❝ The Coven of the Articulate—A modern slang term popular among the Undead for the vampires whose stories appear in the Vampire Chronicles. ❞
Not great at intros but HELLO! if you’re looking for all things Vampire Chronicles (books, not the show), you’re in the right place! This is a SIDEBLOG to @theballadofmrslovett so if you see that url in your notes, that’s me babeyyy.
Local resident of the Louis de Pointe du Lac fan club, you can also find me lurking over on @sangcreole, where I write Louis.
I also spend a normal amount of time screaming about vampires over on @thecoveninarticulate.
For #VCKinkWeek Day 3: Edging Armand/Louis | 6.5k Words | Explicit
“Always so needy, Louis.” Armand muses, leans his elbow on Louis’ knee and rests his head in one hand. “Yes, you are. You always have been. From the moment I met you. Starved for knowledge. Starved for love. Starved for blood. You hunger for things like no one else I know.”
Lestat had said as much, Louis recalls, over the years. But always in the form of accusations, always bolstered by brute force. Armand’s methods are more incisive. His words are a mirror, and though Louis can’t stand to see his own reflection, there is much less room for denial. Existence, for Louis, always hung in the balance between gluttony and denial. It’s an ever-waging war between the two, and when he loses, when he allows the hunger to cloud his mind, the worst part is, it still feels so good.
It’s easy to justify, when Lestat is beneath him and sobbing for it, when Armand is scratching at his back, begging him to go faster and harder. But this…this is different. This is for no one but himself.
Armand covering Lestat’s naked body with these while he humiliates him with words, repeating sarcastically what each sticker says as he puts it on his body 😌
Daniel took the box, looked it over, and then handed it back. “It’s a gag gift,” Daniel said. He pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.
“A gag gift?”
“Yeah, you know, a joke. Something you get someone for their bachelor party to say ‘Have fun on your honeymoon.’ It’s supposed to be funny.”
Armand frowned at the box. He turned it over in his hands, examining the back, before opening the package. “But on that tape you watched…”
Daniel flushed. Years ago, before they’d gotten together, Daniel had been holed up in a motel room that had been next to a store that rented videos. He’d been restless and keyed up from travel and the constant fear of Armand showing up. He’d rented the tape on a whim, just something to watch while he ate a sandwich and drank a beer, passing the hours until dawn.
In it, a male porn star had played a cop who had handcuffed two women together, making them kiss and touch. Daniel had been into more the cop, especially when he’d stripped off his uniform, and Daniel had tried to pleasure himself as he imagined being the one in the handcuffs, the cops frisking him and then fucking him against the cop car. But then Armand had burst into the room. Daniel had frantically covered himself and tried to pretend the vampire hadn’t seen anything. But the way Armand had looked at him…
Daniel cleared his throat in the present, the memory making his pulse race. “People use handcuffs, sure, but these are cheap.”
He took them from Armand’s hands, surprised to find they were metal, not plastic. He set down his beer and, with his cigarette dangling from his lips, examined them. They didn’t seem as sturdy as real handcuffs—which he unfortunately had experience with—but they also didn’t feel as flimsy as he’d expected. They wouldn’t hold Armand. He doubted any handcuffs would. But Daniel wouldn’t be able to break them open or get free easily. His mouth went dry as he imagined being restrained with them.
Anon who sent me this ask I hope you’re out there.
“You must hold him tighter.” Armand instructs with one upward flick of his eyes.
For a moment Louis’s fingers curl around Lestat’s arm, pressing into the marble flesh with unsettling ease, staking their claim the way only another blood drinker could. But he releases his grip just as quickly, pressing a soft, deceptively sweet peck of a kiss against the pink sweat gathering at Lestat’s temple.
“Is my dirty talk adequate?” Armand asks over the edge of his magazine.
At the other end of the sofa Daniel barks out a laugh, so surprised and sudden that he nearly spills his glass of whiskey. Some sloshed over the edge of the cup, and he licks it off the backs of his fingers and then turns his incredulous eyes on Armand.
“Is your- what now?” Daniel asks.
“My dirty talk.” Armand turns the magazine around and shows Daniel the page, where ‘13 ways to up your dirty talk game and blow his mind’ is printed in big, red letters above the article. “Is it adequate?”
Daniel cocks his head. He takes the magazine from Armand’s hand, gentle as can be, and furrows his brow as he examines the article. His eyes are taking in the words but inside his mind is a blur, a veritable knot garden of thoughts. What does he mean, adequate? And Nobody talks like this, what bullshit artist wrote this article? And Is this some kind of trap? If I tell him the truth will he get annoyed?
“I hardly would have asked you if I didn’t want the truth,” Armand says, annoyed now.
He knew the answer would be no.
It rankles him, sometimes, how proficient he is at the English language and yet still he doesn’t sound like a normal mortal man. He’d cut his teeth on Whitman and Thoreau and Hawthorne in those early days when he and Louis had first come to America and it shows. Armand has the misplaced grammar of a non-native speaker, the vocabulary of a Victorian gentleman. Half the time he sits and stares at Daniel because he’s translating something in his head, a 15th century idiom that doesn’t quite make sense in English but that he can find no equivalent for and it drives him mad-
No. Nuts. It drives him nuts, that’s what a youth his age would say now.
