instinct

Santiago wasn't right about it, no, not entirely. He was being deliberately provocative, of course, and Armand won't let it get a rise out of him. He'd done it once, and Louis had said it made him look weak. Well, easy for him to say, with his gleaming teeth and razor-sharp claws. It's not his fault, of course, that he doesn't undertand what it's like, for Armand. Predators never do.

Santiago does. Uncomfortably well, which is why it still rankles; him grooming the last drops of blood off of his ear backstage as he watched Armand prepare to leave for the night, again, and saying casually, as if to himself but really to everyone, I suppose we're on our own for the remainder of the evening. Well, we all know what the Maître likes, he's only hanging around with that pretentious cat for his spiky cock. A few suppressed titters.

It's not that. Not just that, of course. Still. He should have killed Santiago along with his maker. That he had not was rank species favouritism, and weakness to boot. Now it is coming back to bite him. Santiago imagines himself in Armand's place all too easily.

Not just that, but he still cannot stop the slight quiver in his haunches as he approaches Louis' door. He thumps a few times outside the door, then enters.

Louis greets him with his beautiful, rough tongue, as he always does. They settle down into it, for a while, Louis grooming his forehead more thoroughly than any level of cleanliness warrants. Moves back, over his ears, and Armand shakes harder when Louis starts biting at them, gently and then a bit less gently, gnawing the entire length of them into his mouth and then releasing them. His body wants to run, to play dead. Armand wants so, so badly to not be allowed to do either.

He's thinking about it again, what Santiago said, and Louis can hear it. Maybe because Armand wasn't too quiet about it, the fortifications of his mind seemingly dripping to pieces under a good grooming. It feels like he remembers, blue hazy recollections of a softer, larger tongue taking him, his master's antlers framing his face like the divine flames painted around holy creatures in a muraqqa of his kithood. He cannot possibly ask for this from his coven, most of whom are carnivores, and perceive the recipient of such attentions as the lower in standing. Santiago, true, he could force to service him, a lagomorphian rape that would perfectly satisfy both their social standings and Armand's desire for a tongue on him but he doesn't want it, he wants this, he wants this. Louis pushing him down and working him over, like Armand is his kitten.

Louis laughs, low and rumbling in his throat like a purr. "Well, I wouldn't deny you a good fuck, sweet little thing," he says. "But are you sure you can hold still for it? Not gonna thump and run away, make me hunt you down and drag you back from your little coven burrow?"

He can't help it, the way his haunches tense, toes digging into the rug. Louis wouldn't really do it, he doesn't think, wouldn't humiliate him like that in front of the others. But the thought of it makes him weak, makes him want it so bad it nearly hurts.

"No, Maître," he says. "I might try to run away, you're right… I can't help it."

Another laugh. "Poor little thing. Gonna have to tie you up, hmm? Is that what you need?" And then his teeth come down on the delicate fur at the back of Armand's neck, not really designed for that, not like a kitten's at all, he squeaks in pain and fear as Louis picks him up, legs kicking wildly as he is carried across the room and deposited on the bed.

Louis' bed is beautiful, luxurious, so much better even than a dark covered coffin, perfect for cuddling up in a pile of blankets or digging deep holes down into the soft material. No time for that tonight, though, because Louis is looping soft ropes around his wrists, first at his front paws and then slowly forcing him to extend his back legs fully, awfully exposed, spread out. Armand whines and twitches and it doesn't do a thing, Louis keeps right on stringing him up. Rubs his jaw against Armand's shoulder, when he's done. Mine.

Armand feels him, sometimes, the shadow of Lestat who follows his lover around. The cadence of his huge paws on the ground, the impetuous toss of his golden mane. Can nearly hear him, tormenting Louis: oh, and does it make you feel powerful, mon cher, to have this helpless little thing underneath you? Lestat knows all too well Armand is anything but, but Louis, yes, is better at maintaining the illusion. Perhaps because he doesn't know, not quite. Not in personal terms. Which is perfect. They can stay just like this, their proper roles, and Louis never needs to know.

Trapped, helpless little thing. He sinks into it as Louis circles him, crouched to pounce. He gives Armand a few nips and licks up the blood, the tip of an ear, the curve of his back, the strong muscle of his flank. "Not even in heat, and you're like this for me," Louis marvels. "Or perhaps, in heat all the time. Is that it, little bunny, you in heat for me all the time?"

"Yes," Armand whimpers, "only for you, Maître…"

"Present for me, then. Let me get it in you."

Armand tries, though he can't really, not strung up like this, but he does his best, which is all Louis ever asks of him, poor pathetic creature that he is. So Louis takes pity on him, slides into him slow and careful and not at all in a way that's going to avoid hurting him because the hard part isn't going in but coming out, his penile spines catching and tearing deliciously.

Yes, Armand loves it. A body that says I want to stay here, I don't want to leave you, louder than words ever could. Of course he does.

If Louis cannot say it out loud, Armand can still have this. And it's enough, it will be enough.