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Sometimes, on certain days, when the dawn was just breaking over the horizon and the room turned a warm hazy, muted glow behind the curtains, Armand would wake up and find himself unable to piece together his surroundings. He'd turn his head to the side and peer down at the sleeping form next to him, studying the man for a moment, one moment, two moments with bated breath. Wide amber eyes would rake up and down the naked form, unmoving, still as a statue, and for a second, Armand would wonder if he had killed him. A sudden shifting of legs and arms would remind Armand that he hadn't. That the man next to him wasn't one of his latest victims, he'd muse, as the sheets were fresh white and the heaviness of a full stomach hadn't been what roused Armand from his sleep.
Who had Armand been that night, he wondered. Who had this man molded him into this time?
When Armand remembered it was Louis next to him, Louis, his Louis, a painful, indistinguishable certainty would wash over him. They had sex the night before, Armand remembered faintly. They "fucked" Louis would say in his charming, twangy Southern drawl--the one that drove Armand to the edge of oblivion and made him crack a fond and bashful smirk on his lips, but Armand liked to think that they had made love instead. His hips were aching and his wrists were sore and red with blotchy bruises, but Armand supposed that they were just reminders for himself, especially at times like this. Reminders that he had been loved so thoroughly. That even when Armand woke up in the middle of the day, unable to make sense of his surroundings, of the room he was in, of the body next to him, he knew that Louis' marks on his body would bring him back to Earth.
"Do you love me, Arun?"
"Yes, Maître."
"Forever?"
"Until the day I die."
----
Marius had been upset with him tonight. More upset than the boy had ever seen him. Amadeo cried when he saw the look of disappointment on his master's face and a wave of embarrassment tore through his fragile body. Amadeo had refused him, the man that Marius had brought home with him that night. A friend of his master's, Amadeo later realized-- one that had been away to far-off, exotic lands: China, Persia, Africa, even India. He had brought stories with him, stories of his travels and of the people he saw and the food he ate. Marius had promised him a night of merriment, if only to rest his weary body. A warm welcome back home to the motherland for a beloved friend.
Amadeo had been perched in the man's lap, letting him regale the boy with tales of beautiful mountains and wide forests and golden shimmering seas. Marius had been seated close nearby, watching with vigilant eyes from beyond the brim of his chalice of wine. He watched as his friend trailed one hand up the boy's back and thigh, stroking the tender skin softly as he spoke. Amadeo paid no mind to the touches, ignored the way the man's fingers toyed and drew circles into his skin. He instead listened with wide, glassy eyes, amazed by the fantastical details, the tantalizing intricacies of the wide world. They painted Amadeo's mind with colors and shapes and a myriad of flavors that he hadn't thought possible in real life, only on the blank sheet of a canvas. The man promised to bring Amadeo sweets the next time he was in Marius' company. He wished for the boy to taste delicacies otherwise unknown, to heighten his senses. Amadeo had been utterly enraptured.
"There had been boys like you, there, in India." the man mused with slurred words, "Pretty, like little exotic birds." He leaned in closely to press a kiss against the child's temple, the rough itch of his beard rubbing against the boy's tender skin. With glittering eyes, Amadeo simply smiled coyly, let a soft giggle bubble from his lips and bent his head in supplication.
"My Amadeo is very pretty," Marius lazily confirmed from his corner of the room, watching the scene unfold as his friend brought one hand up to pet at the hollow of Amadeo's throat. "That's why I chose him out of all the others." Amadeo glanced over towards his master with lidded eyes and watched as Marius' eyes danced over his body. He followed the path that the man's free hand trailed over Amadeo's chest, petting the baby-soft skin, the tautness of his slender stomach. The last clinging youth of the boy's body.
"I thought to myself," the man whispered into Amadeo's ear, his hot breath traveling down his naked form, "how quick the life of a little bird was. How easy it would be to snuff out its life." His hand around Amadeo's throat slowly closed and a new tension was pushed down on the delicate skin until the boy slowly began to fidget. His breaths became labored, his whines gurgled. "How easy it would be to snap one in half," the man cooed, his grip closing further until Amadeo was now gasping, his hands coming up to claw at the man's forearm. It was sharp enough to draw blood, the way his nails dug into the man's arm, and soon, he loosened his grip on Amadeo's throat and threw him off and onto the floor. "You little bitch!" He screamed, holding his bloody arm.
