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Like every couple, the du Lacs have their ups and downs, and given the type of people they both are, the downs can be as excruciating as the ups are wildly, impossibly romantic. Unlike every couple, the du Lacs have had decades, even centuries to build their intricate network of triggers and neuroses, sore spots and arguments that never seem to fully resolve. Also unlike every couple, Rashid is having sex with them both.
Generally, when couples he knows are on the rocks, he doesn't have to devote serious energy to reminding himself to calm down, because it's not his problem. This, also, is not his problem. And yet.
As far as he can piece together, Louis is having one of the periods of low libido that seem to occur for him every so often. Normally, those pass without any change greater than Rashid and the rest of the staff not having to dodge any rooms full of fucking vampires every so often; this one, however, seems to have coincided with one of the insecurities that litter Armand's psyche like mines. He's clearly panicking over not being desirable and, because Armand de Pointe du Lac is by many metrics insane, behaving accordingly. Except that Louis just as clearly has some form of baggage over a partner pressing for sex when he's not prepared to provide. His reaction had gone, and has continued to go, straight past any typical annoyance with Armand to the icy, composed, blade-tongued fury that's marked the worst of their fights that Rashid has been witness to.
Rashid hasn't pried; it isn't that kind of relationship. Not that he's received much clarity on what kind of relationship it is, but he likes to think he's not a complete idiot. He's the younger, dutiful personal assistant who the bosses find attractive. He's not their partner. He's only as much as a confidante as they want him to be, and no further. Even if the air has become so tense between the two of them that everyone else in the penthouse is swapping notes on which rooms to avoid like the plague when, it's not his place to ask.
Which hadn't stopped Armand crawling into his bed at the crack of dawn this morning. Rashid, most of the way to asleep and feeling distinctly fuzzy, had assumed he'd come for sex, and had just started waking himself up enough to participate when he'd found himself aggressively, well. Cuddled. No other word for it, really. Armand had wrapped round him like an octopus, buried his face in the crook of Rashid's neck and let out this deep, heavy huff of breath, like an upset child finally setting down. Halfway to a sob.
Rashid, not being an idiot, had deliberately relaxed every muscle he could and kept his mouth firmly shut. Once Armand had sent that strange shiver through the air that switched off his aircon unit, and once Armand had relaxed enough not to hold him quite so tightly, it had been comfortable. Nice, even, to be held like a teddy bear. To be, just by his presence and body heat, somehow soothing to this ancient and often painfully wounded man.
Armand had been gone when he'd woken up in the late afternoon, only the rumpled sheets and the closeness of the room without the hum of the aircon to suggest he hadn't dreamed the whole thing. That, and Louis quietly cornering him an hour into his shift to ask how Armand had been with him that morning.
Having his two employers at odds is the kind of nightmare that has him breaking out in a cold sweat, but Rashid's is, again, not an idiot. If Armand cornered him like this, he'd do the same thing; answer honestly, if not exhaustively, and not try to cover anyone's arse including his own. Not that he's done anything wrong. He thinks. Not that Armand had done anything wrong either, beyond leaving the very faintest bruises around his ribs, and that's more of an occupational hazard as far as Rashid is concerned.
So he's tried, with reasonable success, to put it all out of his mind. Especially when, a few hours ago, Louis and Armand both became suddenly and conspicuously absent from any publicly accessible room of the penthouse. Most especially when, unlike every other time Rashid's been present for an actual fight between the two of them, that absence has been characterised by complete dead silence from the bedroom where they almost certainly both currently are. It's not his business. This is not that kind of relationship.
Except that he's sorting through Louis's weekly schedule when he feels it, like a tap on the shoulder. Thankfully, he's turned out to be impervious to the mind gift in all its forms, not just the thought-reading, but they've discovered that Armand is able to do something he describes as brushing against the locked vault of Rashid's mind. Resting a hand on the wall, or knocking gently against the door. An unobtrusive little come here, please.
Very deliberately regulating his breathing, Rashid climbs to his feet, smooths down his shirt and trousers, and sets off to obey.
