#iwtv drabble

[hoetachi]

MONEY CAN’T BUY WHAT? — E. (STACK) MOORE + L. DU LAC

➠ mulan’s input; this for my baes @ichigosluvrr & @blond3ang3l because they understand my type of man!!

➠ drabble

this was getting strangely scary, well on your behalf it was. your eyes felt like they were gonna eventually bounce right out their sockets if you continued watching them outdo each other

“mon cher… you don’t think this ridiculous in any sorts?” lestat— who you kindly lathered your ego with compliments on well you sang tonight— rolled those artic hues with budding frustration as his “business” partner, louis who was currently going rake for rake with another fella. “not in the slightest” louis replied, his voice low, carrying that same intense look that had caught your attention earlier—flustering you enough to wonder if he was actually trying to call you with his mind

a deep, gravelly laugh cut through the tension at the table, “oughta listen to ya’ massa, boy,” stack drawled, flashing a golden grin that was equal parts charm and challenge. “ya’ gon’ lose ya’ life tryin’ to keep up with me.” stack—who had you giggling like a schoolgirl when he walked up with the energy of a longtime fan meeting their idol—winked and clicked his tongue at you, smooth as silk.

you watched as louis’ jaw clenched and unclenched before he threw out his wrist, revealing a watch you knew could buy your father’s house three times over “oh mista du lac, you don’t need to do—"

thud

“—all of that” as that very watch now rested pretty on the wads of cash both men been throwing since they both approached you. “mon chéri! that’s your favorite watch!” lestat stared baffled at him. you shared the same wide-eyed, concerned look, equal parts flattered and alarmed.

louis tilted his head toward you, calm but smug. “one date, chérie?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

you didn’t even get a chance to collect your thoughts before stack tossed a set of keys in the piles. “all red. brand fuckin’ new bugatti type 50 coupé” stack nodded graciously, taking your gloved hand and lightly pecked your knuckles

“…i think i’m in love” you muttered as you fanned yourself quickly. “here’s the keys to the azeala” louis tossed on the table next to the lavious car keys

“wanna own ya’ own juke joint in anotha’ state, baby?” stack asked casually, lounging deeper into his seat like he wasn’t throwing generational wealth around. your head snapped back to louis just in time for him to place a neatly sealed envelope on top of both sets of keys. “beloved, i’ll give you co-ownership of the azeala” stack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, lips curling into a knowing grin

“do you enjoy bein’ human, honey?”

[euthanasiadarkblues]

Daniel post turning, alone in the penthouse, finds Armand’s man-cave and gets a whole different side of him.

didn't mean for this to be so long oops!

Louis didn’t do vampiric birth enough justice. In his defense, Daniel doesn’t think he could either, if he tried. It’s impossible to describe–the pain of dying, of reanimating, of every sense being fine tuned until everything is everything. Being loaded beyond articulation is the best summary he can manage, so maybe the two of them weren’t too far off after all.

The emptiness of the penthouse feels vast. The silence reverberates, and there’s a certain hollowness he’s never felt before. A wrongness that feels biological, a taut string that starts in his chest and vanishes into distant mist. He knows what it is, but he doesn’t want to think it. Putting it into words would make it real. 

He doesn’t want this feeling to be him. His murderer, his maker. The bond that he had figured was just Louis spouting bullshit, that loosely defined tether which tugs at him now. 

It tugs him out of the living room, across the penthouse. He wonders how far Armand is, by now. If the dismal state of the bond serves as any indicator, he must be miles away. It’s infuriating. Daniel wants to gouge the bite in his throat open, force his blood to pour back out. Bleed the feeling from its source. 

The thing is, he almost feels incredible. There’s the gnawing of hunger, but that’s easy enough to dismiss. Daniel knows a thing or two about ignoring bone-deep cravings. He’d feel elated, reborn, high off unlife if it weren’t for the irritating sense that something crucial is missing. That it’s getting further, with every second.

He turns into a hall with a mirror on his left. This is a part of the penthouse he’s never been in, a tall corridor with one lone door at the end. 

Daniel catches his own reflection. He can see the details of his own pores, now. Each wrinkle, each blemish, each fleck of blood dried around his mouth. 

And his eyes, also. A deep amber, like the most striking sunset he’s ever seen, and–huh. Guess he won’t be seeing many of those anymore, will he?  

He thinks he may break the mirror if he stares for much longer. Or worse, start crying, or laughing, or something. Vampirism makes every emotion feel intensified, dialed up to its maximum intensity. It’s difficult to sort through what he’s feeling, exactly. He only knows that if he keeps looking, something will happen. 

So he continues down the hall. The door at the end is locked, but with just a little force it flies off its hinges. That wasn’t the intended effect, but hey. Whatever works. 

For a moment after stepping inside, Daniel isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at. Organized chaos is the first word that comes to mind. 

It seems to be a lab of some sort, with rows and rows of shelves packed with jars. Each is filled with various colored liquids, bones, and body parts trapped in preservatives. Daniel feels a chill as he observes them. 

There’s no doubt who this room belongs to. The tables ridden with equipment, the open, half-filled notebooks, the tubes and vials and microscopes. It all screams Armand. 