"Fuck you!" Amadeo screeched back from his spot on the ground, a sudden wild thing, teeth bared and the whites of his eyes exposed raw red and strained. "Fuck! You!" He screamed again, one hand coming up to cradle his now bruised neck. Amadeo watched with terrified eyes as the man geared up to lunge at him, his eyes flinching closed. He anticipated the burning sting of a slap across the face, but instead of heard the sound of a pained exhale and a heavy collapse onto the ground next to him. When he opened his lovely, wet brown eyes once again, he found the man on the floor before him, neck twisted and body crumpled. His lifeless eyes glazed over and staring at Amadeo from across the way, like the eyes of a puppet cut off his strings. Marius simply stared down at the man with the same unamused expression he had for for most mortal dealings. His eyes snapped towards the boy next and for a second, Amadeo wondered if he would be next.
"Tsk, tsk," Marius tutted, shaking his head as if he were a disapproving father, his technicolor eyes sharp and focused on Amadeo's every struggling breath. It only proved to make the boy feel even more shameful, more embarrassed. To think, he had brought such dishonor to his beloved master."What did I tell you about fits of rage, Amadeo?" Marius sighed, "It's unbecoming of a boy of your beauty."
Amadeo whimpered, nearly on the brink of tears, as he crawled on hands and knees towards Marius. He stopped in front of his master's feet, unable to control himself as he wrapped his arms around the vampire's tall, limber legs. "I'm sorry, master, please forgive me, I'm so, so, sorry." Amadeo pleaded on, words falling from his lips like broken glass. Such a display of submission and wholehearted contrition would have surely softened the vampire's mood in the past, but Marius simply stared down at the boy before him and watched with a passive, disinterested gaze as tears spilled from Amadeo's eyes. They stopped down his softened cheeks, still round with baby fat, still a sign of his fragile age. "I thought he was going to kill me," Amadeo whispered as he shoved his face into Marius' robe. He wanted to become one with the fabric, interwoven into each seam. "I thought he was going to take me from you," the boy cried out, pained, broken.
Marius' foot came up from its spot to push Amadeo away slightly, causing the boy to tumble back, as if he were a vermin crawling up his skin. The boy inhaled raggedly as his master then cupped his chin and pulled his face up to look at him. By the light of the oil lamp, Marius' face grew illuminated, his red eyes aglow. Amadeo had always thought his master had looked like a god, cold and glorious and beautiful. Like the figures of the Christ sketched onto vellum pages, like the son of man and the Lord wrapped in one hollow flesh. Amadeo would've done anything he asked without question.
The vampire caressed the wet skin of the boy's cheeks with his thumb, then traced Amadeo's full and quivering petal lips. "Oh, my sweet boy," Marius drawled apathetically, voice dripping with honeyed venom, "I would have never let him kill you." His thumb gently pried open Amadeo's bottom lip until it gave way and he quickly slipped it into the plush, wet, hotness of the boy's mouth. "You're mine, aren't you?" Marius hummed, "I take very good care of my things."
----
Armand had known about the procedure long before it became the norm in America. It was a tool used by the ancients of his time-- the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians. To pull apart and dissect and prod at the unknown had always been a facet of human nature, and therefore, Armand hadn't been surprised to hear of its popularity in modern day Western society. The human body had been something of a curiosity for men greater than him, something to decipher and conquer, so Armand wondered who he was to question it.
The lobotomy, a brief and elegant procedure. An icepick gouging the eyeball until it severed the thin and fragile connections of the human brain.
Quick. Painless.
Armand observed the popularity of the lobotomy as it swept 1950s America-- of women brought in by their husbands to clinics, often crying, often hysterical, and they would come out with a serene calmness washed over their tear-stricken faces. He had once been horrified by the cruetly of mortal man, but with time, Armand found his own thoughts beginning to metamorphosize. He thought in passing, deep down in the parts of him he no longer had a name for, that he envied those women and how they seemed to no longer be tormented by whatever fears and worries that haunted their pasts.
Perhaps he still envied them, even to this day.
What a peaceful existence, it must have been, how quiet and lovely.
