[ Naive. Selfish. Both, perhaps. But he wouldn't be alone in wanting it to be that way, for the both of them. Wishing for something better. Brighter days. The simplicity of warm sunshine. ]
i think i’m banned from f&b after blowing it as hospo director
[ he had never seen giles’ eyebrow twitch before that. thought the guy came straight outta madame tussaud’s. ]
cleaning or something? to start
[ having never held down a job in his life, he feels less than optimistic about anything sticking. nevermind his instinct to reject matches, no matter the cost. ]
There's a patron who has requested me three times so far this week. I've run out of chances to decline without receiving further punishment. Whoever this patron is, they enjoy watching me as I'm forced to eat human food. I don't imagine the treatment will be any better elsewhere, but at least this way I can offer some shelter with the place I've been given. At least what I'm made to do can mean something, even if it is as small as allowing someone I care about to lie down for half an hour without any expectations on his body or mind.
his stomach churns and churns and churns. he’s in his bathroom before he can think. plenty quick, without his superhuman speed. plenty weak, even when he had the strength of a god.
he struggles to see what armand does, those small victories too meagre to sate his terrible despair (not gone with the void, just neutered). gold isn’t good — isn’t safe. it’s fucking nothing, when they can’t protect or promote anyone out of this pyramid scheme. it’s bullshit. it’s pointless. it’s the reason the power within started going haywire, gearing up to explode.
[ And if it does, at least it's happening to someone else. Someone who isn't Armand or Amadeo or even Arun. Someone who can choke down food that tastes like chalk and paste, until his stomach aches and he vomits onto the floor. Someone who can fuck strangers and touch himself on camera for anonymous audiences, who can sit like a caged bird in a golden room while his friends starve in the basement. Someone who can look aside and hold in his claws. Someone else. Someone else. ]
cw refs to abuse but we’re on the way out i promise
[ one way or another. the house will change again — or escalate like it had at the commune, and maybe people will fight back. will stop telling him he should play along, because they dont know any better.
(because they don’t know it doesn’t matter if you stacked the dishes right or you left one in the washer, if you stayed quiet or spoke up when someone just wanted to hurt you; all routes lead to the same end, in a house like this.)
but he won’t forget any of it, even if everyone else does. ]
do they let you have what you need outside of the requests?
[ In case their phones are being monitored; less likely that they can read their thoughts. Armand reaches out gently, skimming light along the surface of Bob's mind. Soft, resonant affection. ]
[ with his back tilted against the bathroom counter (smaller now for four than it’d been for three, nicer than any hostel or outright shithole he stayed in, before that), he stiffens, then softens. on edge, in this surveillance state. ]
Armand.
[ — perhaps bob won’t even have to tell him, now that he’s here. the bright, pulsing power in his skull dulled to a thrum. still there, just out of reach. the shadows locked away tighter than he can manage, on his own. ]
They really didn’t like me turning out the lights.
[ There's a difference, though it's less in the sensation of power withheld and more in the steady beat of Bob's heart. Blood moving slow and stable, an edge-of-awareness ache in the limbs, a tired body. Sensations Armand is more used to exploring through the bodies of average mortals. Last felt in Bob in the commune, when he'd snapped his arm like a twig.
Fragile. Imperfect. Human.
The implications are horrifying -- have always been horrifying. How powerful they must be to be able to strip away such strength. Their benevolent masters with their thumb on the nuclear button.
A complicated sympathy: ]
You're free of them. How does it feel?
Edited (forgor the question) 2026-02-17 20:49 (UTC)
[ if not silent. that voice has always been there. the call of the void, a familiar thing, even before it became a place, a face. ]
Weird.
[ more so than the commune, since he’s been trying to understand it, control it, embrace it. not quite the agony someone like stephen or wanda feels, when they view their power as an extension of themselves.
perhaps if he’d been of use to anyone as the golden god, he’d feel greater distress at losing access to at least one half of his abilities. but he hasn’t helped anyone, has he? his barking won’t stop saber from killing maids, or protect ani against his fuck-ups, all the power of a million suns, and he can’t break them out of the balfours’ grasp.
the other side has only caused pain. and yet — he almost misses it more. last heard it echo in the coffins, when the manor was running interference on his senses. i won’t let you die. a promise. a threat. ]
Can’t tell if I have a hangover from being human or the last five months.
