EXECUTIONER.

the gentle butcher

[desiresuffering]

𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑼𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 : ⒈ ⁽ⁿᵒᵘⁿ⁾ 𝘀𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝘆 𝗼𝗻𝗲'𝘀 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲. ⒉ ⁽ⁿᵒᵘⁿ⁾ 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿. a heavenly vintage bitten by yours truly, 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐄 ! based on the 4 identities that we see of armand ∶ 𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐧, 𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐨, 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝 & 𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐝. ( he/him , 30+ ) ... private, coven - focused.

prompts. meme call.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍 ⁽ᵉˣᶜˡᵘˢⁱᵛᵉ⁾ ﹕ @molloyed ! 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐑𝐄 ⁽ᵉˣᶜˡᵘˢⁱᵛᵉ⁾ ﹕ @solilacquist ! 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓 ⁽ᵉˣᶜˡᵘˢⁱᵛᵉ⁾​ ﹕ @evilanew ! 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 ⁽ᵉˣᶜˡᵘˢⁱᵛᵉ⁾​ ﹕ @threnodique !

𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓​ :

I. no anti's. i am a pro-ship, dead-dove eating, toxic fic sludge drinking gremlin. there will be threads with graphic mention and dynamics related to child sex abuse/slavery/torture/prostitution/incest and mentions of abuses in general. ARMAND IS A VICTIM AND A PERPETRATOR. i do not write him as any one thing, victim or offender; he's both.

II. shipping. i do not ship with just anyone. sexual threads will be put on the back burner until i am certain our character's have chemistry, but i am open to nsfw threads, gore threads, enemies to lovers, lovers to enemies; all manner of ships. if you think something is working out between us, let's plot! i love shipping. it's my favorite threads to write.

note: i am exclusive with molloyed's daniel molloy and solilacquist's louis and evilanew's lestat. that means i do not write with other daniel, louis or lestat roleplay blogs but i will follow back if i enjoy an interpretation just to read the writing. please note that all blog-canon will be centered with molloyed's daniel molloy.

III. interactions. if you follow me, i expect you to make the first move. if i follow you, i will definitely be making the first move to write with you. if you send an ask or like for a starter and you do not interact with that post in anyway, i will be deleting it. i do not entertain writing with people who do not reciprocate energy. if i send an ask/like your starter call, i will likely be liking/commenting on that before i ever reply. all i ask here is that you put in the energy to get a thread going. i don't care about waiting for replies, i've waited years for replies before. just that you show me that you're interested.

IV. groupchats, threesome threads and 3-way character dynamics: i do not do these. i understand that dash shenanigans may push us to interact in-character to a plethora of other character's, but i am not open to these kinds of dynamics whether it be in character or out of character. please do not push, coerce or try to guilt me into it. i've had anxiety issues with the past and particularly with those who do not respect it and expect more from me than i can give: please respect that.

V. i am not my character. if i put something into my reply that makes you uncomfortable as a mun, or i forget to tag something, i overstep a boundary of yours: please feel free to come and tell me. i want you to feel comfortable here, too!

VI. i am a mult-paragraph writer. i love long threads, i love plotting! do not feel pressured to match length.

VII. arun, amadeo, armand and rashid are all playable character's here. this means you can ask for any of these iterations of armand! i know! you can ask for more than one as well.

[fascinationstreetmp3]

Assad Zaman as Armand / Christopher Heyerdahl as Marius de Romanus

[boy-moans]

me bent over your lap wearing nothing but a tshirt and socks when? you holding me down with one hand and using the other to play with my holes WHEN??

