your lower lip between your teeth, you glanced around you only to realise the whole of the pitlane and grandstand of fans had fallen silent - watching on in anticipation. Had they heard what he had said? How could they have, Daniel had muttered so quietly even you had struggled to hear the words that tumbled from his lips. Little did you know, a camera had caught every moment and you were now the sole focus as you waited for Daniel to come back.

Moments later and he was running out of the McLaren garage, something in his left hand. You squinted to get a better look, from where you were standing all you could see was a flash of blue - but as he came closer you realised what he was holding was in fact a Haribo packet.

Your hands flew to cover your mouth, you knew exactly what he was about to do. You were fighting back tears of joy as he opened the haribo packet and pulled out a gummy ring, got down on one knee and said: “Marry me. Our new adventure, just you and me. My partner in crime.”

Tears ran down your cheeks as you nodded fervently, words appearing to fail you. You flung your arms around his neck. There was an eruption of cheer from around you, as fans whistled and clapped and fellow teams called out in congratulations.

You placed a hand either side of Daniel’s face, tears shone in his eyes. To most a gummy ring would seem immature - laughable even but to you, it confirmed to you how much you loved the man standing in front of you. The gummy ring he had presented to you meant so much more than being a Haribo. It represented you both as a couple. A love that was unconditional and would never get old and yet whilst you both would age - the love you had for one another would stay youthful, unpredictable and exciting.

You were more than ready to start the next chapter of your adventure with the man you loved most.

#f1 #daniel ricciardo #f1 2021 #mclaren #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1blr #daniel ricciardo one shot #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo fanfiction #daniel ricciardo x reader #f1 fandom #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula one fanfiction #formula one one shot #formula 1 x reader #formul 1 one shot #daniel ricciardo fluff

[duffs-shot-glass]

I Won't Tell (Axl Rose)

I Won’t Tell

Axl Rose x Reader

Fluff, Angst??

WARNINGS: profanities

Word Count: 1,597

Y/N’s POV:

The sun’s bright rays shone down on me through the window. I opened my eyes slightly and looked at my alarm clock. 8:30 AM. Fuck. Izzy would be picking me up at 9:00 to meet his band. Instantly I threw the covers off of my body and sat up on the bed. The cold air rushed over my legs giving me goosebumps. I put on my fuzzy black slippers and trudged into the bathroom across the hall. There were hygiene products all over the white marble counter. I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup when I heard the doorbell ring. I dropped my makeup brush on the counter and rushed to the door.

I turned the golden doorknob and opened the door to see Izzy. His lanky figure stood before me. He was wearing black jeans and a purple button up shirt. The first few buttons were undone and he had cowboy boots. “Hey Y/N! You ready?” I looked down at myself and then back at him with a questioning look. “Iz?” “Yeah?” “I’m still in my pajamas,” he laughed slightly. “Oh right. Haha” I rolled my eyes and walked back into the bathroom. Izzy closed the door and sat on my couch in the living room. I picked up the makeup on the counter and brushed my teeth. On the way to my bedroom I saw Izzy in my kitchen. “Izzy!” I yelled through the house. “What?!” He yelled back. “No beer! You have to drive a car, remember!” I could hear the annoyance in his voice when he responded. “Fine.” I laughed to myself before looking at the outfits I had to choose from. My eyes landed on a skirt. I never wore skirts unless it was a special occasion. I would always complain that my jeans were more comfortable. I had never met any of the boys in the band except for Izzy and I wanted to make a good impression. I took the skirt out of my dresser and sat it on my bed. It was black with small white flowers on it and it dropped to about five inches above my knees. I looked in my closet and found a white crop top. This would match nicely. I got dressed and walked out of the bedroom. Izzy’s eyes widened when he saw me. “What- I mean why um” he cleared his throat, “why are you uh wearing that Y/N?” I smiled at his shock. “Just wanted to make a good first impression.” I said as I headed towards the door of my apartment. Izzy followed me out the door and to his car. “Yeah good first impression my ass Y/N. Listen I have one rule ok just one rule.” He opened the driver’s side door and hopped in the car. I got into the passenger's seat and the car started. “Ok Iz. What?” I buckled my seatbelt and we started down the road. “You are not allowed to have any romantic shit with any of these assholes you understand?” He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look me in the eyes. “Ugh. Fine Izzy whatever the hell you want.” I rolled my eyes and looked out the window. Izzy knew I was joking but I couldn’t lie. It might be nice to be in a relationship. Izzy turned the radio up and we listened to various rock bands on the way there. The car stopped when we reached a small house. “Alright well this is it.” He said as he pulled the keys out of the car. “Whose house did you say this was again?” I said looking at the house out of my window. “Oh uh Axl’s. Come on, let's go inside.” He stepped out of the car and waited for me to follow. When we got to the porch of the house Izzy knocked on the large black door. When the door opened there was a man standing there. He was tall. Extremely tall. He had blonde hair and a bottle of vodka in his hand. “Izzy!” He cheered as he pulled Izzy into a ‘bro hug’. “Who is the chick?” My eyes widened slightly at the nickname. What had I gotten myself into. “Duff this is Y/N. Y/N this is Duff.” Izzy smiled widely as I shook hands with the tall blonde apparently known as ‘Duff’. I muttered a “hello” to the man as Izzy led me past him and into the house. In the living room was a couch and a coffee table. On the couch sat another blonde, not as tall as the first one though. He grinned widely at me and waved like a little child. I giggled slightly at his friendliness. Next to him on the couch was another man. He had a mop of dark curls on his head and was downing a bottle of Jack Daniels. Izzy told me to socialize and walked into the living room joining the other two. I on the other hand felt quite uncomfortable being there and decided to wander about. I walked into the kitchen and picked up a partially empty beer bottle. Hopefully this is just beer. I took a swig of the liquid and yes. Thankfully it was just beer. I wandered the house a little bit more, and stumbled upon an empty bedroom. Inside were the traditional things. A bed, nightstand, dresser, but one thing drew my attention. In the corner of the room, next to a window, was a desk. I

walked up to the desk and observed the papers laying on top. There was paper after paper of writings. When I looked closer I realized something. They were song lyrics. I read the lyrics and was taken back by how good they were. I was about to pick up one of the papers when I heard a voice from behind me. “What are you doing in here?” The voice wasn’t mad or upset, just curious. I shakily turned around to see a man with long red hair. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of green, and his smile was astonishing. “I- uh..I’m sorry I was just leaving.” I tried to scurry out of the room but the man stopped me. “Hey it’s ok you don’t need to be nervous.” He touched my shoulders lightly and looked into my eyes. “I’m Axl by the way.” He now reached his hand out for me to shake. I took his hand in mine and looked into his eyes. “Y/N” I said. A smile creeped onto his face as he looked behind me. “So you were reading my lyrics huh?” He chuckled airily. “Your lyrics?” He walked to the desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Yeah I wrote 'em a little while ago.” He looked down at the paper. “They’re lovely.” I said, now standing next to him. His eyes met mine and I got goosebumps. “Thanks sweetheart.” I felt a blush creeping onto my cheeks from the nickname. He looked up and laughed slightly. “You like the nickname huh?” I looked down almost ashamed. “Hey it’s alright you don’t have to be embarrassed” he said. He used his finger to lift my chin. I looked into his eyes and melted. He was so beautiful. I usually didn’t call men beautiful but he was. His face inched closer to mine and I could feel my heart beating at an extreme rate in my chest. He stopped when his face was just an inch away from mine. “Axl?” I said. He was staring at my lips when he answered. “Yes?” He had lowered his voice and it felt intoxicating. “We… we can’t do this.” I said and backed away from him. He looked at me with sad eyes. “Why? I thought you...I thought you felt the same.” He furrowed his brow. I did feel the same. I really did. But what about Izzy’s rule? I wasn’t allowed to be romantic with any of the members of the band. “I do Axl.” I hugged him. He hugged me tightly and sat his chin on my head. “Then why? Why can’t we be together?” I looked up at him. “Izzy said I’m not allowed to be with any of you.” Axl nodded his head. “Y/N trust me Izzy will get over it and besides you're a grown woman! You don’t have to listen to what Izzy says.” His green eyes darted between my Y/E/C ones. There were no words to describe how much I wanted to kiss the man in front of me. He was perfect. A perfect example of..well..perfect. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I pressed my lips to his lightly. Axl was shocked at first but then began to kiss me. The kiss was soft and slow, but so full of desire. He slid his tongue over my bottom lip asking for entrance which I happily obliged. Our tongues fought for dominance, but of course he won. He continued to kiss me, but my heart seemed to jump out of my chest when I heard the door behind me open. I broke away from Axl and turned to look and see who it was. Standing there in the doorway was a curly haired man with a top hat. Axl began to speak, “Slash plea-” but slash cut him off. “Don’t worry Ax...I won’t tell Izzy.” The man smirked devilishly and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Hello! ~ Thank you for reading this imagine! I hope you liked it! Have a great day and remember you are beautiful! :) ♥︎

#gnr #gnr imagines #gnr x reader #axl rose #axl rose x reader #axl rose imagine #guns n roses #guns n roses imagine #saul hudson #slash #steven adler #duff mckagan #izzy stradlin #80's

[idlecreature]

*sidles up to you* hey man, want a Magnus Archives rarepair? I’ve got one right here you can have for free. It’s Mordechai Lukas/Hezekiah Wakely. Here’s my sales pitch: 

Mordechai Lukas is only forty years old, but he’s in very poor health. Granted, he’s been on death’s door for several decades, having never fully recovered from the excision of a thyroid tumour - a surgery that scarred his throat significantly, making it hurt to speak. But this isn’t his usual moaning about feeling cold and depressed all the time. This is the doctor listening to the slow gurgle of his heart and telling him “you shouldn’t be alive. your days are numbered”.   

(cut for length)

And Mordechai’s honestly fine with dying. A little.... too enthusiastic, even. On his trip to Italy he forwent normal accommodation to break into and sleep in mausoleums, and he might have returned from the continent a little... haunted. He’s designed and redesigned the family mausoleum a dozen times, and he’s had his own funeral planned for years much to the chagrin of his friends. “What flowers should adorn my funerary wreath?” he writes to Jonah Magnus. “Can we please change the subject?” Jonah replies. “And I swear to the one above if you send me a memento mori I am throwing it in the fireplace.”