He isn't surprised to find the faint little thread leading him to the doors of the master bedroom. He is surprised when, even after he eases the door open and slips into the amber-lit lair, the room is quiet. Only Louis's voice, too low to hear what he's saying; no grunts of pain or harsh, strained breathing, not even a whimper. Certainly no raised voices.
When he rounds the bars and steps into the room proper, he can't help but freeze. Louis is propped partly upright on every pillow from the bed, head snapped up from his lap to give Rashid the kind of sharp, assessing stare he hasn't been at the receiving end of since the first weeks of his employment here. Armand is sprawled across his chest, his face nestled as completely into Louis's neck as it had been into Rashid's earlier, his lower half covered by the sheet and his upper half–
Oh. Well. He hadn't realised they owned one of those.
The straitjacket is very obviously not hospital standard, assuming those even exist anymore. The material looks fine, soft, rather than the canvas he would have expected, and the leather straps are as well-made as he's come to expect from the du Lacs' gear. It looks padded, snugly secured, and Armand looks to be utterly melted in its embrace. Even as Rashid watches stiffly from the door, he's snuggling further into Louis's body beneath him, tucking up his legs under the sheets and letting out a soft, sweet little hum that makes Rashid's heart spasm. All the tension that's strung him for the past few days has been wiped entirely away.
"Rashid?" Louis says, and there's an edge to his voice. For a moment, Rashid assumes they're still somehow on the outs; until he sees the way Louis is holding Armand, curled a little over him. Like he's trying to shield him. Protect something precious from the wolves.
"Armand called for me," Rashid gets out, trying not to look like he's bracing himself.
"Oh did he, now," Louis replies, but he's softening already, gaze losing its sharpness, especially as he tips his head down to the bundle of vampire slumped on his chest. "I'm not giving you enough cuddles, huh, sweet thing? Need your hot water bottle?"
The bundle makes another soft little noise, and Louis huffs a laugh, squeezing his companion tight to him. "Alright, baby, if that's what you want, that's what you should get." He drops a feather-light kiss on the top of Armand's head, then lets go with one arm to stretch it out to where Rashid's still standing. "Come on, Rashid, come join."
No matter how many times he's ended up in this bed, walking down the steps towards it feels momentous. That must be partly due to the décor; even for millionaires, Louis and Armand seem obsessed with crating spaces that don't look as though they can possibly be lived in. Perhaps that's the vampirism, the wiping away of so many of the natural processes of human life. Possibly it's that they're drama queens. Either way, the theatre of it undeniably works.
And yet. As soon as he's toed off his house shoes, Louis is reaching out to tug him down, welcoming him in with thoughtless ease. Once Rashid is laid down on his side, Louis turns Armand over as though he's weightless, easing him into Rashid's arms. Armand slumps into him with the same perfect bonelessness he had into Louis, burrowing in and making happy little sounds at the warmth he finds there. His leg works its way between Rashid's and hooks around his thigh, pulling them as close together as he can without the ability to move his arms.
So strange, to hold someone and not be held back. Not that Armand isn't very much an active participant in this, even restrained, but with Rashid's ribs still ever so slightly smarting from being squeezed like a stuffed toy this morning, to not have Armand's hands on him at all is baffling. Something about the way Armand, elegant ancient predator that he is, has to twist and squirm with his whole body to get comfortable, needs Louis's help to prop him closer and Rashid's arm around his waist to hold him steady. It makes Rashid want to hold him tighter; would make him want to join in with Louis's soft murmurs of "Good boy, that's it, sweet thing, there you go," if he was the sort of man capable of saying those words.
When Armand has worked his way as far into Rashid's space as possible, Louis settles down beside him, looping a proprietary arm around Armand's waist to settle over where his arms are bound beneath the layer of padded cotton. He rests the side of his head on Armand's and nuzzles in, eyes closed and breathing deep and contented. The tension that he, too, has been strung with is wonderfully absent; in its wake, he looks wan and a little too tired for Rashid's liking, but happier, much happier. The whole thing is, by these two's standards, sweetly domestic. Which is odd, considering.