[desiresuffering]

if he was sold at 12 that means he was taken even earlier than he was in the book

[carabinerdrawing]

little adventures with amadeo and daniel bear 🧸 💕

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Bound (Lana Wachowski & Lilly Wachowski, 1996)

[molloyed]

@desiresuffering

[toiich]

Perfect Sense (2011), dir. David Mackenzie

[desiresuffering]

@molloyed

[geryone]

It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over, Anne de Marcken

[desiresuffering]

@solilacquist

[froufoxs]

let him be evillllll

[molloyed]

❝ apparently not, ❞ he says bluntly, the confession angry with a need he forgot existed until rashid pressed it like a bruise. sitting across from louis for hours on end serves as little distraction to the memory of rashid's hands working the knots from his body, touching all the sensitive spots of him not even the sun has seen in decades. yet the crude accusation doesn't surprise him, doesn't make him flinch because god knows he's earned worse, but daniel latches onto the choice of words just like he might any slip of tongue. impossible to ignore that small little splinter. molloy finds that between the duty and service rashid attempts to hide behind, truth breaks through the professionalism. daniel's gaze drops to the gloved hand splayed against his chest, to the finger slipping between the buttons, and doesn't dare move. ❝ there it is. the first honest thing you've said in a while. no bullshit. where do your needs have place, rashid? ❞

because he's seen them, as fragmented as they may be. in the blissful stare as louis drank from him across the table, daniel's innermost thoughts splayed out alongside the courses of dinner plates. what's he taste like? how much does he weight? where'd he learn to touch someone like that? daniel's eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath.

if he were a better man he might walk away, return to his table and read through his notes. prepare questions. compare claudia's diary entries for when louis wakes again. but daniel molloy has never earned the title of an honorable, good man. he's met students for dirty fucks in car garages. traveled across the united states to suck his way into headlines just in case. done worse for drugs, sure, and still he interviews the cracks in the walls, and that's where he belongs. amongst the dirty, the foul, the needfully repressed. like recognizes like and he can see it in rashid's steady but wide expression now. ❝ what about what you want, huh? ❞ the question is punctuated by daniel's movements forward, which serve only to shuffle rashid backwards away from the preperations he's made. daniel's steps are wobbly, but his intent is clear. provoked by levodopa or pursuit of this selfish truth--he can't know. palms rest against the desk he manages to back them into, rashid's curls tickling his chin. ❝ i don't buy what you're trying to sell me about what mr. du lac graciously provides. ❞

[desiresuffering]

the penthouse has only ever been armand's garden. the place where he comes to replenish himself amongst the greenery, to lose himself where the shadows lurk and he can lurk amongst them. there are homes that he and louis own between them that serve mundane purposes, moods, the whims that pass like the moon and this property is not unlike the rest. it serves a purpose. the labyrinthian design of it's hallways were meant to lure one in and keep a perpetual motion through room after room if one were inclined to wander. daniel was never meant to roam these halls. never meant to see the stark, grey underside of his life so that he can inspect it and it's in these quiet moments of color, of living, where greenery seems to sprout from under their feet. daniel is dying and here he is, giving life to a man who hasn't lived in five hundred years. he is merciful to the intrusion. not for rashid's sake but for his own - he is pleased to play these intrusive little games. when daniel crowds him up against the desk, and they further crumple in together, rashid lifts his head and turns it to avoid what might be coming. ❝ mr. molloy, please - ❞ even his voice sounds convincingly annoyed, a condescending growl to that please that comes off meaner than he initially means for it to. once more the tray at his back rattles when the hand that's not crushed between their bodies comes to grip the edge of the desk to give himself a sturdier position, the heel of his palm knocking it. coffee spills, he can hear it gathering under the saucer when it rattles wetly. ❝ that's quite enough. ❞

but it's not. no never means no with an addict, stop means convince me, green is go and red is go and daniel's lips are in his hair and rashid can feel the way their thighs and hips meet haphazardly. the cotton of his kurta is thin enough that his skin feels more than his gloved hands do and rashid wet his lips to deny him the pleasure of knowing that he can feel his warmth through his clothes. their feet tangle clumsily, but no toes are stepped on and he becomes warm at the thought that daniel can feel his warmth, too - ❝ i don't - ❞ want? he doesn't want? a ridiculous notion even to his own ears, but it would do him no good to admit to daniel that he had needs. the frayed edges of those needs are delicate as is, sensitive and untouched. tender to be touched now that the they have not seen the sun in decades. daniel puts his fingers inside the wound and digs and rashid lets out a breath, a sigh that borders exasperated but heavy like he's been running, too. almost a pant. ❝ if i let you touch me will you leave me alone? ❞

