markedfordeath



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    “Petra tou Romiou, huh? Didn’t figure you one for tourist traps,” Daniel offers into the night air.

    "They say that Venus, Aphrodite, whichever name you know her by, emerged from the sea foam here. She was never a baby, or a child, she emerged beautiful, with love and lust and desire following behind her,” Armand recounts.

    “Yeah, this is her rock we’re sitting on, apparently," Daniel agrees non-committedly. "Cut the bullshit, we need to talk.”

    Armand says nothing. Continues staring out at the ocean.

    “Look at me,” Daniel hisses.

    Armand turns to face him, and the breath is punched out of his chest.

    Seeing him again, in the flesh, beautiful and inhuman, Daniel is forced to remember that this is not just another story he has been chasing. There is no book at the end of this year's long line of inquiry, no documentary or Pulitzer-winning article. No professional detachment. There is just this—two monsters on a beach and a horrible amalgamation of emotions that fill Daniel’s rotted heart and scarred throat.

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    5/5
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    507
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    29 Jun 2026

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    There’s just something so pathetic about the way Armand looks right now—the way he’s writhing in the rubble, pained and lethargic, like he’s genuinely struggling to move. Part of Daniel wants to stay and see how this pans out. Of course, the guy has just proven himself to be a legendary liar, so the whole “wounded animal” shtick could be total bullshit. Daniel could be two seconds away from having his jugular ripped out. So, another part of Daniel, the smarter part—the part that’s causing his heart to race and the tremor in his right hand to intensify—is telling him to listen to Raglan James for once and run!

    But still, Armand really doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to pounce on Daniel and rip out his jugular. And the thing is… Daniel had another dream, the night he unearthed the horrors of Divisadero Street. Fragmented flashbacks. Nothing cohesive. Much like the ones he’d had of Armand tormenting him—although this one was perhaps even more unsettling.

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    28 Jun 2026

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    Armand picks up the bag and upends it over the bed; he picks out the antibiotics and deposits the eight boxes in Daniel’s lap.

    “What the fuck…”

    “These are all different — which ones seem best suited to your predicament?”

    “Predica— oh my god, man, you can’t be for real!”

    Armand frowns. “Daniel, please. This is serious.”

    “I mean… it’s really not.”

    “Blood poisoning is, in fact, extremely serious, beloved. Now please, tell me, which of these should you take?”

    “Uh, these are all pretty strong, I don’t need any of these.”

    “Yes, you do.”

    “It’s not healthy to take antibiotics for no reason!”

    Looks like Armand will have to crush the pills into his food.

     

    Or: Armand, the plagues and the wonders of medicine. And Daniel. So much Daniel.

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    26 Jun 2026

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    "I know what a breakup looks like," Daniel says. "The better question is, why are you coming to me about it? I'm the one who broke up your little sham."

    "This is what humans do, don't they?" Armand asks, letting his voice drop. "Crashing on their friends' couches when there's a blip in their romances?"

    "Except we're not friends. We're actually very much not friends." Daniel shrugs, as if it's all the same to him. "And I can't imagine the great vampire Armand deigning himself to sleep on my fucked-up sofa. That thing's been here since the nineties."

    "Well," Armand only says. "I saw you have a guest bedroom."

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    25 Jun 2026

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    “Marius,” Daniel interrupts. “That was your maker, right?”

    “Yes. Marius de Romanus.”

    “Out of all the names you could have gone with, you chose his?”

    *

    The combined efforts of a brand new air fryer and a certain Daniel Molloy force Armand to re-evaluate his feelings about the Maker he loved. A post-S2 fic about identity and abuse.

    Language:
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    Words:
    37,343
    Chapters:
    5/5
    Comments:
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    24 Jun 2026