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“They’re so small,” Louis tells him. He’s heavy in Armand’s lap, a solid shape looming over him. “Little nubs. You a kitten, Arun? Huh? S’that it?”
Armand, shivering and drooling down his chin, tries to say something to the effect of uh huh, but Louis’s fingers are thick and long in his mouth, and when he tries to move his mouth his teeth get stuck on Louis, his noises get stuck on Louis, his everything gets stuck on Louis.
“I know,” Louis says, a sympathetic tone to his voice as if he knows exactly what Armand means, despite the fact that whatever noise he’d managed to get out had been nothing close to what he’d intended to make. Finger on his fang, down the edges of his front teeth, the other fang, back towards his molars until he’s traced through his top teeth, taking stock, counting, evaluating. “It’s hard, isn’t it? With this little mouth. These little teeth.”
The pad of his index finger travels the length of Armand’s soft palate, kneads into the flesh, thumb pressing into the tip of his fang again. Armand swallows, feeling saliva-filled and dumb. As if everything his body does is a surprise he’s catching up to just a little bit too late.
“It’s a miracle you’ve survived for so long,” Louis murmurs. He flicks his thumb back and forth over the tip of Armand’s fang, back and forth again. “Can these even pierce through skin? They feel awfully blunt to me.”
Armand tries to shake his head, because Louis is right, his teeth are blunt and useless and small, he’s not sure how he’s been feeding either, he wants to say it, wants to agree, but Louis won’t let him. “Shh,” he says. “Don’t struggle, kitten.”
So he doesn’t. His entire body goes limp, shivery, soft. His body tries to make sounds, too, but they get trapped in his throat by Louis’s fingers, reaching further into his mouth. It makes sense for Louis to stop him. Louis already knows these things. Armand doesn’t have to agree. It doesn’t matter if he agrees. This is for Armand’s benefit, really, for him to learn what Louis already knows to be true. He inhales, a big chest-filling breath. Louis’s fingers tug and push and wiggle, and Armand opens his mouth as wide as it can go, to make room for Louis’s fingers and his nails and his knuckles, and if he wanted to Armand would allow him to put those fingers down his throat, reach all the way down his throat in fact, would have no choice but to, really, seeing the realistic size of him, the helplessness, the –
“Look,” Louis says. Light slap to Armand’s cheek, enough to have him gnawing on the finger between his teeth, a confused attempt at trying to come back to his body. Louis strokes the edges of his teeth, doesn’t tell him not to, presumably because his teeth are nothing more than a tiny inconvenience. “Pay attention, Arun.”
Armand opens his eyes. He feels light and unreal, Louis in his lap heavy and solid, so unlike his own untethered existence. Louis looks down at him, and Armand looks back, eyelids heavy.
Louis smiles, toothy, fangs extending slow and intentional. “See? These are real fangs.”
They are. Louis’s fingers are still in Armand’s mouth, and when his own fangs drop all the way he traces a nail up to Armand’s gumline. One beautiful finger pushes down on the muscle as if he’s trying to trigger Armand’s fangs to drop, too, and he says “come on, honey, give it to me.”
A tear down Armand’s cheek. Drool, too. And then, firm, “Arun.”
But he can’t. There is no more. He’s already fully extended, the muscles of his mouth relaxed and loose, and Louis keeps playing with his gums, the root of his fang, keeps telling him don’t hide from me, honey, and Armand opens his mouth as wide as it’ll go, allows Louis more room to touch and coax. His fingers taste like blood, like salt, like Armand’s spit. He wants to lick but Louis is busy trying to fix his useless body for him, his silly fangs, and Armand is waiting patiently, he’s being good, and Louis grasps his fang between two fingers, tries to pull, and when nothing more comes out he sighs.
“Baby,” he says. Pushes the fang up towards the gum, watches it move, obedient and loose. “Oh, honey.”
Armand squirms, hips and shoulders and knees. He makes a noise, a throaty little thing. Louis pulls his fang out again, extends it fully, and still it remains small, remains useless.
“It’s okay,” Louis tells him. “Shh, it’s okay, you’ve got me now, Arun, I’ll take care of you. Yeah?”
Armand’s eyes close. He trembles, somewhere far above his body, shivers and shakes and crosses his legs, equally as little as his useless little fangs, and Louis smiles down at his body.
“Such a little vampire,” he mumbles. “You must be exhausted.”
Is he? He’s not sure. He whimpers, and Louis grabs him by the fangs, two fingers on each, tells him, “I really should hunt for you. Make them bleed right into this pretty little mouth, huh? Would that help? Feels cruel to make you use these things for something they’re clearly not meant to be used for.”