[molloyed]

[ REC ● ] i haunt the streets of san francisco, lugging my tape recorder with me, itself handsomely mass produced black plastic with faux-walnut inlays, and me not-so-handsomely produced but not-nothing if i'm being honest. i'm looking for people in the cracks - not the people in power but the people who seem powerless. we are all creatures of worth, of value. our stories deserve to be told, to be heard, to be documented. because if it's recorded, if it's shared, then we exist. we endure.

an independent, private, book and amc-selective writing blog for the boy reporter, DANIEL MOLLOY from anne rice's the vampire chronicles. based mostly in the 1970s and 1980s. an exploration of unreliable narrative infection, repression, addiction and vampirism as a metaphor for queerness. by moth. est. 2025.

[desiresuffering]

"You did good today. Really good." (mm trinity gate maybeee~)

the walls still hold the appassionata like a lingering spirit, the leftover heaviness in the fingers clear enough to hear even from beyond the courtyard and the night, for all of it's cool october sweetness, dampens it into a subtle whisper to the vampiric ear. armand, too, is heavy. though the music his spirit makes does not come through so intense, a softer tune arouses itself into existence, the droop of an eye and the hard angle of his mouth tells all; he is exhausted. armand's body comes to collapse beside louis, the lanky set of his leg lifting as his shoulders fall back against the arm of the couch. depositing both his socked feet across his lap, underneath the book he has open but touching. insistent without the drumming music-language that he's come to pass between he and his children, the man's mind growing amorphous and shapeless the closer he and louis are. a final act of relaxing: armand lays his head back and inhales deeply so that he can exhale that same, long-held sigh. ❝ you're just saying that because you pity me. ❞ collecting his thoughts on the evening that's been survived, and the hours spent consoling sybelle through her sporadic madness, armand can't say he's much of anything tonight. not a father, nor a brother, but a third thing that he dare not utter - it sits between he and louis and armand can now say he understands the urge to covet what was fragile. the children sit in his heart and their roots tangle in with what has already been growing there, louis, lestat, daniel, everything he's ever loved and lost and yet there has never been anyone in his life quite as delicate as the two he hears now, laughing together, benji's fingers on piano keys, off tune but trying.

armand meets louis' gaze finally, letting his chin fall against his chest so he can scoot further into his lap. his hands tangle together on top of his belly, a soothing thumb running along the other, small back-and-forth patterns that assuage what's been bruised. further, under the skin and inside his bones, armand feels the serpentine crawl of his nerves so far inside his body that he has to shift his weight. ❝ i worry that the disappointment will pass through the blood. the last thing he said to me before he did what he did was 'you know i hate it when you talk like that'. it was on his mind. do you - do you think that kind of resentment can be passed down? ❞ the breath that armand takes catches in his throat. it takes a moment for him to catch his thought once more, the gaze they share momentarily lost as he glances towards the door - as if he were worried that someone might come through the veranda. or that his words might travel to whatever, and whoever, might be outside. ❝ every time he visits ... they grow angry. ❞ so do i. ❝ can you take care of that? ❞

[froufoxs]

but it was love.

[molloyed]

@desiresuffering

[rhthymgtr]

he takes a drag from the cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke out into the night air. for a moment, while listening to arun speak, he watches the smoke disappear. he wants all of this to be that smoke. to be able to be better like arun is saying. . . but he doesn't get it. how is any of that possible? how do you just let go like that when holding on is all you've known?

