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Daniel is beyond fucking tired of being on tour.
At first, the idea of being on tour with Lestat had been enticing. Drugs, unrestricted hunting, more drugs, music with an actual story behind it, money in his pocket, even more drugs— he had been more than happy to document Lestat’s story, and Lestat had been willing to accommodate him.
The thrill had managed to expire in Boulder, after he found himself cleaning Lestat up after a hunt gone wrong; a super-fan from CSU Boulder found her way backstage, and Lestat had taken un petit coup from her. What Lestat hadn’t known, however, was that she’d dropped a tab of acid before the show. Thus, Daniel was forced to clean blood-vomit from Lestat’s alabaster skin while he screamed and cried his way through a trip from Hell. Excruciatingly similar scenes had taken place in Indianapolis, Memphis, and Newark.
Now they’re in Mobile-fucking-Alabama, and Daniel’s sick of it.
“Now,” he remembers telling Lestat, staring at the tour dates in a state of total exasperation. “Why the fuck are you doing a show in Mobile? Nobody does shows in Alabama, and that’s for good reason, man.”
“The American South has a diverse and rich culture that you filthy Westerners are not privy to,” Lestat had replied, not looking up from the guitar he’d been tinkering with. “And Mobile, which you are pronouncing incorrectly according to the locals, is the birth place of my beloved Mardi Gras. It means something to me, you fledgling man-child. It is one of my most anticipated shows of the entire tour.”
So now they’re at this dank, unexciting venue known as Soul Kitchen Music Hall— which Daniel finds a fitting name for a music venue hosting a vampire rockstar— and Daniel’s blowing through a soft pack of Newports in the green room while Lestat bounces around onstage for local college students and men in their forties that bear a striking resemblance to Fred Durst.
It’s a decent green room, compared to some of the others he’s been in. Lock on the door. A restroom— but notably no shower, which had pissed Lestat off to no end. A production desk, mostly being used to store any unused sound and video equipment. A flatscreen mounted on the wall to watch Lestat from, and the couch Daniel’s sitting on. Pretty solid.
He’s heard the set a thousand fucking times, at this point; it’s basically background noise. Easy to tune out and extremely prone to putting Daniel to sleep. Lestat’s flirting with the ASL interpreter again, and Daniel rolls his eyes before closing them completely, letting his weary body settle further into the couch as he stubs out his cig in the ashtray. A constant sequence of events that’s been perpetuating itself since the beginning of the tour; Lestat cozies up to the interpreter, uses him as a blood bag and fleshlight, then discards him as soon as Louis pops up in his mind— or in person, as of late. It’s driven the poor guy into at least two mental illness-related episodes, and he’s tired of Lestat wailing and lamenting every time he “quits” the tour and runs off for a couple of days. It’s fucking exhausting.
Just as he’s about to be taken out by the all-consuming experience that is vampire sleep, he hears the door unlock from the outside. Watches behind his eyelids as the overhead light flickers.
“Been a while since another vamp decided to pay me a visit,” he sighs, eyes remaining unopened. “Go ahead, give me your evil villain monologue about how you’re going to rip my lungs out and feed them back to me for writing the book.”
“I wasn’t aware that I was supposed to come with a prepared monologue—“
Daniel lets out a groan, loud and long.
“Oh my god, no.”
His eyes fly open, and there’s Armand, looking like a wet dream come true, a vision of black lace and leather, eyes coated in wet glitter and eyeliner. He looks like he’s already won whatever psychosexual game they’re playing, evident from the smirk on his lips, which only serves to annoy Daniel further.
“What, aren’t you happy to see me?” Armand asks, stepping further into the green room and locking the door behind himself. “We haven’t seen each other since Charlotte, and I went through all the trouble of styling this outfit, just for you.”
“I didn’t tell you to do that,” he tells Armand, already half-hard in his jeans. God, he needs another cigarette. “And I can’t help that once a month you come flinging yourself at me like a bat out of Hell to impale yourself on my dick. Hyper-sexual bitch.”
Armand hums. “Yet you fuck me every time I show up, which means you’re just as bad as I am. If not worse, with that insatiable fledgling libido that you’ve yet to grow out of.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grouses, rolling his eyes. “You could breathe in my direction and I’d pitch a tent in my pants, big fucking deal. I got it up to Fleetwood Mac’s Greatest Hits, the other day. You’re nothing special.”