Armand wants to bare his throat. He wants to expose every part of his silly little body, really – belly, thigh, inside of his elbow. He’s crying, it occurs to him, and Louis lets go of his fangs, just for a moment, just long enough to let him speak, which, too, is silly, because all he can think of to say is a shaky little “please.”
Louis smiles at him. His fangs are still extended, beautiful glittering things, long and sharp, nothing like Armand’s, and he wants him on him, in his mouth, inside of his body, any way he can, and he’s sure he’s telling him exactly that, directly into his head, out loud, anything, and Louis doesn’t quite laugh but he does chuckle.
“Needy,” he chastises, but his voice is soft around the edges. “You just need to be taken care of. Isn’t that right?”
It is, isn’t it? Armand nods, yes, urgent and feverish, he does need it. Louis pushes on his fangs, and he retracts them, licks over the tips of Louis’s fingers, and they’ve not even been pricked, for all he’s been playing with Armand’s fangs there’s not even the hint of broken skin, so Armand keeps licking, half-apology, half-wonder. How could he be so thoughtless? To not even have the mindfulness to grow his fangs sharp and strong enough to bite? Louis forgives him, his benevolent Maître, doesn’t mind it when he can’t even harm him, wolf with a lamb’s mouth.
“That’s enough,” Louis tells him. Armand disagrees. He’s had no chance to suck on them yet, hasn’t had them down his throat, and he tries to tell him this, but Louis won’t let him, won’t even hear him out, so Armand makes a series of noises incoherent even to himself.
He frowns. Tries again.
“Small,” he says. Not exactly what he meant to say. A bit to the left, maybe. He licks his bottom lip slowly. “Blood?”
Louis laughs. He takes his spit-wet hand to his own mouth, nips a set of lightly bleeding puncture wounds into three of his fingers. Armand watches him do it, mouth still open, the lower half of his face wet, makes a contemplative little noise, and then Louis’s hand approaches again.
“Maître,” he says, plaintive and quiet. Fingertips tracing the shape of his mouth onto the tender skin of his lips. He breathes slow, shallow, soft. He’s small and empty. Louis smiles down at him, blown pupils and all. He looks beautiful. Armand tries to tell him, but Louis’s fingers slip into his open mouth, and very suddenly he’s full and satisfied, as if he’d never felt otherwise at all.
“There you go,” Louis tells him. Three fingers in his mouth. Just the smallest of hints of blood. “You just suck on them.”
He does. The blood tastes lovely, because it’s Louis’s blood, because Louis is taking care of him, because Louis cares about him, no matter how incapable he is of taking care of himself. He tries to reach for his wrist, to hold onto it, but Louis is faster and stronger, grabs him by the wrist and presses him further into the mattress. “None of that,” he says.
None of that, then. Armand becomes a pile of feathers and shivering skin. He licks between Louis’s fingers, along the lengths of them, and the blood slows and then stops, and he tries to nip at his skin to restart it again, but his teeth are blunt and useless, fangs withdrawn and refusing to come out, and Louis chuckles as he tries, tries, tries.
“It’s okay,” he tells him eventually, pulls his wet fingers away. “I’ll give you more when you need more.”
But Armand needs more now. He looks up at Louis, sad and wide-eyed, and Louis looks back, taps the tip of his nose. It’s sticky-wet, leaves his nose sticky-wet too. “Alright, kitten,” he says. Sighs. “I’ll give you more.”
Armand thinks he’s going to bite down on his fingers for him again, makes a happy little noise, but instead Louis shifts just a little bit, enough to sit on his thighs instead of his hips, and it feels – it feels strange, like something’s been trapped and has now been released. He frowns.
“Maître?”
Louis reaches for his face, traces a finger down from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth. His other hand pets across Armand’s belly, and he can vaguely tell it’s quivering, the muscles tender and unsure. “You want me, honey?”
It’s his cock, then, that’s been trapped, he realizes very suddenly. Wet, he thinks, judging by the way it feels when the air hits it. He bucks his hips experimentally, like he’s not sure if he can do that, either, but it works, jostles Louis a little, so he stops. “Please,” he exhales.
“Just lie still,” Louis tells him, “told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”
And he did. Armand exhales. “Yes, Maître,” he agrees, and the finger at the corner of his mouth becomes a finger inside of his mouth, a finger exploring the bottom molars of his mouth. He tries to suck on it but it moves too fast, and then Louis’s other hand closes around the head of Armand’s cock, and he’s not sure if he could keep trying if he wanted to.
