Chapter Text
Of Armand's two gods, Louis is by far the harsher. Instead of setting aside a specific month for fasting, he'll wait at random--usually when Armand has just started thinking of planning a new hunt, the hunger sharpening in his belly--to say why don't you push it back a few days, baby. A week. A month.
Armand does what he's told, of course. No sipping from the Farm blood, no lapping from Louis's neck, no feeding on his own limbs. He isn't even permitted to swallow Louis's seed, or lap the sweat from his pits. He opens his mouth for random inspections, tilting his head back so Louis can peer down his dry throat.
Louis milks him regularly, tugging Armand's cock until it's viciously sore, lapping red spurts from Armand's throat. He doesn't stop until Armand is coming dry, until Armand is weeping without tears, his whole body wrung like a rag.
The hunger sharpens from a needle to a knife, twisting in his guts. He feels his head growing light, his whole body threatening to drift off the ground. Louis balances him on one knee at dinner, one hand pressed against Armand's hollow stomach as he loudly slurps blood with the other.
"I could leave you like this, baby," he says, standing behind Armand at the mirror. Armand gazes at his own face in the glass, his bones peeking through the cheeks, his collarbones jutting like clothes hangar. He looks like a sculpture of copper wire, impossibly delicate and liable to collapse at any moment.
"Just...watch as you got hungrier and hungrier, until you were screaming." Louis hooks his chin over Armand's shoulder, his whole body glowing with vitality next to Armand's. "I'd watch you die, right in front of me, like you were buried alive on your two feet. You'd let it happen, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, Maitre." Armand's voice is a grinding rasp, the vibration painful in his throat. Louis smiles and lifts his chin off Armand's shoulder, Armand's skin darkening in a bruise. Louis takes great joy in striking him over the next few days, leaving him mottled and vibrant.
When Armand's legs no longer support him, Louis starts carrying him around, cradling in his arms or simply thrown over one shoulder. He lives Armand propped against a wall as he works, reduced to one more decoration. Sometimes he leaves Armand alone for hours, staring into the dark, not sure if Louis will come back.
The pain spreads through his veins, unfurling like the petals on their magnolia tree, until every breath is agony. He wonders what it will feel like if he finally starts to scream, if Louis really will ignore him, simply put on noise-cancelling headphones and continue going over their accounts until the noise stops.
They never find out. Sooner or later, Armand bites his lip too hard: while Louis is fucking him into the mattress, while he's trying to choke down a sob, while he's asleep. It ends with blood spilling across his tongue while he whimpers and moans, gnawing at himself with ragged desperation.
"Oh, baby," Louis will say, and Armand will protest that he's sorry sorry sorry as Louis picks him up and sets him down, grabbing the pitcher he'll pour down Armand's throat. Hot, sweet blood, crashing into Armand's so hard and fast that he gets sick all over himself and has to drink more, always more.
His whole body burns as he comes back to life, his stomach stretched to the breaking point. The tender blanket of helplessness slips away, the precious bruises melt off his can, tears rolling down his face and over his stinging mouth.
"Poor thing." Louis pecks him on the lips. His eyes are somber: merciful, tender, disappointed god. "Maybe next time, you'll love me enough to see it through."