Armand wasn't sure if he dreamt, if he even had the capacity for it anymore, but he hoped his daydreams counted. His small fantasies that occupied his mind when he hadn't been conducting business, selling his latest artistic acquisitions, cleaning up whatever mess was left behind from his and Louis' nightly meals. In his daydreams, a funny name for something Armand only did during the night, when the sun was away and day was sleeping, Armand imagined himself a housewife, tucked away in his apartment (silent, serene) with a calm smile washed over his face. Louis would come back to their home and say a few words to him and Armand wouldn't even hear them, the noise like the rushing of waves, and he would just smile and nod and allow the man to kiss his cheek, his forehead, his lips, and Armand would smile and nod and pretend he didn't smell another man's cologne on Louis' shirt because, after all, it didn't matter, none of it mattered, and his mind wouldn't be plagued by memories of days, years, decades, centuries past. All that would matter would be the fuzzy fizzy static of Armand's thoughts as Louis laid him down on the table, couch, floor, bed, shower, and thrusted and thrusted and thrusted.
It was almost sweet, his little daydream.
Romantic. Domestic. Sacchrine.
----
"Save it for the rentboy, alright?"
ArmandRashidArmandRashidArmand, the little ruse had been amusing up until a point. To watch from the sidelines, to have Mr. Malloy so unsuspecting of him, it had been all too easy. It had been thrilling at first, this little game of make-believe between Louis and himself. The first night Armand had dawned Rashid's clothes and placed the brown contacts in his eyes, something akin to a childlike ecstacy had surged through Armand's mind. Louis had thought it amusing as well, taking Armand into his arms and kissing up and down his neck, fangs barely grazing the skin. They made love that night--sweet, tender-- and Armand wondered if it was because of the illusion he had created, one where Armand hadn't been who he was, a centuries old vampire, a blood-thirsty monster, but instead a young and naive and desperately loyal mortal. Perhaps Louis had felt kind in that moment, could pretend that he, himself, was mortal for the night. He had soft words for Armand and whispered them tenderly into his ear, almost as if they had been in love again. Shiny new, pure. It made Armand's heart sing at the thought that even after all the time that had passed, after all those decades, Louis could still want him in such a lovely way.
And when he was in the presence of Daniel and Louis together, discussing Louis' sordid past with Lestat and Claudia, picking through the details of their temporary happiness in New Orleans, ArmandRashid couldn't help but feel a bit smug with himself, knowing how drastically things would change for the happy couple and their so-called, supposedly beloved, girlchild.
Armand had been so amused playing Rashid, like a cat and mouse chasing around each other, he wondered if he could remain this way throughout the entire interview.... until Daniel said what he did.
"Save it for the rentboy, alright?"
It was funny how one sentence could make his skin crawl like spiders up and down his stomach. It had been like cold water was poured down Armand's spine, his senses heightened and Rashid's clothes suddenly feeling all-consuming, drowning. They had been too large on him to begin with, Rashid having been slightly broader, slightly wider than Armand's lithe frame, but now the difference was overwhelming. He tucked his head down for a moment and started at his sleek black shoes and saw his reflection in their shiny face, then tilted his chin back up. Daniel had been staring, Louis as well, eyes narrowed with morbid curiosity. Armand let a pained smile glaze his lips and fall once more before calling out to Louis in his usual soft tambre.
"May I be excused?"
Armand left the room before Louis could even give a response and soon, he was away in a huff, speedwalking down their conrete grey walls to the sanctuary of the bedroom he shared with his lover. Armand raced to the bathroom, skin feeling two sizes too tight on him, as he braced the faucet and gazed up at himself in the mirror. He felt nothing but a pang disgust in his stomach for what stared back at him. A crude pantomime of Arun, he realized, is what stared back at him. Arun must've looked similar to this-- perhaps younger, perhaps less world-weary, but the same dark ebony locks, the same melancholic doe eyes. With shaking hands, Armand was quick to rip out the brown contacts. He wanted nothing more to be face-to-face with the familiar orange-amber glow of his own vampiric eyes.
Staring back at him now, Armand felt a broken sigh leave his body. They felt safer he realized, the cold orange glow. More himself than Arun ever had been.