“That’s not true,” Armand says, and god, the look in his eyes makes Daniel want to take him where he’s standing. “If I was nothing special, you’d have ran through Lestat and every member of his silly little band. I think I’m very special, Daniel.”
“Believe what you want, I don’t care. Should’ve got here sooner, though,” he replies, hoping for some weird middle ground between flippant and nonchalant as he leans back. “You missed the openers, and Lestat’s on this new thing where he barrels through all his songs, speaks for like twenty minutes when he’s done, then runs out to the bus. I don’t have enough time to take you apart.”
Armand shrugs. “Then don’t.”
He raises a brow. “The fuck are you here for, then?”
“I’m already stretched out, and you’re hard, and let’s face it, you’re still a little tender about me, and I quote, “fucking off to the middle of nowhere,” in the midst of your fledgling growing pains,” Armand starts, quickly stripping from the waist down. “I need you to fuck me until I pass out.”
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, cock jumping as he reaches for his belt. “You’re fucking insane. What is this, some kind of episode that you’re roping me into?”
Armand rolls his eyes and moves to straddle him, not letting him fully remove his jeans. “Don’t look into it too much, Daniel. Take your shirt off, I don’t want to stain it.”
“You’re real fuckin’ bossy tonight, you know that?” He complains, pulling his shirt off, balling it up, and tossing it on the couch cushion next to them. “Forcing me to fuck you, making me wear pants and take my shirt off.”
“It’s like you said, darling,” Armand reminds him, lining Daniel’s cock up with his entrance and sinking down with a breathy little sound that’s half-whimper, half-laugh. “We don’t exactly have all the time in the world, and I’d like to come before Lestat comes back here to cry and moan about how nobody understands him.”
“Fuck.” He groans, squeezing Armand’s hips when he clenches around his dick. It shouldn’t be possible, for him to be so goddamn tight; it takes Daniel off-guard every time.
“I certainly hope you’ll hurry up and do that, yes.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, slamming up into Armand and reveling in the startled moan that rips from his chest. “Shut all the way up.”
It doesn’t take them long to settle into an absolutely brutal rhythm. Daniel’s doing most of the work, fucking into Armand from below and pulling him down into his lap over and over just to hear him scream with each impact. Daniel loves how loud he gets, how he doesn’t even try to bite his lip or muffle it against Daniel’s shoulder. A somewhat primal, vestigial part of him wants to sink his fangs into Armand’s voice box, drink up every wet noise and sharp breath until there’s nothing left.
Armand sounds a bit like a wounded animal, at the moment; he’s acting like one, too, clawing at Daniel’s chest and shoulders and leaving bloody scratches in his wake. The tears streaming down his face are bloody, too. Daniel leans in and licks them away, because he’s a fucking freak and just can’t help himself anymore.
“God, yes, fucking give it to me, fuck—“ Armand sobs, twisting a hand in Daniel’s silver curls and pulling, hard. Daniel growls, all heat and venom and lust, and starts drilling into him with renewed vigor. “Just like that, don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t stop unless you begged me to, sweetheart,” Daniel grunts, claws digging into Armand’s hips. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you croak, ‘til the goddamn roof blows off this place.”
“Prove it to me,” Armand gasps out, trying desperately to rut in time with Daniel’s ruthless thrusts. “Fuck me to death, you geriatric pervert—“
Daniel wraps a broad hand around his throat and squeezes, tight enough to asphyxiate any mortal past the point of unconsciousness.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he snaps, maintaining his pace as he commits Armand’s watering eyes and wheezy little moans to memory. “I’m tired of listening to your bullshit. I should just pull out and come down your throat, but you’d get off on that too, fucking slut.”
“Your slut,” Armand gets out, sounding just as strangled as Daniel assumes he feels, his cock jumping between them. “Only yours.”
Daniel chuckles and releases his throat, gripping both hips again. “Just for that, I’m gonna ruin dick for you for the next hundred years.”
“Please.”
Daniel can’t stop ravaging him; it’s devolved from sex into something more depraved, somehow. He likes hurting Armand, and Armand likes that Daniel likes hurting him. A never-ending cycle of desire and carnage, white-hot and messy and wet.
