Work Text:
There are still nights, even so many years later, when Louis looks at Armand and can’t bear to touch him.
It doesn’t happen very often anymore. Maybe once or twice a year. Now that they’re safely ensconced in their tower in Dubai, two years in, settled into a rhythm of routines and comfort and familiarity, it’s easier than ever to put distance between what their lives together are now and what happened almost a century ago.
The fact that Louis can think that last thought, and only feel a momentary pang of guilty sickness in the pit of his stomach that he can swallow through until it goes quiet again, is testament enough to the love and companionship he and Armand have built despite everything…
… Or, as Louis sometimes thinks in his darker moments, a testament to how comfortable Louis can get in stasis. In quiet, metronomic misery.
(Not that Armand is any better.)
Still. Those moments do happen, a ripple on the calm surface of the lake, a fracture in the solid tower wall. Most of the time, it’s okay, and Armand only needs a single glimpse into Louis’s mind to know. Usually, he then makes himself scarce, coming up with some sort of new exhibition to see, or a store to visit, or a live performance or movie to see to keep him busy; and, obedient as ever, he stays away until the clouds clear.
The household tends to be very quiet in the aftermath of this for about a week or so. And that’s okay, too.
There are many things between them these days that are… that.
Okay.
It never lasts very long, anyway — Louis tends to break easier and easier these days. Armand always waits for him, does his best not to push, gives him time and space to brood; but the weight of him hovering just out of reach, ever so careful, ever so tactful and mindful of the storm that is Louis’s mind, is as effective as a scream.
And so, before too long, Louis will roll over in bed and touch his foot to Armand’s cold one under the covers. Or he’ll sit closer to him on the sofa, their knees touching as they read. Or he’ll stroke his hair lightly as he passes Armand’s chair, or catch his eye across the room and offer the first quirk of a not-quite-smile.
The first green light. An opening of the door. It’s fine. It’s okay. We’re fine.
Then Armand’s eyes will light up, and he’ll say Louis’s name, and Louis will either take him out for a walk or he’ll get Armand’s favorite whip; and the sweetness of Armand’s screams and moans will break the stifling silence for good.
Such a simple thing, really, and yet, so effective. So enduring, centering and grounding for them both in a way that would probably have Mama du Lac raising a judgmental, knowing brow, and Louis doesn’t like to think too much about why that is, but it’s true nonetheless.
One crack of a whip, one slap of a paddle, one flick of a knife — and just like that, the ghosts are banished back into their respective corners. Louis and Armand’s equilibrium regained, Louis’s peace settling over him once more, the easy comfort of it like a weighted blanket keeping him tethered to the here and now. Armand at his side, on his arm, at his beck and call, dutiful and loving as ever.
And then all is okay again. All is well. All is comfortable...
Until the next time. Or until Louis’s mood shifts too drastically, and then the quiet nights turn into bad nights, but that’s not really happening so much anymore. They’ve both gotten too good at stepping over the mines. They’re both too used to one another.
Sometimes, Louis wishes it happened more. Sometimes he still pushes for it, with varying results. Sometimes he even gets Armand to fight back.
But mostly not. Mostly Armand just gets cold, and withdrawn, and far too careful with his words, and distant and huffy and passive. And that is no fun at all, not that any of it should be fun, and fun is entirely the wrong word here besides; but it would be nice to see passion in him outside the bedroom. Would be nice to have some of Louis’s energy reflected back at him. Would be nice to be able to blow up, and not be guilted into feeling like an asshole afterwards even if he’s in the right.
Anyway.
Yeah. The bad times, the quiet times, and the comfortable times. The comfortable times most of all.
And then, there are… other times.
The times when well actually does mean good. The times when it means really, really fucking good.
Times like tonight.
“Was wondering when it’d finally hit you,” Louis murmurs, out of breath, driving into Armand viciously, his hips snapping with vampiric speed that rattles even their sturdy custom bedframe.
“Me too,” Armand moans underneath him, digging the balls of his feet into the meat of Louis’s shoulders. “Was hoping… ah… that it’d be… soon. Oh god, Louis.”
“When was the last time?” Louis manages to still his hips, though it’s the last thing he wants to do at the moment, trapped as he is inside the slick warmth of Armand’s heat-loose ass.
And the beauty of it is that Armand — his Armand, his poised, eloquent, elegant Armand, always put together, always composed and performatively demure — needs a moment to even register the words.
God, Louis fucking loves it when Armand’s in heat.
It snuck up on him suddenly this time. There wasn’t any warning, no signal for Armand to settle into it, nothing to let them prepare. Louis simply woke up earlier that night with the telltale thick, honeyed scent trickling up his nostrils, already so strong it was fogging up against the tinted windows of the bedroom. The sheets were already soaked underneath them. And when Louis stirred and turned to his husband, he found him writhing on the bed, on his back, legs spread wide, his silk pajama pants shoved up and over his knees, moaning softly into the darkness and stuffing his fingers — claws and all — deep into his ass.
And, well.
How could Louis possibly say no to this?
How could anyone?
“Stay with me, baby,” Louis murmurs now, catching Armand’s chin in his fingers and squeezing, making sure to nick the soft, delicate underside with the tip of his claw. Armand sighs at the centering pain of it, as Louis knew he would; and he opens his eyes to gaze at Louis with a heat-stupid, lovesick look.
“2011,” Armand breathes out, wrecked even this early into the night. He isn’t very far gone yet, but he’s already come once — only needed three thrusts or so to get him there — and his face is flushed a lovely dark that’s spreading down over his neck and chest. “Two years ago. Summer in Capri.”
“Yeah,” Louis pants, and his cock pulses at the memory. “The yacht. Fucking you under the stars. The boat almost capsizing from it.”
Armand laughs, and he’s so lovely like this, so radiant, and Louis’s heart does a curious swooping twist in his chest and then up his throat.
It’s easy to forget, sometimes, this feeling. Too easy.
(Especially since sometimes Louis actively tries to.)
But right now, he welcomes that flutter, and the warmth that floods him when he looks into Armand’s eyes. And he decides to let this be easy instead.
“Rushing back to shore and the house before dawn,” Armand reminisces fondly, stroking up and down Louis’s arm with one hand, Louis’s neck with the other. “You were so concerned. It was sweet.”
“Well, yeah.” Louis leans down to kiss the corner of his mouth, slides his lips over the hot sweaty skin of Armand’s cheek. “You were leaking all over the place, we both lost track of time, and the sun was about to come up on us. Of course I was concerned.”
“And then the plug!” Armand giggles, and Louis grins into the skin of his cheek, because yes, the plug. The one that Louis hastily shoved into Armand just to tide him over, leaving him to fuck himself on it while Louis — panicked and distracted — did his best to get them to shore without ramming the yacht into the picturesque but lethal rocks around Capri.
And then the rush home, and Armand actually coming along the way just from running with the plug inside him, and he moaned so loud Louis had to mentally reach out to make sure any mortals around them on the cramped, tightly-populated island would forget they ever heard or saw anything. He picked Armand up, then, and forsook all caution as he used his vampiric speed to get them to coffin, and barely made it in time. The sun was already rising over the horizon by the time they shut the door.