Mordechai’s fulfilled his life’s requirements -- he’s married into the wealthy mercantile class, fathered children, and spends most of his time either in a graveyard or wandering like a ghost through Moorland house. His wife, Charlotte, really only wanted a man’s name on her letterheads and spends most of her time on a ship somewhere between London and India. She’s only interested in her possessions, her wealth, in ensuring the books are balancing. Her family made their money in opium prospecting and she’s pressuring Mordechai to open the lands surrounding Moorland for coal mining after a few test bores unearthed rich black seams. Mordechai’s essentially like, “over my dead body,” and Charlotte’s like, “so any day now! :))))” and Mordechai’s sole reason for stubbornly clinging to life is to protect his family’s ancestral lands. 

Mordechai has to occasionally rub shoulders with Charlotte’s friends in the East India Shipping Company. Among them are the Beale brothers, Daniel and Thomas. They have a younger brother, rich but temperamentally unsuited for their family’s line of work. His name is Nathaniel Beale, and, oh boy, he is a treat. He’s awfully similar to Barnabas Bennett, shy and closeted and yearning. Nathaniel tells Mordechai all about his good friend Hezekiah, who he’s so, so worried about, who makes poor Nathaniel ache with hunger and longing and shame all the same. Finally, some delicious fucking food thinks Mordechai Lukas. 

But if this man really is like Barnabas, Mordechai wants to enjoy his demise. So he obtains Hezekiah’s address with a mind to murdering Hezekiah and relishing Nathaniel’s grief and loneliness. It might be Mordechai’s last communion with his god. 

And that’s how Mordechai ends up in a quiet countryside graveyard, staring at the man in a dead sleep at the bottom of an open grave. 

And hot damn Hezekiah Wakely is a sleeping beauty. Muscular, square, with hands big enough to circle both of Mordechai’s wrists if he were to pin Mordechai down. (And Mordechai would very much like someone to pin him down.) He almost feels sympathy for poor, repressed Nathaniel but nonetheless summons the fog of The Lonely and it swallows Hezekiah whole. 

But the crawling fog parts around the sleeping man. There is a certain solidness about him, the weight of someone touched by another power. Mordechai sighs in annoyance but keeps watching Hezekiah. Slipping away once the man blinks awake, stretches his long, tanned limbs. 

Mordechai keeps close company with the Beales after that. Nathaniel passes away in January of 1839. Mordechai finds his grave in yet another lonely graveyard and is absolutely delighted that many of Nathaniel’s sparse acquaintances have forgotten him already. 

Hezekiah is curled up on the freshly turned earth. “I should hang for it,” Hezekiah says. 

“How about a new job?” Mordechai says.

“I’m a murderer,” Hezekiah says. 

“Hold my beer,” Mordechai says.

Mordechai convinces Hezekiah to work as Moorland house’s groundskeeper. By the time the pair of them make it back to Kent, Hezekiah knows about The Buried, The Lonely, the whole wretched Lot. 

“You have a lovely mausoleum, sir,” Hezekiah says. 

“Shame no-one’s christened it yet,” Mordechai replies. (He plans to be the first.)

Time passes.

And Thomas Beale passes away in 1841. 

The Magnus Institute opens its London branch in 1841. 

Daniel Beale passes away in 1842. 

By 1843, the world has forgotten Nathaniel even existed. Except, of course, for Mordechai, who keeps Nathaniel and Hezekiah’s correspondence.  

Mordechai’s now spending 90% of his time watching Hezekiah. When one of Mordechai’s many faceless relatives dies, he sits on the steps of the family chapel as Hezekiah digs. He lets Hezekiah sleep in the grave before the burial. He likes how peaceful the man looks, even when the grave dirt falls in his eyes. He even thinks about burying Hezekiah himself, how that would be another kind of embrace. 

Hezekiah more often than not sleeps outside, on the moor, and when the weather drives him inside he sleeps fitfully in his room in the cellar. 

(Hezekiah sings when it rains, bitten-off, wordless, self-soothing melodies that sound like oncoming earthquakes through the thick walls of Moorland House.) 

(Mordechai listens to him sing and tries to harmonize, and, although the knot of scar tissue in his throat makes his voice sound like grinding metal, isn’t that something?) 

The next time Mordechai catches Hezekiah dourly shuffling to the basement for a restless night he snags the larger man’s wrist. 

“You might sleep better in my bed,” Mordechai says. 

“???” Hezekiah says. 

“Come to bed with me,” Mordechai repeats. 

“!!!!!” Hezekiah says. 

And, well, Hezekiah likes the pressure of Mordechai lying on top of him. Hezekiah is warm, and soft, like peat, and if Hezekiah’s hands snake up to circle Mordechai while he sleeps, then what about it? In Mordechai’s world, they can’t be together in any way that matters. It’s just another thing that isolates him from polite society. 

"The groundskeeper? The man who smells like a bog?” Charlotte says, but she’s relieved it’s not a mistress who might want to live more ambitiously, that they might have to keep a London townhouse for because Charlotte’s the one who’d be saddled with the fiscal responsibility. She’s already writing monthly cheques to buy the discretion of a certain J. Magnus.

And Charlotte has an idea. “Dear husband :)” she says. “If you don’t let me open a colliery I might expose your little affair and you’ll get thrown in jail and I don’t think you’d last very long, dear, with your poor heart :) and when you die I’ll do it anyway :) so how about it?”  

Charlotte never makes empty threats. But at the same time, Mordechai is connected to the lands around Moorland house in a very real way.  

He doesn’t really have a choice. 

Charlotte opens a mine on Lukas land. 

They have their first grandchild, a boy, and Mordechai names him Nathaniel. Hezekiah just smiles at the baby, warmly. (His smiles are so warm.) (Mordechai is spending more and more time at his bedroom window, watching his groundskeeper. Surrounded by bottles of medicine that never make him feel any better.) 

“Are you going to die?” Hezekiah says. 

“It’s likely,” Mordechai says. For no reason he can name, the prospect of his funeral no longer delights him. 

Hezekiah is silent. “I hope the Lord forgives me,” he says, eventually, and a tremor runs through the entire house, and Mordechai hears, far-off in the distance, the desperate peal of a ringing bell. 

An accident in the colliery, they call it. A mineshaft cave-in, trapping 26 men and boys 150 feet under the earth, running out of breathable air, scraping at the cold, unforgiving rock until their fingers and lungs bleed. Crushed and choking and feared enough to paint the walls with it. There’s a thin plume of black smoke. (Mordechai can hear them crying and begging.) 

The mine closes. There’s a lengthy investigation. It will cost a considerable amount of money to sink another pit. Echoing, cloying silence wraps around the abandoned worksite. Mordechai can leave his bedroom for the first time in months. 

He sits on the chapel steps and watches the muscles of Hezekiah’s back work under his sweat-slick blouse. “Do you think...” Mordechai starts. 

There’s something in Mordechai’s voice that makes Hezekiah straighten up. 

“Do you think, when I die, you might cut a hole in the side of my coffin?” Mordechai says. “So, when you die, if there’s a hole in your coffin, our coffins could. Lie together. And. We might be able to hold hands under the earth.” 

It’s the most he’s said at once in decades, and his throat is raw for it. 

“I could do that,” Hezekiah says. “When are you going to die?” 

Mordechai sighs. “You’ve bought me a little time. Soon.” 

“I’ll make you a Coffin,” Hezekiah says, his voice oddly constricted, as if he’s speaking through silt. He drops his shovel and walks off, towards Moorland house. 

Later, from his windowsill, Mordechai watches Hezekiah cut down a whitebeam, feels the heft of it in his large hands. He’s too far away to gauge his expression accurately, but he seems to appraise the wood and finds it passable. He hauls it inside. 

The mere act of watching has left Mordechai feeling bone-tired, and he sleeps. 

And sleeps. 

(In between the sleeping, Mordechai finds himself cradled in long arms, sunburned by the late summer sun. The press of a spoon to his lips as he’s fed a soup that tastes like dirt and tannins.)

And sleeps. 

(When he chokes a little on fluid-filled lungs, he feels warm hands rubbing his back and the choking eases.) 

Moorland house is awfully quiet. 

A hand scraping softly on his collarbone shifts Mordechai blearily into consciousness. “It’s done,” Hezekiah says. “Would you like to see it?” 

Mordechai nods. His limbs are oddly discombobulated, his heart feels heavy and dragging, and he looks up at Hezekiah. The man scoops him up like he weighs nothing and carries him, bridal-style, down the cold, empty hallway.  

The gate to the mausoleum opens on well-oiled hinges. It’s no longer empty; a single coffin now sits in the marbled room. It’s simple - rough, even - the whitebeam a pale, unvarnished yellow. But there’s undeniably a presence to it, an undercurrent that draws you towards it. Hezekiah approaches close enough that Mordechai can run his hand down its flank. 

“I’m not an artist,” Hezekiah says. “It’s even a bit simple-looking, in this grand place.” 

“It’s perfect,” Mordechai says. “Would it be too morbid for me to give it a christening? Try it on for size?” 

“Pot and kettle,” Hezekiah says. 

“True,” Mordechai says. 

“Mordechai...” Hezekiah shuffles on his feet. “I would like to embrace you. Under the earth. It has to be deep enough that nothing can live there, where it is quiet and cold and the dirt clings like damp to your skin and dark enough that our touch can hide in secret, that’s the place we can be together. I think if I stayed here when you were buried the pressure of the world would be so much more than the pressure of the dirt and I don’t think I could bear it. I would like to hold you, under there, and you would have space from the choke and I would not be alone. I think I would like to do that forever, or, at least, until our bodies are less human than they are water and earth.” 

“I would like that too,” Mordechai says. “It’s like a marriage.” 

“It’s more than a marriage,” Hezekiah replies. 

“Yes,” Mordechai says, and lets his head sink down against Hezekiah’s chest, measures Hezekiah’s strong heartbeat against his own, thready and uneven. It’s so much more than he deserves. 

Hezekiah opens the coffin. It makes a comically sharp scraping noise like it’s the door to a vampire’s crypt in an opera, like thousands of paper bats will fly out of it and fill the room. 

It is silent, and cold, instead. 

Mordechai never gets his funeral. 

