Archive of Our Own

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It came out of nowhere.  Though, in hindsight, Daniel Molloy should’ve expected it.  If for no other reason, perhaps, than the plain fact: the happiness he’d found with Armand was simply too perfect to last forever.  And, given what he already knew, shame on him for letting down his guard.  Getting caught totally unprepared.

It all went wrong on a not-at-all-ominous late-September night.  They meant to have a quiet evening at home, perfectly suiting a vampire couple with much to celebrate.  Autumn sunsets coming earlier.  A fledgling immortal’s powers growing apace.  And, above all, two undead idiots so stupidly, sickeningly in love.

On the menu: a Star Trek movie marathon with mandatory pajamas and an oversized bowl of one of Armand’s latest obsessions: homemade blood ice cream.  They’ve finished their treats and now snuggle their way through The Wrath of Khan - Daniel languidly leaning on his husband, content to do and think nothing in particular - when the doorbell chimes.  Armand puts down the miniature, winking donut he’s sewing out of felt (another one to add to his latest collection: an entire craft kit’s worth of tiny, adorably anthropomorphized foods) and glides off the couch like water with a murmur of, “Delivery.”  The fledgling merely grunts, barely giving the matter any thought: his gremlin, bless him, has a bit of an impulse-buying streak, and many passions.  He might’ve ordered a refill for his watercolours, a criminally overpriced organic lubricant, an ant farm…

Over the film’s familiar soundtrack, the younger vampire barely registers the door opening, a few words exchanged.  Smirks a little at the rush of lust which floods the young delivery man’s thoughts at the sight of Armand’s charms barely hidden by an indecently short robe of plum-coloured, paisley-patterned silk.  Sorry, kid, I get it, he thinks, but you’re shit outta luck.  His enhanced hearing broadcasts the sound of clawed, efficient fingers making short work of the packaging.  Then, nothing.  “Babe?” Daniel calls casually into the hallway, a little annoyed at getting left alone too long (the movie isn’t nearly as much fun without Armand).  “C’mon, I won’t get mad, you can tell me: what’d you order now?”

But no answer comes.  Except a soft thud - has something hit the floor?  Daniel’s not alarmed, but…  Suddenly the Bond - that inexplicable, inexorable link he shares with his Maker has ignited, then, with a repulsive little “pop” like a bare lightbulb exploding in a stairwell, has just… fritzed.  Nothing.  The journalist almost skids into their front hall, and stops dead in his tracks.

Peripherally, he may note that, fallen on the floor, are the remains of an official-looking envelope and some kind of small rectangle with bright red markings.  Daniel doesn’t care.  Because there, on the elegant Dutch-inspired tiles he himself had so carefully chosen, the Vampire Armand slumps in the ungainly pose of a marionette with its strings suddenly cut.  Not moving.  Not breathing.  No sign of sight or sentience within the yawning chasms of his blown-black, dilated pupils.

And Daniel Molloy, a journalist and fledgling known for a fearlessness bordering on foolhardiness, screams out in terror.  Frantic, on his knees, searching the stillness of those perfect features for a sign of life, calling and calling.  “Baby, what’s wrong, what’s happened?  Ari, can you hear me?!  Ari!”

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Again and again, Daniel calls to his Maker.  Nothing.  Just the sickening sight of a face as soulless as a plastic doll’s.  Just, through their bond, the sickening hum of fluorescent-light static.  The journalist wants to simultaneously cradle and shake his husband, batter down whatever door has suddenly slammed shut between them… but that is clearly NOT A GOOD IDEA.  Never, ever - he hears Armand’s calm, instructing voice in his head - rouse, startle, or even approach a vampire who appears to be in a dysregulated, non-responsive, or otherwise abnormal state.  Besides (his heart gives a sharp, painful squeeze), his beloved has suffered so many unwelcome touches throughout the centuries.  He refuses to risk adding one more to the list.

Take a deep breath, Molloy.  Review your options.  Use the Vampernet to get Dr. Fareed?  Or Louis and Lestat: if anyone knows firsthand about handling emotional upheavals among the undead, it’s definitely those two…  No.  Armand is Daniel’s and Daniel Armand’s, for better and for worse, for all Eternity; and Daniel Molloy does not need anybody else’s help to bring his husband back to him.

He takes a deep, steadying breath.  And another.  No longer overloaded by panic, his keen, crisis-hardened mind supplies the necessary steps.  Daniel releases his fangs; punctures his wrist; slowly brings the two dripping points underneath Armand’s nose: a liquid lifeline which can come from no one else on Earth.  The older vampire doesn’t wake, but his breathing resumes, working overtime from flaring nostrils to expanding chest, seeking the beloved scent.  Carefully, carefully the fledgling places his bleeding wrist right over his Maker’s mouth; the lips begin to move, hungry yet tender.  “Good, Ari…  Good.”  Daniel murmurs, cradling black curls to ease the feeding; speaking the name no one else has ever used.  “That’s it: drink, sweetheart.  Come back to me.”

Armand drinks.  The blank, black holes of his dilated pupils recede, allowing electric amber to shine through.  A spine adjusts into a sitting position; fingers find a grip.  Fangs retract, allowing lips to form a weary, “Daniel…  My Daniel.”  Armand shuts his eyes, almost sagging onto the floor with exhaustion, but still manages to answer the unspoken question with a tired, “Shutdown…”

Daniel nods.  He could almost cry with relief at his husband’s apparent recovery, but, for now, keeps his tone matter-of-fact.  “Ah.  Well, Dr. Goldberg did warn us that, when they happen - what with the combo of your past and your powers - they’re likely to hit you way harder than they would a human.  Right.”  He guides his Companion’s arms to embrace him around the neck.  “Let’s get you to bed.”

Armand tries to protest, still sounding just a bit slurred.  Daniel holds firm.  “Uh-uh, babe.  Recovery first, analysis later.  Now, c’mon - upsy-daisy.”

The older vampire relents, allowing himself to be lifted and carried like an overtired child.  Physically, his weight is nothing, less than a doll, to another immortal… but the way he buries his face in Danny’s shoulder, the boneless way he drapes himself against the supporting body - it could break your heart.  No.  No spiralling, Molloy, or you’re no use to anybody.  Focus only on what you can control; do the practical, small things, and the rest falls into place.

He props Armand up on the bed, over the covers.  Dims the lights to a soft orange-y glow (three guesses as to what inspired that design choice).  Thanks whatever powers there may be for vamp speed as he dashes around their home, gathering the essentials.  Their heaviest quilted throw.  I-pad.  Armand’s favourite squishy plush toy: a coffin named Julianne.  Mug of medicinal-grade blood he just manages to warm up via his emerging, if still less-than-impressive, Fire Gift.  And - hardest, most important of all - space.

Daniel acknowledges his husband’s raw, brave, “We… need to talk,” with a calm, “Yeah, honey, we do - but let yourself have five minutes’ peace first.”  In aid of that, he walks back out into the hallway to confront the cause of the present crisis.  What about the innocuous-looking package could possibly have sent his brave, terrifying, former-coven-master husband into such a spiral?  He picks up the reinforced envelope first.  Utterly unremarkable except for the lack of any return address.  It apparently contained nothing save the paper rectangle still lying abandoned on the tiles.  No weapons, bombs or body parts in sight.  And yet…  The reporter kneels down to examine it.  His stomach drops.  A small part of his brain grimly wonders whether a bomb would have been better.  Because here, in his palm, lies a simple business card.  And on its luxurious surface (buttery-yellow, decadently pleasant to the touch); written in vibrantly red ink, in an orthography surely not used for centuries, Daniel reads the words, “Marius de Romanus, Pittore.”

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Daniel picks up the offensive little rectangle with a shudder.  Touching it as little as possible, claw tips to corner and with the visceral disgust of an Elf forced to handle a Morgul blade, the vampire drops the card into a zip-top bag and seals it closed as quickly as possible.  Not really sure what he thinks he’s accomplishing here, but it makes him feel better.  Improvised magical ritual thus completed, the journalist sighs and walks back to the bedroom to rejoin his husband.  He can at least take some comfort in seeing Armand restored to his regular self: alert, self-possessed, resolute.

Time to tackle the problem head-on.  “OK, hon, let’s figure this out,” he states simply.  “First, obvious question: is it real?”

Armand tilts his head in genuine thought.  “In truth, Beloved…  I do not know.  Red was always his favourite colour.  The handwriting does look like his, though, admittedly, have not seen a sample since, well, the Renaissance.  Throughout the centuries, I have done my best to keep my past secret, but, as we all have learnt, nothing among vampires truly stays buried forever.  Could some unknown party have faked all of this?  Absolutely.  Did they?”  A weary shrug.  “Inconclusive.”

Daniel massages the bridge of his nose to ward off an imaginary tension headache.  “So, our options are…  One: your asshole, abusive maker has reared his ugly, regrettably not dead, head, and, for some unknown reason, decided to fuck with you…  Or, two: some unknown asshole has, for some equally unknown reason, decided to use the spectre of your abusive maker to fuck with you.  Fucking fantastic.”  He frowns.  “Either way, what scares me right now is: whoever did this clearly knows where we live.  Which means we should probably head elsewhere, pronto.”

