Archive of Our Own

The file on Daniel Molloy, to the Talamasca’s great inconvenience, has been closed and reopened twelve times in the last fifty years.

This would not have been quite as inconvenient if the Talamasca hadn’t also lost thirty-four agents trailing one Daniel Molloy. It had become a bit of a tradition in the late 70’s and early 80’s for the Talamasca agents to draw straws on whose turn it was to follow Molloy and his vampiric god around, but the art of the game was lost in 1985, when it was determined Daniel Molloy had ceased all contact with the supernatural.

Molloy’s file had remained closed and forgotten, save from the few odd occurrences in 1999 and 2004, until it was reluctantly opened once more in 2022, when one of the Dubai informants reported Molloy brazenly walking into Dubai’s only vampire lair. Raglan James had high hopes; most other agents did not, and for the next two weeks, Daniel Molloy became the Talamasca’s favorite betting pool, with an overwhelming majority voting against the journalist’s odds.

Thus, Molloy’s reported drainage and death by the Vampire Armand came as no surprise.

The betting pool was cashed out and Daniel Molloy’s file had finally—finally—been closed for good, when a new report came in from Dubai. Six of Mr. Du Lac’s remaining workers, it stated, had been eaten by a ravenous vampire fledgling.

The Talamasca compared the death dates to the time in which Mr. Molloy was allegedly murdered by the vampire Armand, and came to a very unpleasant conclusion as they reopened Daniel Molloy’s file for the thirteenth time.

★☆☆☆☆

When I saw people on TikTok asking how many chili peppers out of ten the spice level in this novel was, I thought they were surely talking about another Daniel Molloy. But, no, the man who inspired me to pursue environmental journalism did, in fact, publish vampire erotica…[read more]

★★☆☆☆

Decent story, but did everyone have to be gay? Felt unrealistic for a book trying to be historically accurate.

★★★★☆

If you divorce it from the author’s weird marketing, the story is beautiful. Memory is a monster indeed, because Molloy’s use of unreliable narration through the setting of an interview is masterfully done, with a raw emotion I found lacking in his more recent books…[read more]

★★★★★

Hot.

read-with-rey

I can’t get over how Daniel Molloy’s new book is SO close to being an incredible queer allegory, only for it to absolutely fall off at the end. I mean, I can’t really expect too much from a guy who wrote poignantly about the AIDs crisis in the 1980s, then hand-waved all his own gay experiences in his memoir, but wow did it disappoint.

It was already kind of weird that Molloy both self-inserted into the book and used a historical Black man to project his sexuality qualms onto, but the ending for Armand is just so underwhelming and vague, made even more jarring by the nuance he was granted the rest of the book. Did he turn book!Daniel? Kill him? Fuck him? Is vampirism a metaphor for accepting queerness or is it pushing the narrative that gay men are predatory?

Idk. I don’t think Molloy knows the story he wants to tell AND he’s still a closet case, so. Disregard!

#book review #bookblr

booktwt president @readwsierra

Replying to @scribetalks

ngl that kinda sounds sick as hell i think youre just mad that hes seventy and bisexual

bee @vamptalk

Replying to @scribetalks

The implication that daniel molloy wasnt already problematic

“He’s relapsed,” Lenora babbles into the phone. “Oh, god, he’s definitely relapsed.”

Kate sighs, leaning against her desk. A copy of Interview with the Vampire sits on top of the mess of papers. Still unread, but it seems at least more stomachable than Hate and Ashbury. God. It had been a slow work day today, mostly perusing through old litigation files, but she’s starting to wish she took a half-day at lunch. “Did you see his leather jacket? And his nails?”

“He looks healthier,” Lenora says, after a beat. “Maybe he’s not using.”

“Or maybe the cocaine is making him glow,” Kate says dryly, beginning to pace back and forth in her office. The secretary outside shoots her a look, and she gives her a polite wave, plastering on a smile. Then, she lowers her voice, even though the walls are soundproof. “Did he wire you money too?”

“Yeah,” Lenora breathes. “Didn’t think the book was selling that well. Or that he was sitting on that kinda cash all this time.”

“It feels like–” Kate hesitates. Lenora has always been the soft-hearted one out of the two of them, visiting their dad when he was first diagnosed, even when Kate refused to. On the other hand, it’s in Kate’s nature to be blunt. An unsavory inheritance from her father, as her mother always said. “A will, right?”

There’s a long, stretched silence. Finally, Lenora clears her throat. “You’re in New York, I can get over there by train. Maybe we should visit him.” Lenora’s voice sounds small. “Maybe…maybe we should take this a bit more seriously.”

Well, Kate hadn’t really meant all that. She didn’t owe her father anything, much less sympathy, and the money sitting in her back account was the least he could’ve done after setting her life up for failure.

“Kate?”

Kate purses her lips. She thumbs her copy of Interview with the Vampire. Half of the book’s acclaim comes from her father’s portrayal of Claudia, the child vampire. Kate would rather die than read and relate to a daughter character her dad wrote. “Fine. A wellness check. And then I’m not seeing his face until his funeral.”

“Kate,” Lenora says, and Kate thinks she’s going to chastise her. “Dad would never go for an open-casket.”

Lenora’s hug is warm when Kate greets her at Penn Station. It’s good to see her like this, bubbly and glowing and full of life. Kate hopes that their dad won’t diminish that in the following hour, but he does make a habit of it. They take the subway to Brooklyn together, Lenora wobbling a little as it lurches. You’ve lost your touch, Kate teases her, and Lenora, like she’s six again, sticks out her tongue.

A woman seated across from them holds the familiar red cover of Interview with the Vampire. As Lenora shoots off a text on her phone, Kate fixes her eyes on the subway’s cloudy glass windows, and tries not to stare at it.

It’s not just her father’s new look that unsettles her, and the book’s virality is still not as terrible as the publication of Hate and Ashbury, with its inescapable quotes about her, her mother, her sister. It’s really the subject matter that has Kate unsettled.

She just doesn’t understand why he wants to stake his career on this: fantasy and romance and parenthood and queerness.

A Shadow On the Skin was the first and only book she had read by her father. She was fourteen and angry at every adult in her life and, to a lesser extent, the world. Her father’s debut book and its painfully harsh retelling of the AIDs crisis had awakened something in her: a deep grief for a community that she teetered on the cusp of.

A teenage Kate had cynically concluded that the tragedy was a career-turning story for her father and nothing more. Now, she’s wondering if it really was something more personal. She doesn’t really want to dwell on what kind of light that puts her father under.

Kate tries to imagine bonding with her father over imposed heteronormativity. She shudders.

At Daniel’s apartment, Lenora politely knocks on the door, then bangs on it when there’s no answer. “Think he forgot?” she guesses. “I texted him a reminder this morning, though.”

Kate sighs and rams her spare key into the lock with more force than she needs. She wrestles the door open and unceremoniously makes her way inside. It’s a gorgeous apartment, with high, painted ceilings and a frankly obscene amount of lamps. Together, they enter into the living room, and Kate stalls in her steps.

There’s a stranger standing at the back of the living room. His long figure is bent a bit awkwardly while he peruses one of the many stacks of books that line the apartment. When they enter, he snaps a book shut in one hand, and turns towards them. Kate sucks in a breath. He has an ethereal, almost haunting beauty to him.