Normally, as far as Rashid's been able to tell, Louis and Armand don't solve their fights nearly so peacefully. Peaceful in the aftermath, yes, the two of them glowing at each other like newly-weds and suffusing every space they're in with their mutual adoration, but Rashid's yet to spot a discarded whip or cane in here right now, and there's not a drop of blood on the creamy white of the straitjacket. And yet, Armand is just as loose and limp as he is in the aftermath of a beating, and Louis appears just as utterly besotted. Armand loves bondage, loves pressure and loves praise like a human loves cool water, so no surprises there. But for Louis to be so suddenly affectionate, after having spent the last few nights in viciously cold withdrawal, is very much out of character.
Another incredibly private insight Rashid had gleaned from Louis's Talamasca file: he'd had a brother, once upon a time, who had been institutionalised for several years with what had then been recorded as dementia praecox. Back in the early nineteen-hundreds, that would certainly have involved these sorts of restraints. And now, something about the adoring, reverent way Louis is touching his companion, the tenderness of his eyes and his words, as though he's been handed the most precious, fragile object in the world, any threat it might pose him neutralised. Entirely helpless in his power, to be cradled in his palms and lavished with care, kept from all harm…
Well, it's hardly the most contextually fucked-up kink these two have, is it?
Speaking of kink, Armand's thighs have started tightening and loosening, rhythmic, around the one of Rashid's that they're twined around. Then, so gradually that it takes a little while for Rashid to realise what's going on, his cotton-shrouded crotch is not so much resting against Rashid's thigh as pressing up into it. Then grinding into it. Then rocking against it, faster and faster, until there's absolutely no mistaking what's going on. Rashid's stomach tightens at the thought; Armand is so turned on just by being held in this state that he's trying to rub himself off like this, through thick padded cotton and the blunt press of Rashid's leg.
Before Rashid can consider whether he should be reporting this or something, Louis takes note himself, and his hands are closing firm around Armand's hips. Pushing Armand's crotch and Rashid's leg so tight together that they both gasp at the force of it, then pinning him there even as Armand squirms desperately. "All tense, hm, honey," he croons into Armand's ear, and Armand shivers all over and crushes his face into Rashid's neck like he's trying to hide.
"Désolé, Maître," he whispers, cool and wet against Rashid's skin.
Louis practically coos. "S'okay, baby, it's all okay. You've been wanting and not getting, huh? Poor needy little thing." Not an ounce of bitterness in his tone, even though they'd been fighting about the mismatch in libido for nights. Rashid is starting to think the straitjacket might be magic. "But you'll hurt your sweet little cock doing that, you know that. I can't let my precious boy get himself hurt cause he got too desperate."
Armand whimpers and somehow manages to sag even further into the straitjacket, the platonic ideal of pitiful, and Rashid can feel him give up, feel the tension in the hips pressed against him dissipate to nothing. Armand resigning himself to whatever his Maître thinks best. Louis's eyes are nearly glowing with satisfaction, slitted mostly closed as he holds his boy down and luxuriates in his surrender.
Then, "Rashid," Louis says, "mind lending a hand?" and Armand instantly becomes a live wire of delighted tension.
"Sir?" Rashid manages, as though half his blood isn't rapidly diverting to his dick.
"He needs seeing to," Louis explains with nearly artificial calm. "Would you mind?"
Armand shivers against them both, practically thrumming. Behind him, Louis's face is still, gentle, waiting patiently for whatever response Rashid is willing to give. What can he do but nod?
Louis smiles at his acquiescence, small but warm, and eases Armand out of Rashid's arms. Before he can think to protest, Louis is rolling them so that he's back against the pillows, Armand's head on his sternum, his bare, beautiful long legs splayed haphazardly open. Louis works his hand between their bodies and there's a soft chime of metal on metal as a buckle is undone somewhere at Armand's back, and then he has a hand between Armand's legs, lifting the strap that had been covering his crotch. With that gone, Armand could probably squirm his way out; but, of course, he could tear the whole thing apart at the seams at any moment. Unlike some of the hardier restraints in the du Lacs' collection, this wouldn't even give him pause. He's bound and helpless in Louis and Rashid's arms only because that's exactly where he most wants to be.