Armand considers for a moment before speaking in a measured voice.  “I see your point, Beloved; however, no one who planned to attack two vampires in their own home would begin by putting them on high alert with a bizarre warning.  That, plus the timing,” he nods briefly toward the window and the changing light beyond, “tells me that the threat - whatever it may be - won’t materialize tonight.  Nor do I intend to be driven helter-skelter from my home like a hare with a hound at its back.  Yes, a brief stay elsewhere while we get to the bottom of this makes sense; but, we have time.”

“OK.”  The reporter sees the sense in this.  “We prepare tonight; rest overday; and, once the sun sets tomorrow, we hit the road.  And I think I know exactly where we should head.”

They get to it, dividing the work with unspoken efficiency.  Armand floats around the home, unruffled even at speed, triple-checking all security measures and retrieving the go-bags he insists on keeping discreetly packed.  Daniel throws together one more small suitcase of more personal, quirky items, checking off the list in his head (his three favourite pairs of designer sunglasses; Armand’s plush bat and two most-frequently-used fidgets; discreet case of such essentials as butt plugs and lubricant; from the bedside table, their framed wedding picture).  That done, he takes a deep breath and opens a Mind Link.  “Daniel here for Louis and Lestat.  Pick up right now, you two.”

His mind fills with the telepathic equivalent of a Gallic baritone.  It sounds suspiciously breathy and languorous.  “What… do you want, you… insufferable fledgling of a gremlin.  Can it - ah, mon cher, don’t stop - wait?”  The audio dissolves into panting and a sort of sucking sound.

“No, it really can’t, you… pair of Bunniculas in permanent heat,” Daniel snaps.  Then, taking pity on his friends’ romantic interlude (and tacitly acknowledging he and Armand aren’t exactly any better), grunts, “Right.  I’ll make this quick.  Ari and I need to crash at yours for a while.  Leaving at first dark tomorrow.  We’ll explain when we get there.”

The mental voice which responds does so with a Creole accent and no attempt to disguise the renewed moans in the background.  “Got it.”  Louis confirms.  “We’ll get the guest room ready.  And, sorry about…”  Daniel could swear the bastard actually turns up the volume on a passionate plea of, “Ah!  Cheri, plus fort…  I’m so close…”  The smugness on that Mr. Du Lac as he continues, “Honeychild just finished a photoshoot for the new album, and the outfits…  Well.  Anyhow, see you tomorrow night…”  The Mind Gift equivalent of a cheeky grin, “Unless, Danny Boy, you’d rather stay on the line while I make my man come?”

“Hanging up now!” Daniel mentally snaps as he visualizes aggressively slamming down a receiver.  Thoroughly irritated.  Definitely not half-hard in his pants thank-you-very-much.  Behind him, Armand is laughing.

That sound smooths out some of whatever has gone raw, frayed in Daniel’s soul ever since the infernal envelope’s arrival.  Despite the ongoing threat; despite his earlier shutdown - Armand is still here, still himself in all his weird, wonderful, monstrously beautiful glory.  And that…  Well, that does something to the reporter’s cynical, loyal, undead heart.  He smiles; comes closer to his beloved, desire rising… but pauses just short of an embrace.

“Ari…” he wavers, looking down.  “I can’t even hope to understand how you feel or what you want right now, and I’m not going to push anything, so, babe, you gotta tell me…”

The Bond between them sings with electricity.  Armand pulls his husband closer, tighter, both of their bodies already responding.  “You, Beloved…” he whispers.  “I want you.  Let all the shadows of my past try to crawl out of the darkest corners - they don’t get to darken this.”  His lithe frame wraps around Daniel’s body; his lips press against his fledgling’s in a searing kiss.  “Make me feel good, my Daniel,” he demands.

And Daniel Molloy, hands already scrambling for their clothing, answers, “Yes, Boss.”

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He should be used to it by now, but, for Daniel Molloy, effortless vampiric strength is a marvel every time.  Such as now, when he uses it to perch Armand on the gleaming marble countertop so he can take his rightful place between his legs.  The older vampire shimmies out of his little robe, utterly bare and glorious, thighs spread in salacious welcome.  Usually, this would be the time for teasing, foreplay, but there’s none tonight…  Only a pair of impossibly long legs slung over strong, steady shoulders; only silver curls buried in the lap of a living work of art.

Daniel only pauses long enough to urge his husband to take his pleasure from him, use him.  And Armand does.  Lifting off the countertop by some combination of preternatural strength and a touch of Cloud Gift, he fucks rhythmically into his fledgling’s mouth, endearments and groans falling from his lips in equal measure; clawed fingers gripping gorgeous grey hair.  Decades of dirty experiences have made Daniel an expert at this.  He opens his throat; takes full advantage of no longer actually needing to breathe; takes his lover deep, deep, deeper still.

Strong, life-marked hands cup the five-centuries’-old vampire’s pert little ass.  Ten tiny, sharp claw points pierce the skin - only a little - the pinpricks of intense sensation helping pleasure build.  “Danny…  Beloved…,” that posh voice turning raw.  “So deep…  So good…  I won’t last long this way.”

“Then let go, baby,” Daniel rasps, momentarily pulling away.  “Give it all to me.”  He dives back in.  Armand’s back arches.  He gives a particularly vicious thrust; then, with a wild cry of, “Ah!  My beautiful Boy!” he’s coming, sending his release down his husband’s welcoming throat.

Armand rolls over on the counter.  Even flushed from the fading aftershocks of orgasm, he has the grace of an Olympic gymnast: seemingly resting on his elbows (though Daniel knows his Maker’s actually levitating); pressed-together legs and sculpture-worthy bum on delectable display.  His amber eyes blaze as he peeks coyly over his shoulder.  “Between my thighs, Beloved,” he purrs.  And who is Daniel to deny him?

Achingly hard, he steps closer; strokes the smooth skin before slipping his cock into the muscular tightness.  The friction is intense; would be uncomfortable if, by now, Daniel hadn’t leaked so much pre-come that it cushions the glide, makes it an exquisite torment, a piercing pleasure.  Armand’s legs squeeze him; Armand’s torso twists like Eden’s seductive serpent so Armand’s lips can capture Daniel’s in a kiss.  He surrenders to the sensation, not trying to either hurry it along or draw it out; simply letting it overtake them both.  His hand finds his husband’s re-awakened hardness, not to jerk or squeeze, but only gently press it with his palm.  “Ari…  Ari…  Love you, love you, love you,” he chants into the shell of his lover’s ear as a shuddering climax sweeps over them both.

They snuggle afterwards.  Bodies press snugly together beneath the covers, cozy and possessive when Armand breaks the silence.  “Daniel…  I’m sorry for… earlier.”

“Hey, now, none of that.”  The journalist gently remonstrates.  “Never apologize for your feelings.  Not to me.  Or for being human.”

“That’s debatable,” Armand gives a small, somber snort before his tone turns serious.  “I should have handled it.  I - I didn’t even try any of the strategies Dr. Goldberg has taught me.  It just…  It all came on so fast.”

Daniel shrugs.  “Well, you know, sometimes triggers act like that.  Like…  Allergies, I guess.  It’s not voluntary.”

A long moment passes before Armand speaks again.  His voice strained, tight.  “Daniel, my love, I…  I lied to you.  The same lie I have always told, even to myself.  But I need you to know the truth about… about the night Marius brought me to his house.”

It isn’t Daniel Molloy the journalist who answers, “It’s OK, baby.  You can tell me anything.”  It is Daniel Molloy Armand’s Companion of the Dark Gift who solemnly affirms, “No judgement; no need to explain or justify yourself.  I’m here and I am listening.”  

Slowly, Armand begins to talk.  The voice gives away not a flicker of emotion, but the elegant, long fingers grip his husband’s like a vice.  “I’ve always said what I was told: that Marius met… bought me when I was fifteen.  That isn’t true.  I - wasn’t.  I was twelve.”

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Daniel breathes in and out, in and out through his nose, willing it to help.  It doesn’t.  He closes the hand not gripping Armand’s into a fist; tightens it till his claws puncture skin, using the pain to ground himself.  Everything he wants to do: scream, curse, smash things, even reassure - would not help right now.  His husband needs to tell his story, get it out in his own way.  All he can do is be there.  And listen.  So he does.

Glowing orange eyes stare at some random spot on the wallpaper, seeing nothing.  The words come intentionally flat and toneless.  “Looking back, I assume Marius gave me some of his blood while I was still unconscious, on the way to The Palazzo.  That would explain a lot: why I no longer felt any of the pain from… before… not even thirst, or hunger, even though I had refused food and drink in the brothel, I think I was trying to… to just make it stop.  Why suddenly, my body felt fine, though my mind was clouded; why the colours, the sounds, seemed so vivid.”

The vampire passes his slender hand over his face.  The merest ripple of anguish contorts his dark brows.  “Understand…  It wasn’t what you’re probably picturing, Beloved - Marius, he was gentle, didn’t hurt me, didn’t…  Well.  I had already lived that horror on the slave ship, in the brothel; nothing like that.  He only did things that… felt good to me.”  

Daniel has never heard his husband sound so young.  Like the child he must have been when…  The reporter shudders.  Pushes down the bile rising in his throat.  Forces himself, again, to listen.

