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One evening, after a starlit walk by the Seine, Louis murmurs into Armand’s ear.
“Tomorrow evening, wait for me at the apartment. I have to make some arrangements. Be ready when I get there, because I’m not being gentle.”
Armand shivers with excitement.
“Yes, Maître.”
That next evening, Armand is sure to stretch himself carefully. Louis’s “arrangements” could be anything from a new toy to an aphrodisiac-laden human to drain.
When the door opens, Armand is wearing nothing but one of Louis’s button-down shirts and boxers. He’d still half-hard from fingering himself earlier. Armand sits back on his heels on the bed, eager to see what his lover brought.
Louis walks in smiling mischievously and behind him are… five of their “friends” from the park. Armand’s smile droops a bit.
“Hello, darling,” Louis says with a grin, “I ran into some of our friends and they expressed some interest in all fucking you together.”
Armand’s heart drops into his stomach. He carefully blocks his mind from Louis’s as a wave of anxiety washes over him.
This isn’t like the brothel, Armand tells himself, This isn’t the… assault that Marius saved you from.
“Oh,” Armand breathes, not knowing what to say.
This alright? Louis sends to Armand mentally.
Yes, Armand confirms, I just didn’t expect so many.
It’ll be fun. I’ll be right here the whole time.
Yes, Maître.
Louis sits in a chair facing the bed and lights a cigarette.
“He’s all yours, boys,” Louis drawls, smoke curling out from his lips.
Armand was hoping that Louis would join. Maybe warm him up to the interaction. It’s fine though, Armand could handle it. He didn’t need coddling.
The bravest of the bunch steps up to Armand, still sitting on the bed, and grabs his hair to pull him into a harsh kiss. Armand is forced to raise up to his knees, but still loses some hair strands in the process. That’s fine. They’ll regrow by morning.
Another man steps up beside the first and begins to unbutton Armand’s shirt.
“C’mon, baby,” He jeers, “Show us those tits.”
Armand trembles and moans as one of his nipples is pinched tightly, as is expected of him. His mind is beginning to go a little foggy. He likes dirty talk, but with five men surrounding him and Louis nowhere in sight, it starts to feel too real.
Calm down, calm down, He tells himself, nails digging bloody crescents into his own thighs, You’re not in Venice.
One of the men pushes him down onto his back, stripping off his boxers. Armand doesn’t remember his shirt being removed, but it’s gone. He’s entirely exposed to a room full of men. Their smiles suddenly start to look like the gnashing teeth of wolves.
He’s distracted from the five faces when one of them unceremoniously shoves his dick into Armand’s hole. He lets out a shocked little cry. Armand had stretched himself, but the oil he used only goes so far. The drag is a little too dry to be comfortable.
It’s fine though. Armand likes it rough. He likes when it hurts. He’s taken worse. Far worse.
The man inside him presses Armand’s legs up to his ears — “God, he’s flexible,” he groans — and begins to pound into him relentlessly.
And this is normal, this is easy. He’s used to this. Armand moans and whines in a way that he knows is attractive, stretching his arms above his head as if in ecstasy.
But then another man pulls Armand’s head back by his hair. He leans over the vampire and spits into his open mouth. It’s vile, but Armand swallows anyway.
When the man fucking him comes, the feeling of warm seed making Armand shiver, the vampire is relieved for a moment. But then one of the other men, laughing at the way come drips from Armand’s hole, lines up and shoves inside.
“Ah!” Armand cries again, but at least the come from the first man makes the slide slicker.
Armand fights to stay fully present. His mind keeps flashing back to the brothel, to Marius’s studio. He hasn’t had more than a couple lovers at a time in centuries.
Another man abruptly enters Armand’s field of vision as he straddles his head, rubbing the head of his dick over Armand’s lips before slowly feeding it into his mouth. With two bodies over him, Armand is beginning to feel claustrophobic. Someone strokes Armand’s dick, someone flicks his nipples. There are at least seven hands on him. Maybe more. Oddly, Armand’s body is starting to grow numb.
While being fucked from nearly every angle, Armand feels his consciousness begin to float and detach itself from his body. The airy, drifting feeling is comforting. Like he’s reclining on a bed of clouds, all sensations around him numbed.