----
Daniel Molloy was a fascinating boy, indeed. Armand had thought so that night, covered in his hot, thick blood. He had been angry at Louis, more upset and frustrated than Armand ever thought he could be with him. At that moment, watching Daniel cowering unconsciously in the corner, covered in his own fluids, Armand thought in passing that he might actually despise Louis. He pondered the thought as he watched the frantic, drugged-up, ramblings of his lover. Armand watched with growing resentment as Louis went on his tirade of how exhausted he was, of how bored he had been while with Armand.
Boring. Boring. Boring.
And now, Louis was in his bed incapacitated, nearly burned to nonexistence. Another thing for Armand to clean up. He had begged Armand for forgiveness, begged him not to hurt the fascinating boy tucked away in the corner. Something akin to jealousy bubbled up in Armand's chest. Something he had felt before, centuries ago. A rage unknown to him began to fill Armand's mind, silent and deadly and all-encompassing. Now, in this moment, when his lover of decades was heartbroken and betrayed, Louis still chose to defend the mortal boy, to care for his well-being instead of Armand's poor heart.
Armand wished to break Louis' fascinating boy, to destroy him, to make him beg for annihilation. He wanted nothing more in that moment but to rip the boy apart limb from limb, feast on his entrails, and leave his mutilated body for Louis to find. It was repayment enough for his betrayal of their relationship, the negligent disregard that Louis had for his feelings. Hadn't Louis been told before? Hadn't he been told of how Armand had chosen him over all else? His coven of 200 years, gone to the oblivion, and Armand is stuck with an unfaithful lover-- one that thinks he's boring. One that prefers the company of a young mortal boy than himself. A mortal boy that knows of nothing, has barely been alive. What did Louis see in such a boy? A blank slate? An empty canvas that he can paint his will upon? A new shiny toy to replace his old, worn out one? Was Armand too used up for Louis now, too worldly, too used to the violence of man?
Armand could be new for him-- exciting and lovely and beautiful. He could give Louis the stimulation he was looking for. With every punctuation of his voice, Armand showed the fascinating boy just how fascinating Armand had been as well. He reached his fingers into young Daniel's mind and played with the folds of his thoughts like a cat with yarn, unwinding and tearing and making a mess. What he found lying there was a crying, mess of a boy. He found a child, one at the precipice of a career not yet successful, one that would otherwise live a long, excruciating life without interference. One that had originally tried to seduce Armand's lover (lover, he thought bitterly, not husband, as Armand had known Louis secretly reserved that term for another), but instead decided to settle for lines of coke and a story. Armand watched as the boy weeped like a babe, sluggishly bleeding from his neck onto the wooden floor, and wondered for a moment if killing him was a mercy or a punishment. Armand could hear the protests of Louis from the background, a small and incessant whining that was beginning to annoy him.
Armand turned back to the boy in front of him and a wave of pity came over him for a moment. He stared up at Armand with such sad eyes, such tired eyes that they almost looked beyond his years. Armand wished to give him rest, a calm and peaceful sleep for one so weary. But, staring down at the fascinating boy in question, Armand supposed he could understand Louis' misplaced fondness. The boy was...endearing, in his own fashion. The way Daniel curled into his arms, as sweet as a lamb at the whim of the hungry wolf, searching for comfort when he knew he was about to perish... it made Armand feel a slight twinge of amusement. Here the boy was, begging Armand for the rest he so craved, belittling himself, subjugating himself for Armand's amusement and final decision. It was something Armand hadn't felt in centuries, that surge of power and authority. He had been domesticated by many masters before, had been thrown to the feet of men and beasts and expected to beg like a dog, but how long ago had it been since Armand had played the tyrant-- the benevolent executioner?
"Are you going to lick my boots? Or cut off my hand? Is it the gremlin tonight, or the good nurse?"
Armand didn't kill Daniel that day, much to his own dismay. Louis had implored, no, commanded him to spare the life of the boy.
"Is that a request, maître?"
"No, Arun, it's not a request."
Armand allowed the fascinating boy to live, allowed him to wipe his memories clean of the entire thing and live the rest of his life with just a vague recollection of shapes and sounds, if only because Louis had requested him to do so. Nothing concrete would be left of that night, nothing solid. Only a longing for someone he's never met before, someone that he's searching for in every lover he has.
If Armand had been aware that decades later, Daniel would become his one and only fledgling, he supposed he would've turned him sooner.