“I’m gonna come,” Armand warns with his eyes rolled back, drenched in blood-sweat and covered in livid purple bruises. Daniel loves watching him get lost in his pleasure like this; he drops all proper pretenses and verbiage, fucks himself down onto Daniel like a bitch in heat. He’d film it and save it for his spank bank if he knew he could get away with it. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—“
Daniel sinks his fangs into Armand’s throat, and clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the shriek that leaves his lips as he topples over the edge, entire body tightening so intensely that Daniel’s coming right along with him, fucking him in sloppy, slow thrusts through the aftershocks. It’s like they’re both live wires, he can feel the electricity passing between them both. There are no words in the English lexicon to properly describe the level of ecstasy he’s feeling; it’s like he woke up with shiny fledgling-eyes all over again.
“That,” Armand rasps, cupping the back of Daniel’s head as he drinks from him. He sounds like he’s on the verge of falling asleep. Definitely losing his edge from all the blood loss. “I… you definitely succeeded in completing your little mission.”
Daniel hums, pulls away from Armand’s neck to spit his own blood back into his mouth. “I can tell— you need to drink from me.”
Armand kisses back, choking on his own moans and giggles. “There’s no time. Lestat’s on his tenth monologue of the night.”
“I’m not just gonna throw you to the wolves—“
“I have an insulated cooler of blood bags in my Roadmaster,” Armand says, quelling any and all arguments before they can crop up. “I came prepared so you wouldn’t worry.”
Daniel sighs, gives him a worried once-over. “Can you even stand right now, man?”
Unsurprisingly, he immediately regrets asking when Armand pulls off of him, both of them groaning at the abrupt divorce of their bodies. Armand stands on wobbly, trembling legs, and bends down for his jacket.
“I think that answers your question.”
“C’mere,” Daniel murmurs, tucking himself back into his jeans. “You bring wet wipes again? I’ll help you clean up.”
It’s oddly domestic, scrubbing the dried blood from Armand’s skin after fucking his brains out. Armand is silent through it all, and Daniel has half a mind to start freaking out about it, but Armand starts shushing him and petting his hair every time the thought materializes.
“I’m okay,” he tells Daniel, heavy-handed as his palm brushes over his curls. “You did everything just right. We’re okay.”
He helps Armand pull his clothes back on, zips him back into his jacket, and kisses the corner of his mouth. That’s another odd domestic thing they’ve started doing, kissing just because they can. Daniel finds peace in it the way one finds peace in the calm after a storm; neither one of them mention it out loud.
“You good?” He asks, double-checking for the sake of his guilty conscience, and because he thinks he’d rather die than know he hurt Armand in any way other than what he’d sought out.
“Never better,” Armand assures him, playing with the short hairs on the back of his neck as he watches the flat screen. “I should leave now, he’s just said goodnight to his adoring fans.”
“Drink a blood bag before you drive,” Daniel tells him, something sick fluttering in his chest when Armand rolls his eyes at him. “Will I see you in New Orleans?”
Armand smiles and kisses him, pushes something into his hand while his eyes are closed; an unopened soft pack of Newports. He reaches in for one, and Armand lights it without lifting a finger.
“I think the odds are in your favor, Daniel,” he whispers, half-giddy as he makes his way to the door. “Go rinse your face in the sink, you have glitter everywhere.”
“Yeah, no thanks to you, asshole.”
Armand honest-to-God blows him a kiss; he almost chokes on his freshly-lit cigarette.
“Wasn’t expecting that,” he snorts, taking a deep drag and letting his lungs fill with menthol smoke before exhaling through his nose. “What was that for?”
“Mortals do it at each other all the time,” Armand tells him with a subtle shrug of the shoulders, reaching for the doorknob. “You looked like you were about to faint, needed to lighten the mood.”
Daniel catches the kiss and puts it in his pocket. “Vampires don’t faint, but I appreciate the concern.”
Armand smiles and ducks outside. “I’ll see you again soon, Daniel.”
Daniel feels like he’s about to burst into flames.
“Bye, sweetheart.”
The door shuts and locks behind Armand again, and he finishes the cigarette before heading into the adjoining restroom. He stands in front of the mirror above the sink and washes pink and purple glitter from his face as best as he’s able to. Lestat will scream at him for “letting Armand compromise the green room” again, but he can’t bring himself to mind.
The light in the green room flickers, he smiles, and the endless cycle of being on tour begins anew, this time with energy.