“And I, I didn’t fight; didn’t even say ‘no’ to him…”  That horrible, too-young voice continues. “He always told me how much my hunger surprised and delighted him, right from the start, the way I wanted it…  And I still think sometimes, maybe I did, that I consented…”  Daniel, as unobtrusively as he can, bites the pillow.  He gets feathers stuck on his fangs for his troubles, but manages to stay silent, to keep listening.  

After a long, fluorescently-humming pause, Armand speaks again.  The robotic monotone is gone, as is coherence: the words tumble to the floor in short, gasping bursts.  “Only…  Not even a good night’s sleep, a full meal, a tour of the palazzo; no, our ‘courtship’, such as it was, lasted exactly as long as it took for him to bathe me…  His hands, so careful as he dipped me back to wash my hair before the kisses started.  My face; my neck; my shoulder…  He put his mouth on my nipple as I tried to cover it; Marius laughed and simply went lower, until…  His forehead pressed against my chest when he…  My body, my body was so small…  Afterwards, as he prepared to leave before the Sun rose, he finally introduced himself by telling me I now belonged to…  That’s when I first heard the name ‘Marius de Romanus.’ “  The vampire’s glowing eyes widen with a sudden realization.  “I think that explains why those words, on that wretched card, sent me reeling like some frightened animal: just for a moment, they awoke the memory - a scared, pathetic child, bought like so much property by the man who wears this name.”

Armand slumps, spent, exhausted as if by a grueling forced march.  Daniel hears - just barely - a final, broken, “I hate myself for not fighting back with him the way I did in the brothel.  For simply… complying.”

At this point, Daniel finally snaps.  “Ari, look at me,” he urges, tenderly tilting his beloved’s chin upwards so their eyes meet.  “None of this - absolutely none of this - is on you, ever.  Do you hear me?  If not, I will repeat it for the next half a millennium until you do.  You were a kid, baby, just a kid.  Any adult should have respected that, without the slightest obligation on your part to tell him ‘no’... which, by the way, my brave, strong love, you did, when you tried to cover yourself…  You hear me?  Even then, even against impossible odds - you resisted.  Especially - and, sweetness, please, if you hear nothing else, hear this - by doing anything you felt you had to do to survive.  For which I’m so, so grateful, because it kept you here until the stars aligned for us to meet and fall in love.  Don’t ever doubt you did the right thing.  The only one who didn’t - the only one to blame - is fucking Marius de Roman Ass.  And, babe, I swear,” Daniel presses his lips to his husband’s dark, spice-scented curls, “I plan to find a way to kill him.  Let’s start by recruiting a couple of our friends to help.”

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“Yes, Mojo,  good boy - telling Papa about the visitors at our door,” a deep baritone sing-songs insufferably in response to a single, dignified bark, “but, don't fret, these are friends…  Yes, they are.”  The lock clicks.  The door swings open to reveal two tall, athletic figures (one canine, one vampiric) silhouetted in its rectangle of light.  “Come in, mes amis, come in.”

“Thanks for…  Yikes, what are you wearing, Frenchie?”  Daniel stares.  Lestat de Lioncourt stands in the doorway sporting his signature smirk; pyjama bottoms of a… strategic colour and texture; and a clinging t-shirt, its white broken only by the words, “I Am the Big Dog Daddy.”

“You’re welcome, old man…” the vampire purrs with a toss of his yellow curls as he helps the couple with their bags.  By his side, the formidable-looking Mojo de Lioncourt (a beast of enormous size and complex provenance) gives the new arrivals a sniff each.  He huffs and, apparently satisfied, haughtily bypasses a luxury plaid dog bed to plop down on the nearest sofa.  His “Big Dog Daddy” gazes at him sentimentally.  Daniel and Armand, far less sentimentally, gaze at the way Lestat’s top rather fails to conceal his ripped abs and cold-stifferened nipples.

“Baby boy, we’ve talked about this,” a Creole voice chimes in, clearly trying to work the sandpaper of exasperation into silken fondness.  “Answering the door like that, parading yourself half-naked in front of people…”

Lestat sticks out his tongue at his husband.  “Please, cher.”  He rolls his ocean eyes quite loudly.  “You think this is half-naked?  I’ll show you half-naked.  Besides,” a large hand gestures carelessly toward their guests, “these are not ‘people’: they are the Devil and his Minion, and this,” a theatrical sweep over his own figure, “is nothing they haven’t seen before.”

Louis shakes his head, but wraps his arms around his Companion.  “All right,” he grants with a peck at Lestat’s cheekbone, “as long as you remember to whom all this,” he shamelessly fondles the other vampire over his pyjamas, “has been promised.”

“Always…   And my heart, too.”  Lestat melts, twisting around for a kiss.  When he straightens back up, his features focus.  “But, in all seriousness,” blue eyes scan the new arrivals, “what’s happened?  I hear your hearts racing with some hidden fear.”

Armand sighs.  He quickly explains the situation, sticking to facts and avoiding histrionics.  “I am sorry to impose on your hospitality.   It may  well turn out to be nothing,” he concludes.  “Still, I need a much clearer assessment of this threat before I entrust Daniel's safety to the walls of our home again.”

Louis gives a quick, grave nod.  “Of course.  You're welcome here.  And our security is excellent.  I've made up the guest room…  Why don't y’all settle in?”

“Oh, by all means put your things in there and freshen up…” Lestat sidles up to the visiting couple.  “But, afterwards, may I suggest you join mon amour and me in our boudoir?”  He wiggles blond eyebrows in one of the signature “Brat Prince” expressions swooned over by his fans.  “I daresay we'd all enjoy taking a break from our troubles with a little Gremlin Appreciation.”

Everyone looks at Armand, deferring to him to choose.  The deceptively youthful face lights up.  Not for the first time, his heart floods with gratitude for his bizarre, unholy, wonderful found friends?  Family?  The way they come together to show him love exactly how he needs it the most.  “I think…”  He smiles.  “I think I would find it… most agreeable.”

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Lestat playfully pushes Armand down onto his back atop the burgundy sheets.  The eldest vampire falls, laughing; allows the blond to move his legs apart and slot himself between them.  Lestat keeps his hands on Armand’s thighs while kissing a trail down his belly to his hardening cock.  The two other vampires recline on either side of them.  Armand has set exactly one boundary for tonight, secure and able to relax in the certainty that his lovers will honour it without question: he does not wish to be touched by anyone he cannot see.  The only other rule they have, to appease Louis’ bizarre brand of jealousy (he once promised to rip out the tongue of anyone whose lips touched Lestat’s, while blithely agreeing to all the rest of it), is that only spouses kiss each other on the mouth.  Thus, it is Daniel who now lovingly captures Armand’s lips, slides his cool tongue between them…

“Such a pretty picture for me, my dear,” Louis grins, rolling his hips to get more comfortable.  “Let me make one for you, too, hon: I remember just how much you like to watch.”  Louis lets his elegant hand slip below his waist and slowly begins to touch himself.  The caresses are performative, yes, but also languidly indulgent, the movements of a man rejoicing in his sensuality.  Green eyes sparkle with delight when Lestat finally takes Armand’s cock in his mouth in one smooth motion.

An involuntary sound escapes the amber-eyed vampire’s lips.  “That’s it, moan for me, mon petit diable,” he hears within his head, well aware of the affection behind the taunt.  Armand lies back, uncharacteristically doing no work at all.  Content to simply float and undulate upon the waves of sensation, pleasure from every side.  Lestat setting the pace, sure and skilled, effortlessly sliding his lover’s length into his throat, so deep…  Louis, breathing hard and trembling a little against Armand’s body as he frantically strokes himself to the sinful sight.  And Daniel, his beloved Daniel’s tender kisses, tender fingers ghosting over Armand’s erect nipples.  Love, love and more love singing to him from every direction.

Suddenly, he has a devilish idea.  He sends the thought to Louis to relay aloud, as the only one both able to hear him and not currently putting his mouth to better use.  “Danny boy…  Les, honey…” the vampire breathes out, flushing with residual shock and present arousal.  “ ‘Mand wants to see something real dirty.  Asking Danny and me to play with ourselves… right over him…”  He tenderly adjusts his husband’s golden hair; locks their gazes.  “So, when we finish, honeychild…  We paint your pretty face, while you…”

Daniel sighs, “Oh, God, Boss… yes…” while Lestat somehow manages to nod and grin lustfully even around a mouthful of cock.  The two men on each side sit up, all but straddling Armand’s slender hips.  The latter smirks as they begin jerking themselves aggressively, roughly, mere centimeters above his skin, eyes locked unblinkingly, gasps and moans growing louder.  It’s almost cute: always so competitive, those two.  Once in a while, their heated, already leaking cockheads nudge Lestat’s cheeks, making him shiver, send the sweetest little rumbles of pleasure from his throat straight to the core of Armand’s desires.

Armand lets his hands speak of love to his lovers.  Runs his fingers through the yellow silk of Lestat’s hair.  Cups the voluptuous curve of Louis’ backside.  Takes Daniel’s hand; gives it a little squeeze.  He can tell the bizarre contest currently waged between his husband and friend will shortly end in a draw: he knows both vampires so intimately that their every tell - the goosebumps rising on Louis’ skin, Daniel’s face illuminated by wide-eyed wonder - sings to him.  This makes his own control slip; has him teetering on the edge of ecstasy.  That’s when he hears Lestat’s voice in his head.

