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"When I was younger, I wanted a daughter." Gabrielle smooths down the petticoats carefully, hands cool against Armand's flesh. "Mostly to irritate my husband."
Her hair brushes into her face and she brushes it out of her eyes with a soft hiss of irritation. It's longer than it was this evening, when she hacked it off as soon as she climbed out of the coffin. She could have kept it tied back and still performed manhood fairly well, but she insists on cutting it short, close as a prisoner being prepared for the guillotine.
I hate the pressure on the back of my neck, she says. Armand thinks she blames Lestat for not cutting her hair before she turned. He wants her to tell her it's not so bad, settling in a body that feels so wrong for eternity, but he's not sure she'd believe him, or that he'd believe himself.
Besides, Armand isn't here to talk. He's here to stand still for her, quiet as a mannequin, watching her gather a mass of swirling orang taffeta.
"Arms up," she orders, and he obeys. It's hard not to feel nervous, keenly aware of how large he is, six feet of muscle and teeth and scarred flesh. He usually wears oversized clothes to feel smaller, hiding from the realities of his flesh, but it's a more difficult task here with his hands in the air, exposed and looming all at once.
Gabriel has to stand on a stool to get the gown over his head, tugging it down with a little grunt. He keeps his hands up until she nods, and then he drops, fingers slack, back and neck still straight.
Just him and her, alone in the de Lioncourt's apartments. Lestat is out with Nicki, probably getting drunk on ingrates, probably likely to crawl home and pass out in a corner somewhere. If Armand can tell himself it doesn't matter to him, it won't.
"It's a good color, isn't it?" She takes the fabric in her hand, tracing it thoughtfully. "Matches your wildfire eyes." Her fingers flutter over him, tightening and threading. "Deep breath."
Armand does as he's told, sucking a sharp breath as the corset presses in tight around him. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but it's-- close. Close like she is, in her man's coat and man's boots and sharp blue gaze, jagged as her son's.
"Anyway, where was--oh, yes. I wanted a daughter. I hoped it would piss off my husband, like most things did, and I was also...curious. Perhaps a daughter would be easier to love than the boys, that was how things went with mothers and daughters, wasn't it?"
She guides him to a chair, sits him down. Armand adjusts the folds of his skirt, looks himself over cautiously. He's worn women's clothes before, been fucked in them, painted in them, but this feels...different, somehow. Everything about Gabrielle is different.
"Don't squirm," she orders, not looking up at him as she bends over a box of hair ribbons. "Lestat squirms all the time when we do this, it's maddening. Chatters like a proper devil, too--I'm glad you know how to be quiet."
Yes. Yes, Armand does know how to be still, to be good. There's warm pride, bubbling and unfamiliar, in the idea that he can do this for her.
He remembers stillness as a model, and again in the dark cells of Rome, when he'd lie very, very still to keep from wasting precious energy. Eyes closed, limp as a fresh corpse, lying in the dark hour after hour, day after day.
It's a simple enough process to do the same thing here, still in his chair, quiet as a mouse. Gabrielle shifts and moves him, tilting his head here and there as she keeps talking.
"When she was born--she was a revelation. So beautiful, so golden, so bright. The spitting image of me." A tremor in her voice, a rare thread of weakness. "My husband despised her, of course, but I...she was mine. Completely, utterly mine. I adored her."
She weaves the ribbons in, tugs one out and slides in another. Something about the motion of her fingers makes Armand think of another woman getting ready in the morning, weaving her long black hair into a braid, calling her children to come eat. She'd had brown eyes, he remembers, the exact shade of Amadeo's before he turned.
Not the eyes of a woman who'd sell her son into slavery, but then, what would such a woman look like? Perhaps there was a splinter of coldness in her, passed down to him. Ice inherited deep in the bone, where the wildfire didn't touch.
"But then she grew." Satisfied with his hair, she pulls out the makeup, the powders and rouge. Dusty from lack of use, but she pinches and rubs it between her fingers, licking her lips. "She grew, and suddenly she had little dresses, and her hair was in braids, and my husband starting talking about the possibilities of marriage when she grew older, whose family would benefit us the most, and--"
Her fingers tremble, slightly, when she dabs at his face. "She wasn't mine anymore. She belonged to her father, to a flesh she hadn't chosen. I knew it, looking at her, she'd grow tits and hair, she'd grow and bleed and birth, just as I had, but worse, because I had to see it from the outside looking in. She--she nauseated me. I couldn't help it. It was a relief when the sickness took her."