Most of Mordechai’s papers get passed along to the Magnus Institute. 

And two hundred years later, Jonathan Sims reads some letters. 

#the magnus archives #mordechai lukas #hezekiah wakely #jonah magnus #m....monsters in love #this was supposed to be a bullet point list and it turned into improv fanfic halfway through #how the Coffin dovetails the Lonely and the Buried.... very interesting #tw terminal illness #tw death #ask to tag #tma blogging

[rockthingsbymeg]

i really like the prompt “say my name” “louder” for slash because i feel like hearing his girlfriend/wife scream out his name he would go feral.. :-)

Hope you like this dear. Sorry it took this long to get out

Contains: Smut [oral (female receiving) and dry humping]

Slash and Y/N had been together for a couple months now and things had been going smoothly. They really liked each other, got along amazingly well and were great for each other.

And the sex was great too. At least in Slash’s opinion.

It was a bit harder to know if Y/N agreed. Slash made sure to explore her body as best as he could to figure out exactly what made her wet in the fastest way; he teased and edged and observed the reactions of her body pretty closely.

He was pretty confident she enjoyed it as much as he did, considering how pleasured she look during and how tired and smiley she was after, but it was still hard to know because Y/N barely made any noise.

In fact, Slash only remembers maybe one or two times where she had moaned, and it was a pretty small, faint sound. It made him feral nonetheless and had him craving for more.

But no matter what he did, he wasn’t able to get her to moan. The most noise she made was the occasional gasp and her erratic breath.

While Slash didn’t enjoy girls who were too loud during sex, because it ended up being a turn off, he did like to hear some moans and whimpers.

Putting in the effort to make her feel good was almost like playing guitar and not hearing any sound. It just didn’t feel right.

But he convinced himself that she just wasn’t a vocal personal, pretty much like he wasn’t, and tried to ignore it as best as he could, because he didn’t want to bring the subject up and end up making her uncomfortable somehow.

That went on until one day where he showed up to her place unannounced. It wasn’t the first time he did it, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but the difference is that he didn’t tend to show up this early. Most times, by now, Slash was hanging out with the band and rehearsing, so Y/N was showering at the same time she always did. Although she did plan on start showering a bit later, because when Slash showed up after rehearsals, more often than not she needed another shower…

When Slash came in, all he could hear was the sound of the water. He was pretty sure she had heard the door close, because it ended up slipping from his hand and making more noise than planned, so he didn’t call out to let her know. He made his way to the kitchen, grabbed one of the many bottles of Daniel’s that she had in one of her cabinets and wandered to her room.

The bathroom was pretty close, so he could hear her singing while she showered, and it made him smile while he looked through the drawings scattered on the desk. Some of them were of the band performing while some others were only of Slash. It had taken at least a month to get her to show him the drawings and since then she didn’t mind him seeing them anymore.

His attention, however, quickly left her art as soon as a loud, clear moan echoed from the bathroom. His head snapped towards the sound as his hands put down the drawings. He walked up there and stayed by the door, listening intently.

He was a bit relieved to recognize the moans as her own, because for a split second the thought that she was cheating crossed his mind. He then continued to pay attention, hearing his name slip between the many whines and moans he had dreamed of hearing. Literally dreamed of.

It went on for a while and in the end his cock was hard as a rock. He took long gulps of his bottle of Daniel’s, as if it would somehow cool down the fire in his lower abdomen.

After a series of crescendo moans followed by one long, extremely pornographic yet hot moan of his name, she seemed to have reached her climax and after a couple minutes the water closed.

He walked back to her living room and sat on the couch, bottle still in his hand as he fixed himself in his uncomfortably tight pants. While he sat alone, his mind began to think about how quiet she was in bed and how different she had been in the shower.

Why wasn’t she like that with him? Was he the one doing something wrong or wasn’t she comfortable?

Y/N came down a few minutes later, looking for her body cream after they brought here last night when she agreed to massage his sore shoulders.

“Jesus fucking christ!” Were the very first words she said to him as she entered the room. From the show she had put on, he had already assumed she didn’t know he was there.

Slash chuckled at her reaction, leaning forward on the couch and reaching for her hand, pulling her onto his lap.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! Don’t you know how to scream when you get here?” She mumbled with a hand on her towel-covered chest. “Would give me a fucking smaller heart attack at least…”

“Promise I’ll scream the next time.” He laughed, cupping one side of her face with his hand and kissing her lips.

She relaxed into the kiss, resting her hands on the back of his head while moving slowly against him, letting him take the lead.

It just ended like every other time she let him fully take the lead. She soon was slowly bucking her hips against his leather pants, looking for some friction on her clit.

“Your shower wasn’t enough then?” Slash smirked as he broke the kiss and moved his hands to her hips, encouraging to move.

Y/N froze at his words. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he had heard her.

Slash was looking at her face and saw her eyes quickly leave his and her cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“Baby look at me.” He coaxed stroking her thighs. She looked back into his eyes, timidly. “Why don’t you moan like that when were together?” He asked, voice as soft as he could manage.

Y/N shrugged and looked back down. “I don’t…” She hesitated. “It’s not that you don’t make me feel good. It’s definitely not because of that, you make me feel so fucking great I can’t put it into words.” She chuckled as Slash gave her a small, smug smile. “It’s just… I feel kinda stupid? It’s not really stupid what I mean but I can’t really describe.”

Slash hummed kissing her temple. “I don’t really understand why. Listening to that to me was like listening to the most beautiful guitar solo ever made. And also the hottest but that goes without saying.” He smirked against her skin, letting her curl up into him. “You don’t have to feel ashamed of anything around me. And yes, I do know that it’s easier said than done.”

Y/N pondered his words in her head. She held back so many moans during sex that it became overwhelming sometimes and she didn’t want to hold herself back with him. She wanted to be truthful in every aspect of her relationship with him.

With that in mind, she began to move her hips again, keeping her face hidden in his neck.

“Okay.” She smiled shyly. “I’ll try to stop holding back. I promise.”

Slash smiled as his hands helped her move again, his own hips thrusting up to meet hers. As the pace gradually increased, he felt her hands move away from his neck to remove the towel from her body.

Without a word he held her by her thighs and got up from the couch, walking all the way to her room and dropping her on the bed.

He was on his knees, looking down at her body while one of his hands stroked her thighs and the other was running through her wet folds, when he noticed her nibbling on her bottom lip.

“Stop that.” He said, slipping a thumb between her lips, making her let go of the lip. “You promised you’re going to try.”

“I know…” She said, blushing, a faint moan escaping her. “It just… It feels really good and you look so hot and I really want to stop holding back… It feels weird…”

Slash smirked at her words, laying down on the mattress right between her legs. “This time I’ll let you hold back your moans either when I’m down here-” He said, pressing a kiss right above her clit and pushing two fingers inside her. “or when I’m fucking you. Your choice.”

If Y/N was about to say something, his tongue licking a stripe from his fingers all the way to her clit had her immediately shutting up, teeth sinking down on her lower lip out of habit. She allowed herself to get lost in the pleasure for a bit before focusing in controlling the urge to hold back.

“Fuck… Slash that feels… fucking shit…” She let out, head thrown back while she bunched the sheets in her hands. Her words were almost like faint whispers but they still had him rutting against the mattress, looking for a bit of relief for his throbbing cock.

He continued to eat her out, rubbing the tip of his fingers against her g-spot. For a good while his pace was slow, building her orgasm steadily. Her moans continued to leave her lips, some quieter, some louder.

His hips would still occasionally rut against the mattress because of the sounds and he would hum against her core, sending the vibrations all through her body that had her whining.

After a while his pace picked up and his fingers started to thrust in and out, making her hips lift off the mattress as strong waves of pleasure danced across her body.

Her hands were gripping his hair while he let her move her body the way she pleased, chasing her pleasure. “Fuck baby… That’s so good… Shit, fuck!”

He could feel her clenching around her fingers so he locked his eyes with hers as his free arm wrapped around her thigh and brought her closer to him.

“Look at me. I want you to look at me while you cum.” He said quickly before moving his mouth to her body again.

Y/N obeyed, sinfully lust-blown eyes looking into his brown ones as she began to feel a tingling sensation in her lower belly.

“Please don’t stop. Don’t fucking-” She moaned though her words began to die in her throat as she shook against him.

“Say my name.” He groaned as her legs wrapped around his head.

“Saul fuck!”

“Louder.” He groaned, pressing his fingers against her g-spot and rubbing her clit while his tongue licked it.

She screamed his name as the most intense part of her orgasm began to take over her body. Even if she wanted to she wouldn’t be able to hold back the cries and moans of his name anymore. Her body twisted and turned, but just like he asked, her eyes never left his for one single second.

As he embarrassing as it felt for him, Slash too was coming. He hadn’t been able to stop the insistent movement of his hips and as he clung to her body while she came, thick ropes of cum began to shoot out of him, coating his pants in the sticky substance.

That made him moan against her while she came down from her high, and the constant vibrations had her whining brokenly on the bed. He pulled his fingers and mouth from her as he rode his remaining high, moving his hips against the bed like a teenager who just came in his pants, cursing and groaning against Y/N’s thigh.

They were silent for a bit, recovering some air, until Y/N broke the silence. “You came didn’t you?” She smiled, running her nails against his scalp.

Slash got up from between her legs and moved to her side, laying with his head on her chest. “Let’s not talk about that alright?” He mumbled, embarrassed.

Y/N chuckled and continued the motions of her fingers. “I think it’s fucking hot…”

“Why would you think this his hot?” He asked, curiously, looking up at her.

“What, don’t you like it when I dry hump you on the couch when we’re at parties with the guys?” She raised her eyebrow, pulling one of his curls away from his eyes.

“Yeah. But that’s because you’re doing that where everyone can see you, that’s the thrill.” He explained.

“That means you didn’t like it when we did it two days ago when we came back from that party? It was just you and me in your bed and the guys weren’t even home.” She tilted her head to the side, looking down at him with a smirk.

“No… I did like it.” He mumbled, realizing her point. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only hot when you’re doing it.” He protested, laying back down on her chest and looking away from her.

Y/N laughed at his attitude. “I still think it’s hot that you could get that horny just from eating me out…”

Slash smiled though she didn’t see it. “It was more ‘cause of your moans. But that helped too.” He said honestly.