" that's. . . " the many descriptions of decay settle in his mind, and his finger taps against the coffee cup before taking a sip. arun is right, but all of that is still a lot to take in. " i have no idea how to cut that cord. i mean this is. . . this is all i've known. " his mind wanders away from his brother, and to other important pieces of his world. to his friendship with salamander. to the lies of singer. to the yearn of his heart for tc. does all of that change if he finds a way to become this different person?

[desiresuffering]

armand had expected a grand retort of much thought after the ensuing silence, had anticipated a deeper conversation from an artist but the reply that alex hands to him is something child-like and utterly boring. though the years have stretched whatever youth still lives inside armand's bones, it does not extend far enough to understand just how a man with this much inside his mind could be so empty and devoid of substance now. sobriety was an ugly creature, a thing made to turn and lurch like nausea and the boredom of it all is felt inside armand, alex's heart a mirror of a mirror of a mirror he once knew to be daniel's. but even sobriety hadn't made daniel into - this. suburbia called to him, car payments, a fat wife with pink cheeks but it hadn't shut off what had been turned on in the midst of his binges. alex feels turned off, a room without a light and the vague shape of something one couldn't quite see without squinting. the shape of a life, inarticulate and black.

❝ i suppose, ❞ a vindictive blink, slow and finely timed for his darkened gaze to run across the table between them. ❝ if it's all you've ever known - then you should stay inside the cage. ❞

[artthatremindsmeofhannibalnbc]

Markus Åkesson, Sleepwalker, 2012 Oil on canvas

Thanks to @obviouslybiased for pointing me toward this artist.

[solilacquist]

the house offers more than sweetness. still, the palette of the mortal man isn’t as complicated as all that. if not intimacy, then shame. if not shame, then punishment. if not punishment, then mommy issues, sister issues, ‘mrs thibodeaux hit me over the knuckles with her ruler one too many times and now i’m all kinds of fucked up, could you do it again but a little harder this time, miss?’–

all flavors and then some are on offer under this roof, but no voice as sweet as this one. no body as sweet as this one. amadeo reads, and amadeo squirms, and amadeo pleads soft, and louis smiles. touching him is all louis can do as soon as he walks through the door, unless he’s feeling slighted by the world around him and particularly cruel, and then amadeo too becomes the vessel for touch, or the agonizing lack of it. not tonight. tonight the books are in order, and the trading routes are established, and the ink is still drying on the documents, the machinery of commerce hums obedient beneath his hands, and louis feels grand in himself for it, satisfied to a sinful degree. the city bends where he presses. the night belongs to him. so why not indulge in that which is his already? 

the tight heat of amadeo is enough for a while. the boy’s back presses warm through the front of louis’s shirt, sweat dampening the fabric between them. tiny beads gather at the nape of amadeo’s neck, and louis traces them first with his fingertips, then with his mouth when he leans close enough to taste. the lightest brush of a tongue on an open-mouthed kiss. beautiful thing. ambrosia, little rivers of veins and landscapes of bone, all his. the hands that buy and create and destroy wander lazily. over narrow shoulders. down the chest. one nail dragging lightly over a dark nipple. further still, over the hollowing stomach. he moves the boy’s legs apart with patient strength until amadeo’s knees hook themselves around louis’s thighs, as exposed as he can be, even behind the desk as they are. lightly, still, the way louis’s fingers trail along the inside of amadeo’s thighs, this body made just for him to enjoy and abuse and love. he bends close enough for his mouth to hover by amadeo’s ear.

“feel like you’re gettin’ worse.” the whisper falls dark and velvet-soft between them. unfair on purpose. louis’s hands frame and cup the soft flesh between the legs with impossible tenderness as he speaks, lips brushing the shell of amadeo’s ear. it isn’t true. 'course it isn’t. the boy is sharp, sharper every passing week. bright-eyed and ravenous for knowledge besides.  but this isn’t about any of that. “you scared someone’s gonna walk in, hm? see how much you love bein’ filled up like this? you’re not supposed to love it this much. you know that, right? somethin’ missin’ in you, amadeo. always has been. that’s okay. ‘cause it isn’t missin’ right now, is it?”