She stains his lips. "Smile," she says, and Armand does as he's told, thinking of the way Bianca taught him to smile, arrogant and tender all at once. Stroking his hair from his face, beaming, and he'd entertained confused fantasies of her being his mother and his wife and sister and his goddess, a strange medley of all the things a boy like him was supposed to have.
"After her was Lestat." Gabrielle smears powder across Armand's skin, cool and dry. "He'd be my daughter forever, happily, if I asked. He'd do anything forever, if I asked." A soft sigh. "If only he weren't so...demanding, about it. Maman, Maman, Maman. All day, every day. It grinds on the nerves."
I could be better, Armand wants to say, tucked behind the locked wall in his head. He could be better than Lestat, gentle and quiet and good. A tender little wife just for her, for them, unchanging porcelain waiting at the door. Ask the ashes of Marius de Romanus how good his favorite child could be, how perfectly still.
"He worships me." Gabrielle tucks a curl behind Armand's ear. "It can be a cruel thing, being worshiped. An adoring little echo, gazing up at you."
Armand had thought himself good at holding still, until Marius took him across the world and into a long-buried shrine, showing him those who'd truly mastered the craft. Two gods on their thrones, frozen, teetering on the edge of death without ever falling.
He remembers in particular the woman with her long shining locs that Marius had caressed, called her beautiful, called her goddess, got on his knees and drank her blood. Our parents, Amadeo, he'd said. Your Mother, and mine. When you are ready, you will drink from her veins, and she will make you holy.
He'd never had the chance. And he'd never worshiped her, not the way Marius perhaps expected him to. He'd tried, but he'd kept falling back into old habits, the ragged little mat in his small room at the palazzo, the kneeling and rising, the half-forgotten prayers he mumbled into the quiet.
Marius had thought the prayer an amusing affectation. Santino had whipped Armand to the spine when he was caught at it, letting the sun scorch his flayed back. Heathen. Whore. Idolator. Allesandre let him drink from her wrist afterward, tenderness so unexpected it scorched his insides like holy water was supposed to.
Gabrielle helps him stand, guides him towards the mirror. It takes a few minutes to adjust to his own reflection, the swirl of black and orange, red and white, her dark-clad smear at his side. The image resolves slowly, a dissolving pond in reverse, clarity so sharp it's frightening.
The contrast of powder and paint is jarring against his skin, but she's managed to keep it more striking than clownish. The gown clings strangely to his frame, but doesn't seem to be on the verge of ripping as he had feared. The ribbons in his hair make it look longer than it is, lovelier, sleeker.
"Not half bad," she murmurs, looking pleased with herself. "Looking at you from the right angle, you could be my little wife."
Armand lets himself smile at that, just a little, and she laughs. "Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself. Being a wife is nothing like it's cracked up to be." She's smiling, though, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "Wait for me a moment?"
He does as he's told, perfectly still, as if waiting before a canvas. He could almost pretend he's breathing in the smell of paint and sweat, feel Italian sun arching through the window, faint hunger in his belly. Soon he'll go home and laugh with the other boys, ruffle the hair of the little ones, sit at dinner by his master's side, he'll--
"There you are." Gabrielle's back, and at first it takes a moment to process what she's wearing. "Didn't move a muscle, did you?"
He didn't. He doesn't, but he wants to, know, wants to turn and stare at the...thing buckled around her hips. The sharp gleaming shine of it, like something between glass and bone.
"Go on." She gives one of the ribbons in his hair a little tug. "Come on down, take a closer look."
Armand does as she's told, sinking to his knees as best he can while navigating his skirts. At eye level, the cock--for cock it must be, even though he's never seen one strapped in like this--gleams wickedly, bright as a sword.
"Give it a try." Her fingers pet through his hair, tucking a loose strand behind one ear. "It's just like any other one, really."
It isn't, and yet it is. Cool on his tongue, dull and hard, it fills his mouth the same way Lestat's does, and he wonders wickedly if it's modeled on his. He laps and sucks along its length the way he would a flesh cock, savoring the way it scrapes the roof of his mouth as he takes it deeper and deeper.
"Fuck," Gabrielle's whispers, like she can really feel it, feel his mouth, his hot, frantic hunger. She rocks further down Armand's throat, fingers twining in his hair, steering him like the reins of the horse. Holding him still, then pulling him forward, back and forth, rough into the brutal slash of her hips.