“Hello,” he says mildly. His eyes—an unsettling, unreal, bright orange—flit over them. “Kate, Lenora.”

Kate not-so-subtly pushes Lenora a little behind her. “Hi,” she says shortly. He’s dressed sleek and expensive, like some of her richer clients. “You have a minute to introduce yourself before I call the police.”

The man drops the book and it lands perfectly atop one of the stacks on the floor. “He knows.” Suddenly, the world is sucked into this black hole of a man, and nothing else exists except his voice and his gaze. “You were sixteen. You tearfully called him to pick you up from a party because you were too scared of your mother. You saw her with an upperclassman, was that it? Tall, handsome, football player. You cried in the passenger seat as your father drove you home, and he knew then that you would never date a man.”

“What?” Lenora says, as a shard of ice-cold glass pierces Kate’s heart. She had forgotten about that night. Her father, very deliberately, never brought it up since.

The man continues to watch her, vacant. Something deep and dark instinctual lights up in the back of her mind, begging her legs to run.

The front door creaks open. The man looks away, and the illusion that had been stretched taut over Kate snaps.

“Sorry, girls.” Daniel joins them in the living room, preoccupied with straightening his shirt. “I had to, uh. Grab dinner.” A bloodstain blots his collar. Kate doesn’t know if she wants to bring that up.

Kate tries to speak, but the words are lodged in her throat. Daniel finally looks up, and his body goes rigid when he locks eyes with the intruder. With unsettling speed, Kate stares as her supposedly sick father lunges at the man, who deftly sidesteps him towards the window.

“I knew that you’ve been lurking here,” Daniel growls. “You have a habit of straightening out my pens every time you walk in.”

“Clever as always,” the man only replies, and unlatches the window to push it open. Kate watches as he then proceeds to crawl out of the window.

“Running away again?” their dad yells after him. “Fucking coward.” He slams the window shut, the glass rattling.

Kate is cursed with her father’s curiosity, because she can’t help but peek out the window to see if the man had wiggled out onto the fire escape. There is no fire escape.The drop had to have been at least fifteen feet. He’s completely gone.

“Who was that?” she demands.

Daniel pauses and contemplates the two of them. “He’s the vampire Armand.”

Kate rubs her eyes and prays for patience. Lenora’s face crumples. “Dad,” she says gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Katie and I were talking and we think it could help to see a psychiatric professional.” When their dad tenses, she quickly says, “It’s not about the book, promise. Just long overdue since your Parkinson’s diagnosis.”

Kate swears that, under those sunglasses, Daniel’s eyes flicker orange. Must be the lighting. “I don’t need a wellness check,” Daniel finally says. “I still have my words, don’t I?”

“The book–” Lenora starts.

“–is nonfiction,” Daniel finishes.

Kate had really hoped his delusions were just a ploy for the camera. “Book a doctor’s appointment,” she hisses to Lenora, because she does have a heart for her father, even if he is the reason she’s thirty and still attachment-avoidant. Also, she's really hoping he didn’t hear anything of what that man had told her, because even though she’s an out-and-proud lesbian, she really would rather not go through the hassle of explaining that to either of her parents.

Daniel looks at her strangely. Kate frowns, and looks back. “It’s okay,” he finally says, clumsily. “I mean…whatever you identify as. It’s cool.”

“Oh my god,” Kate says. “I’m past thirty, I don’t need to have this conversation.”

“That’s great, sweetie,” Daniel says, and awkwardly pats her shoulder. Lenora gives her a half-hearted thumbs-up. Kate would rather be written off the will, at this point.

Their dad dutifully goes to a referred psychiatrist a few weeks later, and texts Kate and Lenora that all his mental faculties seem to be in order. The psychiatrist is reported missing a few days later, but neither Kate nor Lenora think much of it.

age-gap-yaoi

clocking into work like I’m not about to write pulitzer prize winning investigative journalist x random guy in louvre painting on my boss’s dime

vamptheory reblogged:

This is the most pair the spares bullshit ive ever seen. And why are we shipping Daniel with his abuser…

age-gap-yaoi

just block the tag then? None of this is real anyways.

#i cant be the only one who picked up vibes #i know we’re all loustat vs loumand over here but… #tell me they wouldnt be hot together

1-20 of 642 Works in Louis de Pointe Du Lac/Lestat de Lioncourt

1-20 of 119 Works in Louis de Pointe Du Lac/Armand

1-20 of 32 Works in Armand/Daniel Molloy

Lazarus’ maker had given him one instruction when she had made him, and that was to protect the coven.

He didn’t really think the coven needed protecting, but there’s some Great Conversion thing going on, and apparently that meant a shit load of new vampires were encroaching on their territory. And, hey, Lazarus may have turned rather recently as well, but he’s nothing if not loyal to his people.

They have him on clean-up duty, mostly, which largely involves him incinerating leftover bodies and strewing the ashes around Chicago’s waterways. Lazarus doesn’t really mind it, especially since it’s more engaging than what he was doing as a human (chained to an IT desk), but he wants to start playing offense. It can’t be that hard, right? Just jump and bite.

Tonight, he can prove himself. Tonight, the author is in town.

Lazarus doesn’t actually know much about Daniel Molloy, since most of the vampires are fixating on killing Louis de Pointe du Lac instead. But Daniel Molloy is like the annoying burr that tagged along with the Vampire Louis, and Lazarus found out through his TikTok for-you page that he’s coming to a local Chicago bookstore to give a reading.

(He doesn’t think it’s very vampiric to doomscroll TikTok, but how else is he supposed to spend the boring hours in his coffin, waiting for the pull of the sun?)

Writing the history of vampires. Setting foot in a coven’s city. Mingling with mortals. Being old. Lazarus’s pretty sure this guy’s broken, like, ten different laws. And his coven would be so proud of him if he brought Molloy’s head in a body bag back to them. His maker might even let him drink her blood again.

Stalking Molloy takes no skill at all. He refuses to lurk in the shadows, and instead brazenly mingles with mortals as if he’s still one himself. When he feeds, he’s as thirsty for the stories in the blood as he is in the blood itself, reverently drinking down its visions until his victim dies.

It only serves to irritate Lazarus more. A leech, trying to indulge in his city. And he doesn’t even dispose of the corpses properly!

It’s Molloy’s second night in the city. He had just finished draining a young grad student that was stumbling back home drunk, and Lazarus now follows him as he heads back to his hotel room. There is a slight buzz in his step, whether that be from the blood or the alcohol, and his mind is foolishly unguarded.

Gotta find him, Molloy is thinking loudly. He’s here, I know he’s here, I can feel him—

He’s an easy target. A pitifully easy target. And he’s younger than Lazarus, so surely he can take him on.

Molloy is about to round a corner when Lazarus lunges.

He doesn’t even make it a foot before his knees buckle underneath him. Lazarus crashes down onto hard pavement, hands just barely managing to catch himself. He tries to push himself back up, but his muscles have locked up. By some invisible hand, his head is forced down to the ground, and his mind whitens in panic at the compounding pressure.

A pair of shoes crosses his vision. Lazarus strains to lift his head up. Almost pityingly in response, the pressure loosens, and Lazarus is able to see him clearly.