There you go, Louis urges, Just relax and enjoy it, Arun.
Ah, Armand must be enjoying it then, slipping into that relaxing, euphoric headspace he sometimes goes into during sex with Louis.
It’s hard to stay focused though. He barely notices it when he swallows bitter semen, licks a man’s dick clean, kisses someone’s lips.
Someone is urging him up from the bed. Who is he? Amadeo— Armand kneels on the wooden floor of Louis’s apartment and eagerly swallows down a cock shoved in his face. Hands grab his hair, hips shove forward until his nose is pressed into blond pubic hair. Blond? Maybe Marius? No, too warm, must be someone else.
Amadeo swallows desperately, lungs slowly becoming devoid of air. Any minute now, he will start suffocating. Why isn’t Marius saying anything? The man pulls back and Amadeo greedily sucks in air before the man hunches over and starts to fuck his face.
Someone else comes up behind him and enters his used hole. Amadeo keens in the way that men like.
Feeling good, Arun? A voice whispers in his head. Louis. Yes, he’s with Louis in Paris.
Yes, Maître, he responds. At least he thinks he does. The man behind him has shoved another finger past Armand’s rim beside his dick. It burns a bit.
It’s fine, though. Armand has taken worse.
However, when Armand is urged to straddle one of the men and sit on his cock, he gasps in shock when someone else presses the head of their penis against his sore hole. He wails as the man behind him pushes inside next to the first one. At least, he yells until someone shoves their fingers into his mouth, nails scratching against his soft palate.
“Fuck,” The man behind him groans, “You should charge people for this. Best whore in Paris, I swear.”
And it makes sense now. Arun is back in the brothel. This is fine then. It’s normal. He’s had worse.
He loses track of all the ways the customers take him. It feels like his owners have opened the doors to the streets of Venice. Any vagrant could walk in to shove their dick inside him. Just a hole. An empty vessel meant to be filled.
At some point, the customers must have run out of money because the touches stop. He lies back on the bed, staring at a white ceiling…. White ceiling?
He looks around. Oh, right. He’s in Louis’s apartment in Paris. The customers were all just boys from the park. Did Louis ever even fuck Armand? He must have because something aches deep inside his pelvis. A human wouldn’t have been able to hurt him so.
Armand notices that he’s trembling. He doesn’t feel cold.
His vision swims in and out as he shivers on the bed. One moment, the group of humans are pulling on their clothes, laughing with Louis. They turn leering eyes on the chunk of flesh named Armand and think, whore, slut, begging for it, hope they invite me back.
Armand blinks and the men are gone. He’s alone. Somehow, that’s worse. Maître, Armand calls to his lover’s mind weakly, Louis?
I’ll be up in a second. Eating. Is Louis’s terse reply.
Armand trembles harder. He can feel blood and semen leaking out of him and onto the once-white sheets. His pelvis throbs in pain, but he can already feel the bruises disappearing. Torn flesh knitting itself back together. His soul is hovering somewhere near the ceiling, trying to escape his limp body. The floaty feeling is starting to feel less relaxing and more distressing.
Another blink and Louis is leaning over Armand’s prone form, wet cloth wiping the crusted fluids from his skin. When Louis notices Armand looking up at him, his expression softens and he leans forward to press a kiss to his lover’s unmoving lips. He’s warm from his recent meal. Armand wonders which of the boys he drained.
“Alright?” Louis asks, not unkindly, “You coming back to me, Arun?”
“Yes, Maître,” Armand replies automatically. He gets a smile in return.
Armand twitches when Louis cleans between his legs, but the younger vampire is gentle. He shushes Armand like a startled animal and presses another warm kiss to his knee. It is astounding how Louis can be so brutal one moment and so soft the next.
Louis helps Armand sit up and pull on some clothes. The feeling of being clean and covered has started to tug Armand’s consciousness back from wherever it had gone. It’s terrible.
He can still taste the men’s seed in his mouth and his scalp aches from their insistent hair pulling. It hurts to sit up, even on the soft bed. When he closes his eyes, he sees the afterimage of Marius’s studio in Venice.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Louis asks smugly.
