but those of you with tongues, sing my song

"Please," he says, and just as his lips are coming together for the next word Louis cuts him off.

"Not tonight," he says. "Sorry, sweetheart."

It was kind of him, objectively, not to allow Armand to say it. There is nothing worse than claiming a master and then being set aside, as if you were somehow supposed to remember what to do with your own body without instruction. But it still hurts. He knows Louis can see the hurt on his face. He wants him to. 

He could provoke Louis. He's done it before. It's almost laughably easy, and reliably gets him the kind of beating that makes him shiver with delight to think on, moments that stand out in the dull grey stream of time like stars in the night sky. 

But Louis' reaction to losing his temper is unpredictable. Sometimes he thanks Armand, says he needed it. Sometimes he's prickly and guilt-ridden for weeks. Things are going well. They're sitting together in front of Daniel's barrage, recalling the good times, the beginnings, when Paris was beautiful, and they are enjoying it. Louis is still exhausted by it, but it's good. Armand doesn't want to ruin that.

But the idea of going another day with nothing. He almost doesn't have to open his mind's images on purpose, it spills out of him too easily: it doesn't have to be pain, please, though I'd prefer that, but anything, let me use my mouth, you don't have to do anything--

"Armand." Louis rolls onto his back, a hand over his eyes. "Christ. Go ask your boy for it, if you're that desperate."

It feels like being slapped. Sort of in a good way, and then Louis' fingers sneak under his shirt to rub an absent circle into his lower back, and then almost all the way good. Still. "That's not-- we're not, we never--"

Louis chuckles. "Yeah, I'm sure you never got it from him when you were chasing him around like a pet gerbil," he says. And then, in that cocky, commanding tone with just a hint of drawl: "Give him a chance, he could do it."

Armand pushes himself away. He stares in Louis' innocent-looking face, and demands entrance to his mind, and Louis lets him in easily. Nothing to hide, which is good, because he couldn't hide it if he wanted to. And yes, mostly he's tired, and he doesn't want to deal with Armand right now, with who he is, with what he needs, in a way that sort of makes Armand want to walk out of this apartment, find a shallow grave under an old tree, and fall asleep in it. But there's something else.

There's Daniel's skeptical looks, his cynical little headlines on everything Louis says. It's why he's here, of course, why Louis had brought him: someone to see the story from the outside. Someone who will never be so seduced by it that he starts to see it from another's point of view.

And when it was just Lestat being viewed through the all-seeing eye of historical context and emotional remove, that was one thing. But even Daniel Molloy isn't immune to the effect of having the object of the tale actually in the room. There are the things he says about Armand, and the things he could say. The things Louis just imagines him saying, and it hardly matters whether or not the thought was even in his mind. Things like: oh, so your new boyfriend the child sex slave said he likes it when it hurts, and you said, I can help with that! or, perhaps worse: so he made those big cute eyes at you and you let yourself be taken for a ride a second time? Can't you tell a snake when you see one, by now?

Louis wants him to. Louis wants to sit across from him and know that Daniel couldn't help himself giving Armand what he wants when he asks pretty. He wants to say, You're not so objective.

It's a challenge. Armand likes a challenge, as long as it's Louis setting it.

"Okay," he whispers.

Louis squeezes his arm. "There's my sweet thing," he says, and then withdraws just as Armand is about to melt into him. "Go on," he says, a light push to his side. "Have your fun."

The walk to Daniel's room feels very long. It is like a mirror image of previous walks, when he has been sent from his master to spend time with another just because they asked. Now, he must ask. Beg? Convince? Of course, he could simply force Daniel's body to do what he wants it to, and leave his mind empty of the encounter. But that would only accomplish Armand's purpose, and not Louis'.

He knocks on Daniel's bedroom door, and the journalist opens it wearing a soft grey t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He used to sleep naked. But indoor temperature tends to be kept low in Dubai, and Armand supposes the human staff probably keep the place according to their own preferences. He's never really thought about it. "May I come in?" he asks.

Daniel narrows his eyes. "Do you still have to ask if you're inside your own house?"

"I would be physically capable of entering without asking even if the property were yours," Armand says. "But I would ask, anyway. I don't wish to enter if you don't want me."

Relatively bold, but not past the point of deniability. Daniel's mind is a churning mess, a narrative instinct like a tracking dog warring with a quiet selfishness that makes Armand feel much too tender towards him.

"Sure," says Daniel, and stands aside to let him in.

He's kept the room neat, just a suitcase open beside the bed, the half-open door to the bathroom offering a glimpse of pill bottles and various tubes strewn over the counter. His laptop is plugged in at the desk, but closed, and a book is sitting open on the bedside table. An old hardcover, something that lies open with the pages flat when set aside. There's a chair across from the bed, facing it. Armand sits on the edge of the bed instead.