He’s a vampire, Lazarus can tell immediately, but he’s no vampire Lazarus has ever seen before. He opens his mouth to scream, but his throat constricts until he’s choking on air.

“Keith Johnson,” the vampire says. His voice is lighter than Lazarus would have expected, its soft tone filling his ears with cotton. “Turned in the spring of 2019. An infant fledgling should not be hunting alone.”

“It’s Lazarus,” Lazarus slurs.

The pressure loosens on Lazarus’s throat, slightly. “What is Lazarus?”

“It’s–” Lazarus swallows hard. “It’s my vampire name. I got it on fantasy-names-dot-com.”

Pinpricks of fang show as the elder vampire clenches his jaw. Oh, fuck.

“H-hey,” Lazarus gasps, desperate. “Don’t go after me, I’ve got a whole coven behind me. There’s–there’s another fledgling you can pick on, he wrote that book you all hate—”

And suddenly his head is meeting the wall, hard. His teeth rattle as concrete cracks under his skull. Lazarus’s vision swims. He tries to bolt, but his body remains pinned to the wall by that same immoveable force.

This vampire is strong, stronger than their coven leader, who had tossed Lazarus around a bit when he had gotten too mouthy. Stronger than his maker, who opened his eyes to this world. There is a different enormity to this monster.

“You?” the vampire says softly, and takes a step forward, moving with an eerie stillness. Lazarus kicks his feet out uselessly. “Your death, in exchange for Daniel Molloy’s? Do you believe that you are of equal blood? That your life is worth his?”

Lazarus starts shaking his head frantically. He calls out telepathically for his coven, but he’s met with only grim silence in return. He has never known silence since being given the gift. There’s always been the chatter of the coven to reach out to, the warmth of a family to blanket his mind.

It’s gone now. They’re gone. He knows this, intrinsically.

The elder vampire wraps one elegant hand around Lazarus’s throat, pushing him further into the wall. The other withdraws into his coat to pull out a familiar red book. Interview With the Vampire. “You read this recently,” he says. It’s not a question. “You reviewed it on Goodreads.” The modern word sounds unfamiliar on his tongue. “Remind me, what did you rate it?”

Beneath the white static of panic, the words Molloy had written flits back to him. Ghastly and awful and loathsome, and beautiful all at the same time. “You’re–” Lazarus gurgles. “You’re–”

“Three stars,” Armand says pitifully. He traces a sharp fingernail down Lazarus’s throat, tilts his head to the side. “Painfully average.” And his fangs sink into Lazarus' neck as the world goes cold.

Pulitzerootwo: Can you tell your fellow Talamasca friends to stop stalking me? I know this book tour is giving every vampire around the world an aneurysm but I’m not too fond of secret agents in my business.

RJ: I thought you’d appreciate the added protection.

Pulitzerootwo: Yeah, well I’m starting to think that you’re overhyping the danger. I haven’t ran into a single vampire in any of the cities I’ve gone to.

RJ: I’m not surprised. Four vampire covens have been completely wiped out. One for every city you’ve set foot in.

Pulitzerootwo: Seriously?

Pulitzerootwo: He could have just said hi.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Book Signing Details

Good morning Mr. Molloy,

Attached is the venue and event information for tomorrow’s signing. As a reminder, I have a list of topics I recommend you avoid discussing:

• Opinions on fan headcanons/theories
• Any questions regarding your personal life
• Arguments over historical inaccuracies
• Armand
• Armand
• Armand
• For the love of God, every time you start talking about Armand, the QnA turns unsalvageable

Please let me know if you have any further questions and we can circle back later tonight.

Best,

Elisa Liu

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hi elisa will be at the signing on time but could you please buy bleach and leave it outside my hotel room

Thanks

daniel

Sent from my iPhone

Elisa knows it would be her peers’ dream to work as an assistant under Daniel Molloy, even without the success of his new book, but she really finds herself wishing for one peaceful day. In between incendiary remarks towards the press and his monthly online canceling, Elisa’s not sure she can save his reputation.

The appearance of a stalker-fan has also not helped.

They’re in a small, local bookshop because Mr. Molloy has, as long as she’d known him, refused to hold any events at anything corporate. They’ll be cutting it close tonight: the bookstore closes at 9 PM, but the signing starts at 7:30, because Mr. Molloy, for whatever reason, refuses to meet outside of night hours now.

The author in question is spinning a pen in his hand as he waits for the reading to begin. Elisa mindlessly fiddles with the book displays.

“I can’t not talk about Armand,” Mr. Molloy finally says. “He’s a fan favorite.”

Elisa blows a strand of hair away from her face. “I never said you couldn’t mention him,” she tries. “You just tend to get a bit…”

Mr. Molloy raises his eyebrows. “A bit?”

“A bit passionate,” Elisa chooses carefully. “Especially during the QnA. Especially if a fan is defending Armand. You should encourage different interpretations of the text.”

“There’s no defending anything Armand does,” Mr. Molloy argues. “He still hasn’t apologized, y’know. Properly apologized.”

Elisa refrains from telling the author that if he really wanted Armand to sincerely apologize, he could just write it. “You also pick fights with his haters too.”

Mr. Molloy rolls his eyes. “‘Cause they don’t hate him for the right reasons.”

And you do? Elisa wants to ask. She doesn't think she’s ever met an author who felt so personally attacked by his own characters before.

Seats begin to fill as fans trickle in. A fair amount have arrived in cosplay. Claudia is by far the most common pick, with her distinct dresses, but Elisa spots some Louis cosplayers as well, and the occasional Lestat. There’s a few Armands too, of course, most sporting the sunglasses Mr. Molloy chose to highlight in chapter forty, and—

Oh, god. He’s back.

He does look freakishly like the book’s description of Armand, which might be where his obsession is born from. As usual, he blends right in with the other Armand cosplayers, pairing a long, dark coat with perfectly curled hair. Once inside and seated with the others, he always slips on sunglasses to complete the look, then smiles as if doing so amuses him. Then, he will sit and wait for Mr. Molloy to notice him.

Today, Mr. Molloy is already staring at him before the reading starts.

“I can have him escorted out,” Elisa whispers to Mr. Molloy. She knows his answer is no. His answer is always no, which means that Elisa must wait for it to escalate before she can kick him out.

“Maybe he’s finally learned to shut that pretty mouth of his,” Mr. Molloy mutters. Elisa refrains from commenting on that statement. If Mr. Molloy sues for harassment, can the stalker counter-sue also for harassment?

The stalker catches her eye. She quickly ducks her head down as the reading begins.

Elisa can relax during the reading. No one interrupts the story that is being woven, not even the most unruly of fans. Even she cannot help but listen in, just as enraptured by the tale as the first time she read it. It’s only after the reading ends and the floor is open to questions that Elisa is back on high alert, because the stalker-fan has a method. He lets exactly twenty minutes of QnA pass by so they’re all seduced into a false sense of security, before he strikes.

Elisa glances worriedly at her watch. Twenty-two minutes. There’s a lull in questioning. Elisa braces herself.

Sure enough, a hand in the back row raises demurely.

