MISERY / ECSTASY

I GAVE YOU ALL THAT YOU CAN DRINK AND IT HAS NEVER BEEN ENOUGH!

[desperuntion]

friends only book & hc based daniel molloy from the vampire chronicles w some minor canon divergence. this is devil's minion territory / written by josie

aes blog @danielsmolloys

rules

- this isnt a public rp blog im sorry :( if i don't know you i won't write with you but i dont mind anyone reading my stuff as long as youre 21+ , blowing kisses mwah mwah

- tag animal abuse

- iconless

- tw heavy themes of addiction / alcohol & drug abuse, nsfw, shitty vampire relationships

- sideblog to @1end   

[danielsmolloys]

im thinking about him

[danielsmolloys]

[kamil-a]

I NEED A SICKO... im holding out for a sicko till the end of the night ..and hes gotta haha and hes gotta say yess at the window with a look of delight

[danielsmolloys]

[mychemicalraymance]

the new pool boy position just opened at the vampire mansion (previous employee disappeared under mysterious circumstances)

[angels-all-sin]

“ask me about” button PNGs credit not necessary but appreciated!

[goblinfables]

fair trade

[andessence]

If Armand is listening in on this indignant thought, he doesn’t let on, not to insist nor to laugh. Smooth, pleased is his composure, indefatigable, his feigned innocence. 

He’s drinking Daniel in, the mouth, the throat, yes, but he notes too the way Daniel has settled himself, the reluctance to set all his weight down on his feet or his thin ankles. He reads the discomfort, now only a murmur, but which will surely mount the longer he holds the position. And Armand lets him, thinking about how much greater the relief will be when the hands readjusting him come after a long, dull hum of pain. And then there’s the drumming fingers, anticipatory and impatient. Daniel is waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s years too late to convince Daniel he isn’t up to anything. But what if this is the something he’s up to? Can Daniel imagine that?  That the novelty of putting Daniel on his knees, on the floor, at heel and finger-feeding him to watch him take it is what Armand is after?

Another grape is offered, pushing past Daniel’s lips. Then another. He watches Daniel accept bite after bite until his handful of fruit is spent, and reaches then for the ornamentation of a prosciutto rose. Fingers peel away a fleshy petal and the paper-thin marbling of the meat lays draped on Armand’s thumb. This time when Daniel opens his mouth, Armand presses it to his tongue in a grotesquerie not unlike a communion wafer received by the sinner. 

“Good, isn’t it?” he asks, his thumb still in his mouth, fingers curling around Daniel’s chin, holding his jaw open. He can see a glint of drool accumulating at Daniel’s lower lip.

[desperuntion]

Armand is as languid with the grapes as if he has a whole evening to unspool. Even as Daniel’s attempts at finding a comfortable way to hold himself are abandoned, it is of some comfort that he cannot be on his knees from dusk to dawn if they are already halfway to dawn. If there is a particular pleasure with which Armand selects Daniel’s next course, he does not notice the sharp pivot until Armand slots his thumb into Daniel’s tongue and has him pinned down by the jaw.

A lashing buzz of emotion stumbles over arousal and the jarring sensation of exposure. The vague smell of meat hits him before the taste, and he sooner tastes the perched tip of Armand’s nail. It does not drive into his tongue, and it does not slide back and pull a retch from his throat, but rather holds him steady and open.

On instinct, Daniel scrambles to straighten his spine, then keeps the rest of himself stiff and still. It will be an ongoing problem he thinks, knowing what to do with his body from the chest down. A finger is braced against the tender space between upper and lower jaw. It will jut into him if he tries to close his mouth over Armand’s thumb. Stupidly, he finds himself searching for the press of the shard-tipped fingers cradling his face. He waits for the squeeze, certain it is only another heartbeat or two away. Or perhaps his thumb will angle downward like an arrow tip and mingle blood and table meat before Daniel has to swallow.

He cannot see whether Armand is drinking his fill of the inside of his mouth. Or perhaps Armand is too pre-occupied waiting for the presence of the meat to make Daniel drool down his chin. Regardless, arousal is a warm caress rubbing down over the front of his jeans as he submits to being examined.