Daniel just stands and looks at him for a moment. He is looking in a way that makes Armand think, yes, this could work. Louis was right about him.

Then he sits beside Armand. "So," he says in a voice that is somehow both forced and entirely natural to him, "What can I do for you?"

Armand had not had time to prepare for this. He is not an actor. He had never tried to be. When he wants something from Louis, he tells him with his mind, or with words if it fits into the easy groove of well-used language. When Louis wants something from him, he takes it, and Armand begs for more. He does not know how to do this.

But his body is his body. It knows how to seduce. It had known how to seduce before he knew what that meant, when he could only think why are you doing this to me, why me. A terrible betrayal, returned from only hesitantly. He does not always trust his body. It is safer to trust Louis. But he trusts it for this.

He is turned towards Daniel, his eyes on his lips. Daniel's lips have texture, vertical lines, bumps like tiny sand dunes. They are bracketed by the deep lines on his cheeks, the imprints of smiles past. Armand thinks he would do anything for a face that could keep what was done to it. His eyes: blue or maybe green. He has to stare at them through the window of his glasses, slightly cloudy.

Daniel is not stupid. He doesn't allow himself to say stupid things, either, if he can help it, which is why Armand feels him bite back any questions like what the fuck is going on before they exit his mouth.

"It's a really bad idea to try to influence the course of this interview with sex," Daniel says. "I'm not nicer to people I've had sex with. If anything I'm worse. Ask my exes."

"I am here," Armand says, "selfishly."

Daniel knows a lie when he sees one. He also seems to know a truth when he sees one, because he believes that right away. Perhaps the idea of Armand being selfish just isn't all that far-fetched. "And what does your maître think of that?" he asks.

"He's aware," says Armand. As he says it, the last of the warmth of Louis' direction deserts him, and he is left with nothing but the feeling of rejection. His nails dig into his thigh. He wants to scream. He wants to sew his own mouth shut.

They've already agreed, Daniel's mind throws out, that Armand is here selfishly. He considers and then discards Louis the pimp, and Armand pushes down the flare of anger at it, because you can't punish people for things they decide not to say. Well, you can. But Armand doesn't want to punish anyone at the moment.

"Okay," says Daniel. "Look, I'm easy. I like the truth. That's what gets me hot. So tell me what you want and why you want it, from me, right now, and I'll give it to you if I can."

Which should make it easy, shouldn't it. Just the truth. He just has to say what he wants.

"I want you," says Armand, "to hurt me. Or, if that is unacceptable to you, to use me sexually in whichever way seems most appealing to you. And I want it from you--" he should have something to say, there are plenty of ways in which he does want Daniel, but right now all he can feel from him are thoughts that he doesn't even know if they're Daniel's or Louis' or his own, just a traumatized child, just a lying backstabbing snake, you'd have to be an idiot to-- and he doesn't mean to say "I don't want it from you, I want it from Louis, but I'm boring, so very predictable, always wanting the same things, over and over and over, metronomic, so he deserves a break every so often, and I'm just using him, aren't I, so it doesn't really matter if it's him or you or anyone else, it's more than I should ask from anyone, but I just keep taking and taking because I can't stop myself." And he doesn't finish so much as run out, hit a brick wall beyond which there are no more words.

Daniel's face has so many lines on it. He cannot tell which emotion it is showing, because it seems to be showing every emotion at once. He does not trust himself to look in his mind.

Then there are arms around his shoulders, and Daniel is pulling him in. Armand's head goes to his shoulder so easily. "All right," says Daniel. "All right." He chuckles, a minute rumble that Armand can feel from his lungs through his chest. "I was going to say 'was that so hard,' but yeah. I guess it was."

Armand nods, his chin pressing into Daniel's shoulder.

"I could be lying," he can't help himself from saying. "I could be controlling your mind."

"Yeah. You could be. Could be, none of this is real, and I'm lying on the floor of my apartment in New York hallucinating it all. Best I can do is evaluate the information I have with the mind I've got left."

And then Daniel pushes himself away, slides back on the bed until his back is against the headboard. He spreads his legs out in front of him and pats his thighs. "So. I think I'm in Dubai. I think I know what you're asking for, and I think you're telling the truth. You wanna get spanked? Haven't done this for a while, but." Daniel shrugs. "It's not complicated."

Armand feels frozen. What blood he has in him rushes to his cheeks. It's always like this, the first moment, even with Louis, an instant of disbelief, that this is really going to happen, something nearly regret but too much anticipation for it. And this is Daniel, and he's gesturing to his lap expectantly, like he's expecting Armand to just-- lay himself out.

Daniel waits a beat, then says, "Come on, then. Or, something else. You just have to tell me. You don't like something, tell me to stop."

"No," Armand feels shocked into movement, "This is good, this..." he strips off his shirt and is about to reach for the waistband of his pants when Daniel grabs his wrist gently.

