//Since her birthday, Roxie and Cyrus have barely been communicating. After they had celebrated, talks of changing her had once again arose resulting in their traditional dispute. Only this time she has been staying in a hotel.
By the time dusk unfurls upon Última Bebida’s gabled roof, ornate onyx tendrils pouring like molasses through airbrushed slats, the venue is alive with activity. It bleeds through stained glass in a flourish of finely-tuned guitars and amplified castanets, the intricate figurines painted upon the woodwork seeming to grin, thrilled, as fanciful percussion spills out amidst the crisp springtime atmosphere.
Michael’s skin burns pleasantly as he guides his companions toward the large crimson doorways, familiarity striking against his ribcage like raw timber and sandalwood; a genetic link to a world he has never been allowed to fully submerge himself within.
“This, um.. Th-This looks really cool, M-Micah.” Jeremy grins, utterly breathless. Jake’s arms braid themselves around his boyfriend’s fluttering abdomen, his lips leaving crimson bouquets amidst stark goosebumps as they pave his skin in platinum.
“Yeah, dude. Looks capital ‘TH’ sick!” Rich’s tongue presses flush against the backs of his teeth, exaggerating his lisp considerably. His arms swing wildly from side to side, uncertain of where to place his boundless energy. Michael’s dark fingertips brush against his own with every fluctuation backwards, curling in search of something warm but never quite getting there.
Michael laughs, his thumb bracketing against rough denim in search of the moulded canister tucked safely away inside his pocket - a mere crutch, a safety net in case his lungs inflate beyond their capability. Every time Rich’s hand collides with his own, his skin unfathomably cool, he finds himself tiptoeing closer and closer to his ultimate, monumental downfall.
“Yeah, well I hope we all have a super thhick time tonig-”
A broad hand presses against Michael’s chest before they can enter the building. The entity stood before them, with muscles as grotesquely developed as dimebags stuffed underneath his discolored skin, and features rougher than sandpaper on soil, spares a second to look Michael up and down before scowling disapprovingly.
“I’m gonna need to see some sort of ID, fellas.”
All colour drains from Michael’s face. He certainly hadn’t planned for any impromptu carding, his fake ID hidden at the bottom of an inconspicuous paper bag along with shards of torn tissue paper and the empty blister packs which had once housed his new ‘companion.’
“Um…” Michael rasps, squeezing against his inhaler with a little more gusto. “I’m a friend of the owner? He invited me here personally.”
“Name?”
“Michael. Michael Mell.”
All at once, the bouncer’s expression softens into something more palatable. His brows diffuse upon his forehead and his arm extends into a recognized gesture of hospitality.
“Ah, yes, he’s been expecting you, Mell. Sorry about the inconvenience. Are they all with you?”
It’s a simple phrase, an effortless string of vowels and consonants, and yet the inflection of that mundane three-letter word is enough to make Michael’s eyes burn underneath his contacts. All. As in more than just he and Jeremy. The dynamic duo plus two - the questionable quintet.
He nods three times in rapid succession and wordlessly contemplates the sustainability of his eyeshadow in the wake of unexpected dewdrops contaminating his vision.
Their guide leads them to a beautiful, large booth situated just adjacent to the varnished dance floor. Plump cushions are swathed in emerald velvet, two vanilla-scented candles placed at the centre of the table crackling prettily within their scarlet tumblers, and a hand-illustrated note lays beside a single scarlet rose. The penmanship is an unmistakably crisp portrayal of calligraphy which invites Michael to have a wonderful evening.
“Holy shit, Mikey, you boning this guy?” Rich whistles, trying to keep poison ivy from belittling his tone. “Cos if you ain’t then you should. He’d probably buy you a yacht or somethin’!”
“Not boning, no. Though I think a yacht would look fabulous in my driveway. What ya think, Jer?”