Armand goads him with his question, but his thoughts are pink-tinged and swimming. What comes back is an echo, courteously indignant, nakedly needing.

I don’t know— is it good, Armand?

[danielsmolloys]

[andessence]

Overeager, the unmanaged attention straying to Armand's body, the salivation pooling at the thought of the emptiness on his tongue being filled by something more than honey-drizzled fruit. Armand listens to the crackle of the anticipation rolling off of Daniel and meets it with a cool, serene expression. "There you are. That's your place." The tag of the collar jangles as Armand lets the ring fall back down and crooks his finger beneath Daniel's upturned chin. He lets the tip of his nail scrape against the pulse. "Good boy. Sit pretty for me." Cool, serene, yes, but not devoid of a certain doting, condescending pleasure.

The hand that doesn't hold that electric point of contact is extending to hover over the meal. Armand seems to be weighing, not by the look of the food, but by reading the spark in Daniel's eyes, where to start the feast. Whatever he sees there, the nimble fingers are quickly guided; he plucks a grape and brings it to Daniel's lips. The knuckle of his forefinger drags across his lips for an indulgent moment. "Open up." And then the grape is pushed into Daniel's mouth, the tip of Armand's thumb pressed to his lower lip.

"Very important to keep my Daniel well fed," he purrs, and the possession in my is warm and heavy rolling off his tongue. He picks more grapes, a handful, but does not immediately offer them to Daniel. He waits and watches for the signs of of Daniel splitting the first beneath his teeth and chewing — for the feel of Daniel's throat swallowing against the back of his fingers.

[desperuntion]

Daniel would feel less unnatural if Armand would take by the waist and show him exactly how he is intended to sit pretty. The two words, like the jingle of his collar, strum affectionately against him even as he keeps his knees together and picks sitting stiffly on his ankles. It will kill his toes to let them hold his weight, so he slides his feet out flat onto the hardwood, ass to his heels, and finds it not much better. Every section of the uncushioned bone in his feet is jammed up against the floor.

Open up is all it takes. Daniel tastes Armand before the food, and his freezing and perfect fingers like icicles are more welcome and familiar than anything on the table. As he breaks the skin and chews the grape's soft insides, he is overtaken by the sensation of being examined. It seems that Daniel is all mouth and throat. The rest of him is of less interest and may as well not be there at all, like being set up in a dentist chair. He doesn’t know where to look and opts to keep his gaze trained on Armand. He looks like he is eating too. When Daniel swallows, he politely leans forward into the knuckles curled up against his neck. He should be less indulgent, or at least make it harder to earn, but he doesn’t know if he could help it if he tried.

Your Daniel? Come on man—

Now that he thinks of it, he isn’t sure whether an incredulous tone comes across telepathically. Braced and anxious and needing, his left hand drums a staccato against his thigh as he watches for Armand’s hands.

[crowttore]

Getting your face cradled by hands that kill>>>>>

[the-bar-sinister]

[andessence]

Delicate hands, careful with their vicious nails, wind around Daniel, one in his hair and the other making slow sweeps over his back, down to his hips and up again. Usually he can feel the idle warmth of Daniel radiate out to him when they are this close, and he should feel it all the more considering Daniel's fever, but the flush of Armand's meal has yet to fade from his skin. Rare and strange, he muses, to find their temperatures so nearly matched.

A thoughtful hum buys him a moment to remember such a thing as sweets — to remember a boy who would have thrilled at the taste of sugar on his tongue.

"I do not think I had a preference." And it is not an evasion, though he makes so many of those when asked about the past. Daniel asks the right kind of question now, something small, personal, insignificant. It is easier to answer than the greater demands he used to make (What was it like? What was it like?). "I did not grow up knowing sweets. ... I remember my first taste of marzapane. Maybe that." The musical, latent lilt of a Venetian is unknowable, but there. His hand stills in its roving over Daniel's back, and then he taps his fingers, punctuating a thought, a sudden memory. "No. Panforte. I liked that very much. They put pepper in it, and it was spicy and sweet..."