And all because Louis refused to let Armand spend the night on the yacht. Which would have been more practical, but also fundamentally unacceptable for the same reason that Armand never asks if Louis would like him to fly him anywhere.
Armand turns his head to capture his wandering lips with his own, and Louis smiles into the kiss, hums into it, content and warm and affectionate. Cups Armand’s face between his hands and strokes his cheeks with his thumbs, keeps it in place, teases his tongue lightly over the yielding flesh of his lips.
“Good thing we’re home now,” Louis whispers into him, kiss, kiss, a soft bite, another kiss, soft and warm, Armand seeking more, always more. Heat or not, if he could, Armand would be kissing Louis until the heat-death of the universe.
“Home,” Armand sighs between their lips meeting. “I love it when you say that.”
Louis hums agreement, kisses him nice and slow and deep, and begins to move his hips again at a steady, thorough pace.
They don’t need to hurry just yet. They have all night, and then the next, and the next, depending on how long the heat will last this time. And there’s nowhere for Louis to be, no one to see or call, nothing at all that he can’t cancel or postpone.
Nothing’s more urgent or important than this: the true christening of this new chapter of their life.
Neither of them says it out loud. They don’t have to. Armand’s mind buzzes with it, excited and bright and reverent all at once, letting Louis share in it, inviting him to; and Louis opens his own mind in turn, feeding it right back to him in a loop of Yes, yes, yes, I feel it too. I see it the same way. I’ve waited for this just as much as you have.
Armand’s first heat in Dubai, the first one shared in their new bed, in this secure secret nest they’ve built for themselves. A familiar claiming made new, made ceremonial, made special by the unspoken promise. A renewal of vows. A choice made yet again, despite everything, despite the okay nights and the bad nights, despite the quiet resentment that thrums to life in Louis every now and then, despite the misunderstandings big and small, and the cruelty in both of them, and the hurt and the gulf of unspoken, mutually-agreed-upon no-go zones.
I choose you. I’m with you. I’m standing by you.
“I love you, Maître,” Armand sighs, and digs his claws into Louis’s shoulders to pull him as close as they can get without melting their skin into one.
Louis closes his eyes, and shudders, and lets the tender, trembling feeling surging in him in response pour over Armand like treacle.
He keeps the rhythm nice and slow for as long as Armand lets him, and then some. He rocks them steadily, deliberately, aiming at Armand’s prostate with every deep stroke, refusing to speed up or to let up the pressure, until Armand is a begging, sobbing mess beneath him. He lets Armand have one more orgasm, then, just one, just to tide him over, help him regain some control; rubbing over his prostate in a series of quick short strokes, closing Armand’s desperate, adorable little cock in an indulgent grip while it pulses and spurts.
And then, Armand now a shuddering, gasping wreck of bliss, ignoring the furious throb of his own cock that urges him to start ramming himself inside, Louis pulls out.
And reaches out with his mind to their newest attendant.
There are matters he needs to see to before they truly lose themselves in pleasure, and, well. Time to see if the new boy is truly worth what they’re paying him.
Rashid.
Yes, sir?
The response is calm, placid, the mental equivalent of a perfect servant’s blank, Rashid’s mind a thrum of dutiful concentration. Amir assigned him to prepare Louis’s meals for the night: a bowl of RH+ from the farm, followed by an appointment with Mubashir later in the night and a bottle of human-trafficking club owner with a rare blood type Armand killed and preserved for Louis to sample a while back. Rashid is applying himself to the task with the careful, single-minded focus of someone truly enjoying the ritual of imposing order over chaos, even in a context as grisly as that, and is carefully decanting the blood bag so that not a single drop is spilled. Louis is almost loath to interrupt.
But the boy still needs to be tested, and Louis is curious to see how he’ll behave.
So he tells him, There’s a walk-in closet in the corridor connecting the parlor to the master bedroom. Ask Amir to give you the key. I need you to go in there and retrieve the black lacquered suitcase on the bottom left shelf. Bring it into the bedroom. Have Amir follow you in with the blood.
Of course, Mr. du Lac.
Louis smiles, and focuses back on Armand.
“Be a good boy for me, Arun,” he croons, kissing Armand’s long neck, affectionately stroking the short length of his now half-hard cock. “I know you can be good. I know you’re still in there. Try to control yourself, sweetheart, okay? For me.”
Armand gasps, slowly beginning to catch on. He stretches under Louis, a long, luxurious thing from the tips of his toes to the strain in his neck.
“Yes, Maître,” he promises.
Louis smiles, and rewards him with a kiss.
“Help is on the way,” he says. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take proper care of you.”
He doesn’t add this time, but it hangs in the air between them anyway, like so many things do.
(Like the memory of the times when Louis didn’t. Like the memory of Paris, and the glimpse of a yellow dress out of the corner of the eye.)
Armand only smiles at him, collapsing into a deep post-coital contentment, just as unwilling to dwell on the unspoken now as Louis is.
A new home. A fresh start. A newborn dusk.
A wedding night, performed in the safe warm nest of their commitment.
Louis lies down beside his companion, letting his own unsatisfied and throbbing erection rest over Armand’s thigh. His hand maps a tender trail into the soaked wiry hair around Armand’s cock to tease him down, down, down, under the balls, over his taint, across the loose wet rim of his still-trickling hole.
“Put them in,” Armand sighs, letting his legs fall bonelessly open.
“I haven’t trimmed my nails, baby. I’ll hurt you.”
“Yes.” Armand’s cock begins to fill up again. “Please.”
Louis grins at him, the crooked half-mouth grin he knows drives Armand mad, and leans down to kiss him as he starts to press his fingers more intently over his hole — around the raw, tender muscles, around the winking heat of it, but never past it. Never inside.
Armand gasps, whines into Louis’s mouth, and starts to rock his greedy hips into the touch just as Louis hears a pair of deliberate footsteps stopping in the open bedroom doorway.
“The items you requested, sir,” Amir announces, polite and stone-voiced as ever, Rashid a silent specter behind him.
Louis doesn’t react at once. He kisses Armand for another long, indulgent moment, thrusting his tongue to tease the roof of his mouth, and presses the flat tips of his fingers to rub firm, quick circles over his hole.
In a mood to give them a show, honey? he nudges at Armand’s mind. The sizzle of need there, a constant hum while Armand’s like this, subdued by his earlier orgasm, is already bursting right back into flame just from this.
I don’t care. Just don’t stop, Armand begs, rocking his hips hard and demanding into Louis’s fingers, a vulgar, shameless display from someone who’s become all body and not much else. It’s hot — always is — and Louis’s cock twitches and throbs needily, especially with the heat of the mortals’ eyes on them.
Only when Armand starts moaning, loud and insistent and already getting close again, does Louis pull away. He ignores Armand’s outraged sobs of betrayal and raises himself up on his arms just enough to half-turn and regard the two mortals waiting at the top of the stairs.
“Thank you,” he tells them. “Rashid, please put the suitcase on the bench for me, right here.”