“Close, mon petit démon?  Go on - want to feel you come for me.”

Armand chooses to respond out loud.  “Yes, you do,” he practically purrs, propping himself up on his elbows.  “And you want to swallow it all, don’t you?  Practically begging to get it while our fledgelings come all over your face…”  Even while tumbling over the precipice, he manages his best evil-coven-master smile.  “You are… such a slut…”

Predictably, this makes Lestat’s back arch and his throat constrict around Armand’s cock, sending him shooting into the orgasmic stratosphere.  Delighted eyes, amber blown black, watch as, in near-perfect synchronicity, Daniel and Louis tremble, painting lovely streaks of pearl across Lestat’s cheeks, Armand’s groin.  Three beautiful bodies fall backwards on the bed in the aftershocks of ecstasy.  Only Louis manages to stretch out his arms toward his achingly unspent husband and slur out a love-drunk, “Angel boy, c’mere…  Gonna clean you up; take care of you, I got you…”

His maker crawls on top of him.  Louis lovingly licks the mess on his face away, and before long, Lestat shudders in his arms, releasing with a noise far higher than somebody with his baritone should be able to produce.  But Armand and Daniel barely listen.  They’re far too busy pressed together in a close embrace, spent passion giving way to languid tenderness.  Whispering words of love.

They don’t sleep in the guest room that day.  Lestat wordlessly, efficiently fetches washcloths from the en-suite, giving Armand the stink-eye when the latter tries to help.  Daniel bustles off for pajamas, his book, his husband’s plush bat toy.  No one asks any questions as all four vampires take their spots on the enormous bed.  Lestat, center, like a mighty tree, silently offering his strength, ready to take on everyone’s burden.  On one side of him, under his arm, under his protection, his husband, both his treasure and his shelter from the storm.  The other arm extends toward Armand.  A simple offer, and the elder vampire takes it just as simply, like a child.  Rests his head.  Daniel enfolds his maker’s other side, bodies entwined and heartbeats synchronized.  Still young in the blood, but decades of a mortal life lived fully have left him with a mature ability to nurture his beloved.  Eyes are already closing when the mattress shifts with a warm, solid weight.  Mojo stretches across the entire foot of the bed (and on top of everybody’s feet); gives a belly-deep sigh; begins, at once, to snore.

The day passes peacefully.  Only once, sometime mid-afternoon, Armand startles awake at some small sound.  At the edge of the bed, Louis murmurs a soft curse and fumbles for his phone.  “Go back to sleep, ‘Mand,” he murmurs drowsily.  “Just the door camera: delivery.  ‘S all right…”  He’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow.  Armand follows shortly after.  He knows they still have much to discuss and figure out when they rise, but, for the moment, he allows himself to feel loved and… safe.

Chapter Text

Daniel is mostly pretending to read his book.  A hint of a smile tickles the corner of his mouth as he half-listens to Armand and Lestat performatively bicker, barely bothering to disguise their mutual fondness.  The conversation, if one can call it that, vacillates inexplicably between an absurd accusation (how exactly does one “cheat at ‘Jeopardy’?”) and a needlessly detailed domestic discussion about the relative merits of Lestat’s recent DIY-blood-popsicle hobby versus Armand’s ice cream maker back at home.  The blond vamps out of the room to return momentarily with two freshly-frozen samples of the former.  “See for yourself, you gremlin!” he demands.

He thrusts the sanguine-hued treat at Armand, who accepts with a bored, princely elegance.  The two beautiful monsters lock eyes over their… Bloodsicles?  And, well.  Lestat thrusts his in and out of his mouth with demonstrative provocation, alternately sucking in his cheeks and letting them bulge out with an item shaped rather like…  The older vampire’s approach of letting the tip of his tongue lick slowly up and down the frozen concoction, while different, is not exactly any more family-friendly.  All of this to say, that pair of undead freaks has got Daniel… feeling some things.

Too loudly, it would seem.  Monsieur de Lioncourt pauses his porn audition long enough to pull the dessert out of his mouth with an obnoxious pop and smirk.  “Oh, dear…  It appears we’ve given your fledgling fuel for some rather vivid fantasies.”  He drawls with a cool amusement.  “Except he can’t quite make up his mind whether to beg both of us to blow him at the same time, or drop to his knees for us instead.”

Armand winds his arm around Lestat’s waist.  “Ah, yes, I fear my Boy can be quite… naughty sometimes,” he sighs.  Tilts his beautiful head within its dark storm cloud of curls, as if deep in thought.  “I suppose I may allow it,” the devilish arch of his eyebrow sends a thrill up Daniel’s leg, “after I spank him soundly for the presumption, of course.”  He turns back to Lestat with a casual, “Feel free to step out during that part if you’d rather.”

“Oh, on the contrary: you know I like to watch,” Lestat purrs while settling in the nearest armchair with his knees apart, purposely calling attention to his sizeable bulge.  Daniel pretends not to stare.  The idea of getting put over his maker’s knee right in front of smug, insufferable, sexy Frenchie has him feeling mortified… and suddenly rather tight in the pants.  That’s when Louis (the vampire capitalist had earlier excused himself to attend to some business) strolls into the room, some sort of official-looking folder under his arm.  “What are y’all talking about?” he asks with a peck on his husband’s cheek.

Lestat regards him with a look so sappy Daniel would never let him hear the end of it if he weren’t certain he constantly regards Armand with the very same.  “Oh, the usual cher,” a kiss to Louis’ knuckles, “just discussing the possibility of watching our favourite devil redden his minion’s bottom before we all suck each other off…  Provided, of course, you would like that, mon doux?”

“Sure, dear, sounds nice,” Louis answers with the air of someone agreeing to a stroll in the park.  “Hey, listen,” he offers the folder to his spouse, “This got delivered to the front door overday.  Is it some sort of sample from your design team for the tour, baby?  Because, otherwise, I can’t make head or tail of it.”

“Hmm, I don’t recall…” Lestat begins, peering into the folder with a frown, then…   Lightning couldn’t flash any faster.  Blue eyes go wide, then black.  Strong fingers go slack; let their melting blood popsicle splatter unheeded on the pristine floor.  A frantic Gallic baritone screams, deafening, in Daniel’s mind, “Fledgling, get Armand out of here!  Get him out!”

Not fast enough.  Armand’s already there, has already seized the folder.  And those hands, those hands that can punch through brick as if through balsa wood, lose their will; let the contents flutter free.  Displayed like some high-end fabric sample, a perfect square of wool dyed sky-blue, carefully, almost artfully streaked with narrow lines of red.  Streaks of blood.

Armand doesn’t make a sound.  Doesn’t seem to hear the others call to him, or see their concerned faces - two uncomprehending, one clearly comprehending far too much.  That one - Lestat’s - sharpens in concentration, speaking by laser-focussed Mind Link to one vampire alone.  His voice, when it sounds again, is flat and tired.  “This…” he gives the bloodstained fabric a small, savage kick, “is a message from Marius.  No one else outside this room would know.”

With the most minimal of nods, Armand slumps on the nearest sofa.  He looks so weary, and so small.  Daniel tugs on their bond; gets static in return.  Lestat holds up his large hand for stillness; tilts his head as if listening.  Then, very carefully, kneels down in front of Armand, one palm on each knee and gazes locked.

A long, resounding silence.  Then - pale, resolute - Lestat de Lioncourt nods.  “Yes.  Yes, I will.  Use me, my brother.  Do not carry it alone, not anymore”  Just for a moment, he turns from the preternaturally motionless figure on the sofa to the others.  “Armand…  He cannot speak right now, but he needs to tell us.  So, I shall speak for him.”  He takes a deep breath, like one about to dive into dark water.  Quietly, unasked, Louis kneels and holds Lestat’s cold hand while Daniel sits down to take Armand’s.  Lestat fixes him with just one more blue-burning look as he declares, “Daniel, now I am the voice of your Maker.”

Chapter Text

Two vampires inhale and exhale - matching their breathing, structured, exactly as Dr. Goldberg had taught them.  For a long moment, Lestat shuts his eyes.  When he opens them, his face has turned into a pale, blank mask - though not quite as blank as Armand, who has stopped moving even to breathe.  When Lestat speaks, his voice has changed: higher, somehow less French, but with more of an Italianate sing-song, caressing quality.  Daniel tries not to focus on how it also suddenly sounds… young.

“From our first night, Marius decreed that blue should be my colour.  Everything I wore: my hats, my doublets, my… my hose.  I did not even think to question him - why would I, when il Maestro dressed me in such finery, called me beautiful?  Still, after more than two years in his palazzo, in his bed, I had grown into what society today would call a teenager and, try as I might, rebellion began to stir in me.  And, sure enough, one night when I was - fifteen at the most, best as I can figure - my Maker pushed me over the edge.”

