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i'm glad you liked my comment! I'm always a sucker for good writing, and your fic contains no shortage of that. not a single word or line is wasted. i could go on and on about the dialogue, the internal monologue -- it's so fluid and vivid! do you have any literary inspirations? and what was your favorite reference that you put in the fic? i'm very sorry if this ask is jumbled but i genuinely loved this fic, and think you're an amazing writer!
ahhhh thank you!!
I'll answer w/ favourite reference first as that's the short bit: hubris, and specifically the 'fruitlessly' part lmao, but I really enjoyed writing this whole section:
He’ll give Armand his due. It’s not unlike punishment. As Armand plunges into him and draws out one deep groan after another, Daniel recognizes Prometheus and his eagle. Tantalus, too, the way Daniel’s dick is trapped, condemned to rub fruitlessly—ha—between skin and sheets. It’s new to him, incredible to him, but that only makes Daniel a neophyte. This is derivative garbage.
So what if Armand’s cast himself in the other role? This thoughtless reenactment’s gotta be familiar to the point of boredom to him. Half a millenium alive, and you fuck the same way you always do, stage the same plays you always do. Apologies to Albert, but Daniel can’t imagine this Sisyphus happy.
Forget Camus. Onward to Kafka, then, and an axe to break the frozen sea. Daniel reaches up, grasps one of Armand’s hands at his shoulder, and is rewarded instantly by a grunt of disapproval. Armand yanks his hands away and seizes Daniel’s hips instead.
I wanted to write something which hit variously on: Armand's desire to punish Daniel; Daniel's self-concept as a brilliant, fascinating boy; the incredible power Armand holds; Daniel's continuing challenge of Armand's self-narratives; and, under all that, Daniel's fundamentally mistaken belief about why Armand's pissed off (it's not just the breakup with Louis!! he never wanted to turn Daniel! he believes it's the worst, most fundamentally selfish thing you can do! when he says he saved what he loved, he regrets it!).
(Speaking of Armand's love for Daniel, I also enjoyed chucking in some Devil's Minion references, especially the amulet at the end).
In terms of literary inspiration, I'm going to wax lyrical about a bunch of shit, so, sorry:
I read a lot of non-fiction. When I graduated uni I ended up doing a bullshit grad scheme job I LOATHED, so instead of doing any work I sat around reading a now-dormant website which curated longform journalism (its full archive is here, though it's now littered with broken links). Writing from the POV of a journalist was like catnip to me, though honestly I squeeze in references to shit I've read whenever I can. In one Succession fic I really enjoyed playing with Frank Sinatra Has a Cold and some other notorious articles when writing a faux profile of Shiv Roy--but the references to shit I've read articles about also get more oblique: the same fic also contains a frankly heinous mid-sex-scene reference to the nutty putty cave incident, for example.
As a child I was a huge fan of Greek/Latin plays and poetry, particularly Euripides and Ovid: I was lucky enough to see Alan Cumming in John Tiffany/David Greig's adaptation of the Bacchae and I genuinely came out of the theatre transformed. I was at just the right age for it to hit and make me think: you know what? You can write whatever you want forever and no matter how arcane you get with it, so long as you are funny/insane/perverted/horrific enough there will be people who think it slaps. Sparagmos for the masses!
In terms of fiction, I read loads and loads and loads of Terry Pratchett as a young child. I remember dressing up as Susan Sto Helit for World Book Day aged 9 and no one having a fucking clue who I was supposed to be. I loved (and love) the Discworld, even though back then fully 90% of the jokes did not land with me. My dad was a big fan of sci-fi/fantasy/horror, so I ran the gamut of Asimov/Herbert/Bear/Bester/Wynne Jones/King pretty young, too. I honestly just read quite widely. I wish I had the time to read more! I got really into short stories recently and read a bunch of Borges.
I'd also be remiss not to mention some non-literary inspirations:
I really enjoy using the writing process as a vehicle for googling weird shit. Right now I'm working on an asoiaf continuation, for example, and I've really been loving researching, variously: nomadic warriors of the steppe; gout; ancient musical instruments; jousts; medieval Venice; Macbeth; banking systems; etc.. Just this morning I was checking out movie palaces in 1920s Boston for another thing. It's such a springboard for discovery and I can't sand the edges off that sentiment to make it sound less earnest and therefore more cool. I love learning shit and I don't have the time or money for a master's degree! So it goes! In the next year or so I'd really like to make inroads on an original thing I'm writing about left-wing organising in 1930s America, primarily so I can give myself a curriculum and disguise it as creation.
