that ass fat senorita

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

The city had changed in the decades he’d been absent. The minute shift between the smog of pollution then and now, car horns and the blinding headlights. Hit and runs and cameras capturing your license plate faster than you can blink— If they happen to be working of course.

The scent of cooked meat in the air hasn’t changed much either , even since his time. Spices mingling with smoke, the sound of sizzling, dripping grease. If he closes his eyes and ears [and speaks no evil, too] he can pretend, maybe for a second, that Ricardo is beside him, the other boys far ahead, their laughter and jingling coins waiting for him to join them in the summer sunlight.

A horn blares, golden eyes snap open in the middle of the street, and Armand launches out of traffic before the second eager horn can begin. Maybe it hadn’t been a man but something else, it’d moved so fast, the driver would think.

What is familiar is the prowl. He’s been here two days already, not quite enough time to re-familiarize himself with past haunts, but just enough to discover a line of bars, and a bodega with an outdoor patio lined with rickety wooden furniture. His Bambi eyes scan the rather slim pickings, mind an open receiver for the evil and the damned, when a familiar shock of fluffy dark hair catches his attention.

And not only that, damningly, embarrassingly a second realization after— two of his own kind bracketing her on either side. Her cheeks flush with delight as well as alcohol, Lestat’s young assistant has been reeled into easy conversation with two of the similarly hungry dead. Italian, he notes, and the soothing familiarity of a language that feels like home doesn’t follow as they touch her shoulders and ruffle up her hair playfully.

They clock him as soon as he allows his presence known, stiffening shoulders and hardened faces. Not that their human prey has any idea, her giggles high and joyful, eyes crinkled and cheeks warmed by liquor. The woman is the eldest of the pair, perhaps 200 years in the blood— gorgeous and dark haired, green eyes pinning him as if he were a butterfly under glass and needles. The man, younger and less cautious than she, a mop of puffy curls flopping into his eyes as he takes Armand in.

‘We aren’t one for sharing, friend,’ he thinks pointedly, the hint of fang at the corner of his mouth. Testing, waiting to see who'll be forced to make the first move.

Though his face doesn't move a scant inch, irritation grows steadily beneath his cold veins.

Armand doesn't care what happens to one of Lestat's little human pets. What's one to another 8 billion? He could, and would, and has had thousands, millions with every sunset, in the air of twilight--

And then Li laughs, laughs to a joke perhaps she thought of herself, head thrown back, throat bared-- and three sets of eyes trace the shape, the soft hollow of the skin.

It's in that moment her laughter rings like the bells of a cathedral, and something rushes to the surface, nearly brims over, but Armand pushes it back, straightens his shoulders--

"Li, let's go home." Upturned palm, her eyes are drawn to it-- his hand must be very soft, she thinks, wonder if it's from all the lotion or all the lube.

Armand's eye twitches at exactly the moment their two guests snicker to each other. As one, they turn to Li and smother kisses across her cheeks, one sneaky one to the mouth, a deeper one to the-- okay, enough. The man gently pushes Li forward.

"Your prince is here for you. We'll see you again soon, petal."

She doesn't look back. Just takes Armand's hand, cold but soothing in hers, and doesn't let go.

'Be careful with her,' the woman sends to him, promptly ignored, but not unheeded. Li's steps are unsure, knees trembling slightly, and if she's chattering about something Armand hasn't heard a word. He doesn't release her hand, but does stoop before her.

"It'll be easier to carry your dead weight than to let it drag me around." A rather nice offer, if he does say so himself. Li goes through a strange cycle of emotions, and for a moment Armand wonders if she'll vomit--

But she coos instead, her lips stretched into a delighted grin.

"Awww, you're gonna carry me home, Armand?" She doesn't waste time clambering up on his back, elbow in his kidney, hair used as a reign, and after huffing and puffing she settles.

"You're so sweet....my little princeling...my cheeto puff..." Her nose tucked into the back of his hair, he smells like something warm and spring-like, a spring night where it's warm enough to cuddle under a jacket, and will he cuddle her in that jacket? But oh, she wants to strangle him, too--

She's flushed hot against his back, and tempting, tempting, tempting-- but Li awakens the next morning with a pounding head and a creamy jacket thrown over her lap. And stale tap-water.