“Do not,” Elisa mouths at Mr. Molloy, so of course he tilts the mic towards his mouth and says, “The kid in the back, what’s your question?”

The stalker stands up in a motion so fluid, it feels otherworldly. Elisa doesn’t even bother waiting for him to ask a question, and immediately flags down a security guard. “I take issue with chapter forty-two.” He waves a copy of Interview. It’s a new copy, likely bought today. He always buys a new copy at each stop. “It reads like a cheap horror movie, a juvenile slasher film. I think that’s a rather crude way of describing Daniel’s first meeting with Armand.”

“And what would you call it?” Mr. Molloy says, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “It is a cheap horror movie.”

“A colloquy,” the stalker-fan suggests. “A tête-à-tête.” A smile flickers on his face. “A first date.”

And that, of course, is the goading Mr. Molloy needs to launch into a rant. Security escorts the Armand cosplayer away. Elisa breathes a sigh of relief, before she realizes that Mr. Molloy has chased after him so they can continue their argument.

Louis’ fledgling is unimpressive at first sight.

Their initial meetings had been conducted mainly between their respective teams, and afterwards through professional emails that Lestat never personally answered. There’s an inevitably that comes with finally knowing Daniel Molloy, and it’s one that gives Lestat an uncomfortable feeling if he dwells on it too long.

Why him?

He doesn’t get his answer, unfortunately.

Daniel arrives backstage with little aplomb. He unceremoniously drops both his carrier bag and his leather jacket on Lestat’s makeup bench, then settles down on his armchair, appraising Lestat from where he sits on the small sofa. “The infamous Lesat de Lioncourt,” he says, Lestat’s name pronounced crudely in his harsh American accent. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Mostly bad.”

“I’m aware,” Lestat replies, ashing his cigarette on the armrest. It’s rare to see a vampire turned so old, and admittedly, that alone is enough to intrigue Lestat. Perhaps he’ll have a better handle on the Dark Gift than most.

“This’ll just be a preliminary meeting,” Daniel is saying. “Going over some stipulations about the documentary, to get on the same page…”

Lestat’s half listening. He dips into Daniel’s mind—a light, surface-level touch, soft enough to be unnoticeable but deep enough to parse some thoughts. He’s rebuked almost immediately and winces. It’s not due to any skill on Daniel’s part; his barrage of thoughts is simply exhausting. Quickfire, wordy, and never-ending.

Despite Daniel’s mental state feeling like he’s playing twenty simultaneous ping-pong games with himself, Lestat is tempted to delve deeper. Louis spoke to this mortal, spilled his secrets twice. He turned him to spare him from death. This fledgling is laced with Louis’ intimacies, his stories, his secrets.

Lestat isn’t jealous. He isn’t. He just wants to know why him.

Daniel’s looking at him expectedly, which means it’s probably Lestat’s turn to talk. “Have you spoken to Louis?” Lestat asks.

The look Daniel gives him tells Lestat that was the wrong answer. “Will wave all liabilities,” he says aloud as he jots a note down. Then, he puts his pen down and fixes Lestat with a piercing stare. “Trouble in paradise?”

Mm. Lestat can tell where this is going. He’s read the book, after all. “And are you faring any better?” he drawls. “Are those two Pulitzers enough to save your reputation?”

“I don’t read Goodreads reviews,” Daniel very obviously lies. “Y’know they’re mad at me for depicting unhealthy BDSM? Did they expect vampires to pull out the traffic light system?”

“Traffic light sex?” Lestat says, intrigued, and Daniel ignores him.

“Forget about the reviews,” Daniel continues. “It’s part of the natural world of publishing. That’s why I won’t eat my critics. Failure of a writer.”

“The readers are all taken with Armand,” Lestat says, lip curling. He can understand, of course, the little gremlin can be enrapturing when he wants to be. The big eyes and soft voice and woe-is-me act. But to garner more fans than Louis? Than him?

“Yeah, well, I can’t control what the fans see,” Daniel snaps, with a surprising amount of vehemence. His eyes are bright, and they flash from a calm seagreen to a deep orange.

A very familiar orange.

Lestat sits up a bit straighter. “You are not Louis’ fledgling,” he says slowly.

“Louis?” Daniel balks. Lestat frowns and—oh. Daniel’s usual mental stream of words has been replaced with a swirling turmoil of emotions and armand armand armand ARMAND ARMAND ARMAND

Of course. He should have known! Louis would never curse Lestat with an irritating, whiny newborn. No, of course it had to have been Armand. “I see,” he breathes, and something kickstarts in his chest. Perhaps there’s something to this Daniel Molloy after all. “You are Armand’s firstborn. Now, why did he choose to give the Dark Gift to the man who ruined his life?”

“Spite, probably,” Daniel grits out.

A broken vow of five hundred years cannot be taken lightly. Lestat knows Armand. It would never have been simply out of spite.

“And you haven’t been placed in a glass cage yet?” he muses. “Impressive.”

“I guess I’m not fascinating enough for him,” Daniel replies, practically spitting the word. “Did Louis really spend two years avoiding the truth of the interview? Did you believe that he had figured out everything by himself?”

“The maker-fledgling bond persists in spite of hatred,” Lestat says. “Did you feel him when you turned? How his heart beat with yours?”

“Rich, coming from you.” Daniel scoffs. “Does it feel good? Those thirty thousand monthly listeners on Spotify?”

“A terrible thing, to be abandoned by one’s maker,” Lestat continues, louder. “The loneliness, you could survive it as a mortal, I’m sure, but could you survive another fifty years, another hundred years, another thousand—”

Daniel’s fangs descend. They are almost vulgar in size.

“You miss him,” Lestat hisses.

Daniel is silent for a moment. He looks more irritated than anything else, and picks up his pen once more. “Does the maker-fledgling bond also give you flashbacks to watching Time Bandits eighty times?” he finally asks.

“...No.”

“Well, fuck me,” Daniel mutters, and makes another note.

Lestat still cannot fathom why Armand would possibly turn this man. He can understand Louis’ fondness for the mortal: he eviscerates with his words as sharply as fangs can sluice through tendon, and there is a sharp wit to him that can only be garnered from years of mortal life experience.

None of this warrants a broken five-hundred year oath.

Lestat observes Daniel feed. He’s messy when he bites, but is largely indiscriminate in his kills, aside from favoring those with a little extra substance in their blood. He reads his Wikipedia page, which is interesting for a mortal, but nondescript to a vampire. He’s a little funny, Lestat supposes, but Armand could kidnap the stand-up comedian population, if he really wanted a personal jester.

(And what’s the point of a jester that won’t shut up on command, anyways?)

Lestat’s skin is itching by the time they part ways. He’s starting to think it’s one of Daniel’s vampire gifts.

His band packs up while he and Daniel walk out onto cold pavement. Daniel’s chattering about the documentary schedule, and Lestat’s mind is drifting again, as he absentmindedly scrapes his boots against the ground.

Something prickles the back of Lestat’s spine. His gaze sweeps the premise. There’s no mortal in sight at this hour.

Ah. The presence.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Daniel narrows his eyes and turns towards the end of the street, where the shadows grow dense. “He’s been stalking me ever since my book tour started. Fucking creep.” His mind is open and unguarded. The usual anger is there, but it gives way to something more tender.