Rashid does. His expression never changes, even though from this angle, he can see everything: Armand’s gaping, trickling hole and straining cock, Louis’s eager hardness, the glisten of Armand’s slick on their skin, the sticky mess all over the sheets. Rashid’s heart is hammering furiously, yes, and his face is beginning to heat up so that it shows through his skin; but outwardly, he maintains his professional mask like a champ.
Louis asked Armand, once, if mortals can smell the pheromones of a vampire in heat. Armand said no.
He wonders if that’s true now, with Armand’s smell practically drenching the air.
He skims Rashid’s mind for a quick check, and doesn’t find much of anything. Twinges of shock, yes; intrigue, definitely. Echoes of arousal. But Rashid’s clearly making an effort to keep his stronger reactions subdued, hidden under the immediate surface, which is the smart move when in the presence of two predatory mind readers. Louis doesn’t really care enough to prod deeper.
Rashid gives Louis a small smile, a neat little bow, and he places the suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed. Poised and cool under pressure, this man, despite the flush of his face and the frantic racing of his heart. Impressive, for someone who’s only been with them for a week.
Louis acknowledges him with a smirk of his own, and decides to give him a raise.
“The blood,” he says to Amir, then, and drinks from the little glass bowl his head butler hands over. He knows he’s going to need it, and three more refills at least, before the night is done.
“You want some, love?” he asks Armand, out of obligation more than anything else; and, predictably, Armand shakes his head no. He never wants to drink during a heat unless it’s from Louis.
Louis smiles, pets his hair gently, and drains his bowl. Then, he turns to Amir.
“There has been an unexpected development, Amir,” he says, adopting the tone he always uses with the staff: calm, casual, friendly. He sits up properly, but doesn’t bother to cover himself. “Armand is… indisposed. He’s going to be indisposed for at least three nights, maybe more. It’s a quirk of vampire biology that will happen from time to time, oh, let’s say… every two years or so. It’s a special, vulnerable time for him, and he’ll need me in bed with him through it all. Speaking plainly, we’re going to be fucking. Practically nonstop.”
He watches their faces for a reaction, Amir and Rashid alike, and Amir is nothing but predictable. He’s been hard under his work robes since before they came in, and now he’s straining almost as much as Louis, his pulse slamming in his neck, his face flushed an angry red, his mind a Pornhub’s worth of fantasies he can barely keep a lid on. The old, dependable lecher.
Rashid, for his part, does start a little at Louis’s words; his eyes open wider, his pulse jumps, the muscles in his jaw flex, and he glances at Armand before he can stop himself, his expression one of not shock so much as…
Intrigue? Recognition?
Then he’s all smoothness and professionalism again.
Huh.
“What I need from you for the duration,” Louis picks up, choosing to ignore it, “is to cancel everything. All our appointments, meetings, sales, even donors — yes, that includes Mubashir tonight, pay him for the visit but don’t let him in. We won’t be available to anyone.”
“Understood, sir,” says good old Amir, his posture stiff and rigid as if he’d been raised on Downton Abbey even as his cock stands at attention under his black kurta. “Anything else?”
“Minimal staff,” Louis tells him. “They can come in during the day for their usual chores, but at night, I want only you and… well, let’s say Rashid here, so he can keep learning the ropes, and one other person. You can choose. Mostly just to keep watch and make sure everything’s in order, remain on call if we need anything, and supply me with blood.”
“The sheets,” Armand murmurs, nuzzling Louis’s arm.
“Oh yeah. Thank you, baby.” Louis kisses his forehead, and gives him a tender pat over his hole only to see more slick pulse out in response. “As you can see, he’s making quite a mess. It’s going to get worse. We’ll need two changes of fresh sheets per night.”
“Make it three,” Armand gasps, beginning to rock into Louis’s touch again.
“Three,” Louis agrees. He looks at the two mortals beside the bed, and gives them what he knows is a charming, winning smile. “Vampire biology. Better that you don’t know.”
Amir’s so hard he might actually explode,, he tells Armand, and receives a wave of amusement in return.
Of course. He’s imagining himself trapped between us, eating me out as you fuck him. He’s planning to steal and lick the sheets from tonight to see what the slick tastes like.
Louis almost snorts, because, yeah. It wouldn’t be the first time. Amir is one of those men who spend most of their lives closeted and repressed — much like Louis himself did, once upon a time — and develop a set of complexes and kinks as a result that turn them into a veritable pest.
But he’s a damn good butler, and the dark, perverted side of him makes him ruthless enough to serve a pair of vampires without a flinch. With satisfaction, even.
That, and his constant yearning to get into bed with the two of them and beg them to turn him is endlessly amusing.
And Rashid? he asks. I can’t quite get a read on him.
He can sense Armand struggling to concentrate, so he buys him time and engages Amir with instructions as to the types of blood bags to prepare for the next three nights. Armand’s eyes, previously closed in pleasure, open slowly, and he studies Rashid with some measure of curiosity — or as much of it as he can muster in his current state, anyway.
Rashid stares ahead, his face schooled into pleasant and servile blankness, but Louis catches him glancing at Armand even now; he catches his pupils expanding, and the muscles of his jaw clenching as he swallows, the flush to his cheeks growing ever darker the longer he stands there at the foot of the bed with a prime view of Armand’s… everything.
He’s… curious, Armand reports. Intrigued by what’s happening to me. He wants to know more, to… study it. It’s almost a scholarly interest, more than a sexual one, but… But he’s aroused, too. He tries to suppress it and focus on the biological aspect of it, but he’s struggling.
Repression, Louis sighs mentally. Another one of those, huh. Maybe we’ll invite him to assist Fareed during one of your little playdates, though, if he wants to study you so much.
He means it as a joke, mostly. But Armand turns his head to the side, and blinks at Rashid, and only answers, Maybe.
Huh. Okay. Something to consider for later, then.
For now, they’ve got more important things on the agenda.
“That’ll be all,” Louis tells Amir. “Just, prepare yourself for some noise when you come in for the evening shifts. My love is going to get loud.”
“Of course, sir,” Amir says, and there’s a little strain to it now, cracking his professional veneer. He can’t wait to get out of here so he can invent some excuse to lurk close enough to the bedroom to eavesdrop, whereupon he plans to jerk off furiously to his employers going at it.
It’s the main reason Louis doesn’t dismiss him and the rest of the staff altogether. He could easily prepare his own blood bags and fresh sheets during the brief spells when Armand’s heat exhausts him enough that he passes out.
But the idea of them — these mortals, tied to secrecy by NDA’s, the threat of death, their own curiosity and the thrill of working for something forbidden and fantastical — overhearing them, overhearing Armand while he’s like this, having them witness it while they come in with the blood… Yeah, alright, it excites him. He’s done pretending that it doesn’t. He likes the power of it, the filth; the knowledge that he’s earned it all, earned the power and the filth and everything else besides. The big man in the big house, respected and feared in equal measure. It soothes and feeds something dark and restless and angry in him, something older than the city they’re in, something he’s carried with him all the way from New Orleans.
And, judging by the tremble of lust he experiences from Armand through their mind link, it excites Armand even more.
It’s always nice when they’re compatible like that.
Louis smirks, wishes the two mortals a good night, and gets up to open the suitcase.