[desperuntion]

It is amazing how quickly Daniel begins to drift slotted against Armand. He is held fast in the soothing rhythm of tender hands petting his sweaty hair, sweeping down his waist and up between his shoulders. Even Armand’s accent curling around his letters lulls him gently. 

Armand’s decisive tap wakes Daniel with a little jump only because he wants to be alert enough to listen to Armand’s answer. 

Marzapane first, and then panforte with pepper, which was spicy and sweet. It feels important. The anecdote nestles somewhere in Daniel’s heart to be admired later like a stolen trinket. If Daniel has tried panforte, he cannot place it, nor can he conjure the image. His head is not keen on cooperating with him any longer, and he refuses to try and force it. 

What floats through his mind instead is the brisk jet of shower water from an hour or two prior. He thinks of sitting curled up with his phone resting on the arm of the bathtub where he watched the dark screen unhappily, waiting for another notification. He thinks of resting his cheek on the bathroom tile. He was past waiting out waves of nausea and merely taking refuge in a cool place, familiar and welcoming as always. 

I wish you didn’t eat today. You’re too hot. I miss the tile. 

He hugs Armand tighter anyway and tries to fit more of himself in Armand’s lap.

Pull me closer. I miss your kisses. I miss your tongue.

[turbomarisa]

IVE BEEN JERKING IT TO VAMPIRES, THEYRE CALLING ME BRAM STROKER

[moonlitgraves-deactivated202408]

sorry for being unsettling and weird it's the demon

[andessence]

Warm brown eyes drink Daniel in, half-lidded as they look down on him. Daniel's complaints don't bother him now; he understands that they've slipped into their roles now — he, the unbending master and Daniel, the unruly charge, pretending he doesn't want exactly what's coming for him.

Make me! Now that Daniel has satisfied Armand's desire to see him put himself on his knees, flushed and indignant and nevertheless obedient, Armand will take the nasty decisions out of Daniel's hands and let him feel pushed around. Armand will take care of him.

"Awful?" he echoes thoughtfully, the crooked finger releasing the ring of Daniel's collar to trail its glassy nail down the bare skin in the hollow of his throat. The even voice, the placid expression, the teasing touch all say they do not credit Daniel's outrage. Armand does not deign to contradict it. The single, disbelieving word is sufficient to insinuate the damning truth: that Daniel is hungry for whatever depravity Armand can think up for him, just starving for it. And that he wants the demands to come with a force he has no choice but to surrender to.

The eyes narrow. The lips curl in a grin. He gives a bemused little hum of laughter. "Closer." The velvet smooth order is chased by another jerk of the collar ring, so casual and yet so powerful that it unbalances Daniel and forces him to catch himself with his palms.

That wealth of patience lets him wait unbothered but unyielding for Daniel to shuffle forward on his hands and knees, right up to Armand's chair. Let him turn those clear, bright eyes up at him through his lashes and try to hide the hunger, the real hunger, there.

[desperuntion]

With only the touch of a nail to the soft cartilage of his throat, Daniel’s body perceives a command to see more of his neck. He tilts his head back, unaware of himself, too distracted by how his cock is pressing against the front of his jeans.  

Armand gives him a catlike smile, and the approval alone stokes the heat blooming in his chest. Daniel would do anything so long as Armand watched him with pleasure.

It is not Daniel’s job to decide when his wants will be acknowledged, nor is he any good at guessing. So it catches him by surprise when Armand nods to the hideous need crawling from his bones and snatches him forward like an unruly animal.

It elicits a startled yelp and his palms hit the hardwood. He intends to hiss out a curse, but all that comes out is a breathy hum. The fingers of his left hand tap erratically, nerves and eager anticipation mixed up into the same color.

Humiliation grinds hard against him at being commanded to crawl to his own debasement. He does as Armand expects and peers upward, both indignant and feverish with desire, and a pair of eyes as unyielding as his hands reflect back at him.