“The reason…  I don’t want to talk about it, it does not matter,” Lestat-Armand’s features ripple with discomfort before snapping back into sphinxlike calm.  “The point is, when the Sun rose, I walked out of the palazzo’s doors.  Alone.  Unescorted.  Without il Signore’s express permission.  Something us boys never, ever dared to do, something I myself had never even dared imagine…”

“No plan.  No goal, even - no idea what, exactly, I was trying to achieve besides lashing out at my Master.  No money: Marius made damn sure we could never access any cash, that all we had - even the air we breathed, it sometimes felt - only came to us thanks to letters of credit made currency by the De Romanus signature.  So, when it inevitably got dark, and I got hungry, and needed to get off the streets, I used the skills that I knew best.  The ones so many, Marius most of all, had so assiduously taught me.  Easy enough, in the nearest tavern, to find a man who wanted me to lie down for him.”

Lestat’s hand moves, dismissively, in a gesture quite unlike his own.  “I won’t regale you with that sordid tale.  It wasn’t all that bad by any means, but, when the man pulled a knife on me, I snuck out through, well, the bathroom window.  I sought shelter with Bianca - she was a courtesan, a friend of my Maker’s, and fond of me - but not enough to risk what he might do if he found me with her.  I do not blame her.  I still remember the pity in her eyes as she shut the door.  She knew… but, you see, Marius had never hurt me before… not really, not outside the bedroom…  so, I suppose I convinced myself I would be safe when I returned.”

Lestat-Armand lowers his head; takes three deliberate breaths before continuing.  “Like the perfect little idiot I was, I stormed back into the palazzo drunk, defiant.  We had words.  It’s still all muddled in my head: I remember shouting something about, ‘if I’m an angel, paint me with black wings’... don’t ask me what the Hell I was trying to convey by that, I couldn’t tell you… but I knew the instant I had sealed my fate, when I saw Marius change, saw the mask of a man fall to show the monster underneath.”

“He threw me across the room as if I weighed nothing.  I landed face-down on our bed; not hurt, just disoriented.  I hadn’t even managed to catch my breath before I felt him on me, his knee in the small of my back and the switch in his hand.  Smiling as he told me what a pleasure it would be to whip me.  That smile - so kind, like some benevolent saviour from a church fresco, except with teeth such as a wolf might have - never once wavered, not the entire time he…”

Lestat’s pale throat convulses with a swallow.  “I tried, I need you to know I tried… but, imagine oneself a child trying to push away a life-size marble statue…  I swore I wouldn’t lie there crying.  In my mind, I tried to transform the lashes, the pain into the colour red.  Red and red and red.  Red on blue.  Lovely.  But Marius kept…  I couldn’t hold on to my pretty visions anymore: it hurt, it bloody hurt!  Blood on my sky-blue stockings.  I did everything I could to bear it.  It wasn’t the pain which broke me: my legs, I couldn’t move them, I really thought…”  Both Lestat’s and Armand’s heads hang in shame, both pairs of beautiful eyes fixed on the floor.  “I turned into a scared, crybaby child.  Blubbering, calling him ‘Father,’ begging him to stop.”

Daniel and Louis both tighten their grip on their husbands’ hands, trying to somehow draw away the pain, absorb some of it.  Lestat-Armand continues speaking in a whisper only a vampire would hear.  “Marius stopped.  Began to press his mouth to every cut, bleeding line he’d drawn on my skin - I understand now, his ancient blood, mending and healing, taking away the hurt…  I’ve heard of the wonders of those modern intravenous drugs they use to bring relief to those in truly mortal agony, but I doubt even they can compare…  Pain replaced instantly with unimaginable pleasure…  Not just for me: I could feel il Maestro’s arousal, knew he wanted to…  His blood put me deep into the swoon.  I fell in and out of consciousness - just there, then not there, then repeat - so I do not remember much.  The fabric ripping as he tore my ruined hose off me…  My legs getting pushed apart, his hand between them… Telling me, over and over again, how much he loved me…   And it shouldn’t even matter: Marius did nothing we hadn’t done over and over again for years, but that night, in the state I was, it felt like…   But what hurts the most is…  remembering how I submitted, having to know my body responded while… while Marius raped me.”

Some unseen cord snaps, almost audibly.  Lestat drops to the floor, limp and spent, both hands over his face.  A hitherto silent voice sounds hoarse in the room.  “Lestat…  My brother…  Thank you…  I’ve never told anyone.”

Louis takes his husband’s inert form into his arms, almost rocking him.  The blond still refuses to remove his palms from his eyes, still strains to speak.  “Armand and I shared blood once, soon after we met.  I caught a glimpse of that memory, only a glimpse…  They haunt my nightmares still, those fucking bloody stockings.  That’s how I know that ‘message’ came from Marius: I also have told nobody except my Louis, and even he would not know enough to replicate exactly the texture of the cloth, the shade of blue, the-the pattern of…”

His shoulders shake.  Armand straightens, his face dry but haunted.  “Louis,” something about his calm, polite tone is particularly awful, “stay with your husband.  He needs you to take care of him right now.  And, Beloved…” he gropes blindly for Daniel, who’s at his side in less than the blink of an eye.  “If you would kindly help me to our room.  I’d like a private moment with you, please.”

Chapter Text

Louis does not move Lestat’s palms away from his face.  He does not try to lift the other vampire from where he slumps, back against the sofa and head on his knees.  He merely gets down to his level, mirroring his husband’s stance and pressing their sides together to allow his Maker to lean in whenever he feels ready.  When he speaks, his voice sounds raw but strong.  “Lestat de Lioncourt, you are a fucking badass.  I’m serious: I’ve known you’re brave for a long time, but what you just did for Armand just might be about the bravest damn thing I ever saw.  And I need you to know that it is perfectly normal if right now you’re not OK.”

A curtain of blond hair still hides the beloved face from view for a long, tense pause before Lestat finally manages a strangled, “I’m… not.”  As if the admission pulled some sort of rod from his weary back, he sinks bonelessly into his fledgling’s arms - and Louis opens up to uphold him.  “There we go…” he murmurs.  “Remember, I promised you I’d be the shoulder when you need to cry, the pillow when you need to scream, the arms to catch you when you fall, the quiet dark when you need it to stop…  Use it all, angel boy: let me share your burden.”

Louis lets Lestat just cry it out.  Holds him through it, without pressure or demands, until the tears end naturally.  There is the soft, measured sound of huge paws padding across the floor; Mojo uses his big head to wedge himself against his Papa’s chest, putting his warm weight on him.  Lestat buries his face in the soft fur, twining one arm around his dog, the other around his husband, both with overwhelming love and gratitude.  Finally, one at a time, the words come.

“I have no right to cry about this.  What I just saw - Armand had to live it.”

“But you didn’t simply see it, did you, honey?”  Louis gently corrects.  “The way you opened the Mind Link, you had to feel it.  Armand’s pain, his emotions…  And, with the trauma of your past - I know how much it had to hurt you.  But you did it anyway.  That’s courage”

Features weary but determined, Lestat finally looks at his husband.  “I had no choice.  What was done to Armand…  No one, especially no child, should ever go through that.  We cannot change the past, can do nothing to take away the pain - but, at the very least, we can share it.  Our gremlin deserves that much.  And Marius…  Marius deserves to pay.”

********

“I can handle the whipping itself,” Armand declares in that same awful, polite tone.  Pressed against his back, holding him from behind, Daniel makes a pained noise.  “Really, Beloved, it’s true - unlike you, I don’t come from a gentle age, in which bodies are sacred and children precious.  Harsh as the punishment was, it wasn’t the first beating I’d endured in my short life, nor the last.  Same for… what came after.  Others had violated my consent before, and far more brutally.”  Armand’s eyes stay focussed on his fidget, which his agile fingers work faster and faster, as if he is unable to focus on his husband in any way other than leaning on his chest for silent comfort.  “What I find so awful… so awful I can barely endure remembering it… is that I broke beneath Marius’ lash, his touch…”

The elder vampire’s shoulders sag and, at long last, red tears fall.  “After all that - out of it, barely on my feet - I c-crawled to that abusive bastard on my hands and knees…  Kissed his ring, grovelled, begged him to beat me again, do anything he wished, as long as he didn’t leave me…”  A violent trembling seizes him.  “I mean, who does that, who wants that?!  I hate myself for it, and I…  I…”  Armand sobs in earnest.  “I h-hate him for turning me into that slavish, snivelling creature…”

Daniel uses their positioning, in which his beloved cannot see his face, to do his own discreet crying, even as he gives Armand a series of rhythmic squeezes until the shaking stops.  Still, he speaks only when both of them have calmed to some extent.  “You hate Marius - good.  As you should.  But, sweetness, please… not yourself, not ever yourself.  I need you to listen to me, Ari.  That fucker dosed you with vampire blood - which, as you couldn’t possibly know then, but certainly know now, acts like a drug to humans.  And - take it from one who knows - drugs make you say and do some fucked-up shit.  Drugs which, in your case, you did not choose to use.  More importantly - again, take it from one who knows; this time, not as an addict, but as a journalist - anyone can be coerced through sufficient torture… but, Ari, love, sweetness, my soul, what you endured…  There are Navy Seals whom that would have broken faster and more fully than it did you, a defenseless teenager.  Not only did you live to tell the tale, but, in the end - you freed your soul from the hold he had on it.  I want you to feel proud of that, babe - because I sure as Hell am.”

