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From the darkroom — the ex-darkroom, in need of a new name — Louis hears Armand let himself into the apartment. He’s waiting in a chair by the window when Louis comes through to the main room, sitting with primly-crossed legs and hopeful eyes. At the sight of Louis, he stands.
“I wanted to be here sooner,” he says. “There was... a misunderstanding between Estelle and Romaine. Santiago…”
Louis doesn’t think he can stand it tonight, this meticulous cataloging of petty grievances and unending, unendurable bickering. He’s not feeling patient. This is a night for cutting to the chase.
He holds up a hand. “Who said you could wait here, Arun?”
Armand blinks once, three times, then relaxes: some small tension in his shoulders melting away. “You did, Maitre.”
Louis raises his eyebrows. “Don’t remember saying that. You’ll have to remind me.”
“You asked me to come. Here, to the apartment.” Armand glances from Louis to his hands and back again, and Louis has to stop and think: had he locked the front door? Was this Armand’s plan all along? Would he go so far as to break into the place just to catch trouble?
“That may be. Doesn’t mean I gave you permission to let yourself in.”
Armand’s eyes are absurdly large, his expression crestfallen. This sudden abjection not real. It can’t be. Louis is mostly sure, now, that he is reading lines from a script Armand plotted out hours before.
“I’m sorry, Maitre.” Little faltering fawn voice. Louis can’t help it; he wants to eat him up.
“What are we going to do with you? You know I’ll have to discipline you.”
“Yes, Maitre.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I know, Maitre.”
Nothing more. He stands there staring at his feet. No stage direction? Louis wants to ask. No notes? No ah, but nothing bigger than a fist. No I’ll go and fetch the spoon. Not so much as a murmur in Louis’s head.
“Take your pants off and get on the bed. Underwear too.”
Armand follows his orders with quick, economic movements, sheds his belt and trousers and leaves them neatly folded on the recently vacated chair, steps out of his shoes. But standing in briefs and socks and silk shirt, he falters. He turns his eyes on Louis, round and neon-bright.
“Maitre, please,” he says. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
Louis feels the frisson in the air, the thrumming bass of Armand’s arousal as he speaks the words. Hell, even a mortal man could see how his breathing accelerates, the heavy rise and fall of his chest. That’s how he wants it? Louis can do that.
“I know you’re sorry. Now get on the bed.”
“Please.” Armand edges back and comes up against the table opposite, cornering himself neatly. His voice is quavery, tearful. “Please, don’t.”
It’s less of a challenge than an invitation. Louis crosses to him in two strides and grabs a handful of his hair. “I wasn’t fucking asking.” He wheels Armand around and bends him facedown over the table. Armand folds like a ragdoll, and only winces when Louis roughly disposes with his briefs.
In Louis’s head Armand whispers, Yes, and that’s something, that’s enough.
“Think carefully now. Don’t make things worse for yourself,” Louis says. “Are you going to be good?”
Armand shivers. “No, please. Please.”
“Wrong answer, Arun.”
Louis undoes his belt slowly, savoring the hiss of leather through his belt-loops, the metal rattle and click. He’s always liked to sit back on his heels and watch a man unbuckle, himself: big broad hands, the smell of leather, the simple, elegant menace of the act.
For all his mock-resistance, Armand takes the beating stoically. A short, soft intake of breath after each crack of the belt, a tremor of shock passing through the tendons of his legs. A muscle that spasms in his broad, well-developed shoulders. Next time Louis will make him strip down to nothing. He wants to see that bare muscle work. He wants to watch Armand’s spine twist.
Armand is bleeding beneath the skin now, the welts turning purple, crimson, red-black. The pain can’t be trifling, but Armand holds himself carefully still, right where Louis put him, his hands flat on the table. Louis’s cock, already swollen in his briefs, twinges with pleasure.
“How are we doing, Arun?”
Armand pauses, as if puzzling over the right answer. Louis could help him out, give him a hint. Instead he snaps the belt hard across the back of one thigh. Armand jumps.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes, Maitre. I’m sorry, Maitre.”
“That’s good.” Louis moves in, setting the belt aside. He runs a hand over Armand’s hip, beneath his shirt, under his body and over the tense, jumpy muscles of his abdomen. “Good that you’re sorry. Are you gonna be a good boy?”
“Yes,” Armand breaths. “Yes.”
“Gonna be good for me?” Louis grinds against Armand’s ass, letting rough denim chafe against the bruises. Armand’s breath catches strangely in his throat.
“Yes, Maitre. Anything you want.”
Louis’s fingers follow the coarse hair of Armand’s belly down to his half-hard cock. Armand gives a tiny sigh when Louis takes it in his hand: blissful, surrendering. A few firm strokes have him stiff in Louis’s grip. Louis pushes Armand’s hair aside with a spare hand and drags his teeth over the nape of his neck.
Armand comes near-silently, twitching and choking back each sound that tries to rise in his throat. Louis can hear his blood pounding: pulse after deafening pulse.
They’re not done. Louis takes Armand by the back of his shirt, pulls him up from the table and drops him on his knees. And Armand... Armand raises his eyes and holds his mouth open. Instantly, expectantly, without hesitation, with his own cock hanging heavy and blood-swollen between his thighs.
Jesus.
Louis isn’t going to argue. He unbuttons his fly and guides Armand in by the hair until Louis’s cock is buried in his throat to the hilt. Armand takes each thrust sweetly, gratefully, his long lashes curling against his cheeks, his brow smooth and soft and clear. He swallows around Louis’s cock when he comes despite the absence of fluid, suckles at the head until Louis pulls him off.
Louis can’t help but pet his face as they catch their breath, pushing his curls back from his eyes.
“You learn your lesson?”
Armand blinks up at him, languid and dreamy. “Yes, Maitre.”
It’s going to be a good night. No coven talk. No Claudia talk. No planning and plotting. No thoughts of the future. Just his boy, with his big liquid eyes and soft little tongue, blissful from the taste of Louis‘s cock down the back of his throat.
Louis takes him to the bed. “There you go, baby. You’re alright.” Settles them in, chest to chest.
Armand nuzzles at Louis’s arms and neck as Louis picks open his shirt-buttons and peels him belatedly out of the last of his clothing; clumsy mouthings, like a newborn animal trying to nurse. He watches Louis sideways-shimmy out of his jeans with enormous, shining eyes: transfixed, amazed, beatific. He is beautiful. No one could deny that. No one could blame Louis for wanting him, for being here, for indulging whatever this is.
Louis lies back and tucks one arm beneath his head, watches the ceiling fan swing in lazy circles through his vision. With the other, he palms himself and flips the elastic of his briefs under his balls. It’s been a few minutes. He could stand to be touched.
“You want it in your mouth again?”
Armand nods quickly, twice. Of course he does.
“Go on,” Louis says, like he’s spoiling him. Like he’s giving him some special treat. “There you go. Be good.”