“Now, you’re going to have to bear with me, sweetheart,” he says, popping the lid open to reveal the assortment of toys they’ve curated over the years specifically for Armand’s heats. “You didn’t exactly give me time to prepare, so this is going to have to be a bit ad hoc.”
“I’m sorry,” Armand gasps. He’s trying so hard to be good, keeping his hands up on the pillow beside his head instead of where he clearly wants them most. Lifting his head to watch Louis with his big, feverish bright eyes. “I wanted it to be special.”
“I know, baby,” Louis coos. “It’s okay. We’re going to make it special, you and I. I’ll make sure of it. And it’s not like I haven’t fantasied about this — I’ve got a few ideas about how we could celebrate.”
“My Maître always thinks of everything,” Armand purrs, a smile creeping into his voice and teasing the edge of insolence just enough for Louis to notice.
“And don’t you forget it.” Louis selects the thin iron chains they’ve had custom made, delicate enough so they don’t remind Armand of the very literal shackles he experienced, but still durable and vampire-proof. “Now, how about for a start, I tie you up to the bedposts so you’re not tempted to use your hands. And then I’m gonna take a leaf out of dear Amir’s book and take my time licking you clean.”
Armand trembles, a delicious full-body thing, and collapses back onto the bed. Louis can see the conflict wracking his mind clear as day: the eagerness to succumb and let Louis do what he wants on the one hand, the excitement to get eaten out on top of it, versus the very real, very physical urgency of the fever burning him up from the inside, demanding nothing but cock, right here and now.
The poor thing. Louis smiles at him, and takes pity. “I’m not asking for your input right now, just so you know,” he reassures him. “I’m telling you what’s going to happen.”
And there it is, like a magic spell. Armand lets out a breath, and his whole body deflates with it, tension escaping him with the air. He truly is happiest when the choice is taken out of his hands entirely. When he can just lie down and let it happen.
On bad nights, Louis has some mean things to think about it, and sometimes he says them, too.
Tonight, Armand’s “Yes, Maître” is sweet like honey, and Louis is charmed by it instead.
“Hands,” he commands.
Armand presents them at once, his big palms and long fingers intertwining in a gesture of prayer. Louis clicks the cuffs closed around his wrists, and then pulls Armand’s arms up, up, up, until they’re stretched out on the bed. Then, he winds the long chain around the holds carved into the bedframe for this specific purpose, making sure to leave Armand enough give so that he can roll from his back onto his stomach and vice versa.
Armand gazes up at him through the whole process, his eyes bright and glazed over with the wetness of sheer, unadulterated lust. His pupils are enormous. His little mouth hangs half-open, and his tongue runs over the hot skin of his lower lip, his teeth pulling on it absently for something to do as he does his best to stay patient.
Louis looks down at him, and feels like the most powerful being on the planet.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, and leans down to kiss Armand slow and deep, caressing the tense, bulging muscles in Armand’s arms. “You’re being so good for me, baby. So pretty. I’m gonna eat you right up.”
“Please,” Armand gasps, prettily, a perfect little doll.
Louis strokes his cheek, and then murmurs, “Turn over. Ass up.”
Armand shivers all over, from the tips of his toes, and lets out a little whimper at this. And then he scrambles to obey.
It truly is a sight, Louis thinks appreciatively, sitting up to caress the globes of Armand’s ass as he settles into position. Armand is always a thing to behold, but he’s mesmerizing like this, utterly given to the demands of his own body. If he could, he’d be spreading his own cheeks open for Louis without even a hint of shame.
Louis does it for him, takes a moment to admire the sight of Armand’s hole and the way it releases pulse after pulse of slick for him, and nuzzles the inner skin of the right cheek.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into the heated skin, and kisses it, and again, his lips tracing a path inward. “Just relax, Arun.”
He touches the flat of his tongue to Armand’s open hole, and Armand stifles a scream.
They’ve never really learned what it is — Armand’s slick. Where it comes from, what it’s made from other than blood. Fareed has done his best to help in this; once, in Thailand, on Armand’s insistence, they flew him over to their villa so he could spend a night examining Armand in the throes of heat with Louis supervising and providing what meager input he could.
But the samples were inconclusive, the examination of Armand’s internal processes didn’t yield much for them to go on, and on the whole, well.
Weird witch magic seems to be the sum of it.
It didn’t satisfy Armand, but Louis, for his part, is happy to go with it. He doesn’t really care, truth be told. He’s never been as curious about the inner workings of vampires as Armand is.
All he knows, as he licks up the trickle of thick sweet liquid, is that he really, really likes the taste.
It’s blood, mostly. Armand’s blood — his essence — thickened and distilled into something pinkish but mostly translucent, and it tastes like him: like honey, pineapple, fruit bulging ripe and sweet in the sun. Like lazy summer afternoons. Like sunrise, in that it’s beautiful to behold but lethal if you linger. Or like a flame, held within a single candlewick, delicate and comforting…
Until you throw it on a pyre.
Louis licks it up, taste by lazy indulgent taste, teasing the rim of his hole with every swipe of his tongue, and enjoys the way Armand’s whole body trembles with it.
“Please, Maître,” the vampire beneath him gasps, and Louis squeezes the meat of his asscheeks.
“Patience, sweetheart,” Louis croons, moving to lick the sticky sweetness off the skin just around Armand’s swollen rim, clinging to the insides of his cheeks. “I want to enjoy the taste properly, and besides, you’re not clean yet.”
Nor will he be; not until the heat runs its course. Right now, there’s a fresh glob of slick trickling out for every bit of it Louis licks away. An endless supply of it, thick blood-honey.
And all of it is just for him.
“Just enjoy it,” Louis whispers into Armand’s skin. “Just let go.”
“I need —”
“Shh. Shh.”
Louis teases the tip of his tongue around the rim, lick, lick, kiss. Prods it inside. Presses his full face into Armand’s ass, presses up against his hole, and begins to suck in earnest, licking him up from the inside.
Armand begins to cry at some point, his hips trying to jerk in Louis’s grip even despite Louis’s instructions to stay still. Trying to rock back against Louis for more, always more, like the greedy little whore he is.
Louis smiles against him, and counts every little infraction. He’s going to make Arun recall and count each one later when Louis gets the paddle.
***
The rest of the first night goes more or less like this:
Louis eats Armand out for hours.
He fucks him three times in-between — suck, fuck, suck again to recover, fuck again — never letting Armand change position. And then when Louis’s cock decides it’s had enough fun for the night and needs to tap out, he gets the paddle, and slaps Armand’s wet ass and thighs to Arun’s count with one of knot dildos shoved deep inside him.
It is only when Louis replaces the toy with his fist, pumping it gently inside Armand, small jerks like desperate little thrusts to keep the Omega part of Armand stuffed full and claimed, does Armand finally collapse.
Louis lies down next to him for a well-deserved moment of rest, surveys his work, and feels the warm contentment and pride from a job well done.
Armand looks destroyed.
Ready for the blood now, he sends Amir’s way, and then glances down at the mess they’re in. Right. And the sheets. Have Rashid run us a bath.
And then, as he settles in to wait, he gets his phone and calls Fareed.