Beneath the jacket, Armand is nude, his cock partially hard and starting to weep clear fluid from the head. Perhaps it's Rashid's lack of experience, perhaps because he'd known about it in advance – even before Armand had started accidentally-on-purpose flashing him, there'd been enough information on the bill of sale that the Talamasca somehow had in their files to make Rashid a little ill – but he's never found Armand's cock at all strange, nor the flat, stretched scar beneath it. It's simply a fact of him, and far less remarkable than the eyes now glowing hazy amber up at him, or the sharp little fangs peeking out between his slack lips.
Rashid reaches for one of those fangs at the same time he reaches for Armand's cock, strokes his finger-pads gently against them both at once, and Armand squirms and shivers in his fabric prison. Parts his lips and his legs further, presses up into Rashid's touch as far as he can possibly manage. Trussed up like a present, every inch of him inviting.
"You're so cute," slips out of Rashid before he can stop it.
He's only frozen for a second before Louis is chuckling and Armand is making huge, adoring eyes up at him. "He is, isn't he," Louis confirms, words as warm and indulgent as if they're talking about a beautiful cat rather than a monster far older than both of them combined. "Cutest little thing in the whole world. Wrapped up all snug and safe for us to look after." He gives Rashid a significant look, and Rashid obeys the unspoken instruction, stops playing with Armand's beautiful, willing body and unzips his fly with hands that are trying to shake.
Louis's hand slips straight into his pants as soon as he shuffles close enough, cool and soft-skinned and as certain of its right to be there as he always is. The shiver as he curls his hand around Rashid's cock goes all the way down to Rashid's toes, and he presses into it helplessly.
"He's nice and hard for you, honey," Louis murmurs to Armand as he jacks Rashid, slow and self-indulgent. "Don't I take care of you? Give you the best?" Armand turns his head to nod, fast and urgent, wiggling around like he's trying to press into Louis and Rashid and the bonds holding his arms trapped all at once. It's impossibly adorable, while still making Rashid's dick twitch near-painfully even in the loose confines of his briefs. He can't shuck them and his shirt fast enough.
Louis lubes him up, cold hand slicking his cock with cool lube in a way that should be off-putting. It's not, never is; Rashid can't help but find the temperature difference madly erotic. It's even somewhat comfortable, where he's so flush with blood he can practically feel his own pulse. Then Louis's hand on him is drawing him forward to where Armand is practically arching for it, legs splayed wide as they'll go, the picture of desperation.
"Shouldn't we–" Rashid fumbles, trying to find a way to say the word fingering that won't set his whole face on fire.
"He doesn't need it," Louis murmurs, "do you, sweetheart? You'll see in a second, he wants you so badly, he'll open for you like it's nothing. Besides, when he's this wound up, you have to make it a little difficult for him or he doesn't feel like he's being properly taken."
He must see the hesitation still caught in the creases of Rashid's eyes, because he smiles and scoops up the lube bottle again, slips it between Armand's legs and presses the nozzle to Armand's hole and, fuck, squeezes it right into him. Rashid's cock twitches, he can feel his eyes blow wide; why that gets him so hard, he doesn't know, but it does, it really does.
"Don't keep the poor thing waiting, now," Louis tells him, eyes sparkling from over Armand's shoulder, "there's a good man." And Rashid, who remains far more helpless against the two of them than Armand will ever be against a few bits of cotton, does as he's told.
Armand is insanely tight around him, slick and pulsing, just as hungry to draw his cock all the way inside just as Louis had said. It only takes one push before he's all the way seated, silken coolness wrapped all around him, squeezing him close as Armand manages to arch even further. His head lolls back boneless on his neck, cock leaking another jet of clear fluid over his groin, and gasps up at them both like a man possessed.