Y/N blushed at his words. They were both drifting off now that Slash was caressing her belly and so they pulled one of their blankets over themselves and continued to lay down.

——

Thank you so much for reading. Likes, reblogs, comments and any kind of way you show me you liked this are endlessly appreciated💛

Requests are open.

Let me know if you want to be tagged so you know when I post things.

Thanks @sodalitefully and @onlyaxlrose for beta-reading this💛

#slash #slash x reader #slash x you #slash smut #slash fanfic #slash imagine #saul hudson #saul hudson x reader #saul hudson x you #saul hudson smut #saul hudson imagine #saul hudson fanfic #guns n roses smut #guns n roses x reader #guns n roses #guns n roses x you #guns n roses imagine #guns n roses fanfic #guns n' roses #guns n' roses x reader #guns n' roses x you #guns n' roses smut #guns n' roses fanfic #guns n' roses imagine #gnr #gn'r #request

[kinglyhood]

Heaven

by Kinglyhood

Mood Board by @frickyouralmonds

Requested?: YES 

Description: Based on “Heaven” by Julia Michaels (You should listen as you read) from the 50 Shades Freed soundtrack. Requested by @calhood5sos; Bad boy!Calum takes away all the stress of your recent breakup.

Warning: Contains smut, 18+ only please.

Word Count: 2,616

listen here 

It’s automatic

It’s just what they do

They say “all good boys go to heaven”

But bad boys bring heaven to you

It was New Years Eve 2017, I’d been drug to this huge house party in LA. I hadn’t thought much of it when my friend invited me to tag along to his friend Ashton’s house party. Little did I know I’d be thrust into a world of searing passion, and freedom I’d never experienced before.

It was my first New Years being single in several years, you see I was fresh off a breakup. I’d been seeing it coming for awhile so I’d comes to terms with it ending, but the loneliness was palpable. I figured going out on NYE and actually having fun for once would do me some good. So, I went out and bought an amazing outfit, simple, but it did it’s job. Little black dresses never went out of style, paired with the one pair of Louboutin’s I owned (thanks to Beverly Hill’s thrift shops) and my signature red lip, I was ready to turn some heads.

I’d known Michael for awhile, we met through his girlfriend, but I had never met his band mates because my ex was incredibly jealous and more or less didn’t allow me to have male friends, especially if they were single. Of course I knew who they were, I didn’t live under a rock, I actually kinda liked their music, so I was looking forward to finally meeting them. Michael and Crystal picked me up on their way to the party, as I walked down the pathway from my town house to their car, Crystal rolled down the window and wolf whistled at me, “Oooo girl, you got a man?” 

I busted out laughing, “No ma’am I am single, and ready to mingle!” I threw my hands up and shook my hips for effect.

“You two are absolutely ridiculous,” Michael chuckled from the driver’s seat, “Now get in we’re already late!”

We pulled up to Ashton’s place around 11:30 PM, it was a duplex, and the party seemed to be spilling over into the other unit as well. As we walked up, Michael informed me that Ashton shared the duplex with their bassist Calum. People littered the driveway and front lawn, beer pong tables and chairs scattered about. We walked inside and were almost immediately greeted by a very inebriated Ashton, “HEY GUYSSS!” He threw his arms around Crystal and Michael’s necks, squeezing them into him, causing them to make pained faces, “Who’s your friend?” He gestured to me.

I held out my hand for him to shake, “Y/N.”

He let go of our friends, grabbed my hand and said, “We don’t shake hands around here babe, come here,��� and he pulled me into a hug, “I’m Ashton, but you can call me, Ash,” he finished with a wink. 

It was at this exact moment I felt someone’s eyes boring into my back, I peeked over my shoulder to see if I could find the culprit responsible for the goosebumps now covering my skin, and my gaze was met by the most intense brown eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. I recognized him immediately, it was Calum, the bassist, and holy shit did he look incredibly hot dressed in all black. Leather jacket, black skinny jeans, black t-shirt, a beanie and black boots. He had the complete “bad boy” vibe going for him and I was INSTANTLY attracted. 

He held my stare for what felt like ages before taking the last swig of the beer in his hand, setting it down and walking towards me and our group of mutual friends. My heart skipped a beat as he walked up to me, hand brushing mine as he settled next to me. 

I still remember the moment we met

The touch that he planted

The garden he left

He lifted my hand to his lips and placed a kiss to the back of it, I bit my lip in response, “Well hello gorgeous, I apologize for Michael’s rudeness for not introducing us sooner,” he quickly shot Michael a cocky smirk, Michael held up is hands in mock defense, as if to say, “my bad man.” 

 “I’m Calum,” he looked at me expectantly, still holding my hand.

“Y/n,” I said with as much sex appeal as I could muster. 

“Hey man, I saw her first!” Ashton said with a giggle.

Michael clapped his hands onto Ashton’s shoulders, “Come on man,” and led him away.

“You two have fun,” Crystal said suggestively with a sly smile. Ashton could be heard whining to Michael, “But she was so pretty.”

“Dude, trust me Cal has you beat here just give up,” Michael said to a disappointed Ashton. 

Calum and I both laughed awkwardly at the exchange we’d both just overheard. He was still holding my hand. 

“Can I get you a drink?” 

“Please,” I said with a laugh, as he led me into the kitchen where all the alcohol was stashed. 

“Pick your poison!” He said gesturing widely to the array of liquor bottles and mixers. I dug through the treasure trove until I found what I wanted, Jack Daniels and coke, I picked up the bottles and handed them to him, “Whiskey girl, huh? Mmm, yep. I like you already.” He smiled widely, his beautifully full lips framing his perfect teeth, I already found myself wanting to kiss them. He must have noticed me staring at his lips because he smirked as he passed me my drink.

“I think we should take a shot real quick, to celebrate,” he said as he poured us each a shot of whiskey.

“And what exactly are we celebrating?”

“Well New Years for one,” he raised an eyebrow to me, “And to new friends,” this time he shot me a wink.

“To new friends,” I held up my shot glass for him to cheers with me, he entangled our arms, clinked our glasses, and we took our shots. As we set down our shots glasses our bodies moved closer together so my chest was just barely pressed against his. I looked up to see him staring at my lips, I leaned into him further, his full lips were so inviting. The fact that I was a lightweight meant the one shot of whiskey was already coursing through my veins, liquid courage as they say, and I found myself kissing him. 

His hands quickly attached to my body, one on my hip slowly kneading into my ass, the other on my waist, both holding me to him tightly. 

“Well that sure was fast,” we broke apart to see Michael leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, smirking at us. 

“Fuck off, Michael,” Calum laughed as he took my hand and led me out to the backyard.

The backyard was surprisingly deserted, everyone had made their way inside to watch the ball drop and scream “Happy New Year!” with their friends as they kissed their significant others, or strangers.

“Hey everybody, it’s 5 minutes til midnight!” Ashton screamed, as he ironically began to blare the song “5 Minutes to Midnight” by Boys Like Girls.

As the song played, Calum and I sipped our drinks and shared a cigarette, the nicotine and the alcohol making my head swim. We were sat next to each other on a bench in a dimly lit corner, my legs crossed towards him, my ankle brushing slowly and repetitively against his. He took the last drag of our shared cigarette, flicked it aside and ran his hand up my thigh, just under the hem of my dress, caressing the naked flesh beneath. 

Everyone inside began counting down, “10, 9,” Calum pulled me closer to him, my legs now laid crossed his lap, “8, 7,” his left arm circled around my waist, “6, 5″ his right hand slowly worked it’s way up my thigh to my waist, to just below my breast, his thumb rubbing teasingly against my clothed nipple, “4, 3″ his large hand gripped my rib cage and pulled me even closer to him, “2, 1″ our lips collided, intensely. Shouts of “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” began to ring through the air. His tongue flicked at my bottom lip, asking permission to deepen the kiss, I obliged him and his tongue met mine in a passionate dance for dominance. The kiss grew very heated, his hands now kneading my breasts, I could feel his hard on begin to press into me through his tight jeans. 

He broke away first, seeing the flustered look on my face he laughed, “I think most everyone is here now that the ball’s dropped, my place is probably deserted,” He gently pushed me from his lap, standing and offering me his hand, “shall we?”

I took his hand and went to stand but before I could completely get up his left arm was around me, lifting me into his arms, and carrying me away as I shrieked in amusement, hitting him playfully on the chest. 

All wrapped in one he was so many sins

Would have done anything, everything for him

And if you ask me, I would do it again

He was right, his place was deserted. As soon as he was sure we were alone, he had me pressed against a wall, hands on the back of my thighs, motioning for me to jump so he could wrap my legs around his waist. His hard on was immediately pressed against my center, the skirt of my dress pushed up around my hips. 

“You are so fucking sexy,” he said seductively against my neck, the warmth of his breathe sending shivers down my spine, “I knew as soon as I saw you I had to have you.” His lips attached to the spot just below my ear, I let out a rattled moan, “Mmmm, I’m going to love hearing that sound.”

He gripped my ass, removing us from against the wall, leaning back slightly to support my weight and not break the contact between our bodies. He carried me down the hall and into his bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him. He forcefully laid me down on the bed, positioning himself between my legs as he did, reached up over his head and removed his shirt to reveal gorgeous brown skin, littered with tattoos. I let my hands wander over his torso, beckoning him to press his body against mine once again. He quickly undid his belt and pants and pushed them down along with his boxers. His marvelous erection now on full display, and boy was it impressive. 

He quickly grabbed his dick and positioned it against my still clothed slit, rubbing it teasingly up and down, “So wet for me already,” he purred as he felt how soaked I was, “this is going to be fun.” He stood and gestured for me to do the same, I followed suit. He motioned for me to turn around, as I did he began to unzip my dress, he pulled all my hair to one side of my neck gently, placing kisses down my neck and back as he released me from the confines of my dress. As he slipped the dress down over my ass, he knelt, kissing and nipping lightly at my backside, moving his right hand up to push lightly on my lower back, positioning me to be bent over the bed as he worked his way to my core, slowly pulling my panties down as he went.

My breath hitched in my throat as his tongue ran along my slit, reminding me that I hadn’t felt pleasure like this in a long time, maybe not ever. How could someone I’d only just met an hour ago have this affect on me? My thoughts were interrupted by his tongue entering me. A rather load moan escaped my lips as I clawed at the sheets. 