[ He's not surprised; Armand's own return to humanity and his eternally failing body had been painful and exhausting, the period on the sentence of his life unexpectedly swapped for a comma. Bob has been a clenched fist for so long, it must feel strange to relax.
Then, because it feels like someone should say it, though they likely won't: ]
I'm sorry.
[ For the ransacking of his body if nothing else. The violation in being changed without your permission, even if it's for the better. ]
[ how strange, to hear those words. stranger still to appreciate them, when he told the anonymous network poster that he’d get rid of it all, if he could.
wish, granted. ]
Thanks.
[ … ]
I’m sorry you have to go through this bullshit again.
[ and still hold it together, somehow. something about age and wisdom or vampires and distance or just armand. ]
[ Careful of bruised edges and fragile floorboards in the attic room, a sensation of a hand smoothing down over a bowed head. A brow pressed against a temple. Shared breath. Inhale, exhale.
Heartbeat like the steady rush of traffic, like a tide that draws you home. ]
Come to me tomorrow. Or whenever you can. Lie with me for a little while. That would make it better.
[ armand’s presence washes over him, flows through him, summer sea warm. with it, the tension in his broad shoulders eases, spine still curved over the sink, eyes still set upon his hands, his fraying cuticles. ]
I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll stay tomorrow.
[ as long as they let him. perhaps even if they call him elsewhere. he isn’t in the habit of obedience. ]
[ longer each time they’re together, it seems. traces that linger beyond their physical togetherness.
like this: the attic still has armand’s record player, needle hovering in wait.
and when tomorrow comes, bob rises too early, at once exhausted and wired, alert to the new-oldness of his body. he knocks on armand’s door when the light has only just begun blooming outside, sun not yet risen. quick to wrap his arms around armand’s middle, though no longer split-second fast (lacking the oomph of all that strength and energy). he buries his face in armand’s hair and breathes deep. ]
[ Affirmation like a beacon. A long time. Yes. Something to hold onto as the evening draws in and night begins; their captors have discovered the advantages to having a subject who doesn't need to sleep, and there are long hours to fill with content before dawn arrives.
He's freshly showered, bruises faded, when Bob's presence resolves itself outside his door; he's pulling it open before he has a chance to knock, accepting him into his arms. Closing the door again behind him for all the privacy it gives them, so he can hold him close, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his middle, feeling the thud of a mortal heart against his own chest. Warm and strong and precious. He strokes Bob's hair and closes his eyes. Hums soft, tender nonsense for as long as he needs -- as long as they both need it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
A new assignment?
no subject
guess they finally got tired of me fucking up every gold gig
and putting the lights on the fritz
[ it was an accident ok get him a thunder vest next time ? ]
no subject
[ Someone get his emotional support dog an emotional support dog. ]
no subject
i wasn’t really gold material in the first place
[ must have been an admin error. ]
no subject
no subject
[ he had never seen giles’ eyebrow twitch before that. thought the guy came straight outta madame tussaud’s. ]
cleaning or something? to start
[ having never held down a job in his life, he feels less than optimistic about anything sticking. nevermind his instinct to reject matches, no matter the cost. ]
no subject
no subject
you probably shouldn’t try to bail out the fuck-up, if you wanna stay where you are
cw: forced eating
vague emeto / suicidal ideation
his stomach churns and churns and churns. he’s in his bathroom before he can think. plenty quick, without his superhuman speed. plenty weak, even when he had the strength of a god.
he struggles to see what armand does, those small victories too meagre to sate his terrible despair (not gone with the void, just neutered). gold isn’t good — isn’t safe. it’s fucking nothing, when they can’t protect or promote anyone out of this pyramid scheme. it’s bullshit. it’s pointless. it’s the reason the power within started going haywire, gearing up to explode.
and now that’s nothing, too. ]
i’m sorry
you can request me
[ again, ]
i’m sorry
cw: dissociation, emeto, forced eating
[ And if it does, at least it's happening to someone else. Someone who isn't Armand or Amadeo or even Arun. Someone who can choke down food that tastes like chalk and paste, until his stomach aches and he vomits onto the floor. Someone who can fuck strangers and touch himself on camera for anonymous audiences, who can sit like a caged bird in a golden room while his friends starve in the basement. Someone who can look aside and hold in his claws. Someone else. Someone else. ]
cw refs to abuse but we’re on the way out i promise
[ one way or another. the house will change again — or escalate like it had at the commune, and maybe people will fight back. will stop telling him he should play along, because they dont know any better.