Jeremy laughs breathlessly, sliding his body underneath airbrushed mahogany alongside Jake, who, in turn, returns Jeremy to his spacious embrace without a moment’s delay.
“Oh y-yeah, dude. N-Nothing says ‘go g-getter’ like a um… a grandiose y-yacht parked n-next to a sh-shitty little PT Cruiser.”
Michael opens his mouth to argue, tongue rolling against an unabridged declaration of love for his less-than-glamorous vehicle and all of those unique ticks and quirks which makes her so majestic, only to pause whenever Jake’s lips wrap around Jeremy’s earlobe. He’s reciting exquisite poetry against supple cartilage, his teeth punctuating every sentence until Jeremy himself has begun to sing.
It is a battle Michael has already lost.
And so, he chooses to slide in against Rich and his natural radiance. Rich slots his arm through Michael’s elbow in an action which could be deemed as nothing short of platonic but, fuck, if it doesn’t make Michael’s diaphragm flourish with the same intense rush of endorphins as slicing his nail through fragile plastic wrapping to retrieve his new game. Only this moment has no shelf-life, only visual gratification every time Michael’s fingertips find themselves wandering beneath the crease of his stomach.
“So you know the owner, huh? How fanshy~”
Michael’s eyes dart toward the feminine curvature of the salt-shaker taking centre-stage in the middle of the table and wills any and all colour away from his cheeks. Rich is just so handsome that it makes his jaw ache.
“Yeah, he’s a customer of mine. A cool dude.”
“A customer? Just what kind of things are you selling, young man?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Rich clasps his hands together, resting his chin upon mountainous knuckles and fluttering his lashes as though they were amber sails swallowing every tantalizing breeze. “I sure would!”
“Get a r-room!” Jeremy catcalls, his head rolling back to rest on Jake’s solid shoulder. His torso is a patchwork of dyed cotton and articulate fingertips, one hand blossoming upon his ribcage while the other autographs his collarbone.
The hypocrisy is tantalizing.
Michael’s tongue protrudes from his lips in a fluid, stabbing motion of pure petulence, but his hand extends across the table to link with Jeremy’s own. He squeezes Jeremy’s digits gently, affectionately, his thumb painting invisible heartbeats across candied veins.
“P-People are gonna l-look at us, um, f-funny. Think we’re in an o-orgy.”
“Wait, we’re not having an orgy?” Rich pouts. “I was promised a fun night!”
Michael reaches over to grab at one of the laminated menus held in place by monogrammed napkins. “I mean, I’d be down but I only wanna screw 2 people here, so…”
Jake lifts his head from Jeremy’s sweet, buttermilk throat to raise a disapproving eyebrow. He licks his lips as though to savor the very flavour of Jeremy’s skin, how it has been stippled in cologne and residual ash from freshly-rolled joints.
“Good. Feeling is mutual.”
Rich’s nostrils flare against a rather emphatic snort, his fingertips an inadequate partition around his lips as he turns toward Jeremy. “They definitely wanna fuck.”
“O-Oh for sure.”
Bouncing precariously upon narrow crimson heels, and with the folds of her skirt flouncing prettily in time with every decibel reverberating unequivocally from a camouflaged sound-system, a fair-faced waitress approaches their booth with a quartet of spicy-sweet margaritas, each with their own lemon wedge and an unnecessarily foreign parasol.
“Here you are, gentlemen!”
Michael watches, puzzled, as she divides the glasses between their modest group. “Oh, uh. I’m sorry, Miss, but we haven’t actually ordered anything, yet.”
She giggles politely, her fingertip worrying against the stylized ringlet plastered upon her brow. “Yes, I know, sweetheart. These are a gift from the owner!”
She gestures blindly behind her to the handsome figure tucked at the very back of the establishment. His narrow frame tilts at an obscure angle against the bar, cerulean eyes cutting acutely through a tapestry of unique bodies as they ooh and ahh over a myriad of extraterrestrial flavours, and he raises the large glass in his own hand as a sign of good will - a toast which has yet to pass between those narrow lips.