“If Armand has come up with a new idea to test, please tell him I’m busy with the Talamasca for the rest of the month, but that I’ll be happy to —”
“Armand’s heat started this evening,” Louis tells the good doctor.
“Oh. I see.” Fareed’s voice doesn’t hitch, so much, but his flat tone does pick up a brighter note of interest. “In that case, I’m assuming you’re planning to finally test the new toy.”
“Indeed I am. I’m saving it for the grand finale, but I thought you might appreciate the heads-up.”
“I do. Interesting thing, it seems that his cycle has more or less settled into a regular bi-annual rhythm. I wonder if it’s the new place. There’s this phenomenon called nesting…”
“You and he can swap notes later, when he’s conscious.” Louis smiles into the phone. “I’m just a humble messenger.”
“I’ll be interrogating you both on the results, Louis. So kindly do take notes.”
“I would expect nothing less. Enjoy the rest of your day, Dr. Bhansali, and please, do not give the Talamasca our best.”
Amir appears with the blood, then, followed by Kumar with a bundle of fresh sheets, and by Rashid, who immediately beelines for the bathroom… but not without sneaking another curious, scholarly glance at Armand.
Not that Louis can blame him.
He drinks, and then he gently undoes the thin iron cuffs from Armand’s wrists, rolls his unconscious form over onto his back, and picks him up. Amir and Kumar immediately begin to strip the bed of its current sodden, sticky mess. Louis carries Armand over to the long chair by the wall of the bedroom, sits down with the sleeping vampire in his arms, and begins to rock him gently, listening to the rush of water.
“There we go,” he murmurs, quiet and soft, even though Armand can’t exactly hear him. “All good. You’ve been very good.”
And he has. He really, really has.
Louis waits for the water to stop running, and then he picks Armand up again and carries him to the bathroom. Rashid is standing there by the door, his head respectfully dipped and hands folded, and waits for further instructions while Louis gently, carefully, lowers Armand’s body into the hot lilac-scented water.
“Good work,” he tells Rashid, making sure Armand’s head is properly supported against the rim of the tub. “Just one thing, Rashid. Rule of thumb is that you leave the bathroom as soon as you’re done running the bath. Armand doesn’t like company in here.”
“My apologies, Mr. du Lac,” Rashid replies instantly, and he does actually sound mortified at his own lapse. “I’ll remember for next time. Is there anything else you need?”
“No. Go get some sleep.”
He waits for the door to close behind the boy, gives Armand’s forehead an affectionate kiss, and pulls himself up and over into the shower.
He’s toweling himself dry by the time Armand stirs, and smiles to himself at the small, exhausted little “Maître.”
“Do you want my help washing?” he asks, turning to regard the two dull orange eyes struggling to peek at him from under Armand’s sleep-heavy lids.
Armand appears to think about it, which is always a good sign. Baths are a tricky balancing act with him — one never knows which side the coin will land on.
“No,” he decides eventually.
“Alright. I’ll leave you to it.” Louis strokes his hair on the way out, and Armand’s grateful little smile breaks his heart just a tiny bit.
It isn’t the first time he gets the urge to burn the de Romanus hanging on their dining room wall.
It won’t be the last.
The bed is clean and pristinely-made once more when he emerges. Louis puts on his pajamas just for the novelty of the slide of luxurious material over his skin after spending the whole night naked, and then he grabs his phone.
“Mr. du Lac!” comes Makoto’s excited voice. “How lovely to hear from you.”
“And you as well.” Louis glances at the closed bathroom door and does a quick mental check; but his husband’s floating on bliss and warmth and contentment and love, and has neither the energy nor the room in his thoughts at all to spare for eavesdropping. “Mako, I’m going to need the toy we talked about delivered to Dubai by Friday night.”
“Of course.” Makoto takes it in stride, something Louis appreciates about her enormously. “I’ll have Genji deliver it to your address. Should he wait for you to accept the package personally?”
“No, he can leave it with the staff. I’ll transfer the money upon delivery, like we agreed.”
“Always a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. du Lac.”
“Likewise.” And it is; Makoto Ishikawa is one of the best, most reliable creators of made-to-order sex toys currently alive, and she’s never balked at any request from them, no matter how strange. Some of their favorites have been crafted by her careful hands.
“Please, give my best to Armand.” There’s a smile brightening Makoto’s voice now. “Let me know how he likes his surprise.”
“Sure thing.”
Louis ends the call, checks the stock market, and then spends the rest of the time reading Olga Tokarczuk, waiting for Armand to emerge.
“You don’t have to wait up for me,” Armand whispers when he pads out of the bathroom sometime later, towelled dry except for his wild curls. “It’s almost dawn. You should —”
“So here’s what I want you to do during the day if you can’t sleep, Arun,” Louis tells him, snapping the book shut. “You’re not getting into bed with me. You’d get it all wet and filthy, and I don’t deserve to lie in filth, now, do I?”
Armand’s eyes are enormous. The heat-fever is already claiming him again, Louis can read it on him from the way his pupils expand and his body begins to sweat.
“No, Maître.”
“That’s right. So you’ll stay right here on the floor, like a dog. Because that’s where bitches in heat belong.”
Armand moans quietly, and closes his eyes. His cock is already standing up straight again, straining against his stomach.
“What do you say?”
“Thank you, Maître.”
“Good. Now, I want you to grab your marble dildo, and I want you to fuck yourself on it through the day, but not with your hand. With your mind. I want you to use that thing on yourself like it’s a fuck machine, and keep going until I wake up. Oh, and one more thing.” Louis smiles. “Don’t come.”
Armand lets out a loud keening noise, his hands twisting nervously by his sides.
“I — can’t, Maître. I won’t be able to stop it.”
“Yes, I know, because you’re a greedy little thing, like we agreed. But I don’t like the idea of you coming without me. So if you do, you’re getting a lash for each orgasm. Understood?”
Sometimes, when Armand looks at him like he does now, it’s overwhelming. Sometimes it makes Louis want to hide and stay hidden, because the worship in that gaze should be too much for any person to handle.
And sometimes, it makes him feel strong and powerful and respected, and he rides that high for all it’s worth as he settles under the covers on his side of the bed.
“Get the lights, won’t you, love?” he mumbles. “See you in the evening.”
He listens to the quiet movements of Armand getting the toy and settling himself on the floor — not on the big pillow by the bed, but on the bare concrete. He listens for the first quiet gasp of the toy sliding in.
And then he thinks of the surprise he’s prepared for Armand, being delivered from Japan even now, and lets the sun claim him in peace.
***
On the second night, Louis gets the cock ring — he knows he’s going to need it. The middle of the cycle is always the most intense, something that Armand and Lestat have both told him, and he’s seen the evidence with his own eyes. On night one, Armand tends to be more or less lucid, still, drifting in and out of it perhaps but tethered in reality more than he’s not.
On night two, all that goes out the window, and the creature that greets him with bright lantern-light eyes, feverish and desperate, is no longer the vampire Armand.
It’s the Omega.
“Hey, baby,” Louis mutters to him, and studies the picture his companion makes where he’s dutifully sprawled on his stomach on the floor, ass up, with the white marble dildo still thrusting in and out of him seemingly on its own. “Did you get any sleep at all?”