(because they don’t know it doesn’t matter if you stacked the dishes right or you left one in the washer, if you stayed quiet or spoke up when someone just wanted to hurt you; all routes lead to the same end, in a house like this.)
but he won’t forget any of it, even if everyone else does. ]
do they let you have what you need outside of the requests?
marge simpson kids can you lighten up dot jpeg
no subject
[ the bare minimum. ]
um
something else happened
but if i tell you, you can’t tell anybody
[ hence saying it here, now, not on camera, tomorrow. ]
no subject
[ In case their phones are being monitored; less likely that they can read their thoughts. Armand reaches out gently, skimming light along the surface of Bob's mind. Soft, resonant affection. ]
Bobby.
no subject
Armand.
[ — perhaps bob won’t even have to tell him, now that he’s here. the bright, pulsing power in his skull dulled to a thrum. still there, just out of reach. the shadows locked away tighter than he can manage, on his own. ]
They really didn’t like me turning out the lights.
no subject
Fragile. Imperfect. Human.
The implications are horrifying -- have always been horrifying. How powerful they must be to be able to strip away such strength. Their benevolent masters with their thumb on the nuclear button.
A complicated sympathy: ]
You're free of them. How does it feel?
no subject
[ if not silent. that voice has always been there. the call of the void, a familiar thing, even before it became a place, a face. ]
Weird.
[ more so than the commune, since he’s been trying to understand it, control it, embrace it. not quite the agony someone like stephen or wanda feels, when they view their power as an extension of themselves.
perhaps if he’d been of use to anyone as the golden god, he’d feel greater distress at losing access to at least one half of his abilities. but he hasn’t helped anyone, has he? his barking won’t stop saber from killing maids, or protect ani against his fuck-ups, all the power of a million suns, and he can’t break them out of the balfours’ grasp.
the other side has only caused pain. and yet — he almost misses it more. last heard it echo in the coffins, when the manor was running interference on his senses. i won’t let you die. a promise. a threat. ]
Can’t tell if I have a hangover from being human or the last five months.
[ it’s probably both. ]
no subject
Both.
[ He's not surprised; Armand's own return to humanity and his eternally failing body had been painful and exhausting, the period on the sentence of his life unexpectedly swapped for a comma. Bob has been a clenched fist for so long, it must feel strange to relax.
Then, because it feels like someone should say it, though they likely won't: ]
I'm sorry.
[ For the ransacking of his body if nothing else. The violation in being changed without your permission, even if it's for the better. ]
no subject
wish, granted. ]
Thanks.
[ … ]
I’m sorry you have to go through this bullshit again.
[ and still hold it together, somehow. something about age and wisdom or vampires and distance or just armand. ]
I wish I could make it better.
no subject
Heartbeat like the steady rush of traffic, like a tide that draws you home. ]
Come to me tomorrow. Or whenever you can. Lie with me for a little while. That would make it better.
no subject
I’ll come tomorrow. I’ll stay tomorrow.
[ as long as they let him. perhaps even if they call him elsewhere. he isn’t in the habit of obedience. ]
no subject
[ He'll find a way to explain it, or not. There's not much else he cares about as much as this. ]
no subject
[ longer each time they’re together, it seems. traces that linger beyond their physical togetherness.
like this: the attic still has armand’s record player, needle hovering in wait.
and when tomorrow comes, bob rises too early, at once exhausted and wired, alert to the new-oldness of his body. he knocks on armand’s door when the light has only just begun blooming outside, sun not yet risen. quick to wrap his arms around armand’s middle, though no longer split-second fast (lacking the oomph of all that strength and energy). he buries his face in armand’s hair and breathes deep. ]
no subject
He's freshly showered, bruises faded, when Bob's presence resolves itself outside his door; he's pulling it open before he has a chance to knock, accepting him into his arms. Closing the door again behind him for all the privacy it gives them, so he can hold him close, one arm around his shoulders and the other around his middle, feeling the thud of a mortal heart against his own chest. Warm and strong and precious. He strokes Bob's hair and closes his eyes. Hums soft, tender nonsense for as long as he needs -- as long as they both need it. ]