The size of it makes his jaw ache, a dull throb in his ears. If he had to worry about suffocation, she might do it, might fuck him until he was nothing left than a corpse on the floor. She could do it, and she wouldn't care, and he could love her for that, maybe, he could love her for all of it.
Back and forth, he rocks on his knees. He thinks of prayer and then banishes the thought; he hasn't touched the old mat in decades, but he still doesn't want to bring any fragments of it to this place, this game, this swirl of ragged worship.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the mirror. He can see the woman on her knees, the man looming over her, the lines blurring and seeping between them. Gabrielle's hair glows like a coronet, like Armand's brothers going up in flames, like Amadeo with his curls painted a stranger's cherubic gold.
His skirts rustle as she prods a foot between his legs, pressing down ever so slightly. It hurts, it's good, it's so good, it's nothing like what Marius could make him feel, but it's the same buzz he got when Lestat ravished him in the box, Nicki's eyes burning into them, exquisite, electric.
"My good, sweet girl." Gabrielle's nails scratch his forehead, pulling painfully at his scalp. "So good for me, so nice. You were made for this, weren't you?"
Made for this. How many times has he heard that? On the ship, on the brothel, in the palazzo, in the depths of Rome with Santino's rat-fouled cock continuing to thrust long after Armand began retching blood. Made for this, before they sent him away and oh, how long has it been since someone dared put him on his knees?
He'd missed the words, a bone-deep longing that sends tears to his eyes. Armand blinks them back, terrified of ruining the makeup, of damaging Gabrielle's perfect work. That's what Lestat does, Lestat fidgets, Lestat makes a mess, defies the coven's rules. Lestat is foolish and wild and beautiful and beloved and--and--
"Maman?"
Here. Lestat is here.
Gabrielle neatly draws her cock out of Armand's throat, letting him heave for air. "You're late," she says coolly, patting Armand on the head. "Where's Nicki? Did he go find a nice sunrise to die in like he's been threatening for weeks?"
Armand dares to shoot a look Lestat's way, resisting the urge to bury his flushing face in Gabrielle's leg. He can see Lestat leaning in the doorway, blinking at them, ruddy-faced and ruffled. Soft snores echo from over his shoulder, a soft sigh.
"He--he's sleeping. I..." Lestat licks his lips, staring down at Armand dizzily.
"Your friend was helping me entertain myself while you were gone." Gabrielle tugs his hair, stepping back to let Armand rise to his feet. "Cleans up rather well, doesn't he?"
"He, he does." Lestat stumbles forward, looking over Armand blearily. Armand squirms, suddenly feeling ridiculous, wanting to tear the gown to shreds, tear them to shreds. Leave the de Lioncourts soft, smoldering ruins around the room, so they don't have to look at him again.
Instead, he stands still as Lestat reaches out, brushes a hand down Armand's powdered face, through his beribboned curls. His fingers adjust the folds of Armand's gown, tugging the molten fabric until it threatens to tear.
"I thought we returned this gown," he murmurs. "It disagreed with my coloring." He licks his lips, pupils blown out like he gets after a feeding.
"The world does not revolve around your dislikes and disagreements, my dear," Gabrielle points out, lips twitching in a smile.
"Hmm." Lestat gathers Armand's skirts in his hands, lifting them to expose his stockings, his garters. Lestat has seen him in far less, but Armand still feels flayed, split apart and opened into their hands.
Lestat sucks a finger in his mouth and nudges it between Armand's thighs. Poking, teasing, prying. Armand lets out a muffled whine, pressing his lips together, struggling with the urge not to squirm. Still, still, keep still. That's the game, the challenge, the lesson. He loves games.
"Come on." Gabrielle guides Armand back a step, positioning him more firmly in the pane of glass, gathering his skirts firmly in one hand as the other settles on his hip. Lestat follows, fumbling for his trousers, cock springing free in a puff of soft gold
Armand swallows, watching them both glide in either side of him. The de Lioncourts are gilded reflections all their own, beautiful as anything sold in Venice, including him. They shimmer and spark, eyes narrowed with the same hungry, the same rasping breaths.
"Daughter," Gabrielle says, looking directly at Lestat, teeth glinting. "Why don't you say hello to your baby sister?"
He is centuries older than either of them, killed more people than they have ever met, but the words baby sister make his breath catch almost as much as the rough drag of Lestat's cock forcing its way inside. Huge as ever and well aware of it, the fucking bastard, a razorblade feather scraping over Armand's nerves.