[desiresuffering]

the hierarchies within this palace were that of climbing grit, girls fighting for holdovers that the woman don't have, women fighting youth and clambering for power where the meagerness of such a taste was fleeting and easily lost; some nights, amadeo wants to ask louis if he started here, too. was he like bricktop, did he start at the bottom or was he put here by some older, unknown figure? did he claw his way to the top with the very same delicate cruelty he brings home to him every evening? the question's sit in his body and gather in size whenever his master teaches him something new - where did he learn such a delicate touch? these hands that trail his skin and leave cold shivers behind in their wake have proven to him, time and time again, that they could do great harm. these hands have left bruises that feel like kisses and amadeo is all the more ruined for it. his body responds as if he were made to welcome these fingers, woven and chipped away into some small thing that trembles and vibrates for louis' hands only. he doesn't pretend to understand it. but he wants to.

after all, louis knows everything. he knows the secrets that lie in his mind, his master plucks the very manacles of past that once rubbed raw, now only rubbed for pleasure and there, amongst the tombstones of his past, louis finds the horror and lathes it with his tongue. he brings the macabre to a stiff peak and then continues until all of him is brought to life and stiffened in the same manner. he thinks he might die. some nights remind him that he has only ever been a soft, undeserving creature and his body yearns for fulfillment like any other. amadeo is reminded of this when their bodies begin to shift in tandem, louis fingers on the inside of his thighs, pulling them open wider, the feet that naturally curl around the back of his calves; the body moves to accommodate and that small shift, his body leaning heavier into his master's chest, that suddenly triggers a hot streak of pleasure from deep, deep inside his body. a gasp and squeeze around that cock, pulses of yellow-pink light streak across his vision as tears fill his eyes and the room becomes nothing but a watery painting he cannot see. amadeo's skin prickles like a cold sweat comes over him as he completely allows his body's full weight to fall body upon the older's chest, head thrown back in a choked, panting whine. ❝ don't be cruel to me - i worship you. ❞

it's not lost on him that this pleasure is one of many stacked under his consciousness, but amadeo's body has yet to follow such logic and when louis grabs his cock all that's felt is an overwhelming tenderness that brings forth a cringe - the knees trying to close, one of his hands coming to grip on top of his master's. ❝ i can't - ❞ his voice is strained in a breathless manner but it doesn't deter him from reaching his other arm above his head so that he could tangle his fingers at the nape of his master's neck in hopes that the desperation could be felt through the trembling digits, caught between the pleasure of having his cock brush up against that little spot inside of him that turns him to fire and the shame of the truth. that someone could walk in and he would become just another whore in a room. that lock on the inside of the door is a privilege that he knows louis can weaponize, it's a privilege to have one at all and to be here, without the house knowing that he was being fucked like any other. there was power to lose if miss williams were to come in and find him spread, too fucked out to get hard, leaking and pink in the cheeks. but there was a power to be gained, too.

a secret like theirs could ruin his master. he's seen it happen before he had the language for it, men usurped by their weakness. hunger that devolves even the most powerful and louis is here with him to test that weakness, to give in and leave fresher, richer for it. amadeo feels all the more powerful, made to turn his head and chase louis cheek to kiss it, to kiss his jaw, anywhere he can reach so that he could get at his ear and whisper, ❝ same thing missing in me that's missing in you, sir. ❞ and then, because he's nothing if not the apostle to a cruel god, amadeo guides the hand that's still cupping his soft cock, and he makes both of them take it in hand, squeezing the limp appendage until the dewy slit leaks over their fingers. ❝ good men don't do what you do to me. what would missa fenwick say if he saw you now? ❞ an unsaid: what would claudia say?

[a-ard]

holding you gently.. softly..