Armand lets out a sound caught somewhere between a whimper and a growl. Louis checks his mind, and yup, no. He’s gone. Still managing to control the toy with the Mind Gift, somehow, but he’s all instinct otherwise, and it’s instinct that makes him cling to the task Louis gave him, for after all, it was an order.
And an order needs to be obeyed.
He’s a bottomless pit of need like this, a black hole ready to suck anything in reach, a desperate, pathetic creature begging to be bred. To be claimed. To be owned. In his less charitable moments, Louis sees it as a physical manifestation of who Armand is at his core, and, well… it’s not a kind thought.
He thinks about Lestat, falling under the spell of a rut as they made love, and shudders, and closes his eyes.
No.
He’ll be forever grateful to the God in whom he sometimes still believes in for never turning Louis into… this.
“How many?” he asks Armand, coming to squat in front of him.
Armand shakes his head. His eyes are red, his cheeks streaked with dried blood-tears. His mouth is open and bitten-through, the latest holes in his lips still healing. He looks at Louis, and sees only his own need, his mind a cacophony of it, a hurricane eager to pull Louis in.
“Focus,” Louis prods gently, catching Armand’s chin in his hand to coax his head up. “How many orgasms, Arun?”
It takes a while, and three more repetitions. But eventually, Armand manages to collect enough of a thought to send a reply through their mind link.
Twelve.
Louis whistles. “That’s a lot, Arun. Did you even try to control yourself?”
Armand sobs. His mind is a chorus of Yesyesyes and Tried so hard and Please. Mostly Please. Overwhelmingly Please.
Louis tuts at him, stroking over the skin of Armand’s chin. He pats his face, like one might pat a dog. Armand whimpers and Louis can smell the fresh flood of slick trickling out and coating Armand’s legs.
He smiles, cups Armand’s face in both his hands, and kisses him gently, keeping his own mouth closed and chaste.
“Twelve. You realize I have to punish you for that, don’t you, Arun? Gotta keep you on the straight and narrow, for your own good.”
“Yes,” Armand sobs out, and his voice sounds like sandpaper. “Please.”
Louis smiles at him, and kisses both his cheeks.
“Twelve orgasms, and I was asleep for…” he pauses to summon his phone and check the time, “well, would you look at that. Twelve hours. What’s twelve times twelve, Arun?”
And again, he has to give Armand time, and prod him mentally a bit, but eventually, Armand whispers, “One hundred and forty-four.”
“Good boy.” Louis gives him one final peck, on the forehead this time, and sweeps the messy, sticky curls away from Armand’s face. “You’re gonna count for me now, Arun.”
He times it just right — the moment the dildo thrusts back into Armand, Louis reaches down to Armand’s chest. and pinches his nipple with his claw, piercing the nub. Armand shudders all over, moans, and comes.
“One hundred and fourty-five,” Louis corrects, satisfied. “You stay right here, baby. I’m going to go get the whip.”
Armand whimpers, sobs, and his mind trembles on a wave of love so strong and overpowering Louis has to close his eyes for a moment just to absorb it. He lets it come, and then he lets it go, sending a mental kiss of affection back at Armand so as not to leave him with nothing at all.
And then he gets up.
And he gets the whip.
***
By the end of night two, Louis is exhausted. Armand’s endurance and appetite tested even his vampire strength; Louis’s arm aches from swinging the whip, his cock actually chafes from fucking, and he’s covered in bites and scratches from the few times he gave Armand enough freedom of movement to cling to him.
Right now, Armand is hogtied on the floor, tied up nice and pretty in one of their strongest ropes in one of Louis’s favorite patterns that makes the muscles of Armand’s tits and ass and thighs bulge. He’s not sleeping, exactly, but he’s floating so deep in subspace that he might as well be.
Louis strokes his hair, watches the staff change the sheets again, and sips on the cooled glass of blood, enjoying his own buzz.
A job well done. His companion eased and satisfied for the moment. And the rush of power, of control, making his chest tingle pleasantly and his muscles feel light even despite the physical ache.
Louis closes his eyes, and allows the warmth and lightness of it shudder through him for a sweet, indulgent moment, before —
“Sir,” Amir says politely, coming to stand behind Louis. “There’s been a delivery for you.”
Ah.
“Leave it here, Amir,” Louis says. “Thank you.”
He waits for them all to leave before he opens the package.
And smiles, wide and bright, at what he sees inside.
Mako’s outdone herself with this one.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Louis whispers to Armand in the quiet dark of their bedroom. “I think you’re going to love it. But that’s coming tomorrow, love. For now, we’re both going to rest.”
Armand smiles at him in that vague, dreamy way that makes him look like he’s just snorted a whole bag of cocaine. Louis sees, from peeking into his mind, that he hasn’t processed a single word of that — he simply reacted like that to the sound of Louis’s voice.
Louis gives him a small smile back, and buries his face in Armand’s hair for a moment, holding his bound body tight.
Sometimes, the force of Armand’s love for him breaks his heart in ways that aren’t at all pleasant. Sometimes it weighs him down in a way that makes him want to break free in the same way he wanted to break free back in New Orleans, and never had the strength to.
And sometimes…
Sometimes it even makes him love Armand back.
***
He’s patient about it. Approaches it like an exercise for both Armand and himself. He spends the first couple of hours of the evening on night three teasing and torturing Armand by tying him down on the bed again and fingering him nice and slow, bringing him to the edge of endurance.
And then, once he thinks they’ve both earned it, he undoes Armand’s bindings and announces, “Alright. It’s game time.”
Armand’s eyes glitter at that, even though he must have seen it coming. It’s become a small tradition between them, ever since Armand’s first heat with Louis, to spend the third night of it role-playing.
Louis does a quick mental check on him, makes sure that Armand’s in the right headspace for it, and suggests, “I’ve got an idea for something new.”
Armand gazes up at him, his mouth open and glistening and trusting.
Louis smiles, kisses that open mouth, and teases Armand’s bottom lip with his teeth before he lets go and lifts himself up on his elbows to look at him properly.
He strokes and caresses down Armand’s sweaty cheek when he says, “I’m a young, virile Alpha prince. I have a responsibility to carry on the family name and produce an heir. My royal parents have arranged a marriage for me with a beautiful Omega from a distant, foreign land, to solidify political ties and establish an official alliance between our countries. We’ve never met one another — the first time I laid eyes on you was when I saw you at the altar.”
And, oh, Armand likes that, as Louis knew he would. It’s exactly the sort of saccharine, melodramatic romantic fare he eats up like fresh blood. His heart, at temporary rest from his most recent orgasm, picks up again, and his flushed face gets even darker with excitement. His cock twitches and spurts a little, even spent as it is, and his hips jerk up uncontrollably.
Yes, he pours into Louis’s mind, still too overcome for proper words. Please. Our wedding night.
“Yeah,” Louis murmurs into his lips. “Exactly.”