Michael grins, returning the gesture in kind, his lips glistening around a halo of himalayan salt as he allows himself to indulge on the sensation of caustic lime blistering his tongue and the tart counterpart of citrine liquer. The alcohol fizzles through the very synapses of his brain and instantly severs any sense he once held true - forever a lightweight when it comes to matters of an ethanol-related nature.
Jeremy is next to follow suit, his tongue pushing through a wave of ice and convoluted flavours.
But Rich does not drink. No, he’s simply staring across the table at Jake.
“Your friend is Atreyu?” Jake mumbles, using his thumbs to rotate his glass back and forth.
“Yeah! He sometimes gives me tattoos in exchange for weed. Why? You guys know him?”
“Nope, never heard of him.” Rich frowns, finally bringing his margarita to his lips after thoroughly surveying its contents.
-
Atreyu, as it turns out, is an exceptionally congenial host.
He had sent over another round of sharp, sacchariferous cocktails before they had even has the chance to finish their margaritas. Not long after that, they were being gifted a large heap of tortilla chips accompanied by a vast array of dips and sauces. There was even a complimentary shot of tequila with Michael’s name on it, a bonus donation for his role as guest of honour.
And, predictably, Michael had gotten trashed after a few measly mouthfuls of his inaugural concoction.
He scrapes a tortilla chip through a crisp line of guacamole and squeals in delight, teeth crunching against a fine smattering of seasalt, and smacks his lips in unrequited once he had polished the shard off.
“Esta mierda sabe tan bien!” He purrs, his body gravitating close to Rich’s side. “Eres tan guapo. Quiero lamerte.”
The sudden alteration in Michael’s vernacular leaves Rich thunderstruck. His eyes widen, a composition of dualtone oceans lapping hungrily against the sandstone shore of his cheekbones. “You speak Spanish?”
Michael tips himself down toward Rich’s mouth. “Síííííí~”
A mere millimeter separates their flesh, open-mouthed yearning heightened considerably by the scent of Michael’s blood rippling betwixt his watercolour veins. What he wouldn’t give to press his teeth in against his pulse, find a juncture of buttermilk skin to claim as his own, and play the boy as though he were wind-chimes left bashful from summer’s lingering caress.
But before he can act upon his voracious cravings, the pulsating music pouring through invisible speakers shifts into something new, an abrupt cacophony of drums and cadence and complex guitar riffs that has Michael leaping up onto his feet in utmost excitement.
“Holy shit, dude, I love this song!” He grins, clicking his fingers to the beat. “Come dance with me?”
Dipping his finger into a pool of marinated tomatoes and swirling it around, Rich shakes his head. “I appreciate the offer, but nobody wants to see my white ass pretending to have rhythm.” He pops his digit inside his mouth to suck it clean, wrapping his tongue over his knuckle and savouring the flavour as though it were the very plasma he finds himself lusting after.
“Oh, come on! Pleeeease?”
“Maybe in a little bit, dude. Go have fun.”
Michael’s lower lip unravels across his chin and fuck does Rich want to lick against him until he can taste summer upon that precious pout; pitted cherries and butterscotch icecream.
“Hey, Jer, do you wanna dan-”
Jake’s lips push across his boyfriend’s smooth, alabaster skin with a sense of urgency, moist tongue circling the sensitive patch of nerve-endings which illuminate his pulse. Jeremy mewls with every expressive brushstroke, and his fingertips tear miniscule holes inside his napkin from how tightly he grabs against the table.
Michael’s lashes crimp in mild annoyance, but he doesn’t dwell on the sensation for particularly long. Insead he ensnares his fingertips around his glass and brings it up toward his lips, polishing off what remains of his sangria.