Armand enters Louis’s mind and sees himself now, sitting on the edge of the bed with a fucked-out expression.
As he looks at memories from earlier in the evening, Armand sees himself getting fucked by their friends. He’s moaning desperately as a man takes him roughly from behind. Another friend joins them on the bed, sitting in front of Armand’s face and shoving his dick into the vampire’s mouth. Armand gags and clenches his fingers into the bedsheets, pushes his hips back into the man behind him. His dick is hard and leaking between his legs.
Louis finds the memory incredibly arousing. At the time, he had stroked himself to the sight of it. He enjoyed it even when he looked into Armand’s eyes and saw they were blank, unseeing. He didn’t think anything of it.
He didn’t even realize that Armand was mentally blocking him. Louis either didn’t notice his lover’s panic or didn’t care. Armand feels sick.
“Armand?” Louis asks, worriedly. Armand realizes that he has begun to shake violently.
“Rest.”
Louis slumps to the ground.
When Armand has arranged Louis in his coffin, he whispers to the sleeping man.
“I enjoyed myself. You didn’t notice anything strange. We fell asleep together in your coffin.”
Louis is still and peaceful in sleep, mind accepting the memory manipulation without resistance.
Armand stumbles into the apartment’s bathroom. He closes the door and tucks himself into a corner of the small room. There, he gasps and shakes as he is gripped by some strange terror.
The enclosed space of the bathroom helps. It makes him feel safe.
He abruptly remembers how a young Amadeo used to run away from the palazzo and hide under Bianca’s bed. Why would he do that? Living with Marius was heaven.
Armand closes his eyes and remembers how he shook and cried in that tight, dark space. Bianca’s soothing voice called from a few feet away, trying to ask him what happened. His braies were soaked through with… something. Blood? Lubricant? Semen? All three?
No, no, that couldn’t have happened. Armand is making it up. He loved Marius and Marius loved him. He never suffered without enjoying it. Amadeo would have never run away. He enjoyed entertaining multiple partners at once. Marius was gracious to allow Amadeo’s insatiable appetite for sex to be satisfied by his many friends.
No matter what he tries to tell himself, Armand still has to drag his body across the tiny room to vomit blood and come into the toilet. Tasting the disgusting mixture again almost sends him back into that floaty state.
Armand stumbles over to the sink to scrub his mouth with soap and water. He still can’t get the taste off his tongue. He refuses to look at the mirror.
Armand leaves the apartment and stumbles into the streets. Maybe fresh blood could wash the taste from his mouth.
He spies a woman walking home through a narrow street. Without thinking, Armand launches himself at her and bites down onto her neck. He partially controls her body so she doesn’t scream, but fear lights up her mind. She thinks that Armand is intending to rape her.
Some blood slips past his lips and onto the woman’s shoulder when Armand sees the thought. He has to fight through the impulse to gag as he drains her.
Her body slumps to the ground, dead.
Licking his lips, Armand can still taste the fingers, the dicks, the tongues that forced themselves into his mouth. He remembers one of the men forcing his jaw open and spitting a glob of saliva into Armand’s mouth.
Armand holds himself up with a hand on the wall and vomits again. He feels terrible for wasting the woman’s blood. He killed her for nothing. He thinks about how she expected rape, but received death.
“So fucking loose and wet, he could be a girl,” One of the men had said toward the end of their orgy, “You gonna let me fuck your sloppy cunt, doll?” Armand had just opened his legs a little wider.
It reminds him of the brothel. On days where he had to entertain customers unceasingly, he eventually became so exhausted that all he could do was lie on his back and spread his legs weakly. Those men enjoyed how his young body and soft dick made him appear more feminine. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he remembered the word “cagna.”
Suddenly, Armand wants all of his “friends” dead. Every single one of them who saw his body tonight. He wants to tear out their eyeballs and pop them between his fangs. He wants to rip each finger from their knuckles. He wants to slice off their genitals with his nails. Maybe catch them on fire just to watch their fat bubble and spit like olive oil in a frying pan.