Tucked into a far corner of the room is what seems to be a little art station. There’s a canvas perched on an easel. An unfinished charcoal portrait, with a small stand next to it brimming with supplies. Daniel spots a few closed books on the floor. Sketchbooks, presumably. 

His eyes move back to the canvas. It takes him a moment to process what exactly is on it. He’s struck first with deja vu, and then vague recognition, and then a horrific realization. 

It’s like looking in a mirror, only if he were 50 years younger, and if his features were unrefined, like he were looking at himself through crossed eyes. 

It’s him. The him from the 70s, with that open, curious expression he wore like a second skin. It’s him down to the exact shape of his lips, the exact thickness in his brows.

Daniel doesn’t know what to make of it. He doesn’t know what to make of any of this. The drawing is painstakingly detailed, even half-finished. It looks like it was done with a level of care and attention that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Armand make this? 

He grabs it before he can think about what he’s doing. Charcoal smudges where he accidentally brushes his thumb over its corner. 

He doesn’t know what he intends to do with it. He only knows that he needs to find his maker. To grab him by his shoulders, shake him until answers rattle from his lips like a maraca. 

The bond aches. Daniel leaves the room with the canvas, and tries to pretend he didn’t spot an entire human heart in one of those jars.

[arun-armand-amadeo]

Armand/Daniel Molloy Halloween Drabble

Read on AO3 or continue below:

Daniel pushed open the sliding door that led out onto the small balcony of his New York apartment. It was early evening, and the streets below were busy with parents and children joyfully out trick-or-treating. Shortly there would be young people heading towards clubs and bars for drunken costume parties, and come early morning they'd all be staggering home again.

A light October breeze ruffled through Daniel’s grey curls as he leant forward against the metal railings. He breathed in the crisp fresh air, eyes roaming to a window over the road where he could see a couple settling down to watch some low budget horror movie, the onscreen monster slashing its giant claws through its unsuspecting victim. Daniel felt himself smiling.

There was only one monster in New York City tonight, and he was currently standing next to Daniel and peacefully smoking a cigarette.

He’d followed him home all the way from Dubai, refusing to explain his exact reasoning for doing so. At first Daniel was sure that the vampire was going to kill him, and had lived in fear as if he was walking on eggshells for those first few weeks. But the killing blow had never come and, despite all logical reasoning, Daniel had become rather fond of his unexpected roommate.

He was probably just lonely, that was all.

“You know, I’m not sure who you hate more.” Daniel finally spoke up. “Me, or those idiots dressed up as Dracula with their cheap plastic fangs and fake blood.”

Armand blew out a wispy stream of smoke before stubbing out his cigarette and flicking it away. His expression was soft with big beautiful eyes that were so wonderfully vibrant and orange in the glow of the streetlamp. His black curls elegantly framed his forever youthful face as he rubbed a thumb back and forth across his wrist.

“I don’t hate you, Daniel.” Armand replied. “I love you. If I hadn’t grown to love you, I would have killed you before now, of course.”

Daniel sucked in a sharp breath, letting the sudden confession hang in the air between them. However, looking at the way they were living, was it really all that unexpected? 

“Is it love?” Daniel mused, straightening himself up. “This thing between us? Or are we just a couple of lonely old men finding comfort in the other when the rest of the world has abandoned us?”

Armand sidled a little closer and linked his hand through the cook of Daniel’s elbow. He felt cold, but that was less disturbing than if he’d been warm. Daniel didn’t push him away, nor did he protest when Armand came to rest his head against his shoulder. His black curls were soft against the side of his neck.

“It is love.” Armand’s simple reply. “Do you need me to prove it to you?”

Daniel shook his head.

“Nah. I believe you.”

[armandfucker]

Armand thought often about how Daniel was in the early days of their courtship. The way he would catch his lovers’ thoughts at various times of day, always full of lust and excitement. The bratty things his boy imagined while Armand rested.

Armand knew even before taking off Daniel’s clothes that his lover was blessed in with a beautiful cock. He’d seen it in his thoughts. The flicker of remembered dalliances, looking down at a mouth stretched wide over him and pasting Armand’s face over the memory like a mask.

While Louis spoke on an on, Armand wondered if age had dulled his boys’ bratty tendencies or if his cock would still be as perfect now as it was then.

Armand knew Daniel was sick of topping by the time they met. He disliked how the men he met in bars would take a look at him and decide that he was a top just by his size. He’d often thought that Daniel would have made a killing in pornography if he wasn’t so stuck to journalism as a career.

Would age have changed this fact about him? Would Daniel still be a needy brat, begging for Armand to fuck him? Or had his tastes matured with age?

There were parties, back in the 80s. Armand would dress his boy up in a supple leather harness and prep him before taking him to a party to be fucked by strangers while Armand watched. Armand had loved the way Daniel would cry, tears streaming down the side of his face as his eyes sought out Armand, hands reaching for his Boss.

The Daniel that sat across from him in Dubai would never imagine that he was once that boy in leather.

Armand couldn’t wait for him to remember.