He floods Armand’s mind with images of the fantasy: himself in rich, ceremonial gold-trimmed robes in a vaguely African style he keeps non-specific on purpose for the sake of the fantasy, and Armand resplendent in red and yellow, an Indian sari-type dress that’s probably bordering on Orientalist but that makes Armand look stunning, dripping in jewelry and adorned in henna, his eyes lined with kohl, his hair curled to perfection. The two of them standing, facing each other, as a priest-like officiant of no specific religion ties their hands together. Pricking their fingers to exchange blood. Drinking from the same cup. Exchanging formal pre-written vows, both of them nervous but instantly struck by each other’s beauty.
And then the coy flirting between them during the wedding feast, heated glances, touches that only grow needier and bolder as the night passes against a backdrop of lush greenery and fireworks and fountains and blinding lights. The two of them dancing together, all eyes on them, their own eyes on each other the whole night while the air between them charges with the knowledge of what will happen in only a few hours.
“And then when it’s time,” Louis whispers, moving his lips down to Armand’s neck, “when the priest gives the signal, I pick you up. And I carry you out of the gardens into the palace, and up the stairs, to our new marriage bed, followed by rowdy guests eager to get a glimpse of us. Because they all know what the true purpose of the night is, what lies underneath the wealth and the glamor and the pretense of courtly love. They know you’ll be under me in just a few minutes, moaning on my knot. And they expect you’ll be carrying my child come morning. After all, that’s what you’re here for.”
Armand shudders in Louis’s arms, seeking out his lips with increasing urgency as his hips start to buck up into the air. “We’re both virgins,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “I don’t know what to expect, but I’m wet at just the sight of you. Most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, that’s good, baby. Yes: virgins, both of us. I’m just about ready to vibrate out of my skin by the time I get you in my bedroom. My father told me what to do, and I can’t stop thinking about it, but I don’t know where to start. Want to touch you everywhere at once.”
A vision from Armand: him in the clothes from Louis’s fantasy, taking a small, shy step towards him, lips quirking up into a twitchy smile. A nervous little, “May I?”, quiet and demure, as he touches the fastenings of Louis’s robes with just the tips of his long fingers. Running them up over Louis’s chest, to his neck, to skim the skin there in a skittish movement. Glancing up at Louis, and then down.
“Me first,” Louis hums into Armand’s skin. He responds with an image of himself touching the fastenings of Armand’s colorful gauzy-silk robes, gently unfastening them, sliding them off his shoulders, and urging him to turn around so Louis can undo the sash properly.
The fantasy-Armand shivers under his fingers, and the real one does too, gasping as the vision has Armand now standing naked, his back to Louis, in a pool of his wedding robes. The real Armand moves, and Louis lifts up to let him; and they sit up together in a position to mirror the one from the fantasy, Armand with his back to Louis, Louis tenderly brushing the hair from the nape of his neck to reveal the soft skin underneath.
The real one is marked, of course. The bite mark from Marius, faint but distinct even after five hundred years, stares at Louis in silent provocation where it’s branded forever into Armand’s dark skin.
Louis pretends he can’t see it there when he brushes his lips against the hot muscle, and feels it catch and tremble under his mouth.
“Get on the bed, love,” he whispers against Armand’s neck. “I’ll be right with you. I just need to wash up.”
“Yes, my prince,” Armand promises.
Louis kisses the nape of his neck, and then slides out of their bed and heads for the bathroom.
He hid the package from Mako in his own cabinet, under the sink. He takes a moment to open it, admire the craftsmanship, and then — slowly — he picks it up.
In its most basic state, the toy is a cock ring, made to measure for Louis and with enough give so that it’ll stay on, but won’t restrict his blood flow like a usual ring would. The ring is about a knuckle’s span wide, made of gold, and comes with a thin golden chain to weave and lock around Louis’s hips to help it stay on. But the most important part of it — the reason Louis had the toy commissioned in the first place — sits attached to the bottom of the ring: a thick, heavy, golden knot.
Yes. It’ll more than do.
The thing is, Louis doesn’t want to be an Alpha, he thinks as he takes out the elegant golden chain harness from its delicate packaging and starts to fasten it around his hips. He is glad and grateful that whatever it is that made Armand and Lestat’s bodies the way they are wasn’t there in him, too, and he’s never once envied them when he watched them succumb to their instincts. Even though Armand’s scent is lovely, even though it makes him hard, it doesn’t drive him out of control. It doesn’t turn him mad. Louis gets to keep all his senses, and his morals and choices and discernment, even when Armand falls apart and lets his animal hindbrain rule him.
Whenever Louis thinks too long about that, and tries to imagine himself in that same position, the prospect of it turns him cold.
And besides, he knows Armand loves it like this, too. He doesn’t fantasize about Louis being an Alpha and never has. He loves Louis exactly as he is…
Too much so, most of the time.
But still.
Louis makes sure the harness stays where it’s supposed to, firmly wound around his hips and under his crack and balls, and unfastens the wide golden ring to close it around his hard, straining cock. It fits perfectly, and the harness supports the weight of it, but the pull of the knot sculpted to the base of it still surprises him.
It’s a hefty thing. Heavy, even for a vampire.
Louis examines it, and turns in the mirror to view it sideways.
It’s…
It’s surprisingly beautiful.
No, Louis doesn’t want to be an Alpha. Not in the slightest.
But the fantasy of it is fun, precisely because of its transience; and it’s the knowledge that he’ll be able to open the ring and detach the knot at the end of the night that has him grinning at the sight of his cock encased in gold.
It looks good. He looks good wearing it. He straightens up, squares his shoulders, and stands tall and proud before the mirror, feeling that same rush of power that buzzes in him when he has Armand begging for it.
He’s the master of the house. He’s got an ancient five-hundred-year-old monster panting at his heels with his tongue out and doing tricks for him on command. He’s a millionaire with his own slice of paradise, safe, secure and powerful.
He lets that knowledge lift his chin up in confidence and put strength into his step as he secures the harness, the ring and the knot, and strides out of the bathroom to satisfy his husband.
Armand’s on his back on the bed again, splayed out like a model for an artistic nude photoshoot: hair fanned out over the pillows, hands slack and graceful like Kate Winslet in Titanic, hips turned slightly to the side, one leg bent over the other, his mouth half-open and his eyes half-lidded. He hasn’t been touching himself, Louis can tell by the tension he’s trying to hide and the desperate way he’s trying not to rub his legs together as he waits for Louis.
“My Prince,” Armand pants, shifting in his perfect pose to catch Louis’s eye, “I need —”
And then his voice trails off, and his eyes go wide. His mouth falls all the way open. His mind, just for a moment, crashes to a stop and turns into a wall of static.
Louis smiles at him, perhaps a bit too smug and cocky for the virgin prince he’s supposed to be playing; and mentally, he prods, Stay in character, Arun.
Maître. Armand is still staring at Louis’s golden knot, his pupils so big there’s hardly any color left in his eyes. Is this…?
A surprise, Louis responds with a ripple of warmth. Thought you might appreciate it.
In response, he is submerged in an explosion of undulating color, bright and messy and chaotic like paints all mixed in together. No words in it, nothing as coherent as a thought, but pure feeling: lust, gratitude, a profound sense of safety and happiness.
And love. Love so potent, so overpowering, that it chokes Louis like a fishbone stuck in his throat.