The first man is asleep in bed with his wife. His children sleep in the next room. The woman in bed is pregnant again with the man’s seed. The same seed Armand swallowed into his stomach earlier in the night.
And wouldn’t it be funny if Armand actually were a woman? Actually could get pregnant from all of semen pooled inside his body. The number of bastards he would have birthed over the years probably could’ve populated the entirety of his hometown in Delhi.
If those slavers hadn’t come, would he have married and had children? Brought new souls into this horribly cruel world? If he hadn’t been taken to Venice, maybe his offspring would have been captured instead. His sons and daughters all sold to European brothels. Armand feels sick again, but there’s nothing left in his stomach.
Armand drinks a bit of the man’s blood, but ultimately kills him by slicing off his testicles and watching him bleed out. The blood staining the sheets between his legs makes it look like he had just given birth to his own severed genitals. Armand feels a little guilty about the scene his wife will have to wake up to, but he can’t bring himself to kill her.
The next man is at a bar with some friends. Armand lures him outside to his death. He thinks about letting the human fuck him one more time against the brick wall, but ultimately decides against it.
With this one, Armand slices a finger down the middle of his torso, tearing through skin and fat and muscle. He pulls apart the man’s ribcage and watches his heart’s final beats. While the man is still slightly alive, Armand tears out the organ and sucks the blood from it.
The heartblood tastes just like any other blood. Armand almost expected it to be rotten.
He tears the next man’s eyes from his head and tongue from his mouth. Blind and mute, it’s a mercy when Armand rips his throat out with his teeth.
The last man he finds alone in his apartment. This time, there is no wife or children to worry about. Armand lights the bed on fire and holds the human down telekinetically. He watches as the man slowly burns.
Armand enters the man’s mind and immerses himself in the feeling of burning alive. Is this what Marius felt in his last moments? It’s excruciating, but Armand has always loved pain.
At the end of the night, Armand feels bloated with blood. He over-ate, especially compared to how little he normally drinks. It’s not a pleasant feeling. The skin on his belly feels taut. He presses a hand to the bump on his stomach. Once again thinking about those men’s bodily fluids and insemination.
Charles Darwin once thought that blood contained the material of heredity. A simple blood transfer between rabbits proved this wrong. But Armand wonders if he carries a little something of all his victims, his paramours. Everyone he’s killed, everyone he’s loved, everyone who used his body for their own needs.
Does he carry a piece of Marius inside him? Of Riccardo? Lestat and Louis and his coven and his rapists? All churning inside in a maelstrom.
Armand wonders how much of him is actually Armand. Is Arun’s blood still there? Could an animated corpse even have a family? If a scientist looked at his blood cells under a microscope, they wouldn’t see any of his parents’ genes.
He’s the amalgamation of everyone he’s consumed. Does that make him the wife of these men he slayed tonight? Maybe their child? Likely, he’s just some monster. Just a hole. Just a vessel to be filled.
Armand doesn’t let himself stay overfull for long. He sits on the edge of the Seine and slits both of his wrists, letting the blood of his friends drain into the dark water.
For a moment, he thinks about slashing his throat as well. Maybe then he’d look close enough to Lestat’s ghost to keep Louis’s attention for longer. He decides against ruining his shirt further.
Exhausted, Armand returns to Louis’s apartment and tucks himself into the coffin next to his lover. He can’t tell if he likes or hates this feeling of closeness.
Not even a week later, Louis is fucking Armand in his coffin. Armand’s thighs are spread wide around Louis’s hips and his arms are wrapped around those muscled shoulders. Despite the force Louis puts behind his thrusts, the moment is surprisingly tender. Louis’s arms are wrapped around Armand’s torso tightly as he presses sweet kisses to the older vampire’s neck and shoulder.
“We should invite our friends back here again soon,” Louis purrs in his lover’s ear, dick twitching inside Armand at the thought, “I loved how desperate you got.”
Armand’s heart rate starts to pick up and he hopes Louis thinks it’s out of excitement.
“Yes, Maître,” He moans and pulls Louis in for a kiss, hoping he won’t say anything more.
Eventually, Louis learns that every friend they invited over that night died violently only hours after leaving their apartment. He never brings more than one boy back to the apartment again.