"He's thinking about how hot you are," Louis murmurs, "like a brand in him, heating him through til he glows. He can't get enough of it." He grins fondly at Rashid. "It's addictive, that feeling. One day, we should warm up a dildo, let you see for yourself." That beautiful grin stretches even wider when Rashid shudders, hips twitching at the thought, wider still when the movement makes Armand writhe and pant.
He hasn't been invited to fuck Louis yet; Louis had said something completely insane about every top needing a bit of training and tasked Armand with making sure Rashid got it, while Armand smirked at his mortified arousal. However that's going – he fully expects to be sat down for a review at some point, and is trying his hardest to brace for it – Armand has shown commitment to his new task, and Rashid very much hasn't gotten acclimatised just yet. This, though, is something else entirely; Armand restrained beneath him, wordless and hazy-eyed and utterly overcome, clutching at Rashid the only way he can.
"Take him slowly," Louis instructs tenderly. "Nice and gentle. He thinks he wants hard right now, but he doesn't–" he breaks off to chuckle at Armand's wounded whine, "no, sweetheart, you don't. Make love to him, Rashid, that's what he needs."
Embarrassing, ludicrous, how those two words impress themselves so deep in him. He's not sure he's ever heard someone call it making love in real life before. One set of implications are obvious; he's here to fuck Louis's husband because Louis can't right now, so of course his role is to take Louis's role, simulate those seven decades of tender feelings. The other implications…
He's not sure he's in love with them. Love, surely, cannot be possible when he's held so apart from them in so many different ways. But they're… well. What they are. Beautiful, funny, sharp, tragic, constantly enthralling men who are also the most fascinating sort of monster he's ever met. And they bring him into their lives, into their bed, into their trust and the world they've made together. Whatever he feels for them, love or not, it's more than he could imagine ever feeling for anyone else.
So he does make love to Armand. It's easy to fuck him slow, with how tight he's being gripped; easy to take the training he's already been given and rock into Armand like he's making gentle waves in a pool of water, moving with him in steady, regular motion. He gets his hands on Armand's hips to tilt him a little, get the angle right, and holds him there as Armand kicks his legs and twists his body and then, in increments, goes limp. Lets himself be bound, held down and at another's mercy, taking all he's being given, everything he needs poured into his body without him needing to do a thing at all. Letting himself be loved.
"Look at you," Louis murmurs, and Rashid's not entirely sure which you he means, until he says, "my boys, making each other feel so good." Then, to Armand, "This what you needed, precious? A good, sweet man to set you right?"
That makes Rashid's stomach flip over and not comfortably, eyes darting up to Louis's face as his neck prickles. There's no anger on Louis's face, though, not a trace of bitterness. He grins, even, when he meets Rashid's eyes. "No, Rashid, don't worry. I don't begrudge you. If anything, you've been more helpful than you know."
Trying to parse that – what had they spoken about, after Louis learned where Armand had spent the morning from Rashid? Is that, somehow, the reason Rashid isn't wiping blood off the floorboards right now? – is shamefully beyond Rashid when he's balls deep in Armand's arse, which is why he really shouldn't have started doing this in the first place. So instead, he puts his head down and works himself in and out of Armand's blissfully welcoming body, ears humming with Louis's gentle, coaxing, adoring dirty talk. Most of it's for Armand, heaps of praise and pet names that Rashid doesn't think he's ever heard from Louis even when the vampires are at their most loving, but then sometimes Rashid's ears are left flaming when Louis once again tells Armand how lucky he is, being seen to by Rashid; a stiff, closed-off, still dreadfully inexperienced employee of theirs. Worse and even more improbably, Armand seems to agree. His legs come up to wrap around Rashid's hips, once again trying to hold Rashid as close as he possibly can with his arms tucked away, urging him on.
Even without the come or a full erection, it's not hard to tell when Armand climaxes. He does it with his whole body, thrashing in his bonds and gaping soundlessly, pretty fangs bared to the warm air of the bedroom, tears beading vivid in the corners of his eyes. Rashid rocks him right through it the way he knows now that Armand needs, no faster and no slower, even as he has to grit his teeth from the desperate pulses all round his cock. He works Armand until he collapses, practically a puddle, so limp that every thrust shakes his whole body.