"I'll do that," he says, "That's part of the theatre of it, hmm?"

The theatre of it. Armand crawls over, pants loosened but still on, and drapes himself horizontally across Daniel's lap. His groin presses against Daniel's. Daniel is not quite hard, he thinks, but perhaps not entirely unaffected. He runs a hand down Armand's bare back, up to his neck, and pats the hair at the base of his skull. Armand is breathing fast. There is nothing to be frightened of, Daniel could not possibly hurt him in any way that matters; but his body, operating on some other wisdom, doesn't know that.

Daniel starts hitting him. There's no ceremony to it, no official start, no counting. Nothing for Armand to do. It doesn't hurt very much, especially not over cloth, but it's something to focus on, and the gentleness of it soothes the strange fear in the pit of his stomach from being laid out like this in front of someone who isn't Louis.

He closes his eyes, pillows his hands under his head. Daniel has good, big hands. They tremble when given some delicate task, but he starts hitting harder after a few minutes, and it feels confident, like this is what they were made for.

By the time Daniel's fingers sneak under the waistband of his pants, Armand's skin is sensitive enough that he understands the purpose of the theatre. He presses his lips together against a moan as Daniel pushes his pants and underwear down, slowly, fabric dragging over his skin. He stops just when they get to his knees, trapping him. Armand wants to protest. He is too aware of how he must look, immobilized by his own clothing, ass in the air, undignified. He wants to be beautiful, doing this.

Then Daniel puts one of his big warm blood-filled human hands on Armand's ass, and he forgets to look beautiful. He just wants more of that. Daniel starts slapping him on bare skin and it is so much better. It heats him, like blood, and though individually none of the hits are really enough to shock him with the pain, they run together and glow in his mind with the colours of a sunset.

He is, he realizes, wriggling around on Daniel's lap. He's not trying to get away, exactly, but each hit washes through him like a wave, and reflects off the insides of him, and the reflections wash into each other to create new eddies that cause him to twitch and shiver. He could be still, if he were told to, and the reflections would build higher inside. But he hasn't been told, so he moves, and he can feel Daniel's cock getting harder against his lower belly.

Daniel stops, some amount of time later. He is breathing a little bit hard. He laughs a little. "Hand's getting sore," he says. "You want more?"

Armand hesitates. He should not ask--

Daniel's other hand squeezes the back of his neck. "Truth, please," he says, and his voice rings with command. It is a voice hinted at but never before experienced and oh, oh, Louis was right.

"Yes," says Armand meekly.

"Good." That voice again. Armand wants to live inside of it. "Tell you what. I'm gonna fuck your face, take the edge off, give my hand a break. Then you'll get more."

Yes, yes. Armand starts to push himself up but that hand comes down on his back again, pressing him down with something more insistent than mere physical force behind it. Instead Daniel pulls his pants and underwear the rest of the way off pushes him to roll over. The tender skin of his ass and thighs rubs pleasantly against the covers as Daniel positions him with a few pillows under his head and undresses. Armand does only what Daniel's hands guide him to do, and no more. His mind is iridescent haze and a faint loop of I think you're telling the truth.

His mouth is at the perfect height for Daniel to crawl up, his thighs on either side of Armand's chest, and feed him his cock. Armand waits, lips parted, watching. Daniel's knees press into his shoulders, slightly too much of a stretch to be elegant for him. As he gets into position, he chuckles again. "Can't be the best view, but you comfortable?"

Above him: sparse curls of grey chest hair, thicker around Daniel's nipples. The gentle protrusion of his lower belly, more hair that leads down to the base of his cock. His cock itself, thick, swollen pink with blood and desire. The topology of his skin, different colours, textures. "Your body is exquisite," says Armand. It spills out of him like the truth had before, accidental, just like Daniel likes it.

Daniel licks his lips. He doesn't say anything, just puts a gentle hand on the top of Armand's head and guides himself into Armand's mouth with the other.

Humans taste like blood. Even through skin they do, and the skin of the member in his mouth is so thin, the blood so near the surface. Daniel does not seem concerned about the fangs that could, if displaced by the tiniest bit, turn this into a very different act. Which he shouldn't be, because Armand wants exactly what he's getting far, far more than he wants blood. His body told the truth about what he wanted, and Daniel believed him.

He wants Daniel to believe him all the time with the same easy, confident instinct that he does now, sliding his cock in and out of Armand's pliant mouth. He could force Daniel's body and cloud his mind, but it wouldn't be the same. This is only available in response to the truth. And once the sun comes up, and Daniel is back in front of his laptop with the recording running, Armand can no longer give him that.

Daniel's hips slow, the tip of his cock resting momentarily on Armand's chin before he pulls it off. "You okay?" he asks.

Armand opens his mouth to say yes, and then remembers. They are in a bubble of space and time held together only by the surface tension of Armand's truthfulness, and that is a fragile force.