“You just rest, little kitten,” Louis hums. He strokes him slowly, loosely at first, though the grip tightens soon enough, Armand’s limp body tensing as if all of the muscle and tendon in his body is trying to make its way down to meet Louis’s hand, a lovely rhythmic tugging, his cock slick in Louis’s hand, his body loose and distant, his head buzzing as if hollowed out for a swarm of bees to move into.
Louis’s finger goes for the fang again, for the muscle, for the gum. Armand tries to be good and soft, and when Louis massages the muscle he allows his fang to drop again, the other one descending in sympathy, and it comes out small as ever, and Louis makes a soft little sound, like every time he sees it it’s new and wondrous. His hand twists on the upstroke, right where he’s sensitive, squeezes a little, and Armand’s faraway body tries to buck into it, can’t for the weight on his thighs, the psychosomatic weight on the back of his skull holding him down, telling him be good, be still like he’s been tied up and buried somewhere deep underground.
“Baby,” Louis mutters. His hand is warm, slick, perfect. Armand’s thighs tense. “You need someone to care for you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Armand agrees, “yes, Maître.”
Louis leans down over his own hand, over Armand’s twitching cock, and Armand thinks, for a moment, that he’s going to kiss him, opens his mouth in anticipation, and their mouths meet for a beautiful second full of happy noise and trembling arms, and then Louis bites through Armand’s lip.
It feels sharp. Hurts. Wet, then. He does not drink. He pulls away, licks his lip. The blood runs, and Louis tells him, “drink, Arun, you’re wasting it.”
Armand moans, and then mewls, and then he drinks, clumsy and greedy. It’s warm. He’s far away and he’s little and he’d drink anything Louis put in his mouth and the blood tastes good, tastes right, and he sucks on his own lip, body squirming without him having told it to do so. Louis swipes his thumb over his slit, a hint of nail, squeezes the head, and it feels like so much, his mouth filling with his own blood, full to the brim.
“Good boy,” Louis says, “you just need someone to tell you what to do, don’t you? To help you do things?”
Armand would agree, except he’s sucking on his lip and trying not to spill any of the blood. Louis chuckles. He pets down Armand’s jaw, his neck, behind his ear, delicate and light enough to make him shiver. He’s doing something to Armand’s cock with his other hand that’s making his legs shake, tight and warm and wet, making him feel held and safe, like when he says he’ll take care of him he means it. He sucks, and he sucks, and then suddenly he realizes the wound has closed under his own tongue, that there is nothing else for him to swallow, and he makes a sad little noise.
Louis’s finger, then, inside again, a welcome intrusion. Armand opens his mouth further, wants it deeper, wants more of it. Louis doesn’t reach in any further
“Should just keep you here,” Louis murmurs. His finger feels so good in Armand’s mouth, tapping on the hollow fang with his nail. “I’ll hunt for us, and you can drink from me. I’ll open my wrist for you and you don’t even have to use these little things at all, honey. Won’t have to worry about a thing.”
His hand on Armand’s cock speeds up, just a bit, and Armand moans. He wants it so badly he could cry. Him, in Louis’s townhouse, in his coffin, waiting for Louis to come back, warm and thrumming with blood, ripping his wrist open and allowing Armand to lap up whatever he needs, anything – him, a little thing, a kept thing, a useless thing, small and helpless and waiting, at his mercy, and Louis, always returning –
“Yes,” he tries to say. He keeps trying and failing to say things. Isn’t that just proof that he can’t do any of this on his own? Louis pushes on his fang. The muscle is getting tired, won’t engage properly anymore. The fang pushes in, falls back out as soon as Louis lets go. He tries to do it himself and his muscles don’t listen to him either. His consciousness becomes smaller and smaller, small enough to fit in the tip of one of those unruly fangs.
“They don’t even work,” Louis says. He pops the fang in, allows it to drop again. Pops it back in, holds it there. “Might as well just take them out. Baby, they’re decorative. You’re not fooling anyone.”
He’s pretty sure he comes, then, because he shivers all the way from his head to his feet, and then Louis’s hand slows down and eventually goes away entirely. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on Armand’s forehead, a little touch of damp to damp.
“Louis,” Armand says. His mouth is dry and his fangs are in the way. He comes close to slicing his lip open with them before he remembers that they don’t actually work, don’t know how to slice anything open. He stretches his jaw, tries to move his tongue and sucks in his cheeks. He does not know what else there could possibly be to say.
“It’s okay,” Louis says. There’s a hand in his hair. It’s not wet. In fact it is dry and comfortable and warm, and Armand leans into it, tries to nuzzle into it, confused from the tips of his teeth to the tips of his ears. “It’s okay, Arun.”
Kiss, kiss, kiss. It’s okay. So it must be. To be small and helpless and far away and wet all over, shivering, too, a quivering thing of muscle and tooth.