With a newfound sense of galvanized vitality, Michael’s hips careen from side to side as he takes to the dance floor. He gravitates toward its centre, a polychromatic moth hypnotized by dynamic incandescence. His hand draws upward, dragging vertically from the centre of his belt across and across onyx buttons to rest upon his own throat, thumbs hooked into sugar-spun plastic to withdraw his choker and snap it back into place.
He moans in masochistic bliss, but the sound quickly dissolves when he stirs his pelvis in tandem with a husky vocabulary and a beat which plays to his mislaid heritage. His hands hover above his head, lock themselves in place, his body swivelling from side to side every time Carlos Santana’s digits caress individually woven strings.
Tipping his head back, Michael brings his hands once more to the hem of his shirt. He elevates the material in a slow, deliberate motion, flashing his sweat-slicked mocha skin to the entire restaurant. And still his hips roll; pure, unadulterated calligraphy often concealed by crimson and an uprising of anxiety.
Unsurprisingly, Jeremy’s focus has shifted from the earth-shattering sensation of Jake’s torturous incisors into the vision of his boyfriend owning the entire dancefloor. His orbiting hips are nothing short of celestial - claiming the beat with every fluid undulation.
With all of the grace of a famished feline, Michael glosses a fingertip down Rich’s structured mandible to rest upon his pronounced pout. He dusts away a few stray crumbs which glitter upon his lower lip and Rich has to really concentrate on centering himself lest he pull that callous-roughened pointer straight into his mouth; oral fixation at it’s finest.
“Holy shit!” Rich breathes, the contours of his own pelvis beginning to quiver and quake. He pulls against his cargo shorts to readjust himself, his packer slick from his own arousal and falling out of alignment.
Jeremy giggles. “I-I think Rich has a um… a boner, don’t y-you?”
However, when Jeremy tilts his head backwards to glance at Jake his lover’s attention is directed somewhere else. His pupils are dilated, periwinkle skies lost to the captivating toxicity of a solar eclipse, and his mouth quivers in perfect unison with his short, shallow breaths.
Jeremy can barely contain his exuberant delight, pressing a stream of kisses along the underside of Jake’s impossibly taut jawline. “He’s really sexy, isn’t he?”
Jake nods, his fingertips flexing against the silken grooves of Jeremy’s airbrushed abdomen.
Michael’s performance comes to an end far too quickly. At least, that’s the unanimous consensus for everyone at his table.
He brushes his hands through an abundance of slick, curlicue ringlets and recalibrates the orientation of his shirt. There is an insurgency of power radiating inside of his sternum, primal, a sensation more extraordinary than a fresh hit of opiates infiltrating his bloodstream. He drapes himself down beside Rich with a happy little chirrup of accomplishment.
His palms brush over amaranth cheeks, thumbs dancing across a small bouquet of freckles peppered just underneath Rich’s twinkling eyes, and he pulls their mouths together to kiss him feverishly. Finally. Finally!
Rich tastes sharp, an aromatic combination of red wine and orange liqueur. Rich tastes sweet too, like sugar water and candy apples and every indulgent treat he has been fortunate to savour over his lifetime. But above all else he tastes like Rich.
And then they part once more.
Michael’s teeth clinking against an empty glass, his tongue curling toward the flavourful cubes beginning to thaw at the very bottom.
“Th-That was awesome, Micha!” Jeremy coos, his hand brushing over the back of Michael’s hand. “Y-You um.. Y-you looked so h-hot out there.”
“Whas I… Smooth?”
“Like b-butter, baby.” He pushes his elbow in toward Jake’s torso. “Jake c-couldn’t keep his eyes um... O-off of you!
Michael’s brow twitches upon his forehead as he regards Jake.
Jake shrugs, completely unashamed. “What can I say? I’m a hips and ass man.”
He presses his palms in against Jeremy’s pelvis and squeezes for good measure. Jeremy squeals in delight, his head resting once more across Jake’s chest.
“So the orgy is back on the table?” Rich grins, his cheeks stippled in crimson from the heat of Michael’s kiss.