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he said as he removed his tongue from me, replacing it with his fingers as he once again placed wet kisses up my ass onto my back, goosebumps appearing as he blew his warm breath against the wet spots he left behind. God he really knew how to work me somehow.  “You want me to fuck you now, baby?” 

He curled his fingers inside of me, “Oh my god, yes,” I moaned, breathlessly. 

He quickly removed his fingers from me, leaving me feeling empty, as he reached over into his bedside table, pulled out a condom and slipped it on very skillfully. He lifted me by my hips so my ass was on full display up in the air, and positioned himself at my entrance, teasing me with his head. 

“Calum, please,” I moaned again.

“You got it, baby,” he slowly slid himself into me, giving me time to adjust to his rather impressive size, “Anything to make you say my name like that again.”

He began to rock slowly back and forth, building intensity teasingly slow, “Fuck, Cal,” I panted, his right hand was on my shoulder, using it as leverage to slam into me, he brought it around to my throat, applying light pressure and he lifted me up so my back was against his torso. He applied more pressure to my throat as he roughly slammed into me, releasing strangled moans from my throat. 

“Cal, I’m gonna-” he stopped abruptly, pulling out of me, and turning me around.

“Uh uh, princess, I want to see your face when I make you cum.”

He laid me back down on the bed, pulling me by my hips to the edge so my legs hung off, wrapping them around his waist as he once again pushed his way inside of me. He licked his thumb, and brought it down to circle around my clit, the combination of his incredible girth and his skillful working of my clit, quickly sent me over the edge. Back arching, toes curling, and what I can guarantee was the loudest I’d ever been, I came undone beneath him, practically screaming his name as he brought me to my high. 

As I began to feel my second orgasm building, I could tell he was close, he held my hips down so he could pound into me more forcefully. I clenched around him as my second orgasm hit, more intense than the last, I felt him twitch inside of me as we both screamed out in ecstasy. 

He slumped forward on top of me, panting heavily, his lips hovering over mine, I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. He leaned down and kissed me passionately, one hand coming up to cup my face. We laid like that for awhile, reveling in what we’d just done. 

I’m not a sinner, he wasn’t the one

Had no idea what we would become

There’s no regrets I just thought it was fun 

That night was the beginning of an incredibly passionate affair. It only lasted a few months before Calum had to leave for a world tour. We hadn’t ever talked about becoming serious, but we had fun and enjoyed each other’s company. We still see each other whenever he’s in town, often reminiscing on the night we met. I don’t think I’d ever had so much fun getting over a breakup. Thank God for New Years, and new “friends.” ;)

No need to imagine

‘Cause I know it’s true

They say “all good boys go to heaven”

But bad boys bring heaven to you

It’s automatic

It’s just what they do

They say “all good boys go to heaven”

But bad boys bring heaven to you

** Well there you have it! My first venture into smut... I hope it isn’t horrible lol let me know what you think, shoot me an Ask! Like/reblog if you enjoy!**

#calum hood #cth #ch #calum thomas hood #5sos smut #calum hood smut #calum hood au #calum hood imagine #5sos imagines #5sos au #calum hood x reader #calum hood blurbs #5sos blurbs #5sos fanfic #5 seconds of summer #cake #cashton #malum #lashton #ashton irwin #michael clifford #luke hemmings #calum au #ashton irwin x reader #5sos3 #ashton irwin au #luke hemmings x reader #ashton irwin imagines #luke hemmings au #michael clifford au

[fortunebuoyed]

“ i like you very much . i hope you know that. i still do like you very much . “ (for Dan the man // @caravaggiovagabond​

Spare the rod, spoil the dramatics.

Armand sold it beautifully, hypnotic voice dripping with the affection he claimed against his companion, the weight of his hand constant against Daniel’s weary head. It was like marble, fingers curled into ashen hair and letting the cold of those perfect digits settle against the human’s scalp. He took it, as gracefully as a man unkempt and half-drunk could.

So Armand wasn’t mad at him. He still hadn’t said anything about forgiveness.

There would be none, Daniel warned himself, no begging for absolution. The strange and beautiful creature on which he now relied was not holy enough to grant that, and Daniel was not sorry for having slipped the leash. Maybe, he thought from hindsight, it was a noose after all.

And maybe Armand didn’t think there was anything to forgive, like a boy simply happy to see his lost dog again. He wasn’t sure which thought was more insufferable, to be his pet who strayed or his pawn who had chosen to break the chain.

Something grasped at the folds of his brain, warm velvet ribbon twining through the grey matter. He summoned up the only defense he could, a Mobius strip of his comings and goings since escaping Armand. Warm sugar sand beaches, impossibly humid Southern nights, a blazing fire that invited others to dance and drink and make merry -- fire, he thought, Armand ought to like fire, he’s so reliant on it to get his way.

You’re going to be burnt, someone told him, the voice familiar but little more than radio static. Had it been his own thought, or Armand’s, or even his sister, whispering on the phone, come home, Danny, come on home.

He had to be drunk to come back here. But he smiled mirthlessly, buried his face against the black fabric that gripped Armand’s thighs. He sighed, trying to remember why he had run. Ah, but he had to try, had to prove to himself it was possibly. First, he had to know if he could escape this creature, the way he couldn’t when they were strangers. Second, he had to know if that creature would permit it.

When had his life become this?

“Wouldn’t be here if you didn’t,” he murmured, voice cracked for want of a drink. A little drink, yes, something to lift his spirits, to welcome him home. The night was still young, or had been when he had been dragged off of the street. He would need to keep up with his Master, and could not manage that in his present state.

His words settled in. Yes, that truth burrowed cold in the pit of his stomach, icy as his keeper’s grasp. They would not have met again if Armand didn’t like him. This is what you wanted, Daniel, and that thought might have been his own, or Armand’s, or Louis’.

“I won’t do it again,” he lied. “There’s nothing out there.”

#caravaggiovagabond #let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ] #alcohol //

[elizaxspears]

Prompt: mortal slingphries, with Alan introducing Eric to his parents. Alan's parents don't care much for Eric which upsets Alan. Eric then reassures Alan that he'll stay with him no matter what their parents think.

Hello Anon! Sorry this took a bit to get to, but being sick sucked out all energy I had. Anyhow, hopefully you enjoy this! 

The car sat idle on the side of the road, parked on the curb. The fingers on the wheel tight while he fought the urge to fidget. Beside him, his boyfriend of three years sat, concern etched on his face while he remained frozen in place. “Alan, are we gonna go ‘r jus’ sit here all night?”

Alan took two deep breaths then faced Eric, biting the corner of his bottom lip. “We can go, if you want. I mean, I can easily call them up and tell them you’re under the weather or something, or—”

Eric’s hand grabbed his own, peeling it off the steering wheel. “Alan, darlin’, wha’s wrong? ‘ve ne’er seen ye nervous like this before.”

Alan grasped Eric’s hand between his, taking another deep breath. “You’re about to meet my parents,” another breath, “and I’m scared what they’ll think of you.”

Admittedly, Eric understood he wasn’t the picture of a golden boy, but he liked to believe he had a welcoming, easy going personality to make up for that. “Hey, I might not make a good first impression, bu’ ‘m sure as hell gonna prove ‘m worth ya.”

That got a smile out of Alan, even if it was small and probably out of habit. “Just, promise me you won’t take anything they say to heart, alright?”

“Aye, I promise.” he lifted Alan’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “Sae, wanna get this evenin’ over with?”

Alan sighed, dropping his hand to shut off the engine, reclining back in the seat. “I guess. Now or never as they say…though I’d prefer never.”

Eric dared to ruffle Alan’s hair before getting out of the car. He stood there for a good minute before Alan joined him at his side. He held out his hand and Alan took it, entwining their fingers before Alan lead the way up to the front door. With a final deep breath to gather his nerves, he knocked on the door.

In mere seconds the door was opened and Alan was ripped from Eric into a tight hug by his mother. “Mum.” Alan wheezed when he was finally released, offering the elder lady a smile then nodded to his father. “Dad.”

“It’s been too long since you’ve been home for dinner.” his mother said. “I’ve missed my boy.”

“I’ve missed you too.” he then turned to introduce Eric. “And this is Eric, the man I’ve told you about.”

“Pleasure tae meet you two.” Eric said with the best, welcoming smile he could muster, eagerly thrusting out his hand.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been sized up by the parents of who he was currently dating, but the way Alan’s father's eyes scanned him from head to toe then almost reluctantly shaking his hand set him on edge. Alan even looked uncomfortable. “Pleasure.” the man said in a dry tone. He did have a strong grip, Eric could give the man that.

“Well, there’s no point standing out in the cold. Come in, come in. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

They filed into the home, jackets and shoes were removed and Eric followed behind Alan and his father into the living room, Alan still grasping to Eric’s hand. “So, you’re Eric Slingby, correct?” the man asked, sat on an armchair while Eric and Alan took the couch.

“Yes sir.” he grinned at Alan. “Hope he’s told ye good thin’s about me.”

“Some things have been questionable.”

Alan rolled his eyes. “They were just jokes, dad. Really, Eric’s a good guy.”

“I will see that when he proves it to me.”

“Well, I’d do anythin’ fer Alan.” Eric said. “‘m not gonna say I didn’t sleep around ‘fore, but ‘m truly committed to Alan. ‘ve never felt this way with anyone before.”

“And how many times have you used that line?”

“Never.”

“I’m sure.”

Alan bowed his head, tempted to drag Eric back to the car and home. “Then what do you do?”

Eric rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, well, ‘m a tattoo artist.” he gestured to the side of his neck where the start of one of his bigger tattoos showed. “Get a good discount working where I do.”

“I see you have plenty of those…things.”

Eric looked down at his arm, the sleeves rolled up revealing a ink covering his right forearm and disagreeing under his sleeves. A combination of celtic markings and flowers entwined around them. “I, ah, I actually got this one for Alan.”

“An entire arm for my son?”

“Well, it started small, but Eric wanted to go bigger.” Alan interjected.

Eric bit his lip right then and there. There was no way either of Alan’s parents would appreciate an innuendo joke. “I see.”

“Dinner.” came Alan’s mother from the kitchen.