“You enjoy it,” Lestat observes. “The way the gremlin lurks around you.”

“I enjoy being haunted by a 500-year-old eldritch horror, sure.” Daniel rolls his eyes. Fond.

“You like his personality,” Lestat finally realizes in mild horror. “All of it.”

Daniel goes a steely quiet, and for a moment Lestat thinks he’ll rebuke it. “I’m a junkie for a bad time, what can I say,” he mutters, defiant. “Can’t take the addict out of me.”

Ignoring whether or not the fledgling can feel it, Lestat forges deep into Daniel’s mind to scour it for his maker. Here’s what he finds:

Armand, childlike, as he asks a bleeding Daniel if he’s boring. Armand, cruelly letting water drip from a bottle in front of a dehydrated, beaten Daniel and instructing him to crawl. Armand, hands gentle as he bathes Daniel with warm, soapy water. Armand, inflamed, betrayed, in love, as Daniel upends his life in Dubai.

And Daniel, greedy thing that he is, wants it all. Lestat feels a little queasy.

A madman, Lestat thinks. He’ll make an excellent vampire.

The presence is far too skilled to leave his mind open to others, but Lestat can feel a flicker of pride come from the shadows.

r/InterviewWiththeVampire

MEGATHREAD: YOUTUBE VIDEO - DEBUNKING DANIEL MOLLOY’S INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE

To avoid flooding the main sub, all discussion about HistoryCheck’s YouTube breakdown of Interview with the Vampire can be redirected here. Keep it civil.

u/artherstory

Still farfetched. I bet Molloy just walked around the Louvre for a painting that looked like his oc.

u/bloodsins

Cause it IS convincing. Louis died in 1930 but there’s clear photographic evidence of him being around in the 1940s. It’s freaky.

u/bloodarchive

His sources are actually VERY detailed, all the way down to the San Francisco murders. I think he genuinely believes in this stuff.

u/vampera

You need to back up a second here…link?

“This could have been an email,” Louis says.

Armand looks away. Louis recognizes the expression that threatens to twist his cherubic features, the same he’d make when Louis would shoot down a wallpaper color. “Seventy-seven years worth of property and investments,” he says, voice clipped, “and you wanted it settled over email?”

“Two emails, then,” Louis replies, because he’s irritated and stressed and hasn’t eaten today. The cup of blood Armand had poured for him is looking less and less appetizing by the minute.

They’re at the dining table of their Sausalito home, Armand sitting directly in front of Louis with files strewn between them. They spent some good years here, the honeymoon phase that had followed after San Francisco. It tastes bitter now.

Louis keeps it as businesslike as possible, which, he thinks, makes it easier for both of them. Most of their properties were bought in his name, and he keeps most of them. Armand relinquishes their paintings to him as well, aside from the ones that hold sentimental value. Much of Armand’s belongings have already been packed and shipped to one of Armand’s homes in Italy. Louis doesn’t ask if he’s staying there now; he doesn’t want to know.

“Is that all?” Armand asks, when Louis feels sufficiently satisfied with how they’ve settled it. There’s a flicker of hope in those words for a split-second, before it’s quickly stamped out.

“That’s all,” Louis says, and Armand nods, and starts writing a note on one of his papers. He’s using red ink, writing familiar and loopy. Louis has to take a deep breath in and out.

As Armand scribbles, Louis leans back and observes him, really observes him. Seventy-seven years, and he can still feel like a stranger. The Armand before him is an Armand Louis does not recognize. And yet, even more freeingly: he finds that he no longer cares to find out. It’s easier to store the Armand he once knew away in the depths of his mind, like a buried coffin.

Although, he does still wonder how Armand managed to snatch his magnolia tree so quickly. Did he uproot it, swing it over his shoulder, and walk out? The mental image makes Louis’ lips quirk up.

Armand does not falter from his writing but his face does grow a touch more stony. Louis was never great at keeping his mind locked down.

“You forgot your iPad,” Louis says. “No, not your favorite one, the ten-inch. Where should I mail it to?”

“Brooklyn,” Armand says, and gives a very familiar address.

“...That’s Daniel’s apartment.”

“I frequent it,” Armand replies brazenly, “when he’s not there.”

Louis squints at him. All right, there’s clearly some convoluted chess game going on here, but Louis can’t quite parse what it is. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with him,” he says. “You made that quite clear when you abandoned him for two years.”

“Well, he’s gotten a bit more interesting lately,” Armand replies mildly. Louis tenses. He’s kept out of Lestat’s documentary for the most part, but if Armand has chosen to intervene...

There is a lot to hate Daniel Molloy for. It could fill a book, and it did, because even authorial bias could not spare his glaring faults in Hate and Ashbury. And, yet, despite all this, Louis does consider him a friend, and would feel bad if he died. Mostly.

Louis thinks they’re one-for-one, with Louis failing to protect Daniel from Armand and Daniel publishing that god-awful book. But he’ll throw him a favor just this once, because he still feels like he owes him some compensation for his spiteful ex-boyfriend.

“He’s your fledgling, but he’s not your plaything.” Louis calmly moves his glass of blood away, lest he feels the urge to hurl it. Armand’s face is a cool mask, but his pupils have begun to quiver, ever so slightly. Louis wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t known him so deeply. “If you want revenge on me, then take it. Don’t use him as your cannon fodder.”

Armand doesn’t respond. He’s taken on that unfocused, half-apocalyptic look, which means a cool anger has begun to simmer underneath the surface. Good, maybe they’ll get somewhere like this.

“I mean it, Armand,” Louis warns. “Leave him alone.”

“I will not leave.” Armand’s eyes flash. “He may not be mine, but he is not yours either. Not when neither you nor Lestat can control that unruly fledgling–”

“So it’s our fault?” Louis scoffs. “I didn’t want the book published either.”

“You–you let him,” It’s as if every word is struggling to escape Armand’s throat, “flaunt around and parade that wretched book, all while the world of vampires and mortals watch. It’s humiliating, it’s a disgrace, he puts us all in danger–”

“You should’ve thought about that before giving him the gift!”

Armand’s eye twitches. “I would like nothing more than to be free of him!” he bursts out, and its intensity causes Louis to falter.

The Armand in front of him is beginning to unspool into something unrecognizable, so different from the restrained performance Armand made sure to keep in front of Louis. He’s caught in a lie, but Louis has no idea what the lie could be.

“His hands,” Armand chokes out, “still shake sometimes, have you noticed that? Did the vampirism cure his Parkinson’s or did it merely stall it out? And his self-preservation is even worse than when he was mortal , he will forget feedings, will wander confidently into coven territory because he is a foolish, aggravating fledgling, and I cannot simply sit around and watch him destroy himself.”

“Are you–” The words feel woolen in Louis’ mouth. “Don’t tell me you care for him?”

Armand recoils. “He is my blood,” he bites out, “is it so wrong to dislike how he disgraces me?” He curls his lip. “He does not want me to care, regardless,” he mutters.

And suddenly he looks– Very young. Impossibly young. A child who has lost their favorite toy. Louis thinks that he’s missed something very vital. Another part, however, feels nothing but relief.