*******

Without coordinating it, both couples are in bed early, while the sky is still quite dark.  Armand lies perfectly still and unresponsive, some lost Renaissance masterpiece of an angel worn out by a cruel world.  It tugs at Daniel’s heart.  The journalist, for his part, can’t seem to settle.  After spending what feels like a solid month trying to stare holes in the guest room ceiling, he finally gives up and gives a single mental thread a tiny tug.

“Du Lac…  Hey, Du Lac - you awake?”

“Yes, Danny - but, please, keep it down.”  Louis requests with a mental projection of the master bedroom in which Lestat slumbers, curled up in front of Louis like the world’s most delusional “little” spoon, clutching the rumblingly-snoring Mojo like a child with a comically oversized plushie.

“Trying to…” the reporter assents because even he isn’t enough of an asshole to ignore what speaking for Armand must’ve cost Frenchie, “but, honestly, Lou, when I think of that sick fuck getting off on beating a defenseless kid, I want to scream.”

Louis gives the telepathic equivalent of a nod.  “Me, too.  It makes my blood boil: for Armand, for Les - all the parallels to his own scumbag maker, how much this might have triggered him…”  

In other circumstances, Daniel might have said something snarky, maybe needled Louis for somehow making even Armand’s horrific trauma about his own husband.  Right now, he has other fish to fry.  “Right…  And now, centuries later, it’s still not enough: Marius has reared his head again, clearly still intends to terrorize Ari.  We need to put a stop to it.”

“Yes.”  He feels the other vampire’s resolve crackling across the Mind Link.  “And we will, the four of us.  But first…  We need a plan.”

Chapter Text

No one loves this part of the plan.  Objections had ranged from Daniel’s default skepticism and Armand’s reluctance to potentially put “an innocent” on Marius’ radar to Lestat displaying a level of protectiveness hitherto reserved for his spouse.  Louis, however, overrides the general reluctance by stating the obvious: to achieve anything whatsoever, they need information.  Information they can’t get by themselves: even if they succeeded in breaking through the Ancient’s mental defenses, they could not hope to do so undetected.  Hence, a different approach - indeed, a whole different species - is required.

The first glimpse Daniel gets of this allegedly formidable ally hardly allays his doubts.  He surveys the diminutive figure - her ripped jeans, rainbow rubber bracelets and two-toned, cotton-candy curls - with something like dismay.  Bad enough the young woman - girl, actually - literally arrived accompanied by her mother, but she can’t possibly be a day over…

“Correct: fourteen, Mr. Molloy… but don’t underestimate me, either.”  She points to her green t-shirt, on which an instantly recognizable green character inquires, “Judge me by size, do you?”; her warm, brown eyes sparkle in amusement from within their rather smudgey make-up.  Apparently satisfied that she’s sufficiently disconcerted the vampire with her mind-reading prowess, the teenager extends her rings-and-black-nail-varnish-bedecked hand to him and Armand.  “Rose Blackwood, pleased to meet ya,” she states.  Then, spins around to pull the other couple into a bear hug with a far warmer, “Uncle Les!  Uncle Lou!”

“I made Louis and Lestat promise to keep my daughter from meeting any other vampires until absolutely necessary,” the adolescent's mother explains, her vivid blue eyes fixed on the pair of immortals.  “I'd rather not have the Talamasca trying to get their grubby paws on her…  But, from what I understand, the desperate hour has come, and  my daughter posseses truly formidable powers, even by the standards of our coven.   Trust in her.”

“Mom, please… don't embarrass me…” Rose rolls her eyes with the trademark insufferability of all teenage girls.  Then, her voice snaps into precocious professionalism.  “Right. “  She taps an elegant travel case plastered with cat stickers.   Where can I set up my altar, Uncle Les?”

They take their assigned places within the protective chalk circle on the floor.  Rose solemnly evokes the Elements, ending on “The Spirit Which Moves Me.”  She then turns to Daniel.  “Your outrage, your overwhelming need for truth and justice, drives you even harder than the rest.  Focus all of it as you write down the name of the man we need to find.”

Daniel nearly snaps the pen in two while forming the words “Marius Romanus.”  The young woman places the index card beneath a red wax candle shaped like a man.  Looks questioningly at the four vampires.  “Does anyone have an item belonging to him - something he has touched?”  With a look which suggests he’s trying his hardest not to vomit, Louis raises his hand.

“I brought it out of storage after Rosie texted me,” the vampire explains, handling the small, framed canvas as if it physically nauseates him to do so.  “I had no idea what to do with this… thing after we divorced,” he turns to Armand, “knowing what I now know, I couldn’t stand to look at it; didn’t have the guts to bring it up to you; but also felt I had no right to sell or destroy it: it’s still part of your history, still your likeness, so…”

The older immortal quickly interrupts Louis’ impending aria of guilt.  He simply can’t deal with it just now.  “What matters is that, thanks to your actions, we have exactly what we need.”  Still, Armand does his best not to look at the image as it gets positioned on the temporary altar, but it does not help: his mind’s eye shows him Marius’ painting in 4-K, high-definition, Technicolor glory.  A nude youth - fallen angel? - sprawled on the ground, his black wings broken, his bare flesh ravaged by…

Luckily, Ms. Blackwood’s voice interrupts the ugly reminiscence.  “Mr. Molloy?  Sorry, Mr. Armand Molloy…  Since this concerns you most of all, I need you to direct my quest, give me guidance on what to look for.  Three questions, maximum; make them as specific and concise as possible, but not ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”  She waits patiently.

Finally, Armand chooses his words.  “One: to the best of your ability, discover what now lies in Marius’ de Romanus mind concerning us - his intentions, his plan.  Two: help us find him, get us a location.  Three: show us the way to take him down, to eliminate the threat he poses… permanently.”

Rose nods.  “Very good.  One last thing before we begin…”  From her case, she takes a length of bright-red string, one end of which is tied in a small loop.  This she affixes to her right index finger while letting most of it pool randomly on the floor.  The remaining end she hands to Lestat.  “Uncle Les,” her voice suddenly sounds solemn, far beyond her years, “you saved me when I was just a baby, you’re the reason I’m here today - tonight, you’ll be my anchor.  I have to travel far, likely to a dark place, to touch a dark mind.  Let me… but keep hold of the string.  If - and only if - you feel me tug on it three times, pull it toward you until the line goes tight, and you will bring me back to you.”

“I have you, ma petite.”  Lestat replies simply.

Rose signals for silence, then shuts her eyes and begins breathing slowly in and out.  Her body sways a little.  Nothing more happens for a long, heavy moment.  Suddenly goes rigid, head back and back arched.  Her eyes fly open - sightless, pupils fully dilated, moving rapidly.  The girl’s mouth opens in a prolonged, utterly silent scream.

Chapter Text

The sight of that young face distorted by some unseen terror, clearly screaming without uttering a sound, is terrifying.  Finally, finally she shuts her mouth and slumps over, panting like one who’s just run a hard race.  The others exhale in relief…  They shouldn’t have.  Rose’s entire frame convulses with a horrible, dry retching.

Disjointed words tumble from her glossed lips, but don’t add up to much sense.  “Sick…  The painting…  The men before, too many…  Drink…  Didn’t want…  The wretched painting…  Wanted real suffering, made me…  Escape…  Cold…  Amadeo…  So beautiful…  Cherub, little elf…  Preserved forever…  Forever young…”

Rose’s eyes dart back and forth.  Her head tilts as if listening.  Fingers try to grasp the air.  “A mind like that…  Like grasping smoke, drawing on the water with a pitchfork…  Dark…  Old, evil…  Terrible secrets…  I can’t see, can’t see…  Will never let go…  Is there another?  Keep moving…  How to…  To make it stop, end it…  Show me…  Show me!  Make it stop!”

A voice whose owner has yet to see her fifteenth winter shrieks in the vampires’ ears.  The teen shakes as if having a seizure.  Her arms flail against some invisible foe.  Lestat sits forward, his jaw set in a grim line.  “That’s it.”  His fingers tighten on the red string.  “I’m pulling Rosie out.”

“Wait.”  Her mother orders with a forceful gesture of her hand.  “Not till she gives the signal.  Trust my daughter.”  The blond vampire fixes his eyes on the adolescent with unblinking, anxious concentration, but obeys.  

Rose, though her voice sounds far away, begins to speak again.  It almost sounds as though she is interrogating some entity present to her alone.  “Undo?  How?  Don’t understand…  Never been done, but…  Possible?  The only way…  Then guide me…  Please…  Let me see…  Yes…”  An understanding passes through her features.  Then, the shaking starts again, more violently than before.  The young woman’s face twists in pain.  She gasps for air, claws at her throat.  Her right hand tugs the string once.  Twice.  Again.

Lestat springs into action.  “Ma petite, j’arrive!  Viens a moi!” he bellows, pulling at his end of the red string.  With all his might: the slender thread seems to resist him; the immortal struggles like a rescuer hauling a drowning person’s lifeline through the storm-tossed waves.  Without knowing why, Louis and Armand seize Lestat’s shoulders, lending him their energy, their strength.  A moment later, the entire circle’s linked by touch.  The string goes taut.  A yell.  Rose Blackwood tumbles forward and out of her trance, falling into her mother’s arms like a small child.  Teeth chattering; tears running down her face; but very much herself.