Eric felt Alan’s father’s eyes on him as he stood. Part of him wanted nothing more then to prove visually how dedicated he was to Alan but the bigger part of him knew that would only end up getting him kicked out of the house.

What was, admittedly, a delicious dinner, it did nothing to erase the tension in the air. Alan sat next to him having barely touched his food while both Mr. and Mrs. Humphries stared him down as if he’d eat their son. “’s really good Mrs. Humphries.” Eric complimented. “Haven’t ‘ad a good meal like this since my own mum’s cooking.”

Mrs. Humphries tried to smile. “Thank you.”

Alan shifted next to him. “So, mum, dad, how have you two been? Haven’t spoken in person for awhile.”

“No, we haven’t. It is good to see you again, Alan.” Mrs. Humphries said. “And to finally meet your boyfriend.”

Eric looked at Alan then back to his mother. “’s a pleasure tae meet you two. Alan’s told me a lot about his childhood.”

“Has he? Well, I’m sure he hasn’t painted us as neglectful or anything.”

Eric shook his head. “No, no. Ye were good.”

Mr. Humphries huffed, sipping from his wine glass. “Alan, have you heard from Daniel at all?”

Alan flinched, dropping his fork on his plate; his food hardly touched. “No.”

“Mm. That’s a shame. He was a nice boy.”

“Yes, he was.”

Eric cocked an eyebrow. “Daniel…?”

“An ex who my parents won’t let go.” Alan replied in a hushed tone.

“Well he was good for you.” Mrs. Humphries said. “He had a good job and treated you like a King.”

“Yeah, well, things happened and I didn’t love him anymore. All he did was try to please me on every little problem. He literally had no personality besides agreeing.” he put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “We have arguments, we have disagreements, we get angry at each other but at the end of it all, we still care so much for each other and will respect what the other has to say. He was devoted to doing anything that made me happy regardless of what he thought or wanted. I didn’t want that, mum, dad.”

Mrs. Humphries frowned. “It’s a shame you think that Alan. He could have been good for you. Better for you then other men we’ve met.”

“Yes, I’m sure to you he would have been perfect.” Eric swore he could cut the tension with his knife. He wasn’t even sure this was about him anymore.

When dinner was done, they left on a rather somber tone. Alan didn’t look happy at all, his lips curled down, his brow furrowed. “I was hoping they’d forget him.” Alan finally said when they reached the car. “But they’re adamant on Daniel being ‘the one’.” he removed the keys from his pocket, handing it to Eric. “Can you drive? Please?”

“Of course.”

Eric rounded the car, settling into the drivers seat, Alan close behind in the passengers. The car ride home was just as tense as dinner; Alan constantly wringing his hands together. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Whenever Alan got like this, Eric would never push the brunette. If Alan wanted to talk, he would on his own time. There wasn’t a point trying to press the info out of him.

When they got home, Alan said nothing when exited the car. Eric followed Alan inside and once the door closed, he hugged him tight, kissing his temple. “Yer okay darling.” Alan was shaking a little, but he didn’t push Eric awake, but he didn’t return the hug either. “‘m here whenever ye need me, ye know that.” reluctantly he let Alan go. “‘m gonna have a shower then join ye in bed, alright?”

“Yeah.” It was almost robotically that Alan wandered toward their bedroom. Eric closed his eyes, took a moment, then headed for the washroom. The entire time he stayed in the shower, he kept berating himself for how tonight went. He was meant to make a good impression on Alan’s parents and he was sure they thought he was some sort of delinquent.

After the shower, he threw on some black pyjama pants and began walking out drying his hair. Dropping the towel around his neck when he was done with it, he paused at the bedroom door, hearing Alan. Curiosity got the better of him and he pressed his ear to the closed door. “I’m sorry tonight went this way, dad. I just…no, I understand. I didn’t help things either…are you two mad at me?…thank you, but, what about Eric?…oh…yes, I see. Alright. Goodnight dad and tell mum goodnight as well.”

Eric heard a beep then sigh. Waiting an extra second, he knocked. “Alan? Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Eric pushed open the door, finding Alan sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in his hand, head bowed. “Darling? Are you okay?”

Alan lifted his phone, waving it a bit. “I called mum and dad. They’re not mad at me for acting so standoffish, but…but they don’t…they don’t like…you.” He lifted his head then, tears glistening in his eyes. “They don’t approve of you.”

Eric was right next to Alan instantly, enfolding the brunette in his arms. This time, Alan didn’t reject. He hugged Eric back just as tightly. There were tears but not sobs, Eric rocked them back and forth. “Alan, I know ’s gotta be hard tae not have yer parents like me, but frankly, I dun care.” he whispered, “they can hate me fer all I care, but that’ll never stop me from loving you. Never. I love you, Alan, so much and nothin’ would ever change that. Nothing and no one. I love you, I love you, I love you. Never forget that.”

Alan breathed in Eric’s freshly clean sent, grasping harder to him. “I love you too.” he replied, wanting nothing more then to just sleep in Eric’s arms like this. “Please, do let go.”

“I won’t Alan. I won’t. They’ll ‘ave tae pry yer body from my arms tae get me to let go.”

Alan nuzzled against him, closing his eyes. “I’m so happy I have you.”

“Ye always will.” he kissed his hair, returning the affectionate nuzzle. “Always.”

#slingphries #alan humphries #eric slingby #black butler #kuroshitsuji #my writing #Anonymous

[balarouge]

Meltin’ with Sir Elton John: 50 years of music for a yellow brick farewell in Edmonton | Edmonton Journal

If Saturday night’s all right for fighting, surely there was some room Friday for an almost three-hour embrace from Sir Elton John?

The first of his two Edmonton Farewell Yellow Brick Road shows was a sequined spectacle of rock and roll history/fantasy, from the opening number Bennie and the Jets on, dazzling and sometimes melancholy, but above all gracious and inspiring, especially when the ever-seated John dipped into the highly personal, whether it was through anecdotes of life-saving sobriety or — the night’s musical highlight — he and his eternal songwriter Bernie Taupin’s Someone Saved My Life Tonight.

Elton John and his beard of sparkles. Larry Wong / Postmedia

Dressed in a twinkly glitter tuxedo that drew tiny fireflies on his neck through the night, the hits came quick, the band following the bumping and slightly raunchy All the Girls Love Alice with I Guess That’s Why The Call It the Blues.

On the giant, hyper-high-definition movie screen behind the show, you could see every one of John’s keys reflected in his amazing sparkle shades as he smiled, “We’re excited to be here; we’re ready to play, and we hope you like what you see and hear.”

And how. Noting, “It could have been the Chipmunks, I couldn’t have cared less,” he enthusiastically thanked Aretha Franklin for covering Border so early in he and Taupin’s career, injecting them with confidence. The video above showed young people with their heroes projected onto them, finishing with a family photo of John and his grandmother.

Next, guitarist and band leader Davey Johnstone pulled out the double-neck for the sinaglong Tiny Dancer, which demonstrated how effectively John has threaded into subsequent pop culture. That singalong moment in Almost Famous, 29 years after Tiny Dancer was released, still gives us the cue to belt it out in any public situation as soon as those first eight piano notes hit our ears. The accompanying video of hard times in L.A., complete with the Circus Liquor clown, was breathtaking. As was the production all night, really — from the sculpted frame of John’s accomplishments around the movie screen to the singer’s occasionally coasting-around on his Million Dollar Yamaha grand. He relied on the crowd for Dancer’s high-note chorus, which was just fine by the 17,000 or so, just on the edge of a sold out show.

More superb video behind Philadelphia Freedom, a freestyle dance-off fusing disco, hip-hop and an absolute rainbow of body movement genius dancers. Down on the stage in the real world, not one, not two, but three percussionists included the completely wild Ray Cooper going mad on the congas, Nigel Olsson grinning and singing along whenever the camera was pointed his way, and John Mahon helping hold it all together. Man, what a tight band, extra impressive in their frequent subtlety with just a tambourine slap here, a finger through the bar chimes there.

After the whirlwind, John described his writing process with Taupin where he’ll be handed a song on paper, and, “a little movie will start to appear in my mind,” which he then sets to music. They’ve been at for over 50 years, he noted.

Bennie there, done that. Larry Wong / Postmedia

Cooper and John were extra kinetic for the multi-part Indian Sunset, leading us into the obligatory concert space video, as recently seen for Judas Priest’s killer Take These Chains, speaking of fabulous queer icons with interstellar legacies. This trip to the cosmos was brought to us by Rocket Man, of course (one fan even in a spacesuit, stage right), with John bobbing his head throughout. This was followed by the upbeat Take Me to the Pilot, circling down into Sorry Seem to Be the Hardest Word.

What’s happening?!? Fish Griwkowsky / Postmedia

A Rick and Morty weird-level animation played behind the preposterously good Someone Saved My Life Tonight, Captain Fantastic wandering through an acid-scape of Hieronymus Bosch monsters, which led to another highlight, Levon. This one turned into a full-on jam highlighting each of the players in turn, Johnstone flirting with Day Tripper, John licking his lips like Rudy Giuliani — though without the brain-addled vampire vibe. This got the often-seated crowd up and dancing, and John walked around and flexed, looking extremely happy at the love.

Marilyn Monroe had Candle in the Wind sent her way, a layer of 1974 nostalgia upon an even older layer of Hollywood call-back, the footage of her posing and sometimes crying under layers of makeup and champagne extremely complicated to watch.

Then, a booming special-effects and smoke-machine thunderstorm brought in Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding, John changed into a silky, Asian flower print suit and amazing pink glasses.

Things got heated at Elton John Friday night. Fish Griwkowsky / Postmedia

Burn Down the Mission saw John’s piano lit on fire with more on-screen special effects, and after a war-and-surfers montage during Daniel, John got extra personal. “In 1991 I had an epiphany — I hated the way I lived my life. I reached for help and I got sober and I got clean.”

Having saved himself, he was in a better position to help others, including with the Elton John AIDS Foundation. “In 1992 it was a death sentence,” noting now, thanks to medical science, no one need die of HIV-related illness, and that it’s time we “stop the stupidity, stigma and hatred. It’s 2019, for Chissakes, wake up!” He also noted he doesn’t care who you vote for, he’s just here to entertain — though couldn’t resist, “I’m an optimist. In a few years we’ll get rid of the people that we need to get rid of.”