----
It had been one of Marius' favorite games-- predator and prey. He saved it for special occasions, on days where he wasn't able to hunt or wasn't able to find solace and amusement in his victims that were easily sought out. Therefore, Marius fashioned himself a new challenge. One where he'd allow Amadeo to roam free outside in the garden, to give him a semblance of escape, only to chase him down like a deer in the end. A hunter and his trophy, it had almost seemed mythical. After all, hadn't Zeus chased after his mortal lovers as well?
Amadeo had been 14 at the time, or perhaps it had been 15, or perhaps 12, or perhaps 16. He wasn't sure, couldn't be sure. But, on the first night, Marius had awoken Amadeo from his slumber and pried him away from the warmth of his animals skin throws and plush down-pillows, like a babe ripped from the embrace of his mother. He casted Amadeo out into the dead of night with little more than a threadbare tunic. It had been a cold Autumn in Venice that year, the frost beginning to creep into the the flowers in the garden and the fruit trees in the orchard. The shimmering moonlight made the frost on the leaves glow like silver. Amadeo couldn't remember much of the cold, could only remember the feeling of his heart strumming along like a drum, like the Earth was shifting under his feet, as he ran through the woods. His tender soles would scrape and bleed underfoot from jagged rocks and knotted twigs as he ran, but the boy guessed that was how his master would find him-- he would sniff out the blood drops like a hellhound.
Amadeo knew Marius found some sexual enjoyment out of their games. Marius had always enjoyed the chase more than the act anyways, enjoyed the thrill of finding his prey cornered, trembling in fear. The first time Marius had ripped Amadeo away from his sleep and thrown him to the wilds, the boy had broken down--begging and crying and trembling in the cold. Marius had found him in mere minutes, had found Amadeo curled up behind the cattle barn, sobbing his little eyes out, begging for forgiveness for whatever infraction he had committed to deserve such cruelty. Marius had been amused by the beautiful boy's pleading and was quick to drag Amadeo back to his home. Amadeo had worried that the vampire would rape him right there, in the thicket of the forest, would push his body into the cold and hardened ground and shove himself inside with little care. But, by his mercy, Marius took the boy back inside the palazzo and swept him up in a fever of lust and passion. He attacked the boy with renewed fevor, biting and licking and sucking until Amadeo had been on the brink of passing out. Their time together seemed a haze to the boy, who choked on the cloying scent of burning incense and too much wine. The next morning, when sunlight had slowly trickled into the bedroom, Amadeo found himself alone in his bed--sore and unable to move from his master's nightly ministrations. His body had been painted in an array of new marks and Amadeo's little heart sang when he found them. He had almost been giddy when he first noticed the etchings in his skin. Each bruise felt as sweet as a kiss and each raw bite was a lovenote. He would count his lacerations each day as they faded, one by one, until he could no longer see them.
Now, Armand found himself getting just as much enjoyment out of the game as Marius did. After the first whips of panic in his heart, the boy found himself anticipating the hunt just as much as his master had. It had been a romantic thing, he thought, to know that Marius wanted him just as much as Amadeo craved him. He reveled in the idea that his master would track him down if he went missing, would revert to a wild animal, bringing Amadeo back by his arm or legs or throw him over his shoulder like a sack of grain and carry him back home. The pounding of his heart no longer felt fatal as he ran through the nightfallen grounds, but instead felt euphoric-- he worshipped in the prospect that his master would kill for him, would drag him back by tooth and nail if Amadeo ever ran away. And sometimes, if Marius had been especially roused, he'd pin the boy down right then and there, under the rounded full moon, and claim him. Marius would always be sure to tend to Amadeo's wounds after, drawing a bath for the boy to wash away the sweat and blood and earth from his hands and knees.
Marius never played these games with the other slave boys, Amadeo wistfully thought, as his master trickled warm water over his head. Just Amadeo.
----
Sex with Daniel had been something wonderful, Armand found. The older man, lonely from his failed marriages and broken down from the indifference of his daughters, was an especially attentive lover. He never let Armand stray in his thoughts for too long when they made love, always bringing him back to the present with a kiss to the lips or a caress of his hair or a gentle, rough sigh of pleasure.