"No," he says. "because I am wanting things I threw away a long time ago. Please." He opens his mouth for it, eyes begging. Every part of him begging. And the bubble of truth holds, and Daniel slides back in.

Daniel takes his mouth firmly, just skirting the edge of rough. His belly undulates just above Armand's field of vision, his breath coming quickly, his entire miraculous body working towards his own orgasm. It is like Armand is a part of him, some other limb whose purpose is simply to bring pleasure. Daniel warns "getting close--" with a little motion indicating that he'll pull out if Armand wants, as if he's not in the mouth of a creature that wants to drink his insides. Armand grabs his hips to keep him there, and swallows as Daniel's body jerks overtop of him. It tastes like getting a mouthful of the sea.

Daniel sits down heavily beside him, his thighs visibly shaking. "Fuck," he pants. "Fuck, that was good." Armand just smiles at the ceiling, waiting for whatever Daniel decides next.

"Okay," he says when he's caught his breath, nudging Armand's shoulder. "Turn over." They don't get back into their previous positions; Armand just rolls onto his belly, spreading his legs a little, resting his arms above his head. Laid out.

Daniel trails fingers down his spine. "You want an orgasm?" he asks bluntly. "My mouth, my fingers, anything you want. Uh, actually, my dick's probably off the table at this point."

He should want to come, shouldn't he. That would make it normal, that he demands this. That he'll show up at Daniel's room begging for it. Just a bit of foreplay, everyone likes that sort of thing.

"No," he whispers, too quietly for human ears.

Daniel leans in. The truth, out loud. That's the only price. "No," he manages again, somehow.

Daniel hits him harder, this time. He hits as hard as his body is capable of, which is more than Armand would have thought. He's taken more, of course, he knows that intellectually, but where he is now there is no point of comparison that holds still enough for that to matter. All he is is the last hit and the next hit and the body in between.

When Daniel starts slowing down it's probably from fatigue, but he disguises it well; he runs his hands over where he's hit, scrapes his short brittle human nails over him. Armand trembles at it, the tiny sharp lines of sensation almost as absorbing as the pain, then giggles at it, something in him releasing without his permission. Daniel just lets him roll around, his body convulsing with strange delight, and looks on with a sort of bemused pride.

He ends up with his face pressed to Daniel's thigh, breathing in the blood and skin and sweat-scent. Daniel's fingers pat through his tangled hair, pulling the knots out as he finds them. It feels so good. No vampire, as far as he knows, has yet figured out how to freeze themselves. The trick only works on other people. Armand wishes he could do it to himself instead and stay just like his for hours, days, forever.

It goes on, at least, long enough that eventually Daniel reaches over, takes off his glasses, and turns off the bedside lamp. The darkness hardly makes any difference to Armand, but Daniel lies down more fully beside him, pulls another pillow under his head.

"Going to go to sleep," he says, one hand still on Armand's head, one resting on his side. "You can... it's probably not your bedtime, huh."

"No," says Armand. "But I would like to stay here until you fall asleep, and watch you."

Daniel laughs. He takes his hands off Armand, but it's okay, because he's pulling up the blanket and curling around himself like a cat, and Armand's skin still stings when he sits up to observe him. "Might end up watching me lie wide awake in terror, but sure."

He doesn't seem particularly terrified. His eyes are closed, and his breathing calm, when Daniel adds, "I meant it, you know. It doesn't change anything about what we're doing. You don't get a pass on your bullshit. Actually, you get less of one, now that I know there's something in you besides the bullshit."

Armand swallows. He's glad the lights are off, and Daniel's eyes are closed. "I understand," he whispers.

"Hmm." Daniel burrows further into the pillow. He is definitely not terrified. "And next time bring a hairbrush or something, my hand is going to be swollen tomorrow."

"Okay."

He watches Daniel's face until something in it relaxes, his mind relinquishing control. His leg jerks. His belly makes digestive sounds. Armand stays longer than he meant to, listening.

When he slips back into his and Louis' bedroom, Louis is asleep only fitfully. It's difficult for him, to go to sleep before the sun comes up, but he needs to if he's going to wake during the day. Armand will stay with him, watching over him.

Louis pulls Armand into his arms as soon as he climbs into the bed, his hands curling around his body to press into the fresh bruises that Armand is carefully preventing from healing. Eventually, his concentration will lapse, and they'll slip away from him without his even noticing. The truth wants to spill out of him, like a river that has cut a pathway down a mountain. It's harder than before, to stop its flow. But he has been practicing for a long time. And the reward is worth it.

"Feeling good, Arun?" Louis asks, the permission sweeping up the last of Armand's resentment.

"Yes, maître," he breathes.

"Anything else?"

"You were right, maître."

"There we are." He can feel Louis' smile against his shoulder. "Usually am. Everything's gonna be okay."