Cannot overestimate the value of a good special interest, either. Over the last few years it's been mycology, plane crashes, and recently birds, but prior to that it's been Ancient Greece, palaeontology, geology, Charles VI of France, etc.. Having a special interest makes experiencing the world feel like Charlie Kelly's red-string board moment from iasip, in that it's chaotic in there but I'm having a great time.
Film!!! I love movies. I need to watch more movies. When my work life calms tf down I will watch movies for days on end and that's a PROMISE. I love TV too but movies are where my heart is. Here's my letterboxd, though it's looking pretty sparse this year due to the work woes. I'm particularly inspired by Agnès Varda, who said in her self-titled documentary retrospective: 'When you decide to look closely at something that may be trite, it's no longer trite. The very act of looking at it changes it. Nothing is trite, if you film people with empathy and love--if you find them extraordinary, as I did'.
Or, in other words, the devil (and the angel!!) is in the detail(s) :)
hihihi i just finished reading in the detail(s) and i did leave a comment there but i also just wanted to let you know that the fic was incredible. awe-inspiring. showstopping. i'm blown away. part of me kind of want to pick your brain about all of the references and allusions you included in the fic because it's genuinely so incredibly written. it's such a beautifully complex work. i'm nerding out about this fic so hard i need to know how you write like this. you're incredible
Thank you thank you thank you!! I was giggling and kicking my feet when I read your comment this AM (and I *will* reply to it when I’m done with my work day!) Please do pick my brain! I love chatting about this stuff.
For one thing, I totally agree with you about the bag-over-head line from s2: I really wanted to explore how that might link to Daniel’s later career (in both vampir- and journalism).
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i know the way people talk about their pets now is probably how we’ve been doing it for all of history. a cat owner in ancient rome saw their cat lounging on the dining pillows and commented “he thinks himself to be the senator claudius 🤣”
“You act as though you already know. You act as though you saw me walk the streets of Tokyo and marvel at the night-crowds, as though you sat with me in the audience for Baryshnikov. But you give the lie to this pretense when you ask if I have ever had fun.” Armand’s smile is brief and localized, a drone strike that doesn’t hit his eyes. “Daniel, you do not know a single thing.”
Daniel laughs. It’s ridiculous—delightful, even—that this is when Armand deigns to address him by his name. But speaking of names, he knows Baryshnikov’s. Ballet’s not my bag, but maybe I did. Alice dragged me to any enriching bullshit she could find. Imagine: Armand glow-eyed and hollow in the best seats in the house; me, lost among the plebs below, stifling a yawn.
The notion amuses Daniel more than he can say. He laughs again. Maybe I don’t know a single thing.
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“You waited half a century to turn me. What’s your lead time for fucking? Should I check back in a decade? Two?”
Daniel waits a second. Two.
“I can get by alone, but it’s less fun.” He reaches down to jack off, but huffs a breath and stops almost as soon as he begins lest he shoot off right there. That’s new. Parkinson’s and age had robbed him of a reliable hard-on; in the years prior to Dubai he’d climaxed alone, and with such concentrated effort that the juice was rarely worth the squeeze. One time he’d gone soft right at the precipice, sticky and weary from the climb, when he’d heard his long and labored breaths and thought, inescapably: death rattle. “You know what fun even is, Armand? When’s the last time you had any?”
Unrestrained, Daniel can at last twist back to look at him. Armand’s mouth is half-open, fangs on display, a cat faced with an unfamiliar smell. His body is unmarred but for the wound at his chest where Daniel drank, and even that is healing over. The fresh skin is raw and shiny, blood-blushed like the tip of Armand’s dick, hard and ignored. He hasn’t touched himself once, by Daniel’s tally. How many of Armand’s early encounters cast him as an active participant? When was the first time he had any fun?
Daniel’s face is as still as any sniper’s. Goading, he reminds himself. Goading over begging, and everything over pity.
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“You act as though you already know. You act as though you saw me walk the streets of Tokyo and marvel at the night-crowds, as though you sat with me in the audience for Baryshnikov. But you give the lie to this pretense when you ask if I have ever had fun.” Armand’s smile is brief and localized, a drone strike that doesn’t hit his eyes. “Daniel, you do not know a single thing.”
Daniel laughs. It’s ridiculous—delightful, even—that this is when Armand deigns to address him by his name. But, speaking of names, he knows Baryshnikov’s. Ballet’s not my bag, but maybe I did. Alice dragged me to any enriching bullshit she could find. Imagine: Armand glow-eyed and hollow in the best seats in the house; me, lost among the plebs below, stifling a yawn.
The notion amuses Daniel more than he can say. He laughs again. Maybe I don’t know a single thing.
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