This night had been no different-- Daniel always ensured to take into consideration Armand's comfort, whether it had been using a pillow to cushion the vampire's hips as he thrusted into him or not allowing the crown of Armand's head to hit the frame of the bed by covering it with his own and taking the impact of the blow. At first, Armand thought it endearing; his new mortal lover, so careful with his body. He must be forgetting that Armand had been centuries older than him and survived much more than a rough romp in the sheets. It had been so different to Louis, who preferred the dirtybadwrongness of a violent and vulgar fuck.
Louis was gone, Armand reminded himself. Louis was with Lestat. Gone. His lover was gone. Or, well, not his lover, never truly was his lover after all.
"Do you feel good, angel?" Daniel gruffly moaned, snapping his hips harder and bucking into Armand's silky wet heat, "Fuck, does this feel good?"
Angel, it had been a new term of endearment for Armand.
Marius had always preferred making Amadeo something little with his words. Calling him a pretty thing, a young boy, a sweet nymph. Transient, ephemeral, otherworldly-- akin to the heavens. Something that could slip between his fingers like silk and be destroyed twice as easily.
Lestat preferred his French endearments. Always mon amour, mon cherie, ma petit. They tickled Armand's ears to hear, just as much as Lestat's hot breath tickled his skin. Fun little terms that felt like champagne bubbles in Armand's heart. Lestat's affection faded just as fast as the bubbles, they popped just as quick.
Louis spoke like a man of his time, spoke like a man living through time with his ever-evolving language. His love was more casual, more salt-of-the-earth. He had a whole slew of nicknames for Armand: baby, dollface, sweetheart, whore, sweet little slut, Arun. They made Armand practically shake each time, made his entire body heat up like a million burning suns, a million stars bursting. He had thought that he had found his forever in Louis, thought he had found his companion for life. That dream had bursted into a million little pieces and Armand hadn't been sure he was entirely surprised when it did. He had always known in the back of his mind that Louis wasn't his, that his lies and half-truths would somehow come back to him.
But no, not Daniel. To Daniel, Armand had been Angel. It had made Armand giggle at first, a silly little comment made in passing. Almost comical, Armand thought, to liken himself to anything as pure as an angel, a celestial being of no fault or error. If anything, Armand would reason his very nature was the antithesis of angelic goodness, that just by existing in his own skin and feeding upon the blood of victims innocent or not, he disproved Daniel's label of him. But, as their time together grew and as Daniel's words of adorations slipped from his mouth easier and easier, Armand found himself enjoying the endearment as well, despite the slithering and hidden shame that came with it.
"Angel, oh, oh fuck," Daniel groaned, his thrusts quickening as he chased his pleasure. Armand wrapped his legs around the man's waist, buried his face into Daniel's neck. He relished in his scent, warm and masculine and musky and sanguine. Like whiskey and tobacco and the smell of old books and rain and the underlying sweetness of his thickened blood. Armand wanted to live in Daniel's scent, wanted to pry the man open and make himself at home in his body and in his soul. He wanted Daniel to break him so sweetly with honeyed words, only to rebuild him with his touch. Armand wanted to skin the man alive, mingle their blood together, wanted to bite into his heart and taste his life essence. The smell of his blood was strongest at the neck and Armand began to lose himself to it, lavishing the skin with his tongue, licking and sucking and almost nearly biting down.
"It feels good," Armand whined, usually low voice now growing higher in pitch, "It feels good, oh god keep going." He fanned his fingers through Daniel's grey locks, gently tugged at them as soft breaths were punched out of his mouth. "Fuck, harder, harder!"
"I'm gonna hurt you, honey, if I go any harder than this," Daniel laughed clumsily, hotly, out of breath himself. Armand had to remember that Daniel, while sturdily built, was still mortal and had human limitations. Armand had chuckled breathily at the idea that his mortal lover could hurt him in any way such as this. Armand tried to control the string of laughter that threatened to trickle out from his lips. It had always been amusing to think Daniel forgot Armand's strength, his power. To think that Daniel still thought of him deep down as a fragile human, only 27 mortal years old. Merely a babe compared to Daniel's decades of life. As if Daniel was some lecherous old man who preyed on younger boys looking for an older gentleman daddy figure type to solve unresolved parental resentment.
It made Armand want to laugh, want to cry, want to beg for Daniel to go ahead, hurt him. Hurt him. Make it hurt. Make him hurt. Make him hurt. Please, please he needed it. He needed to feel that divine pain. He needed to bleed. He needed to hurt. Please for the love of God, make it hurt so good.
