#as per fucking usual i went way off topic and added about 1.5k words of extra purple prose smut

[covenofthearticulate]

@hekateinhell​ sent: my prompt request is the size kink thing you shared on @sangcreole 🙏🏼 i've been thinking about it for days 

“Can I turn you over?” Louis says the words out loud not for Armand’s benefit, but for Lestat’s.

His voice is barely above a whisper, which is admittedly impressive considering how damn fast his heart is beating. They’ve been at this for hours and still the only thing that might give away his exhaustion is the pink sheen gathered at the crease in his brow, clinging a curtain of inky hair down his temples as the rest of his mane flicks to and fro with each thrust (how foolish of Louis to think he might get away with gathering it up and out of reach in a ponytail at the beginning of their venture. Lestat had made quick work of that with the avid enthusiasm of Armand right behind him). But that was always Louis’ way, wasn’t it? His gentlemanly composure is kept under tight rein right until those last few blissful seconds before the very end. 

So considerate, Louis. Even as he’s got Armand bent over and fucked well past his normal limit with those long, delicate fingers splayed across the valley of his lower back, there is a gentleness in his tone which perhaps a more naive lover might mistake for kindness, but Armand and Lestat know is indicative of a deeper, darker well from which Louis sustains himself in the midst of passion. Gentle and even and utterly relentless.

If not for the sobbing mess tossed back and forth between them, Lestat might have been able to imagine Louis as he was in his own time. Louis, plowing the fields, fixing the house, riding his horse in the hot summer evenings. Well, thought Lestat, at least he’s still good at plowing.

At least Armand seems to think so.

If it was with anyone else, Lestat might scoff at the small whimpering noises punched out of Armand’s throat with every thrust, accuse him of putting on a show, of over-exaggerating. But Armand has always been a needy thing. Small and starved and desperate for aching ruin. Even now as he sinks his hips back against Louis, those lithe little fingers grip at Lestat’s hips, pull him closer until he’s choking on the length of him (his gag reflex has long since been lost, but his throat constricts nonetheless, and he makes the most degraded fucking noise, and Lestat can’t help but utter a curse under his breath as he glances down and watches the spittle drip from the corners of his mouth down into his hair, onto the rapidly growing dark patch on the silk duvet). 

That’s the one thing they have always had in common, this need to be overwhelmed by it, to rip the pleasure out of their heaving chest, to stuff themselves with it until the universe feels a little less hollow, a little less lonely. 

And so Lestat gets a hand in the auburn hair at his navel, digs in with his talons hard enough to hurt, and anchors him in place until his breath heaves in warm, heavy puffs against Lestat’s stomach. Armand makes a noise around Lestat’s cock, and he can feel the vibrations up to the roots of his pampered yellow hair, down to the tips of his toes, and he stares down as Armand’s whole body seems to writhe with it. 

It scares him sometimes, how small Armand is. 

He forgets about it most nights on account of the meticulous way Armand presents himself. Always well-groomed, always standing tall, always first in line to knock Lestat on his ass for any given reason. He was a strong young man when he was turned, no doubt, but a young man nonetheless. Would he have grown another few inches had he lived to reach another growth spurt? In what shape would his muscles develop? Sometimes Lestat wonders these things, but Armand always manages to do something to make him regret it, make him thankful for the way his youthful limbs stretch, the way his body is so much easier to gather and hold in this petite stature. 

Perhaps that’s what frightens him the most about Armand; these conflicting impulses that flood his mind every time he looks too closely at that angelic visage. The desire to break him is just as strong as the desire to worship him, and both feelings are so strong he fears they will tear him open, like two feral wolves locked in battle just behind his ribcage.

(He wonders, in the back of his mind, if Louis feels that too.)

He releases his grip, lets Armand pull away for air, and even then Armand is a little slut about it, leaning forward until his nose is pressed against the patch of golden wiry hair so that Lestat’s cock might slide against the side of his face, along his cheek and below his ear, to show just how deep he’d been. He blinks up at Lestat with those big doe eyes as Louis send him careening forward with one last thrust, and somehow it’s nearly hotter than getting swallowed in the first place.

