1 - 20 of 82 Works by robokittens
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Mick's pulse rushed, and then slowed to match the sluggish beat of Josef's ancient heart. Josef might not be his sire in the ways that mattered, but the blood didn't know that.
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Rashid is finishing up the dishes from dinner when he hears the soft cry from his bedroom. It's just about dusk — around the time he starts thinking he should think about getting ready for bed, even though he knows he's not going to for hours yet; dinner was really more like lunch. It's also around the time Armand wakes up.
There's the noise from his room again, a pained-sounding little whimper. That's not a vampire vocalization; that's a human noise. A mimic of one. A lure. Armand woke up ready to play.
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He's deep down a JSTOR hole of real-work-avoidance when something … somethings. There's a flicker at the edge of his consciousness. A little spark, like when he's hit upon a connection, something to take him from Point A all the way to Point M. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, do figure out how to get in touch with a politician who'd probably rather do something extralegal than agree to speak with him. Like that, except there's nothing at the other end of the line. There's a tug on his little mental rope, and then it goes slack.
Then there's a knock on the door.
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Created for the Devil's Minion's Minions zine; written by robokittens with art by Lestats8groupie
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a collection of unrelated stories for loumand microfic week 2025
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Keeping count by robokittens for SheOfBadIdeas
Fandoms: Interview with the Vampire (TV 2022)
28 Jun 2025
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It's getting late. With every moment, it looks increasingly like Daniel will survive the night.
Series
- Part 2 of lock broken, wound open
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"I could tell it from your face even if I couldn't read your mind. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Is this what it was like about me, those early days? Were you driving everyone crazy with it, thinking nothing but Louis, Louis, Louis?" He says it casually, teasingly, but he's looking out at the crowd and Armand can't see his eyes. Sometimes he wonders if he taught Louis too well how to mask his own thoughts.
"No," he says immediately. "No, no, that was — that was love. Is love. This is …" He hesitates. "A fascination. Nothing more."
"A fascination, huh," Louis says.
Series
- Part 1 of lock broken, wound open
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Jess buys herself a beer; buys Lupe one too, since she'd been the one to do the inviting. It's only polite.
"Not half-bad, Canada," Lupe says. She's leaning back against the bar, weight on her good elbow and beer in her pitching hand. She looks confident, cocky even.
Jess touches two fingertips to the glossy wood of the bar then against Lupe's cheek. "For luck."
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My Dear Malcolm,—
When next you receive post from me it will be in a batch, all post-marked from the Sandwich Islands and all beginning with a longing for your company.
a selection of letters, 1845-1848
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"Another way for me to be inside you. You'd like that."
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Hickey's habit of saying everything like it's some sort of secret of the universe is getting old.
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William Gibson answers questions, and poses them.
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Punishment is, he supposes, healing of a sort. A cleansing.
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"Come on," Tozer said. For a moment John feared that he was going to pat his own knee — like a father with a child, like an errant sailor with a portside doxy. He didn't: he spread his thighs wider. John thought that might be worse.
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We'll go south, he'd said, as if that were a place.
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With halting breaths, the occasional silence, air sucked in sharply through his teeth, Cornelius spoke: the base work he would do on a beautiful ship, Terror spoken as if it were a word that meant glory. Neatly pressed uniforms and rough living, harsh command and the freedom of the open sea. The chill of the arctic, like nothing Ellis had ever imagined, like nothing Cornelius had ever imagined, a sparse and desolate splendor.
"And the other end," Cornelius said, with another shuddering exhale. "After we cross the Passage — once we find the Passage — the Pacific Ocean. I hear it's beautiful … more beautiful than anything I've ever seen."
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It's not the worst thing a man could eat.
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Francis tucked his head against Fitzjames' shoulder. There was nothing, then, keeping Fitzjames from looking James straight in the eye.
"What would you like?" he asked. "If it were you: what would you want?"
If you were me, he didn't say, but it hung heavy in the air.
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Francis is, he knows, a selfish man at heart. That he should derive so much pleasure, so much pride, from reducing someone to their base desires with only his hands and his mouth: that is as much sin, surely, as the act itself. But in this moment, with Fitzjames writhing against him, making the sorts of noises a man makes when he is biting on his own first, Francis cannot bring himself to care.
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"I can only imagine what horrors Mr Gibson spread, to make you so afraid."
"Afraid?" John can't help the way the word leaps out of him.
"For my soul," Hickey says simply.
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This is an ill omen of a different sort.