*********

“Ugh…  I’ve never had to go someplace like that before, and I sure don’t wanna again,” the teen shakes her head, speaking between mouthfuls of the protein bar and juice her mother has tactfully produced from her handbag.  Wipes her hands only to move on to the oversized burger-fries-and-milkshake combo Louis had just vamp-dashed out for.  Tears into the food the way only a mortal her age can.  Finally exhales.

“OK…”  Rose forces a matter-of-fact steadiness into her voice, but they can all hear her hammering heart, see the shadows of fear still stalking her eyes.  “First, this Marius dude…  He’s one sick fuck.  Sorry, Mom,” she rolls her eyes at the parental cough, not sounding it.  "I’ve never tried to breach a mind like his before: that powerful, that twisted.”  The teenager can’t quite suppress a shudder as she addresses Armand.  “The sh… stuff I saw him do to you, and, and like it.”  Whether she knows it or not, she sounds exactly her age as her volume lowers.  “He - he feels no guilt or shame for any of it.  Just… feels entitled to it, like he sees himself as some sort of, I don’t know, superior being.”  She sighs.  “I don’t even think he wants you back - not the real you, the way you are now, anyway… but he can’t stand to see you free and happy, so he’s terrorizing you, getting off on being your bully, reminding you about…”  Rose trails off.  When she speaks again, she looks down, pointedly not meeting anybody’s gaze.  Human ears would strain to hear her.  “And…  as I’ve said, he’s strong, I couldn’t fully break through but…  I think…  I think he has another one.”  She senses Armand’s silent question even without looking up.  “Another kid.  I can’t lock on to him - I tried - but I kept sensing a young boy with him.”

Daniel swears disgustingly.  Louis gives a short, distressed cry and accidentally sets his own sleeve on fire.  Lestat says nothing, but his blue eyes momentarily blow black and his hands drip a thin trickle of blood from where his claws have dug into their palms.  Armand appears entirely sphinx-like as he calmly asks, “All right.  This information somewhat ups the urgency.  Can you provide us with the location and the method?”

The young psychic shakes her head with a bone-weary sigh.  “Not exactly… but I can give y’all a way to track him.”

Black-varnished fingers wind the red thread tightly round and round the man-shaped candle, as if binding it from down at its ankles and up to its neck.  Rose’s lips move in some silent incantation, which continues while she makes loops in the excess, one around each vampire’s finger.  They have to press close, foreheads nearly touching.  All eyes are on the red wax figure.  “Now.” Rose commands.  And, all at once, four voices answer, “Burn.”

A crackling, preternatural flame leaps from the wick.  Hissing, hungry, melting and obliterating the image faster than any ordinary fire, yet perfectly contained.  In seconds, the tiny effigy of Marius de Romanus is no more than a small, red, faintly smoking disk with the red string inextricably embedded within.  “One witchy GPS, fired up and ready to go,” Rose announces after dousing it with water from her altar.  “Tethered to all of you, so all whoever’s driving has to do is stick the disk to the dashboard, loop the string around his finger and, voila: ‘To Catch a Predator, Supernatural Edition.’”

The proud uncles shower the teenager with cooing compliments.  Armand inclines his head in an old-fashioned, courtly bow.  Daniel, though no less appreciative, feels obligated to keep his eyes on practical matters.  “Cool beans.  Now, did the Spirit Which Moves You by any chance provide a plan for what to do with De Roman Ass if we do catch him?”

Rose’s bracelets form a restless rainbow as she rubs her hands together.  “As a matter of fact…  She did.”

Chapter Text

Daniel sighs, giving his suitcase a look of mistrust.  If nothing else, Sabrina the Teenage Witch managed to narrow down De Roman Ass’ location to somewhere in the contiguous United States.  Not exactly pinpoint accuracy, but at least they’ll be able to drive there.  Regular road-trip-buddy-comedy material over here, ladies and gentlemen: two vampire couples (who totally hook up with each other) and one giant dog hit the interstate in an RV to see the USA and, oh yeah, hunt down an ancient, superpowered pervert.  As you do.

None of them had found the psychically-suggested plan easy to accept at first.  All of them had, finally, agreed it was the only way.  The ritual which makes it possible had been conducted by Rose, her mother, and their entire coven, in deepest secrecy: no men, vampires or outsiders allowed, sorry.  Daniel could not entirely conceal his skepticism (Seriously?  This is it?) when presented with the artifact thereby created.  “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Molloy,” Rose’s mother had reassured him with a smile.  “There are many powers in this world, in a delicate balance with each other.  One such power is held in families like ours, by women such as myself and my daughter.”  She sits in silence for a long moment, as if considering whether to reveal any more.  When she speaks, it is to all the vampires present.  “And it is strange, the way that Fate connects us.  My Rosie - as Lestat and Louis know so well - is adopted, birth parents a mystery… but, when we both had genetic testing done, we found out we are actually fairly close relatives.”

Louis’ eyebrows quirk upwards in surprise.  “Rose is a Blackwood?”

Her mother shakes her head.  “Blackwood is my wife’s name; I took it, for various reasons, when we married.  But I was born Laurel Mayfair.”

*****

So, they’re doing this.  Naturally, Louis and Armand trust no one else - not even their spouses - when it comes to securing and customizing the vehicle for their pursuit: comfortable enough for their entire… unholy family?  Vampolycule?; unremarkable enough not to instantly arouse suspicion, yet sufficiently tough and sporty to survive potential complications; and, on top of it all, vampire-safe.  Sort of a tall order.  Which means Daniel can expect to wait for quite a bit longer, with only Lestat for company.  Specifically, a Lestat currently humming to himself as he meticulously packs an enormous suitcase personalized with the embroidered word “Mojo.”

“All right, mon petit,” the Frenchman sing-songs at the overgrown mutt regarding him with indescribable fondness while lazily thumping his tail on the floor.  “Papa’s got your grooming mitt, and your toothbrush…  Now, which of our rawhide chewies do we want for our trip, mon garcon?  Huh?  Which ones?”

Daniel decides to interrupt this particular Hallmark moment.  “Uh, Frenchie?”  He shuffles from foot to foot.  “Just wanted to say, well…  Thanks.”

“Thanks?”  Blond eyebrows creep up in confusion.  Then, thinking he understands, “Don’t mention it, fledgling: who else could have spoken for the gremlin?  And…”  Softer now.  “He needed it.”

“No!  Um, I mean, yes, of course, thank you for doing that…” Daniel hastens to correct himself, “but that’s not what I meant.  I was talking about earlier…  When you and Ari first met.  In Paris.”

Lestat just stares.  “Molloy, are you all right?  I…  Yes, I had reasons to do so, but, back then…  I treated Armand like dirt!  Behaved like the worst sort of insensitive, promiscuous frat boy jerk.  When things went so wrong with Nicki, and… and…  Gabrielle left…  and I was hurting, I ran into the gremlin’s arms even though I knew I had no heart to give him, let him comfort me…  I slept with him a couple of times, then took off!  I sucked!”

Daniel lets his rant subside on its own before responding.  “Yes, maybe you did - in the ordinary, flawed, struggling human being sort of way, not the Gothic monster-from-a-fairytale kind - but, still…  you were the first sexual partner Ari chose.  Truly chose: not a client, an enslaver, not some trick he needed to turn for food and warmth; not a choice tainted by the fucked-up dynamics of Marius’ little harem or some terrifying Satanic cult.  Just, finally, one consenting adult deciding to have sex with another, simply because he had the hots for him.  And…” the reporter comes closer to the rockstar, lightly tucking a stray blond curl behind his ear, “Armand told me how much he enjoyed it - that, even back then, you were a skilled, considerate lover; you really cared about ensuring he had a good time.  Yeah, hooking up with you at that point was probably a mistake - but it was Ari’s mistake to make, freely and on his own terms - as it should be.  You gave him that.  So, like I said before… thanks.”

They stare at each other silently for an interminable-seeming moment, both feeling strangely moved.  Finally, Lestat gives a brisk nod.  “I’m… glad, fledgling.”  He blows out a huff of breath.  “So…  Can we agree to never speak of this again?”

Daniel lets out a long, grateful exhale.  “Oh, thank God.  Sounds like a plan.  OK, Blondie - good talk.”  He turns on his heels and all but jogs out of the room.

******

“Ah…” Lestat sighs contentedly, allowing his heartbeat to slow as he stretches out on the cozy bed beneath the RV’s UV-filmed, privacy-tinted windows.  “As usual mon cher, your taste is impeccable.”  They hadn’t even bothered with a cover story as to why they wanted to spend some solo time exploring the vehicle (as if the others would have believed them), Louis merely brushing off Daniel’s crude remark with an offhand, “Listen, I paid for the thing - I get to take my man out to christen it.”  And they sure have…  Lestat relishes his husband’s welcome weight settling on his chest in the afterglow just as much as, moments ago, he’d relished the sight of him riding Lestat, transcendent in ecstasy.