“Turn over,” Louis repeats himself, which is very generous (he is always more lenient with Armand. Lestat wonders what Louis might have done with him had he failed to follow instruction. Would he punish him? Would he smack some sense into his flooded brain?)

Armand allows his limbs to buckle beneath him, collapses onto his chest, face-first into the damp puddle of saliva, before hauling himself over onto his back with legs wide open. 

Louis fills the space in an instant, settles his weight with his arms on either side of Armand’s head, sinks back into him in one smooth motion. There is a sob curled in the back of Armand’s throat at the feeling of being opened back up again. He must be so fucking tight now. 

Lestat stares down at him and, God, he looks so fucking tight. One hand is draped across his eyes in some mocking attempt at bashfulness as he squirms against Louis, back arching up towards the ceiling then down into the mattress, heels digging against the duvet before kicking out at nothing, blindly finding purchase against Louis’ side.

It takes a moment for Lestat to realize he is still in the room with them and not watching through some blood-fueled haze, but suddenly Louis is leaning forward, over Armand, and his lips are on Lestat’s and ah, yes, Louis, my Louis, just look at you. 

Up close, Louis looks tired. Not direly so— but certainly every bit as spent as Armand. It causes an unexpected pulse of pride to swell in Lestat’s heart, to think of how well he pleases Armand. Such stamina his Louis has. What a finely bred thing; the pride of the French aristocracy and the jewel of the Louisiana wilderness, endowed with all the raging strength of the vampire Lestat. 

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind Louis’ ear, kisses his temple until his lips tingle with the tease of blood-sweat, and suddenly the strangest emotion replaces the pride as Louis rolls his hips, pushes into Armand who sighs against Lestat’s knee. 

He’s not…jealous. That’s not what this is. But whatever this is, it’s a big feeling in his chest. Like he wants to be Louis, wants to be the one to push Armand over the brink. And he wants to be Armand, void of sense and decency and living for the one pulsating pleasure of Louis inside of him. 

He wants to be both of them, wants to touch and grab and kiss every inch of moonlit skin between the two of them, but is suddenly terrified of breaking the spell. 

Maybe confusion is the predominant feeling here. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself when there’s no one to fuck, and no one fucking him. In another life, he would have been horrified at the situation— third wheeling at his own damn menage a trois. Left behind by the only two people on his earth who have shoveled through the bloody trenches of his heart and somehow come out the other side and, against all odds, still love him. He ought to be mortified, ought to at least shove his cock back in Armand’s mouth, or perhaps clamber over to the other side of the bed, take Louis from behind as he fucks into Armand. But the longer he sits, the more impossible it seems to interrupt.

And so, for perhaps the first time in his life, Lestat is perfectly content with watching. 

It’s a rare opportunity, he realizes, that he’s never been afforded before. He wouldn’t complain, of course, if it was him beneath Louis or atop Armand, but even from just a few inches away, he is able to observe, to appreciate, the intricate details of his lovers he’d failed to notice before. 

Take, for example, Louis: whose viper green eyes set lethal focus on the vampire beneath him. So attentive— a caregiver through and through, determined to wring every last drop from Armand. He’s got one hand on the back of Armand’s thigh, holding him up and open. And the angle at which he drives in is steeper, now, Lestat notes. No doubt on account of the difference in height between the two of them, Louis’ long body needing to curl in slightly to meet the other halfway. He looks so big, hovering over Armand like that. Even the strokes are different than the way he fucks Lestat; slow and dragging and agonizingly deep (not that Lestat doesn’t appreciate that kind of lovemaking, but he prefers a more finite snap, a faster and more energizing pace that Louis matches just as easily as he does this). 

The long column of his neck is a fount of endless temptatioin with the excited leap of his pulse. Unbearable, to think of the taste of him, the remnants of his own blood that seem fused in his very veins. And that face! That beautiful, fine complexion pulled into a soft frown, delicate features furrowed deeply in a scowl of sheer pleasure. That soft porcelain skin brought to life with the prickling of blood just beneath the surface. So alive. So human! It makes Lestat want to weep, to think of all the times he might have missed this face, too distracted by his reckless pursuit of his own pleasure. 