Rashid has learned that he himself hates getting fucked after he's come – except when he's in the mood to do something he hates, but he doesn't know that Armand is in that mood, for once – so he grits his teeth tighter and braces himself to pull out of the lovely, desperately welcoming clutch of Armand's body. Except when he goes to, Louis's hand firm on his shoulder stops him. "You're not done, are you?" he asks, gently in that way that lets Rashid know that this is a question, that the answer can be yes, actually, I am. He's good about that. Often better than Armand, who is working off a consent framework that would scare Rashid very deeply if he understood it entirely.
And because Louis is good about that, and because his eyes are warm and soft, and because Armand is a blissfully boneless heap below him, and because whatever he's feeling for these creatures that isn't love is more than he's ever felt for any man in his life, Rashid finds himself being perfectly and nakedly honest. "I don't want to hurt him."
Louis blinks, then smiles wider than Rashid has ever seen him do at anything other than Armand. "You're such a good boy," he says, and that sounds a lot like naked honesty in return. Then he's leaning up, squashing Armand between them to press a very gentle kiss to Rashid's brow.
"Keep going," he says, half in Rashid's ear. "He'll enjoy feeling used, right now. Knowing he's pleasing you."
And Armand makes the sweetest little whimper at that, so of course, Rashid can't deny him by pulling out. He simply has to sink all the way back into the clutch of him, to keep rocking slow and steady, in and out, while Armand's body goes looser and looser around him, the friction warming the silky flesh all around his cock. When he can't help but speed up, Armand just takes it, lolling back against Louis, and Louis laughs agonisingly softly above him and slides a little down behind Armand until he can grip Rashid's arse, urge him on.
Rashid comes collapsed forward onto Armand, forehead pressing against the soft cotton of the straitjacket, one of the straps imprinting against his jaw. Armand twists his head to press his lips wet and uncoordinated against Rashid's forehead while he shudders and fails to keep himself quiet, cock pulsing as he spills into Armand's blissfully welcoming body and Louis pets him through it with a hand in his hair. Keeps the hand in his hair when he's caught his breath, still scratching gently against his scalp with pared-down nails that are still much, much harder than a human's would be. More like having a comb run through his hair. Lovely, in a way that sets his scalp tingling and his eyes struggling not to cross.
Louis seems, if Rashid is any judge, perfectly content to lie where he is for the rest of the night, mostly underneath a pile of men. But still, he just had his husband and the man he regularly cheerfully seduces fuck nearly on top of him. Surely it would be polite for Rashid to at least offer… something.
Louis must see his deliberation – even if, thankfully, he can't read it out of his mind – because his whole face locks up. "I'm good," he says, so sharply that it bring Rashid up short. He meets Louis's gaze to find it gone hard, nearly cold. Assessing. Waiting, if Rashid had to guess, for him to prove himself as one more in what he's gathering has been a line of men with opinions on whether Louis should have an erection, and what he should be doing with it.
"Alright, sir," he says, as easily as he possibly can, and watches with bone-deep satisfaction as Louis relaxes again.
"Stay awhile, though," he says, easily as if it's nothing to offer; as if Rashid doesn't know them, both of them, by now. Not from the bloodless and yet grimily intimate remove of the Talamasca's pap-photo files; from living with them, fucking them, holding them through the days that function as their nights. "You've not got anything urgent, right? Take the rest of the night off."
And he hasn't got anything urgent, and if he had, then it would be the responsibility of the man who just invited him to come and cuddle for the rest of his workday. So Rashid says "Of course, sir," without a moment's guilt, and curls back up on his side so that Armand can wriggle to slot his bound body up against his front, can press his cold face once again into the crook of his neck. Louis shuffles down the bed, slinging one arm around them both, palm spreading against the small of Rashid's back.
It shouldn't feel safe, or even remotely like home. It should feel as though he's a guest, rather than a part of something fragile and fraught, and beautiful all the same. He's still really, truly trying not to be an idiot. Even as, with two vampires' tomb-cold bodies cooling his own overheated one, he begins to realise he's failing.