Louis is a business man; he has an eye for investments. Right now, he’s starting to realize that Daniel Molloy is a very, very valuable investment to make if he wants Armand thoroughly distracted, and away from himself.

“I’ll send the iPad to Daniel’s,” he says. “You can pick it up from there.”

Armand falters. It’s satisfying to throw him off guard. “Yes,” he says, stiltedly. “Thank you.”

Paul had only been in his life for thirty years. Fleeting, to the immortal vampire. And yet that scar is carried with Louis every day. The wound Armand has of Daniel Molloy, Louis thinks, must be a gaping, ugly thing.

Armand fiddles with his fingernails, head bent down. A few curls fall over his face, his eyebrows knit together. He’s already plotting, Louis knows, trying to scrabble together a plan to see Daniel again.

Well. Perhaps not too ugly.

“And I’ll take this Sausalito home,” Louis says, because he cannot resist a final jab, “seeing as you’re so comfortable sleeping at the foot of Daniel’s bed.”

Armand doesn’t rise to the bait. A muscle in his jaw jumps.

“Oh, please don’t tell me you’ve actually–”

r/HomeMaintenance

u/throwaway384109384

I was told this is a forum for those seeking knowledge. I have a garbage disposal with blades that refuse to spin. Please offer me your expertise as quickly as possible.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art has a new regular.

He always comes in near closing time, but he never lingers too late to be told to leave. He stands in front of the same painting, unmovingly, for hours.

Evans can’t help but worry a bit.

It’s not his job to worry. His job is to mostly stand still, make sure no one messes with the paintings, and gently kick people out at closing hour. His wife tells him he’s too kindhearted to be a security guard. That’s why he likes working at an art museum. The souls are softer here.

The visitor in question’s got big, dark eyes, that hold this sad innocence in them. He reminds Evans of his son, who’s just learning to crawl. Something cracks in Evans’ heart. Ah, he might look mid-twenties, but this is just a kid.

The painting is not the flashiest one here: it is a forgotten one, tucked on the far wall of the Renaissance exhibit, of a young man in golden sunlight. Evans wonders what it is that’s so enrapturing.

It’s a slow Wednesday when Evans finally approaches him. He doesn’t acknowledge Evans’ presence, but he doesn’t seem irritated at the intrusion either. Evans nods at the painting. “What’s got you so interested in this one?”

The kid still does not tear his eyes away from the painting, but he does step back a little so Evans is now at his side. “A flattering portrait,” he says. “His name is Amadeo.”

Evans leans over to squint at the plaque. It doesn’t say anything about an Amadeo. Maybe the kid’s an art student. “Well, Amadeo looks rather nice, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” the kid says distantly. He has the type of face that would make a nice Renaissance painting, Evans thinks about it. Delicate features, accentuated by a strong nose and jaw. Wisps of curls that frame his face in a way that would have been adoringly captured in oil pain.

They stand there for some time, quiet, until it’s five minutes before closing. The kid withdraws. “I will be back tomorrow,” he tells Evans. It’s hard to place his accent. Something European, maybe, but it sounds like it’s been warped over the years.

The strange boy continues his daily visits. Evans doesn’t speak to him, but he figures Amadeo prefers his discretion. Oh, and there’s that too– In his head, Evans had started referring to him as the kid who likes Amadeo, which ended up being shortened to simply calling the boy himself Amadeo.

: It’s Friday; the museum is closing later at 8 PM today. Normally, Amadeo is left to his own devices, but today an older man loudly walks into the Renaissance exhibit and makes his way towards the painting. Evans frowns a little at the noise. This isn’t a library, but the quickened, brusque footsteps shatter the quiet he knows Amadeo enjoys.

The man halts beside Amadeo, who makes no move to acknowledge him. That seems to frustrate him even more.

“I’m surprised you’re here at open hours,” the man says. He looks awfully familiar. Hasn’t Evans seen him on a talk show once? Daniel…Daniel-something? “Thought you’d prefer mindfucking some security guards.”

“I wanted to see if you’d come here on your own,” Amadeo replies. “And you have.”

“You're overthinking it,” the older man says harshly. “Making me chase you around this whole damn city. Get over here, we need to talk.” He clamps a hand over Amadeo’s wrist and tugs at him roughly.

Oh, Evans is putting two and two together, and he isn’t liking what four is implying.

One hand on his baton, Evans marches over to the pair and clears his throat. “Sir, I’m gonna need you to back up,” he says, keeping his voice level but stern, “and please let go of this young man.”

The older man—Daniel—turns to look at him incredulously. Amadeo blinks, as if he’s just now registering that other people exist. When his gaze slides over to Evans, his eyes have suddenly gone still and cold, like the marble statues one room over.

“Oh, don’t kill him, he’s just doing his job,” Daniel snaps at Amadeo.

“I wasn’t going to kill him,” Amadeo replies haughtily.

Evans takes a step back, thrown off-kilter. Daniel huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Everyone looking at me like I’m the predator,” he grumbles, “and nothing for the guy who’s been stalking me for fifty years—”

“And it’s due to that stalking that you haven’t found yourself dead under an overpass yet,” Amadeo replies snippily.

“What, are you trying to tell me you’re the one who saved me?” Daniel snaps. The blood drains from his face. “Oh, god, you did save me.”

There’s a beat. “Beloved,” Amadeo says.

“Don’t call me that.” And suddenly it doesn’t sound like an older man berating his younger charge. No, Daniel sounds like an impetuous, bratty child, and Amadeo looks wise beyond his years. Daniel casts a look at the painting, almost disparagingly. “And what’s this? Another relic of the past? You look older here, how’d your maker feel about that—”

“Beloved,” Amadeo says again, sounding a lot more strained this time.

Evans coughs politely. He had wanted to catch Amadeo’s eye again and make sure he’s okay, but Amadeo seems pretty in charge of the situation, all things considered. “The museum does close in a few minutes,” he says, feeling a bit foolish to be stopped here, listening in on their conversation.

“Thanks for keeping him company,” Daniel tells Evans. It sounds surprisingly sincere. “Try not to again.” Then, to Amadeo, as they walk out, “Are you gonna let me talk? Or will you run away again?”

“I might be amenable to talk,” Amadeo replies, “but I can’t seem to tear myself away from this beauty of a painting.”

“Uh-huh,” Daniel says dryly. The back of Amadeo’s hand has settled lightly on his lower back, possessive, as he steers the older man out of the room. “If I end up on the news, you’re to blame.”

Evans wakes up the next day with a strong, unfamiliar urge to take the day off, and calls in sick. Amadeo’s painting is stolen right off the walls that night, and half of the security personnel has gone missing. Amadeo stops visiting the museum after that.

Interview with the Vampire exploded in fandom spaces soon after you published which, I imagine, must be a new experience as an author who exclusively wrote nonfiction. What are your thoughts on the audiences’ perception of your book?

MOLLOY: Well, first off, I never stopped exclusively writing nonfiction. The story will always escape you once it’s in the hands of the public. It’s a different reception from my past books, sure, but it’s not unwelcome.

So, Team Armand or Team Lestat?

MOLLOY: What the f— does that mean? Is this the “shipping” I keep hearing about? Team Neither. This isn’t a book about picking sides. My intention was to tell Louis’ story.