Alas…  “Hey, honeychild…”  Louis’ fingertips trace patterns on Lestat’s chest, sending love but also vibrating with anxiety.  “I’m sorry, but I gotta try to ask.”  He hems and haws for a few seconds, but his tone stays gentle.  “Back in your fledgling days, you, well, lived with the Roman for a while.”  Green eyes, full of nothing but concern,  “He didn’t… hurt you, did he?”

Lestat sighs.  “Not the way he hurt Armand.  He never beat me - I do not know why, it’s not as if I could have done much about it if he had - but, I could tell he wanted to sometimes, could see his fingers twitch when I became particularly impossible.”  He frowns.  His features shift, as if he has just realized something.  “I’d start to see images: how much power he truly had, what he could do to me - at the time, I didn’t even realize he purposely projected these things into my mind - and, well, I’d already learnt, on my own skin, what an elder vampire was capable of…”  Lestat stubbornly studies the butter-yellow blanket as his voice goes quiet.  “It made me behave, all right.  I never even saw it that way, but…  I think I actually was scared of Marius.  Maybe he succeeded more than I thought - when he manipulated me, decided how much he should allow me to know, made me feel he kept me in the dark for my own good because I was still little more than an ignorant, badly-brought-up schoolboy…”

Louis squeezes his Companion tighter, hoping his hands say what words cannot quite manage.  After a pause, Lestat resumes.  “As for… the other thing,” he gives a short, utterly grim laugh.  “I was too old for him.  Beyond pawing at me a little, the Roman couldn’t be bothered…  Back then, I barely had a clue about the Mind Gift; still, once in a while, I’d catch a glimpse: Marius delighting in our resemblance - ‘like father and son,’ he’d think - picturing how I must have looked at fifteen, at twelve; cursing his bad luck that he hadn’t known me then so he could ‘teach me things’...”  Lestat’s body gives a small, involuntary shudder.

Both vampires lie in a silent, close embrace for a long, pregnant minute, tactfully giving each other support without calling attention to the suffering.  Lestat rubs his fist over his eyes.  Louis, voice suspiciously gruff and thick, finally says.  “We’re gonna get that fucker, baby.”

‘Bien sur; we will,” the blond agrees hastily.  His voice may shake a little; his resolve does not.  “For Armand.”

“For Armand.”  Louis nods; then, with a kiss, adds, “And for you, too, honeychild.”

Chapter Text

The undead existence isn’t for everyone, but it does bring some unexpected blessings.  For one thing, to vampire eyes, autumnal foliage is beautiful even in the night.  Daniel can’t help feeling entranced as the woods, all dressed up in their dying decadence, roll by on either side of the road.  His unguarded, delighted face elicits a fond smile and a murmured, “My beautiful Boy,” from Armand, whose turn it is to drive.  The spelled string around his finger pulls the elder’s consciousness, guiding as surely as some supernatural satellite's navigation.  Their luxury machine (informally christened “The Vampolycule Van”) carries them inexorably toward their as-yet-unclear, but ever-nearing destination.  All four had agreed that their best hope lies in secrecy: travel speedily, yet do nothing - not even exceeding the speed limit - to attract undue attention; feed from farmed bags, placing maximum nutrition above taste; do not review the already-memorized plan, either aloud or mind-to-mind: you never know who might be listening.

So, the passengers keep their thoughts occupied.  Daniel busies himself entertaining the driver, never tiring of the sight of Armand surrounded by Autumn, unable to keep from thinking how much even the most splendid leafy crown pales before the glow of his Maker’s jack-o-lantern eyes.  Lestat, with sickening seriousness, occupies himself with Mojo’s manicure, his coat, and, finally, his teeth.  The oversized mutt, pampered like some degenerate French prince’s prized poodle, shows his appreciation by drooling happily on his Papa’s top-shelf pyjamas.  Louis (sporting a matching sleepwear set), sprawls on one of the RV’s couches, hands cradling a paperback whose virtues he extolls to his travel companions.

“C’mon, don’t be closed-minded,” he chides.  “So what: I never gave a damn about hockey, either, and you don’t need to…  This series is really good.  Romance, drama, happy endings, plenty of steamy scenes between hot men - what’s not to like?  Here, listen to this…”

With the polished delivery of an audiobook, he begins to read aloud.  His softened-edge Creole accent stirs life into a prurient account of a secret tryst between two players from rival teams - one a brash, dominant blond looking for love despite bearing many scars from a cruel upbringing; the other a sweet, still-closeted brunet bottom with far more strength and guts than he gives himself credit for.  Lestat regards the reader with a kid-hypnotized-by-bedtime-story look so nauseatingly adorable that, honestly, it’s hard not to fall for, just a little bit.  Armand shoots the rear-view mirror his best condescending eyeroll, but begins to shift in the driver’s seat, suggesting he’s not nearly as unaffected as he lets on.  And Daniel…  Daniel’s getting ideas.

Blessing the way his fingers, on both hands, have grown unbelievably dexterous since his transformation, the journalist reaches over and, without preamble, undoes the zipper on his Maker’s trousers.  The elder vampire’s reproof might ring more convincingly if his body did not instantly respond upon getting released.  “Go on, Mr. Superpowers…  Show us just how good your driving skills really are.”  Daniel teases, taking him in hand.

He works the head of Armand’s cock with his thumb in almost-lazy circles.  It hardens.  A bead of pre-come forms at the slit.  Daniel uses it to lubricate the sensitive skin, then starts on the long, pretty shaft.  Armand moans.  From his position on the couch, Lestat hisses, “Gremlin, if you make us crash, I swear to God…”

“Ah, honey, let him be…”  Louis drawls, horny and indulgent.  “Remember our last trip to Night Island, when we all got drunk on Bloody-Ritas and ‘Mand convinced us to ‘borrow’ that speedboat?  How he never steered us wrong that night, not even while literally shooting his load down my throat?  We’ll be fine.  I, however, have kind of a… situation here.”  The vampire gestures at the rather obvious tenting in his pants.  “Why don’t you help me out with that, huh, angel boy?”

Lestat pulls down Louis’ pyjamas past his thighs with a snap of the waistband.  “The scene…  Take it from the top,” he orders with a smirk.  His sensual mouth hovers right above where Louis needs it most.  Louis resumes reading at once.

It’s a far less polished performance than before.  From the moment that blond head sinks down, that signature Du Lac narration begins to stutter into gaps and gasps and sighs, the words tumbling out disjointedly.  In the driver’s seat, Armand maintains his ice-queen mask, but those amber eyes flicker, just enough to get caught.  “Uh-uh, Boss: eyes on the road,” Daniel teases, speeding up the rhythmic motions of his fist.  “Don’t look… but you don’t need to, not when you can hear it…  Hear all those nasty sounds they make when Frenchie’s giving a blow job…”

“Yes, Beloved…”  Armand still drives straight as an arrow, his arousal only coming through in the languorous cadence of his voice.  “Those two…  No decorum…  No self-control at all…  Oh, my beloved Daniel, faster…  Just like that…  And Louis, really?  Those noises - one would think you’ve never once gotten your cock sucked before…”

The book drops.  “That’s because…”  Louis’ fingers wind their way through yellow curls, “every time feels like the first time with my pretty baby…  Les, your mouth…  You’re a cockslut, an artist, an angel…  You make me lose control…  It’s all I can do not to spill in seconds like… like some shy virgin…”

“Speaking of…” Daniel rasps.  Yeah, OK, he’s rock-hard, too, sue him.  “Blondie wants me to ask you how you want it: all over his face, his pretty, pink tongue out for it…  Or deep down his throat with him  - fuck! - swallowing around you?”

Louis makes the sort of high-pitched sound which, maybe, would embarrass him if anyone but the men here heard it.  “Please, don’t pull back, inside, babe, please, need you to take it, Les, my love, please, I, ah…  Ah!  Oh, honeychild…”

His hips snap upward.  Whole body arching like an archer’s bow.  Still, even in his ecstasy, tender enough to stop just short of hurting Lestat’s throat.  Louis’ mouth opens to produce what can, perhaps, be best described as a coloratura holding a high note.  And Lestat answers with a muffled groan.  The heated thing in Daniel’s fist twitches.  Armand barely makes a sound, but wet heat gushes out all over his Beloved’s fingers.

After a nearly indecent interval of “Love you, baby boy, fuck, love you so goddam much”; “Mon ange parfait, mon roi, je t’aime, je t’aime”; and Danny making a show of licking his hand clean with such a thoroughness that both porn stars and cats would be ashamed, Louis stands up.  “Right.”  He slurs and sways a little, like a sweetly tipsy party guest.  “Going to lie down in that bed back there.”  His thumb, like a hitchhiker’s, gestures toward the RV’s interior.  “And, FYI, if anybody just so happens to feel up to the challenge, this,” he shimmies off his PJs with a ballet dancer’s grace, pivots to show his plump backside to his fellow travellers, and lightly slaps his cheeks, “is on the menu…  As long as you don’t make me do a lick of work, or referee whose turn it is, or when, or how.”  Naked from the waist down, he shimmies off.

Not a word is spoken.  The Vampolycule Van skids to a near-stop, just before Armand expertly guides it to a hidden little glen.  Still silence.  Then, in perfect unison, two claw-nailed fingers point directly at Lestat.  “You’re going last, pal,” Armand and Daniel decree as one.