But instead, the vampire simply kissed Daniel's lips chastely. "No, no you can't," Armand purred into Daniel's ear. He nibbled gently at the man's earlobe, then pulled back to peck at his stubbled jaw. "You cannot damage me, dearest, not when it feels this good to be filled by you."
"You're fucking killing me," Daniel uttered out, his groin hitting Armand's as their bodies connected with each snap of his hips. "You're killing me, Angel."
"I need you, I need you," Armand whined high and desperate. He could feel his thoughts beginning to spiral, his words beginning to turn to mush. He needed this man like he needed blood, like he needed the night, like he needed love. Armand could feel himself losing all semblance of self, could feel as his senses broke away and crumbled, now a faint and blurry, distant memory. He wanted the man to own him, to destroy him, to wipe away all of his past lives, his unholy sins, his forgotten names. He wanted to be reforged in Daniel's image, to be broken and remade and fashioned to whatever the man wanted, whatever pleased him most. Armand would not mind, would not resist, as long as they could be together.
"Please, Daniel," Armand pleaded, wide glassy doe eyes shut tightly closed. "Please, please, please, maître!"
Suddenly, Armand could feel wet heat coursing through his body. Daniel had released himself into Armand's body and the vampire couldn't be more thrilled at the idea of being a vessel for him, a receptacle for his love. When he looked back up at Daniel through his hooded eyes and thick, watery lashes, he had expected to find a similar face of arousal and contentness. But instead, Armand was faced with a look of pure disgust etched onto Daniel's face. The look chilled Armand to his core, like his entire body had been dropped like a glass cup and his heart had shattered into a million pieces.
Daniel panted above him, towering over Armand's body, his eyes heavy and lidded, but sharp and accusatory, journalist eyes. "What did you call me?" He roughly asked through labored breaths. Armand flinched at the tone, he wanted nothing more in that moment to curl up into a ball on the corner of the bed, his naked body feeling suddenly too exposed. He felt himself crumble under such questioning, felt his entire self tremble as he looked up at the greying man who suddenly looked 10 feet tall. "Did you just call me-"
"Apologies," Armand was quick to supply, his knees curling up to his chest. "I-I did not mean to....I'm sorry if I...I don't want to presume anything. I thought maybe.. since..." He looked up at Daniel with wide, wet eyes, like two pretty marbles in the sun. Honey trapped in glass. A pathetic little trinket. "I thought that you'd want it." Armand looked down to his own lap, then back up. "I thought you might have wanted...me as well?"
"Wanted you?" Daniel asked with wild disbelief, as if the mere thought of it was laughable. Armand flinched, shut his eyes once more, before opening them again with tears stinging the corners. Daniel ran a hand up his face and through his hair, "Ah, shit. Don't look at me like that, with those huge fucking eyes." Daniel groaned, "Listen, of course, I do- I mean, who wouldn't want you? Look at yourself!" The mortal motioned to Armand's body. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you, when I thought you were fucking Rashid or whatever the fuck. I felt like a fucking pervert wanting you, like some horny old grandpa lusting over a fucking teenager." Armand opened his lips to interject, but Daniel shot him down first, "I KNOW, I know you're not a fucking teenager, Jesus Christ. But- but you can understand my hesitation, can't you?"
"Pretty words," Armand murmured, annoyance beginning to bleed into his words, "All to say that you do not feel as I do. You need not protect my heart, Daniel. I know when I am being rejected."
Daniel forced out a laugh, as if exasperated just by Armand's hardheadedness. "For fucks sake, I am not rejecting you! I just- I can't be your-your master or whatever. I mean, God, look at you and look at me, ok? I can't exactly in good conscience let someone who looks like you go around calling me, some old white guy, master, ok?"
Armand's eyes narrowed, feline and incredulous, as he dissected Daniel's words. "But, you ejaculated," Armand rebutted with sharp accuracy. "You drew pleasure from my endearment, even if you morally object to it now."