Outside of favoritism, is Armand the next vampire up in the franchise after Lestat?

MOLLOY: I’m not interested in writing about Armand unless he’s willing to tell me his story.

I’m not hearing a “no” for a sequel.

MOLLOY, to the camera: You think this is my drug, and maybe it is. But stories exist to be told, recorded, shared. It is proof of endurance. Of existence. You haven’t been painted in over four hundred years, but you exist. You are alive. You are a thousand lies and a thousand truths and your story deserves to be told.

Daniel does not sleep in a coffin.

This is a habit of new-age vampires, Armand has learned, even ones that don’t have the sun-blocking technology of Louis’ Dubai penthouse. Those without a coven simply board up their windows best they can, slip under their covers, and leave themselves to the mercy of their blinds.

Careless. This is why Armand cannot leave Daniel’s side.

He’s hovered over Daniel now, straddling his thighs as he waits for the fledgling to wake. The tour has looped back to New York City, meaning that Daniel is once more confined to the comfort of his apartment. He’s left a lamp light on for when he wakes, which is endearing. A vampire with a night light. It gives Armand enough light to see the details of his face, at least. .

Unlike humans, vampire brains don’t lag and stutter as they wake, so when Daniel’s eyes lift open, they’re immediately drinking in his surroundings. Which, naturally, includes Armand.

“How long have you been here?” Immediately accusatory in tone, but Armand should have expected no different from his boy. “Fucking creep.”

“I read your most recent interview,” Armand replies. “I found it interesting.”

Daniel sits back on his elbows, jostling Armand a little. “...Interesting,” he parrots, deadpan.

“You normally do not refer to me so directly,” Armand continues. Daniel raises an eyebrow. “Louis’ boyfriend. Lestat’s ex. The book’s antagonist. You prefer to hold distance through your words.”

“So you’re the journalist now?” Daniel snarks, but he doesn’t refute Armand. He moves to sit all the way up, back against the headboard, but he doesn’t pull away either.

Armand hums, settling back on his legs. “I paid for your course. Under discretion, of course. I watched each lecture thrice.”

“Why does that sound lewd,” Daniel mutters. He settles his hands on Armand’s hips, touch light as if he’s still scared. Maybe he is.

“Armand,” Daniel says, after a beat. “Why are you here?”

Armand shifts, bearing his weight down on Daniel, who does a remarkable job at attempting to hold a straight face. He prods at Daniel’s face, pushes it , then sticks his fingers in his mouth to try and feel at his fangs, even though he knows that’s now how they work.

Daniel bats his hand away. A flush has risen high in his cheeks. “Still haven’t answered the question.”

Armand ignores him. Daniel is protesting still, but his body is pliant under Armand's touch as he tips his head back. He rests his head on Daniel's shoulder, stares at the veins there. He traces one with his fingers, reverent, and feels the way Daniel's throat flexes with his touch.

“Just do it,” Daniel grits out, half-breathless.

Armand bites.

Daniel shudders, his hands gripping at Armand’s shoulders as he drinks. It’s a different taste than when Daniel was a human, but it holds the same richness Armand remembers well. A tinge of emotion bleeds into his mouth, and he eagerly sucks at the wound, hoping to gulp down a taste, but it’s fleeting.

Armand pulls back, hissing in frustration. There’s so many loud emotions between them; he can’t parse the vampire bond. He doesn’t know what Daniel wants.

Daniel’s breathing heavily now. “I hate you.”

An answer. Armand files it away. “Yes, hate me,” he says mindlessly. He’s hungry for more: more of these morsels of thought Daniel will dole out, anything to read into his mind. He licks at the now-closing wound at Daniel’s neck, then uses his dull teeth to tug at the soft skin under his jaw. Daniel’s hand grips into his hair to pull him back and stares at him wordlessly with those haunting, mirrored eyes, before he’s pushing up to meet Armand’s mouth.

Daniel kisses like he’s a dying man. Not dulled of life, never, but as if this is his one last grasp at atonement. He is an overwhelming presence, fingers shaking as he unbuttons Armand’s shirt, threads a hand through his hair, pulls him closer and closer and closer.

Armand feels like a feral creature, body bracketing Daniel, with his fingers scrabbling and desperate over Daniel’s body. He wants to pull back the paper-thin of his skin, to peel away the layers of bone and muscle until he can peer into his chest cavity, garner how his heart beats. He’s maddening and terrifying, and Armand has loved him for so very long.

He gets Daniel’s shirt off, then wrestles off his pants once Daniel’s brain catches up and lifts up his hips to help Armand in the action. Aged skin, soft where Armand is all lean muscle. Armand likes this better, likes how the years are etched deep into his body.

Daniel shifts, uncomfortable, under Armand’s ministrations as his touch goes gentle. Armand pays him no mind. It has been fifty years since he last explored this body, there’s no crime in savoring it a little.

“The hell are you doing,” Daniel mumbles as Armand presses a kiss to his sternum. His lips brush lower still, down Daniel’s stomach, and then even lower to nip at the side of his knee. He scrapes his fangs against the jut of Daniel’s ankle, then works his way back up.

When he takes Daniel’s face in his hands once more, a dark red tear is trailing down his cheek.

Curiously, Armand reaches a fingernail up to catch it. He licks it off and waits for Daniel to explain.

Daniel does not elaborate. In fact, he is very deliberately looking everywhere but Armand.

That silence. Armand hates this new silence. It’s much simpler when he can glean answers by himself. It’s how he kept seventy years of peace between him and Louis, careful and anticipating. Now, he must draw back and ask stiltedly, “Are you not enjoying yourself?”

“It’s nothing,” Daniel groans. He runs a hand through his curls, tilting his head back and staring up at the ceiling. “Christ, this is embarrassing.”

Armand tenses, muscles springlocked. Daniel snakes out a hand and grabs his wrist. “No,” he says harshly, as if sensing what Armand was about to do. “You’re not gonna start coming to your own conclusions, just–” He grits his teeth. “Give me one minute.”

Armand nods tersely.

Daniel sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I think I just missed you, that’s all.”

Armand takes in a breath. It comes out shuddering on the exhale. He cups Daniel’s face, brushes away the second tear that’s threatening to form. “Beautiful boy,” he whispers. “Do you think I have not missed you all the same?”

Since the Dubai interview, he has grown accustomed to the sharp knife of Daniel’s anger, but this is something new. This is stripped-back vulnerability, this is raw want, this is love. And Armand wonders if he can finally be convinced of it.

(He wants to be convinced. He wants it so badly.)

Daniel kisses him, simple and close-mouthed, the way a human couple would kiss on a mundane Monday morning. He grasps the back of Armand’s head and holds him at the crook of his neck, his usual rapid-fire speech snatched from him.

“You really would want to,” Armand says slowly, into Daniel’s skin, “hear my story.”

“Tell it to me,” Daniel insists. It sounds like a confession. “Take five hundred years. Take a thousand years. I’ll be there until the sun burns out to listen.”

Armand shifts so they’re foreheads are pressed close together. Daniel’s eyes shift, from an electric gold, to the pale green Armand once loved, to a soft orange-brown. It’s a searing gaze, splitting Armand right down to the core of his being. And Armand, for once, lets himself be seen.