"Such pretty tits," Lestat slurs, fingers writhing up Armand's bodice. He squeezes in time with his frantic, greedy thrusts, panting dully in Armand's ear, their tangled reflections rippling like water. Gabrielle reaches out, dissolving into them.
Her finger pushes in next to Lestat's cock and Lestat whines, sharp and brittle. "Maman." Gabrielle's face works for a heartbeat, messages Armand can't read and yet understands all too well, smoothed away in a heartbeat.
She adds another finger, another. Letting the skirts fall, her hand comes up to stroke Armand's face, nails scratching over his chin. Her eyes are chips of sea glass, splintered coldness, dirty, deceitful. Fascinating.
Her cock forces her way inside and--it's not like it's the first time Armand's had two cocks inside him, of course not. He's had two, he's had three, felt beads and fists and cruel unwieldy plugs. He's been fucked in front of a glass, he's been fucked in a dress, he's been fucked in more ways than he could ever possibly remember even if his mind was not full of cuts and holes.
But it's been so long, and in the mirror he can see them folding around him like the petals of a flower, like fire, like sunlight. Like adoration, forgiveness, the sweep of coming home. Mother and sister, father and brother, everything he left behind presses in on him, eats him alive.
He keens, the loudest sound they've made since they've started. They laugh, beautiful vibrating sounds splitting his insides; he guesses the noise doesn't bother Gabrielle anymore. Their hips jerk in time, practiced, one always pushing in while the other pushes out, jockeying for space as they keep him endlessly, agonizingly full.
On the swelling waves of them, he rocks, stuffed full, overwhelmed, bathed in something that must be loved. His mouth hangs open, noise choked up inside, he doesn't want anything to drown out the sound of their gasps, their
It's hard to tell who bites him first, Gabrielle on one side or Lestat on the other. It's impossible to tell from the hungry buzzing medley of their thoughts, only that their teeth are suddenly there inside him, feeding off opposite sides of his neck.
Blood drains from him, a curl of memory eagerly rifled through. Lestat focuses on the time Armand and Riccardo got drunk together, buzzing laughter, sweaty kisses, the night sky blazing overhead.
Gabrielle, for her part, grabs for a scattering of different recollections--a growth spurt, the broad ripple of muscle, climbing tangles of body hair. Armand's voice dropping, deepening, the first jagged spurt of fear, of growing too old, of growing wrong. Painful memories, but she hungers for them, as if she wants to cut her tongue on the shards.
She pulls back first, mouth dripping red. One fang slicing her lip, she leans forward again, kissing him on the lips this time. Her blood burbles on his tongue and he tastes the first moment she cut her hair, the jagged slice of scissors in loose locks, the shine in the mirror. Incandescent, transformed, rendered right in a way he can barely comprehend.
Armand spasms, red-white spray dripping over Gabrielle's clothes, and then Lestat is coming inside him, not for the first time, but he's never shook like this before, frantic, splintered, ruined .
"Maman," he sobs, and Gabrielle's face twists, somewhere between joy and revulsion. Her hips jerk, pleasure cresting, and Armand feels something like disappointment when she does not fill him up the way Lestat does, does not paint his insides as she painted his face.
Still, she sags against him in a way that means he's doing something good for her, something right, for her and them and all of them. Lestat sags in the same way, a nest of straw-colored hair tickling Armand's throat like a color, the flushed-fucked friction of their usually cold bodies swaying over his skin.
In the mirror, they stand, a perfect triumvirate. He's taller than both of them, and that feels good, now, a vast maternal figure who can reach out to catch them as their cocks slip free. He can cuddle them close to his sides, stroke their hair like he used to do for his little brothers, savor their reflected scents.
Soon, they will all need to go clean up, to do what they can for the stained clothes, to get ready for coffin and join Nicki in his rest. The de Lioncourts will sleep, and Armand will, too, and perhaps they might even dream of each other, as lovers ought.
For now, he holds them, and he holds him. Blood smears across his amber skirts, vivid as a painting, a tulip in blossom, breathless with death and delight. In the mirror he is a flame, and they the white-hot smoke, circling him, holding him close.
Gabrielle's head settles on his shoulder, regarding Armand's reflection dolefully. Poor thing, she thinks. It will break his heart when we leave.
Armand looks away from her, back to his feet. Outside the apartment walls, he can hear birds singing, just waiting for the sun to rise.