Daniel sighed, wiping his sweaty brow, before crawling up and over to where Armand was curled up. Much to the vampire's chagrin, he allowed Daniel to maneuver his body until it was leaning against the mortal's chest, softened by time but still as broad as his youth. Armand allowed himself to sink into the comfort, run his palm over the curling tufts of Daniel's greying chest hair, and relish the feeling of Daniel's firm hand slowly caressing and stroking down his hip and thigh. "Yeah, I came...It was...well... frankly...it was surprising.. and a little bit sexy too, I guess. But I mean, Jesus, ok, a pretty, young looking boy like you under me and shit...fuck, I'm only human." Daniel sheepishly murmured as he nosed Armand's curls below him. "But uh....we can't exactly make that an everyday thing, ok? I'm not your master, Armand. I don't want to be Louis, I'm not fucking.....fucking Marius. So...so whatever happens in bed, it stays in bed, alright? I'm me and you're you, and that's all we are outside of bed. We're not...we're not gonna recreate one of your fucked up traumas, ok?"
Armand rolled Daniel's words around his mind, allowed them to wash over him and truly sink into his skin. His immediate reaction had been one of pain, of mistrust. Why did Daniel reject his affections? Why did Daniel not want him the way Armand had wanted him? The pain began to settle in his bones, began to coat every surface of his insides. Armand wanted to lash out, wanted to cry, wanted to plunge his fangs into Daniel's carodid artery and watch the blood drain out of him, trying their immortalies together forever. But before Armand could respond, could even lick his tongue over his fangs, Daniel leaned down and pressed a kiss against his head.
"You understand, don't you?" Daniel gently pried as he traced his fingers up and down Armand's skin. "I want you, but I don't want...I don't want to take advantage of you just like those other fuckers did. I mean, shit, honey, did you even..." The man paused, his olive tanned skin beginning to return to a lovely, windswept pink. "Did you even get off?"
"Is that important?" Armand deadpanned, staring back like a statue. He had felt good, had enjoyed the feeling of being filled, perhaps if he had a little more time, he could've felt the warm shroud of arousal surge from him as well. But it hadn't matter, none of it did. As long as Daniel felt release, Armand supposed he didn't care much about his own. It was expendable, a non-necessity.
Daniel groaned sadly, taking both hands and rubbing his heavy eyes. He reached over to the side table and took up his glasses, slipping them on. "What the fuck," he asked, "Of course it is! I need you to understand how important it is to me that you're enjoying it too and not like....placating me out of some fucked up trauma response."
Such interesting words, the vampire mused. He sometimes forgot he had been living through a different time-- a time where phrases such as trauma response were used as if it meant anything to Armand anyways. The vampire simply hummed in faux agreement, closing his eyes and allowed the comfort of Daniel's touches and caresses to wash over him. No, he wasn't sure he did understand. Take advantage of him? Important for him to get off? How did any of it make sense? Armand could snap Daniel in half like a twig, could melt his mind in a second, could drain his blood from his body and throw him away like a husk. How could Daniel ever, ever think he could take advantage of Armand? The man was visually older, yes, but Armand had ancient blood coursing through his veins and surely that meant something in Daniel's eyes?
For a moment, Armand's mind began to spiral. His thoughts were muddled, spinning around his head like leaves whirling in the wind. He felt as if he was drifting himself, floating above his body and watching from the ceiling. Watching himself with frozen, unmoving eyes-- doll-like, cold marble jewels.
But Armand didn't say anything. He didn't give voice to the questions in his mind, didn't bother to voice them. It suddenly didn't matter, none of it had. If Daniel wanted him to stop, he'd stop, as simple as that. And so, a soft smile grew on Armand's petal pink lips, like a porcelain statue and the vampire simply nodded, leaning his head back on Daniel's firm and bare chest. He could feel the man's heart beating through his ribcage, could feel it's persistent thrum against his cheek. Armand wondered for a moment what Daniel's heart would taste like against his tongue, the metallic sweetness coursing through him like a rush of ecstacy, like an orgasm ripping from his body, like cocaine through his veins.
"We should sleep or something," Daniel mumbled, shifting in his spot on the bed until he was reclining downwards with a tired sigh. Armand knew it was nearing dawn, the shadow of sunlight beams threatening to seep out from the cracks of his black-out blinds. He knew Daniel was most likely not tired the way he had been, not ready to sleep for the rest of the day as Armand would have. He knew that the man had been doing it for Armand's benefit, not his own. A sinking feeling of guilt began to settle in his gut.
"Ok," Armand finally said, his voice soft and barely there. He leaned down with Daniel and draped himself against the mortal's chest. "Let's rest."