Once again, there is nothing else for Louis to do other than absorb it, and send it back to Armand as reassurance. Hold it in for too long, and he’ll panic and lash out, and say and do things he doesn’t mean. Sit with it, and it’ll burn him up…
(Just like it burnt her.)
Louis shakes his head, and slowly, he approaches the bed.
“What do you need, my love?” he asks softly.
Armand’s eyes glitter like galaxies as his gaze skips from Louis to the knot, then up to Louis again. He licks his lips, lets his tongue linger over his top blunt teeth.
“Touch me, please,” he begs quietly, letting his legs fall open in a slow, tantalizing tease of a movement. “Make love to me. Give me your seed, my prince, I want to bear your child.”
And then, just then, a flash of a blink — the discomfort. A twist of tension, like a fist punching Louis’s chest from the inside out, or like a glimpse of a yellow dress out of the corner of his eye. A flare of anger that wants to scream, You killed my child, how can you even talk about —
Louis has been expecting it. He’s fortified himself against it ahead of time.
This is just a game. It’s nothing. It means nothing.
Louis reminds himself of this, takes a deep breath, and swallows the bitterness down.
And he smiles.
“Then lie back for me, prince Arun,” he whispers to match Armand’s awestruck tone, and climbs onto the bed between Armand’s legs.
Their lips meet, a slow, hesitant touch. Armand’s small mouth trembles on a breath. His eyes flutter half-open, and linger on Louis’s lips.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Please.”
Louis leans in, catches his mouth with his, and drinks in the sigh that spills into him from Armand’s mouth.
It’s almost easy to pretend that they really are new to this. Exciting, the illusion of this body, so familiar to Louis’s lips and hands, being unchartered territory again. Armand’s little gasps of surprise and desire, the way he trembles at Louis’s touch, the way he acts surprised by his own body’s responses…
It’s a familiar game for them. One of Armand’s favorites, this play-pretend of coming to Louis fresh and innocent and untouched, unsullied, unhurt…
(Unraped.)
And in this, Louis is only too happy to play along.
“Easy,” he murmurs into his skin, kissing his jaw, his neck, his clavicle. “Relax for me. Is this good?”
“So good,” Armand sighs. “Oh, please, more. It feels so good. Oh, Louis…”
Louis circles his entrance with his blunted fingers, and dips one inside, and it’s amazing, truly, how Armand — even loose and slippery as he is — manages to clench his muscles in a way that still makes the passage tight. He lets Louis mimic the process of fingering him open, gasping and sighing and wincing so convincingly that Louis might have believed it had he not been in on the game.
But even Armand doesn’t manage to uphold the illusion for long, not when he wants it so much; and his body takes over to welcome Louis into its hot greedy clutch the moment Louis starts guiding his cock inside.
“That’s it,” Louis coos, quiet and soft and heated, his cock impatient for its own release. “You’re doing so well. You’re taking me like you were made for it.”
Armand moans so loud the windows shake with it. His cock spurts and leaks, and a thick glob of slick pulses out of him to ease Louis’s way in even further. He’s begun to undulate his hips, push them up and forward, and Louis has to grab them and pin them down to stop him fucking himself onto Louis’s cock in a way that no blushing virgin ever would.
“I’m going to pump you full,” Louis promises him, beginning to move his hips in and out, going deeper with each thrust until the edges of the golden ring and the knot begin to nudge at Armand’s hole with each move. “I’m going to put a son in you. A child of our own, Arun. You’ll look so good with your belly all swollen.”
“Yes,” Armand cries out, in his voice and mind alike. “Yes, yes, do it!”
“You want that?” Louis pants, snapping his hips faster. “You wanna be bred?”
So much, Armand screams in Louis’s mind. Please, Louis…
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yes!” Armand cries out. “Please, Louis. Maître. Please.”
And just like that, with the sound of that Maître, something dark and angry and burning takes over. When Louis starts hammering into Armand then, it’s not part of the role-play anymore. He grabs Armand by the throat, squeezes down until he hears Armand’s windpipe break, and growls, “Yeah. Yeah. You owe me that. You owe me.”
He’s coming before he realizes, and Armand lifts his hips for it, and Louis, no longer thinking much of anything coherent except for the burning, pushes the golden knot inside.
“You owe me,” he pants, letting himself collapse onto Armand even as his hips continue to thrust in tiny, jerky movements. “You fucking owe me.”
Armand strokes his hair, and holds him close, and comes on his knot with a torn-up moan.
***
“Your blood, sir,” says Rashid, a couple hours later.
“Thanks.” Louis grabs the glass and downs it all in one go. Some of it spills out the sides of his mouth, and he wipes and licks it off the skin of his hand.
He gives the empty glass to Rashid, and rasps out, “More.”
Rashid takes the glass with a bow. He shoots an uneasy, hesitant glance at Armand, sprawled on the bed on his stomach with the golden knot — now detached from Louis — still buried deep inside him from the last three times Louis fucked it into him.
“And will Mr…. the other Mr. du Lac… will your companion…”
“No.” Louis cuts him off with far less politeness than he would otherwise exert. “He’s fine. I think… I’m pretty sure the heat is almost over.”
“I see.” Rashid gives him another deferential bow. “In that case, I’ll make sure to provide fresh sheets for you.”
“Thank you.”
Rashid scarpers off, and Louis takes a moment to examine Armand, burying a hand in his thick mess of curls.
“Okay there?” he whispers over a throat that’s far too tight for his own liking.
Armand gives him a hum, and a slight nod. His head turns on the pillow.
I’m amazing.
“Good.” Louis hesitates for a moment, and then he leans over him, and gives a gentle bite to the mark he left on Armand’s neck in the middle of their last fuck. It’s already beginning to fade, leaving only Marius’s old brand behind. “I’m gonna run you a bath now, okay?”
Thank you.
Louis hums, and kisses the nape of his neck right over the bite.
***
“Louis,” Armand whispers, much later, when he gets under the covers and shifts close to Louis, touching his arm.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Are you okay?”
And, well. It’s a good question, isn’t it? Is he okay?
Yes. No. He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that, now that their fuckathon is over, he feels curiously…
Hollow.
As if he was the one in heat. The one burning up with a fever. As if it scooped him out clean, and left nothing behind but a curious numb ache.
For a moment, he almost says as much to Armand; he wants to. Suddenly, he feels like sharing. They had so many tender, loving moments between them over the last few nights — it should be easy.
But Armand is no longer in heat, and when Louis turns to face him, he sees the twin orange eyes shine at him from the darkness with alarming lucidity.
And that freezes the words right in the middle of his throat.
“I’m good,” he lies, turning to face Armand fully. “Don’t you worry about me. It’s your turn to be pampered.”
“Your pleasure is my pleasure,” Armand assures him, fully alert, unsettling in his intensity the way he tends to be, so painfully earnest and eager that Louis almost gags on it.
“Yeah,” he whispers, swallowing it down. “I know.”
He lets Armand kiss him, and when he turns back onto his side, he doesn’t shake Armand off when his companion scoots closer to pull him into his arms.
The remnants of his scent still linger in the room. Sweet, cloying.
Like honey.
Louis closes his eyes, and does his best to stifle the urge to run out and throw all the windows wide open.