Daniel's heart pounds as he crawls to Armand’s lap on hand and knee. He feels stupid, and he feels his desire grows more directionless by the second. His mouth is beginning to salivate either by the smell and sight of the food it is about to be subject to, or by being level with Armand’s dick. If Armand pivoted, grabbed him by the hair, and slid his cock down his throat instead, it would be both a relief and a disappointment.

[andessence]

Armand is only too happy to welcome the hands that grasp him. Daniel has taken the bait belatedly, but now his hungry thoughts hardly require the Gift to hear, and Armand seizes on the opportunity of distraction, rolling his hips and pressing back into that groping palm. He won't have the rest of this conversation if he can help it. Not out of cruelty, no. He just... knows how these things end. He will refuse, and Daniel will be hurt, and the hurt will turn to anger, and by degrees their conversation will turn to a fight that neither of them wins. How long until the shouting? Until the tears come? Until in his fury and heartache he thrusts into Daniel's mind a vision of poor, mutilated Ricardo and the hunger that could kill any love? Assuredly, talking will only lead to misery. Daniel won't be talked out of his want, and Armand won't be talked out of his reservations.

The nag of Daniel's logic won't go away, though. Not tonight, and not when Armand crawls back into his coffin alone at daybreak. A seed of doubt is planted. 'Armand would sooner find an excuse than a solution...' Is that true? Does he just want an excuse? Is it just easier to say a thing is impossible than to ever acknowledge the wanting of it simmering within him? Armand's entrance into the modern age has been characterized by so many impossible things becoming possible before his eyes. He has seen a sunrise with the craft of the camera. His voice has reached the other end of the world with the telephone. He sates his every caprice by easily-won wealth. His name is known by a mortal who lives. He has fallen back in love with humanity. He has fallen in love. Why not one more impossibility conquered...?

But his doubt is not to be bared in front of Daniel, who will coax and plead and dig his fingers into the slightest crack and pull Armand open wide into the yes he loves to spoil Daniel with. ... And after all, he gave a little bit, Armand tells himself. He gave a truth or two more than he'd have liked to, and that was something like a compromise.

And what he wants to give Daniel now, he is certain his beautiful boy will not refuse.

"Victim. Mmm, is that what you are, Daniel? My victim?" He sets the fork down with a prim little clink against the china. It frees his hand up to press over Daniel's chest, to feel the beating heart as he rocks his hips again. He's ignoring the questions, breezing past Daniel's point, and he does it oh so seductively. The purr of his voice comes quiet as he turns his head to murmur against Daniel's jaw, "How many times must I say lover before you believe it?"

[desperuntion]

Reflexively, Daniel tilts away to bare more of his neck at the warm kiss of Armand’s whisper. Like a malfunctioning prey animal, when he senses the proximity of Armand’s mouth, he exposes himself more. His body does so without his thoughts intervening. There is no help to be found from his thoughts. The sensation of elongated canines dragging torturously, lovingly slow over his flesh, flashes through his mind. And with untrimmed nails, Armand would press his thumb into the soft of Daniel’s chin and hold him exposed, and then those teasing pinpricks would pierce through…

He feels pinned down. Beneath Armand’s palm, his heart beats faster, perhaps only to remedy the distance between it and Armand’s hand. A shudder hides in the slow breath slipping past Daniel’s pleased smile.

“You make it difficult when half of what you say is only true on technicality,” His words are a sliver quicker than they should be. Faint color dusts his cheeks, and he finds himself helplessly grabbing hold of Armand’s hips. “If you loved me, you’d answer my questions. Lovers do less talking.”

He lets go just as quickly to push against the sheets as he tries to shift position. It does little to help him and only creates more friction between his lap and Armand’s ass. Daniel is not yet so far gone as to forget that he wanted something else from Armand. He is not yet so far gone as to forget that for someone unhappy to have Daniel in his coffin, Armand went very quickly from affronted to fucking him.

“You said you were pleased to wake up next to me. You didn’t hunt before I saw you this morning. Your hunger was mine first, and I’m perfectly alive. I know you can stop yourself either way.”