ENTITY OF INTEREST: DANIEL MOLLOY

DRAFT VERSION 13.1: Routed for approval.

ALIASES: N/A

SPECIES: Vampire (recently transfigured)

DOB: Approx. 1953

LKL: Engaged in national documentary tour across U.S.A.

NOTES: Author of Talamasca-approved exposé, Interview with the Vampire / Secured as confidential informant / Opportunity to further leverage existing relationships with vampire community

PARAMOUR: Armand c. 1973

“You should come with me.” Daniel is shooting off an email at his desk while Armand lounges on his bed behind him. Vampirism has not eliminated the arduous task of composing emails, but it has elevated his typing speed, so Daniel will take the wins where he can. “You already hang around and watch from the distance creepily anyways.”

When he spins around in his chair, he’s greeted with the sight of Armand, sprawled out on his bed like he belongs there. Which, well. Daniel thinks he does, but he’s not exactly sure how to breach that conversation just yet.

“You want me at the concert?” Armand asks, even as his eyes glitter in amusement. “Lestat certainly does not. Nor Louis, for that matter.”

“They’re too busy thinking about each other to think about you,” Daniel retorts. When an affronted look begins to form on Armand’s face, he says, “Relax. I’ll think about you enough to cover all three of us.”

Armand still looks disgruntled, which tells Daniel he’s upset at the lack of easy access he has to his thoughts. Well, Daniel will let him sit in that uncomfortable truth for a few minutes while he shoots off a text.

Taking Armand along, he texts Lestat. He’s still clumsy at tailoring mind-mind communication so he doesn’t mentally scream at every vampire in the vicinity. That okay?

DO NOT !!! BRING THAT GREMLIN, Lestat responds.

I’m bringing him.

YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BE ON BETTER TERMS WITH ARMAND THAN I AM WITH LOUIS, Lestat texts back. WAIT ANOTHER FIFTY YEARS.

Daniel ignores him, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “They want you there,” he tells Armand.

Armand gives him a disparaging look that maybe is meant to be intimidating, but kinda just makes Daniel want to sink to his knees. “You’re asking me to set foot into a lion’s den.” So overdramatic.

“The concert ends at eleven, and filming will go on for another three hours,” Daniel replies. “I won’t be home until three.”

“Fine.” Armand sighs. “An excuse to wear my new rings, I suppose..”

Daniel closes his laptop and pushes it to the side. “Your rings?” he asks absentmindedly.

Armand gracefully swings himself so his legs dangle off the side of the bed. “I stole them from a fledgling that was stalking you,” he responded. “Took a few fingers with them, too.”

And that does get Daniel to sink to his knees, and has Armand gloriously lose himself in his mouth for a whole fifteen minutes before they have to start getting ready to go. (In revenge, Armand does push Daniel up against his kitchen counter and has his way with him for another ten minutes, until Daniel’s phone starts blowing up.)

Lestat’s tour has been kicking off, so when they arrive at the venue, there’s already a flurry of cameras, desperate for a shot of the up-and-coming vampire rockstar. The band has arrived in their own van, the camera crew in another, while he and Armand have taken the subway, because Armand wanted to.

It’s the first time Daniel has gone out publicly with Armand, but the paparazzi doesn’t care about the private life of a journalist, no matter how bestselling of a novel he has, so the camera flashes are all for Lestat. They’re caught in the background anyways, which means the Interview with the Vampire fanbase will have a field day dissecting that. There’s already a dedicated circle of fans who believe Armand has already been casted to be the next music personality, and there’s another group that think he’s just Daniel’s arm candy.

Armand enters the venue with a pure kind of curiosity. He likes the sound equipment in particular, prodding at the microphones. Daniel hooks his fingers in his belt loops to keep him from wandering off too far.

They wind up backstage as the crew sets up their cameras. Louis is here too, and he and Armand resolutely refuse to look at each other. Daniel flashes Louis an apologetic-but-not-so-apologetic grin and Louis just sighs in a way that Daniel hopes is still fond.

Hair and make-up descend on Lestat, even as Lestat declares he has no need for it. The cameras roll, capturing additional backstage footage. Armand surveys it all with sharp eyes as he and Daniel linger off towards the side.

“I must admit,” Armand says, after a beat. “Your notoriety is rather amusing. I do not allow anyone who knows my name to live, and yet here is my fledgling, broadcasted for the world to see. I may have my trepidations about the book, but it is all very…” He tilts his head. “You.”

“You like the book,” Daniel accuses. “You're the only one who likes it.”

Armand’s shoulders hunch up and he begins to laugh: quick, short breaths at first, and then a full giggle that rings out even amidst the backstage buzz. Daniel can’t help but be taken at the sight, the way Armand’s innocent joy softens his features.

He can feel Louis and Lestat’s eyes on them, and about five Talamasca agents that are in the vicinity as well. Distantly, he wonders how many people have seen Armand this unrestrained. Suddenly, it feels intrusive, knowing this Armand is not tucked away for himself

“It’s true you are quite disliked, beloved,” Armand says, looking entirely too pleased at the idea.

“Hey, do you see what they’re saying about you on the internet?” Daniel says, affronted. “They think you’re either a twenty-year-old gold digger or my live-in nurse trying to profit off my will.”

Armand snickers again. “Fitting,” he says, lacing his fingers around the back of Daniel’s neck. “We’ll be in hell together, after all.”

Lestat and his band start warming up for the concert. Daniel figures they don’t need him around for this, so he ushers Armand outside into the quiet dark, where they’re alone on the street. It’s raining a little; the drops cling to Armand’s curls. Armand blinks up at the sky, a bit disgruntled, then looks towards Daniel.

“Hey,” he says, feeling like he’s twenty years old again and fumbling over his tapes.

“Hey,” Armand says back, like the smug bastard he is. Daniel wants to wipe that half-smile off his face.

So he does, stepping forward to take Armand’s face in his hand and kissing him hard. His fang nicks Armand’s lower lip, and he takes it into his mouth to suck on the morsel of blood that blossoms forth.

Armand sighs into the kiss, cold fingers dancing at the hem of Daniel’s shirt. It’s quiet here. Armand’s mind is closed off to him, the fans are lined up on the other side of the building, and everyone else is tucked far inside. All Daniel can hear is his own thoughts, the pulse of Armand’s emotions, and their mirrored beating hearts.

Armand smiles at him, that cruel monster, the benevolent god, his murderer, his maker, his lover. His own orange eyes must mirror that intensity, and Daniel doesn’t think he wants anyone else’s eyes on Armand but his own.

“What are you thinking?” Daniel needles. “Don’t let me puzzle it out this time, I’m off the clock.”

“You’re never off the clock,” Armand responds. He tugs at one of Daniel’s silver curls. “I was thinking that…perhaps your notoriety is stretching a bit too far. Perhaps I have to squirrel you away in a jar until your existence fades from this world.”

“Funny,” Daniel says, swaying forward. “I was thinking the same.”

He presses a kiss to Armand’s jaw. When they return, the world will scrutinize them once more. Let them theorize, Daniel thinks, a bit wryly. Let them try to take a crack into the tangled forest that is Armand. No, Daniel is quite satisfied knowing that he’s the only one who stands a chance.