This fired John up for Believe, and a pleasant, sweaty Tom Selleck cabana vibe followed for Sad Songs (Say So Much).

Then John began to slowly say goodbye with style and grace: “This is the 50th year that I’ve been touring. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I will miss you guys.

But, “I have a family now and they need me and I need them. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me led into a raucous The Bitch Is Back, then I’m Still Standing, looking back at his impact on popular culture, including moments of South Park, The Simpsons, The Lion King and a moment squeezed in between but not actually showing the now Disney-owned The Muppets.

Speaking of which, Crocodile Rock was dedicated to his fans, and thus we did all the laa la-la-la-la-la singing of the chorus so John didn’t have to burst anything.

The mighty Sir Elton. Larry Wong / Postmedia

A confetti explosive Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting ended after two and half hours of continuous music, and for the encore — John now in a green and pink smoking jacket with the most regular of tinted shades — Your Song summoned Ewan Macgregor belting it out to Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge.

Finally, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, the video showing off the singer’s former keyboard gymnastics, legs up in the air, meanwhile in Edmonton the piano taking one last roll across the stage (until Saturday night and all that fighting, of course).

Then, amazingly, 72-year-old John dropped his jacket to reveal a tracksuit, climbed onto a Gremlins-style assist-lift elevator and, waving goodbye as he rose up the ramp, disappeared into the wall for good. Timed perfectly, he was up on the screen, walking down the Yellow Brick Road one last time, which melted into a golden sunset.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how to make an exit.

Well done, Sir … with love.

All the Girls Love Alice

I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues

Rocket Man (I Think It’s Going to Be a Long, Long Time)

Take Me to the Pilot

Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

Someone Saved My Life Tonight

Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding

Sad Songs (Say So Much)

Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me

The Bitch Is Back

Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting

This content was originally published here.

[foursprouthappiness-blog]

The Hope That You Might Not Be As Lost As You Think

New Post has been published on http://foursprout.com/happiness/the-hope-that-you-might-not-be-as-lost-as-you-think/

The Hope That You Might Not Be As Lost As You Think

Nathan Anderson

No matter how hard I tried not to, I couldn’t keep my brain from wandering there. I thought about his body lying stiff on the cold floor. I thought about the pallor of his face and the vomit pooled inside of his mouth, a puddle traced around his head and down the cracked linoleum. The needle sticking out of his arm and the balloon of black tar sitting on the counter between calloused toothpaste and dried mouthwash. I think about his fiancée’s reaction to finding him lying on the ground. I wondered how many times she knocked on the door. How silent it went on the other end before the fear washed over her.

I lit up another Newport and imagined how many attempts it took for her petite frame to bust open the door. Her facial expression when her horror was confirmed. In one version in my head, she falls to her knees in histrionics, pushing her ear against a nonexistent heartbeat, shaking him, slapping him, holding his cold hand onto her stomach and telling him to feel it kicking. Telling him he needs to be there for it. In the version that I prefer, she waddles over to the toilet and sits over his corpse. She cries sullenly, dissonantly shuffling between the reality of her firstborn being raised without a father, but relieved with her high school sweetheart finally being at peace with his demons. A drug addled life, finally being put rest. Her fiancé no longer in pain with himself.

Christian and Mikey had already went out in search of the dealer that had the fatal batch. They wanted it. They needed it. After telling me Daniel had OD’d a few hours earlier, they sat around the coffee table trying to figure out possible situations. Was it cut with fentanyl? Can black tar even be cut with fentanyl? You think he did his normal amount? Regardless, they needed to test it out. Every dealer they contacted denied selling him the bag. The grieving period must’ve been extremely brief. A few minutes into the conversation and you wouldn’t even be able to tell that this was a good friend of theirs that just died. They left out of the apartment in jubilance, the thought of surpassing that virgin high more important than anything else.

I laid on the sofa that Mikey was temporarily sleeping on in Christian’s East Hollywood apartment, fingering a cigarette burn hole while these reveries rewound themselves and alternated. I felt a sickness in the pit of my stomach. I shifted on the couch to try to alleviate the pain, but it adjusted.

In a few days Daniel’s fiancée would be strolling through a Target, looking for something she’d never thought she’d have to buy: something black and formal and able to accentuate her bump. I squirmed thinking about how long it’d take her to pick out a dress for her unborn’s father’s funeral. I wondered if she’d cry in the dressing room, her mother caressing her half naked body.

The last time I saw Daniel he promised he was turning over a new leaf. He had a kid on the way and couldn’t continue on the way he’d been doing since high school. He vowed to get clean for the umpteenth and final time, so they celebrated by shooting up together one last time. I watched as the heroin dissolved in the spoon, turning from a soulless black chunk into a beautiful brown amber. Everybody else around him had already shot up and nodded off. I stared as he syringed it up through the cotton filter and pulled down his pants and started fingering around his groin area. He joked and applauded me for never jumping into this lifestyle.

“Look at this,” he chuckles. “You know, when I started out back in the day, I was just like you. I told myself a million times I’d never transfer over to this shit like…”-he nods his head towards Christian whose head is nodded into his chest-“over there. I was popping pills religiously because I felt like my life wasn’t shit. That I was a burden to everybody around me. Whenever you feel like you hit rock bottom, just know, you can always dig a little deeper.”

He shook his head with regret.

“Don’t ever let this happen to you,” he said, looking sternly into my soul. “Every single junkie you see crawling around LA thought they were the exception to the rule. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. They quickly came to realize that there aren’t any rules to this game.”

He sighs and continues searching.

“We can’t all burn out like Anthony Kiedis. Most of us just end up burning.”

When he finally registers in a vein, I can see a slight joy take over him. He shoots it up and his eyes lower.

“The company you keep…” he said in pallid tone. “You’ll never be any better than them.”

I was the only person up with him. I was the last person to see him as he fell into that warmth. I feel like I was the last person to ever truly see him alive.

After that, he disappeared for the following two months. Kicking it cold turkey. He didn’t call any of the guys. He sent Christian a text message saying he was clean a week, and then another one saying he was clean two weeks. And then they stopped. Maybe they felt betrayed. Treated like they were the burden. Maybe I didn’t realize then that a rehabilitated junkie meant the end of a camaraderie. Maybe while I was carrying on with my life and Daniel was getting clean, Christian had already mourned. Maybe Daniel had died two months ago.

When they come back two hours later, they’re already floating. I ask if they got their batch and they giggle like schoolgirls and plop down around me. Mikey tosses me a small, zipped bag including a Narcan kit-medication to reverse opioid overdose-and shows me how to use it in case one, or both, of them starts going pale. They begin to set up their shot, small-talking each other about coagulation and clogging and Cephalics. In another life they probably could’ve been doctors.

Christian looks eager and excited. These are the only times he looks like he enjoys life. I was beginning to see my reflection in him. Maybe I subconsciously started hanging out with him because I felt relieved that there was somebody more fucked up than I was. That there was somebody who had excavated past rock bottom and still seemed to have enough energy left to keep digging. This is the same guy who taught me to pop Benadryl and drink white grapefruit juice to potentiate my pain pills. This is the same guy who convinced me that cold water extractions were for squares.

“You’ll never be any better than them,” I hear Daniel’s phantom say over and over again as they begin nodding off to whatever sphere he stopped breathing in.

My face falls into my palms and I begin to cry. I don’t know why I’m crying, but I know it isn’t for Daniel and I know it isn’t for his fiancée or their bastard child. I know it’s not for Christian and his enabling habits or Micky and his uneventful presence, both of them emotionally barren. I cried for me. For the first time in a long time, I’ve finally realized the person that I could become. The person I was becoming. I look at both of them again, their ability to feel any emotion dulled way past any regular human capacity.

I’m nothing like them, I say, as if to convince myself, ignoring how delicious delusions can be. If I can cry, I’m not completely lost.

#Happiness

[foodarillo]

Hippy Dippy Trippy

I grew up in the 70s. My magical music memory year (see Daniel Levitin for more on that!) is 1972, pretty much about the time that I started noticing girls and puberty began its inevitable onset. We wore bell-bottomed pants and paisley headbands, and marched to the beat of a different drummer. It was a revolution founded on peace, love, and rock-n-roll.

My music was that of the post-Woodstock-yet-still-hippies era. CCR. Brewer and Shipley. Melanie. Jefferson Airplane (yes, they really were an airplane at one time). Steppenwolf. The Guess Who. And although my parents drew the line at letting me actually become a hippy and go to music festivals (I was only 13), they let me have my music.

They even acquiesced once in a while and let me listen to WLS in the car. Hallelujah for great parents.

I wound up becoming a prototype for the Alex P. Keaton character in Family Ties, voted Republican, and could quote Milton Friedman in heated economics debates. But my spirit animal has always been a long haired hippy. So while I may have never been able to actually become one when it was au courant, I have always been very sympathetic.

Which is why I felt so comfortable when we visited Yellow City Street Food. These are my peeps, even if I don’t look like them. Cue me some Deep Purple, please.

The first and most important thing customers will see upon entering is the chalk board listing the menu, which changes daily. The only way to know in advance is to check their Facebook page before you come. Read. Study. And know what you want.

We both opted for Chzburgers, Deanna’s of the carnivorous variety, mine of the veggie. Hers came topped with bacon and a little greenery, while mine came topped with only…um…a leaf of lettuce. I know. My choice, my crazy diet. Both of us ordered the Animal Fries (hers with bacon…again), an homage to fries at In-N-Out done “animal style” off the not-so-secret menu.

To wash it all down, Deanna chose Wandering Aengus Pear Cider, while I chose Coop Brewing Company’s F5 from OKC. We enjoyed bantering with a guy behind the counter, a friendly dude who epitomized the hippy vibe. He was extremely knowledgeable about what brews lay behind every tap handle, or inside the cans and bottles in the fridge. He generously served up a few samples.

If beer, cider, or wine are not to your liking for lunch (I prefer the German model for beer consumption…who needs a clock?), there are always Tractor Sodas, a line of delicious organic, non-GMO concoctions that offer a pleasing respite from popular sodas. But don’t be looking for anything mainstream…beer, soda, wine, or otherwise. This is counter-culture. You can do that at home if you must.