And on the other hand, there is Armand. Cruel, ruthless, bittersweet Armand, whose auburn curls now tickle Lestat’s knee as he turns his head from side to side, burns through what little anxious energy he has left in him like a dying star. Armand, who knows goddamn well how delectable he looks all sprawled out like this. The ravaged princess, the innocent wilted flower. Only he’s not wilted at all. He’s fed well tonight and swollen with it— Lestat can feel his warmth like a pulse through the very air. Even his breath is blood-hot as he exhales on a humming sigh. The small smattering of freckles across his shoulder are more noticeable against the flush of his skin, and for some reason that makes Lestat’s stomach twist. 

He’s a vision in crimson. Red hair clung against marble flesh with red sweat, red lips raw from kissing and sucking, red flush beneath the skin of his cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, blown wide and glassy and somehow looking at Lestat and through him all at once. Armand is crimson incarnate.

Lestat takes his time collecting these details, as if he can somehow gather them up, hold them tight to his chest until they imprint on his heart. 

The blush that spreads down his neck, the pink nipples turned pearlescent under the moonlight, the devastatingly simple anatomy of his ribcage as he breathes in, breathes out, breathes in, and—

Oh. 

OH. 

That’s something he hasn’t noticed before. 

Armand exhales, empties his lungs until his stomach goes flat and his diaphragm compresses and there, just as Louis pushes in on a thrust, Lestat watches the canvas of unchanging, immortal flesh move with the bulge of Louis’ cock. Right there, below his belly button, just above where the patch of hair begins to pewter out. 

Fuck.

It’s downright obscene, the way he can trace the swell of Louis through Armand’s body, knows the exact point at which the tip of Louis’ cock presses into his insides. Because the thing is, Lestat knows Louis’ cock nearly better than he knows his own. Knows the weight of it, the girth, the slight curve, every fold in the skin around the head, every vein. He knows what it feels like to be filled with it, to be impaled on it, to make room for it and rejoice at the satisfaction of feeling him fully seated, of having made a home for Louis in himself. As far as cocks go, Louis’ fits the very idea of perfection in his mind. 

It’s just that he never quite considered how it would fit in another body— a smaller body. 

He can’t help himself from reaching down, gliding one hand down Armand’s chest until it rests over the bulge. He presses, not enough to hurt but just enough to feel, and it feels—

Fuck!

Was that Armand or Louis in his head this time? He can’t tell. Too many mixed signals. They’re probably both thinking the same thing, anyway, and he feels another small jolt in the pit of his stomach as he imagines what that small bit of pressure might feel like for the two of them. Louis surely likes it; likes the way Lestat presses Armand into him even more, and he tilts his hips to lean into that perfect angle, pitch up and into Armand, into the palm of Lestat’s hand on his stomach with every stroke. 

Armand likes it too, of course, and he says as much with a deliriously sobbing “Yesyesyesyesyes,” as one hand desperately grips at Lestat’s wrist, holds him in place, pushes down even harder as he arches into it all. 

Good, Lestat thinks. I’ll make it good for both of them.

Keeping the one hand in place, Lestat lowers himself on one elbow, nuzzles against the pulse point just below Armand’s ear, applies just a smidge more pressure with the heel of his palm just to feel the pulse leap. 

“Please, Louis?” He pleads into the marble flesh. If he turns his head just a few inches, Louis is right there. He could kiss him if he wanted to— kissing Louis just inches in front of Armand’s face is something he’s wanted to do for ages. But there’s a more pressing matter at hand now, and his fangs ache with it. 

“I wanna feel you inside of him.”

He turns his attention inwards, addresses Armand this time: “Wanna feel the way you take him.”

In lieu of an answer, Louis drives his fangs into Lestat’s neck, who in turn drives his own into Armand. 

It’s a glorious feedback loop, it’s a carnal tug-of-war, it’s a delicate and deadly waltz.

Somehow, Lestat does feel the pulse of Louis’ cock beneath his fingers and through Armand’s flesh, just as he feels the fluttering of Armand’s muscles, the desperate spike of his pulse pumping red-hot ichor onto Lestat’s tongue just as surely as Louis pulls it from him now in long, greedy gulps.

But perhaps the most miraculous feeling of all is the realization that Lestat has found his place. Right here. Between Louis and Armand.