// In most universes, including the vampire AU, Jake’s first homosexual experience was with a boy named Elijah. It was a three-day affair that completely rocked Jake’s world. He still thinks about him to this day.
In fact, just five minutes ago he posted a video of him attempting the Oh Nanana dance. And by attempting I mean nailing with a surprising amount of expertise. He may be a smol chubby boi but he can move. It’s one of the few things he likes about himself.
And if it happens to earn him any special attention then that’s just a bonus.
It has taken some time but finally Daniella’s features have begun to heal from their assault. The plum bruises and stark scarlet gashes which littered her features have flecked away with minimum scarification. And although her right eye remains lidded as she fights to reinstate her vision, she can finally conceal her assault underneath a film of makeup.
Still, there’s a small part of her which wonders if Derby is looking for her. Or worse - maybe her stepbrother doesn’t actually care about her at all.
// Michael decides, through a restless brain fogged over by fruit and rum, to stumble toward the karaoke stage. He has watched Rich curl close to his boyfriend’s hip for far too long and the little tipsy devil planted on Michael’s shoulder encourages him to make his point known.
There is plenty of pointing. Gyrating. Hip-spinning. And he replaces ‘you shout out Chris’ with ‘you shout for this’ and pointing at himself.
He thinks it comes across as strict and imposing, washing his hands of the nameless relationship budding between the two of them.
Without a doubt, Michael got fucked twice as hard yesterday. To make him forget about Rich. To remind him of who he belongs to. To keep him from thinking of ending their little arrangement. He’s struggling to walk as a result.
Logically, Michael knew he wouldn’t have a chance with Rich Goranski. He’s too handsome and too funny and really the fact they have been spending more time together. He tries to tell himself that maybe Rich really did enjoy his company and it wasn’t just for Jeremy’s sake.
But apparently Rich wasn’t flirting. Because apparently he has a boyfriend.
Michael is so unbelievably anxious about his own inadequacies that he struggles to let Rich see the real him. Because Rich is handsome and energetic and he sings along to the music louder than Michael does. And his taste in alcohol is exquisite. He tries to flirt as effectively as he can before his fear of falling takes over; touching Rich a little too much before devolving into his defensive nature. A little mean. A little bitchy.
And then ‘Temperature’ comes on. And the pina coladas in his stomach has him flowing onto the dancefloor. He doesn’t quite drag Rich with him but he does give him a show.
Being an open, adventurous and wholly hormonal couple, Lee and Tony have something of a chart based on what species make the most incredible partners in the bedroom. So far they have been thrilled by faeries and, tempted by humans and curious about vampires.
Michael is not jealous. He is absolutely, unbelievably, incredibly un-jealous. Absolutely. The fact that his best friend is talking about sitting on the face of his unrequited crush is just fine. They’d be hot together. Absolutely delicious. And he’s not. jealous. at. all.
A glimpse into the past: Jake Dillinger (part two)
Something’s wrong. Jake can feel it, an innate violation, crawling underneath his skin like bulbous maggots. They are wriggling acutely, burrowing through meaningless tissue and chewing at his most useless parts until he has been left faulty. Hollow. Something putrid lingers in the air, rotting moss and gasoline, drawing Jake in like a visionless moth to flame. His chest feels as though it has been cracked open and ripped apart by greedy talons; soupy insides pulverized beyond recognition.
Currently, Michael has never felt more like an impulsive virgin. Because Rich smells incredible. And his eyes seem to glow that bit brighter underneath the moonlight. And he doesn’t judge him for the large noodles stuffed into his mouth.
And, fuck, he thinks Michael is funny. Or maybe that’s pity.
Michael is attending a fancy dress party at the gay bar tonight. He wasn't exactly invited but he figures, hey, he'll mingle. He might meet his soulmate. No one will notice a chubby mixed race Britney spears anyway.