Our lunch was pure ecstasy for both of us. That was one of the best veggie burgers I have ever had (made onsite!), head and shoulders above the straight-out-of-the-box variety you get at Fuddrucker’s or Red Robin. I could see the veggies inside, magically all molded and held together into a fist-sized patty. And Deanna loved her burger as well. I didn’t hear any complaining coming from her direction. In fact, I didn’t hear much at all.

Which is to say that she was in love. With food. I just hope I can hold a candle to that burger, but the look on her face said I may have to work at it a bit.

It is a true delight to have a place like YCSF in Amarillo. They go against the flow (and for those who know me, this is my mantra). They are happy to accommodate any and all dietary needs and preferences, never once assuming that surely everyone wants the same homogeneous meal. Their craft beer selection (did I ever tell you I am a beer snob?) is great…not just that they have some, but the varietals themselves reflect their inventiveness and fascination with paddling upstream.

Because anyone can float downstream. YCSF is the antithesis of everything else you know in Amarillo. Feel the rhythm of the beat. Hear that drummer. And go up the country.

“Look what’s happening out in the streets. Got a revolution Got to revolution.”

Peace out.

Nick & Deanna

Would We Go Back: Over and over and over again. “I want to try the veggie burger next time” said Deanna. And this coming from a gal who makes faces at the thought of eating tofu. You go, girl. I may win you over yet. Maybe.

She tried a bite of mine, and practically swooned right there in the restaurant. At first I thought it was the Sauvage cologne I was wearing, but it was the burger. Again. Damn.

Price: $

Dress: Casual, although you will find everyone from hipsters to hip businesspeeps. It all works. Come together, yo. Right now.

Comments: Their new location is actually the original home of BL Bistro. After BL left to much larger digs, a series of restaurants came and went. In the real estate biz, the location had become a kiss of death. But YCSF has the legs on which not only to stand, but run. And you better run there, too, because this is a real gem out here in cowboy country. It’s Portland-Meets-The-Panhandle.

This place gets crowded, and they have limited serving hours for lunch and dinner (closed Sunday and Monday). The menu changes daily, and when they run out of something, it’s out. Period. On a return visit, we made the mistake of showing up a little before 2:00. They were preparing to close, and they were out of all things vegetarian. On a third visit with a pal, the food was amazing (I had the Dragon Tacos with tofu), but because we landed at precisely 12:00, we had to wait 30 minutes for our food. It’s worth the wait, though.

Come early to get a seat. We like to sit at the small bar…all three stools. You can get a glimpse of how it happens. Well, I mean the beer part. It’s all in the pour, you see.

But I digress. Just go there. Now.

#Amarillo #Texas #diners #restaurants

[fortunebuoyed]

@historypowered plotted for 𝔻𝕒𝕟𝕚𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕠𝕪.

Demetria,

You’ll never guess where I am.

(Or you will. The envelope gave it away, I’m sure. An ongoing failing of the postal service -- There’s no sense of surprise anymore. If you could just play along for this next bit, I’d be grateful. Ready?)

Paris.

Specifically, I’m a resident of the Athénée, in one of the Eiffel Suites. It’s a hell of a room with a hell of a view. Wish you could be here. It’s something to write home about. Which is why I am writing you rather than Mom or Annie, or something like that. Don’t tell them I said that, I needed to indulge with someone who’d get it before I turned to everyone back in Sacramento.

The whole series of events leading up to this is pure fantasy. Anyone who heard it would tell me I’ve walked into a horror story or a Dickensian romance, or maybe both. I’m surprised that’s not a screenplay yet. Coming this fall, it’s... David Copperfield: This Time He’s Got an Axe. I’m not one for comedy, you know that, but if there’s one thing the royalty checks have convinced me of, I’m a storyteller.

I was doing research after Interview. Why, I could not say. Was I already plotting a follow-up? Was I going to write the next great scholarly work delving into pop culture, expand the trail Florescu and McNally began with their Dracula tomes? All I know is this.

Louis made me pretentious.

Louis also had two things to his advantage: The gift of gab, and an encyclopedic knowledge of certain historical eras and tragedies. Bouncing around New Orleans has convinced me that I could never be a Southern man, and anyone who tries to live in the place is a dangerous type of crazy to brave that damp, oppressive heat. My visits did grant me a look at several records dating back to the 18th century, however, likely owing to my annoying all hell out of the archivist over four years rather than any personal charm. There was a de Pointe du Lac family in the region, all the names lining up just as Louis told me.

Then, because I am nothing if not a stupid, stupid man when I get the scent of a story, I decided to look into Lestat. Instead, I found Armand, just like Louis described him to me. A little shorter than I expected, maybe 4′10 if he applied himself, and more aggravating by leaps and bounds, but with the auburn curls and soft dark eyes I had been warned about. He found me in what I had been lead to be was Lestat’s resting place, perched like a bird ready to take flight. As it turns out, that was his aim all along. He knew my name, in spite of the pseudonym. I guess news travels fast in the Bloodsucker community. All these alleged Vampires, they’re very good at getting you to play along. He said he had an offer for me, and I said I had a job to do. We married the two.

Now I’m in Paris, realizing nobody knows where I’ve disappeared to. I plan to look into the Theatre Louis claims to have burned down, the one Armand was once running. At worst, I’m going to end up bloodless in a dumpster somewhere down a Parisian alley. At realistic worst, I have been kidnapped by someone’s history enthusiast child and taken him to another country. In the event of my arrest, please record the footage so I can view it once I get out in 3+ years.

At best, I’m going to get whatever information I need to line up the pieces. After that, I have no immediate plans in this country. The French are worse than you can possibly imagine, and I’m not keen to try and spend more time with them than I have to. For you, though, I will brave the masses. You said you were working on a project based in France, weren’t you? I’d be glad to do whatever research you need, if you’re still going ahead with it.

If my publisher calls, tell them the short version of what I told you: I’m doing research overseas. I sincerely owe you one, Demi.

Your Friend (And Future Unsolved Mystery,)  Daniel Molloy.

#historypowered #it got long w me trying to establish setting and stuff but you by no means have to match length! #he makes jokes for now bc he has no idea how bad it's gonna get. #let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ]

[fortunebuoyed]

Armand slapped a can of tuna onto the table in front of Daniel and then sat opposite him, as if waiting for the answer to a question he hadn't asked. // @sittimoranimiinterfectorem​

He’ll give Armand this -- He never has to wonder if he’s into something stupid. It’s not a question with the Vampire, but a mode of living. And oh, the boy-beauty was a savant in his field.

Daniel didn’t even glance up at the thud of metal on the oaken table. He kept his silence, scanning the paper before him for entertainment. That was another constant the immortal idiot insisted upon, the need to be stimulated every waking hour. Idly circling the advertisement for a hurdy gurdy performance -- whatever that was -- he sipped his coffee.

It was quite presumptuous of him to assume they would still be in Ontario tomorrow, but in the quiet moments, he liked to pretend he was still in control of his own life.

He couldn’t ignore Charlie Tuna staring through his soul anymore, though. With a cursory glance over his mug, he said nothing. His brain was already running away with the concept of what chaos Armand might create with only a can of tuna. God knew his boss wasn’t about to enlighten him until he’d glutted on stringing him along.

“Y’know,” Daniel began airily, setting down his mug and flipping to a new page in the paper. The Birds was showing later tonight. Absently, he thought of Louis, infinitely less stressful company than the Vampire he had chosen to give his affections.

“I’ve seen how you handle a blender. If you cram that in, whatever else you add to the crime, the smell is never going to get out.” Not that it would matter. Every new city called for a new blender. His boss was the savior of the appliance industry, hallowed be his fake id.

“And I’m not going to drink it. Tuna’s overdone. You can afford a nice shark fin smoothie, surely.”

#sittimoranimiinterfectorem #let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ]

[fortunebuoyed]

“Will you still love me when I am a spooky ghost?” to Daniel ofc.

soft. ll accepting.

He is dizzying, this lover of his. He rushes towards every living thing that crosses his path, a wild seed, trying to grasp the whole of the night between his slender hands. That red grin is infantile and sharp all at once in the face of challenges. When Daniel falls short, he is given nothing but a tug of the arm to pull him along, arm sockets and mercies be damned. He is a thing made to serve, life slipping from his control in these hours. There’s no room for softness when Armand is turned loose upon the city.

But now? This is not the city. This is a rented room, a port in the storm. Armand curls fan out against the worn denim jeans that Daniel wears, the whole of a cherub’s face exposed for examination. They are both too still on the bed, one sitting, one sprawled across the worn duvet. Under cheap fluorescent lights, he’s a painted corpse.

The deliberate patter of such ominous words doesn’t help the effect.

“Ten to one you outlive me.” Whose fault is that, he wonders, catching the thought between his teeth before it could do him any harm. Mortality runs strangely here, reflected in a once perfect face, surging in his own veins. 

“You’re not going to leave me.” On a less gentle face, it might have been sneered, cocksure. He’s not that kind of man. For all his emotions, he’s a man of facts. Once a reporter, always a reporter. 

Armand never leaves him. Daniel has to be the one to walk away, again and again, so Armand can make something right, so he can chastise and comfort in the same breath, so the two can play like they have any choice in this. You reflect the love you were given, and Armand’s all silver-lined glass.

You can’t even call it daddy issues. The thought’s too vulgar against whatever the Vampire learned in his time, between the cane and the kiss and the cemetery. 

Daniel doesn’t mean any of the snap in his words, the pitch black underpinning of his thoughts. He’s just too old to be playing the boy Odalisque. He’s too old to pretend that there’s another way this can end so long as Armand holds him back. 

Fingers trail down from the soft dip between Armand’s collarbones, disturbing the flowing fabric of his shirt. In the moment, he becomes the mortician considering the body, plotting where to cut. Something like a heart hums just under his touch, a nipple nudging against probing fingers that move ever southward. Are there butterflies here, in his stomach, or was he all hollowed out on the coroner’s table, leaving only a phantom pain in his chest that could be felt outside of his ribcage?

What killed you? What held you down and stitched you back together?

Turnabout is fair play, wry in his mouth. “Will you still love me, whatever kind of ghost I become?”

#asofterlove; #HEY IM SAD. #MORTAL DANIEL IS SAD. #carriestime #long post // #stop asking better questions [ DANIEL ; ASKS ] #let's hear it for rock bottom [ DANIEL ; WANDERING ]