Alice

Each of the boys is always reading something strange. Dean carries shooting magazines rolled up in his back pocket. There’s a pen stuck in there too. He makes notes in a gun magazine. The fuck kind of a teenager does that? Sam’s got his own little book. Leather bound journal he guards like it's a little girl’s diary. He’s always making notes in it too. Once Finn Michaels ripped it out of Sam’s hand to finally look inside. He didn’t know what the Hell a shifter was and he knew vampires weren’t real, but Sam’s eerie drawings and scrawled writing could convince him of anything. 

They were always beat up from something. Never ending scrapes and scratches and bruises. The moment one of them healed five more of them would pop up. Some people thought it was their dad. From the few snippets the boys ever dropped about him he didn’t sound like a nice man. They had matching scars running up their palms. One weekend Dean came back to school with the cut reopened and stitched up. Tye Noel said it looked like it hurt. Dean said he was strong enough to handle it. He asked where it was from. Dean said it was from a grizzly bear. The closest grizzly habitat was three states away. 

Sam always looks a little out of place. He’s a little too quiet and a little too tall for his age, a head and a half over the rest of his seventh grade class. Paired with his lingering stares and mumbled words, Sam looks like a proper freak. And shit, man, the clothes really don’t help. Dressed like he could be a child of the damn corn. He’s even got blood stains on the cuffs of his jeans. Someone, probably his mother, tried to get them out with bleach. But if you notice the dark red blots, you’ll know exactly what you’re looking at. 

Dean keeps an old switchblade tucked into his back pocket. Definitely banned in the school’s hand book, but no one gave a shit. A few weeks ago he was showing it off to Brandy Mae Stevens at lunch. Doing the teenage boy version of peacocking. Flips and twirls and showing just how precise the sharp edge can be. Brandy Mae says it’s the prettiest knife she’s ever seen. Dean says that’s because it’s made of pure silver. When Brandy Mae asks why, Dean switches the subject and starts complimenting her tight jeans. 

Sam’s got something silver of his own. A little rosary he keeps tucked into his jacket. Kinda like he’s trying to hide it. Jackie Penny swears up and down that she saw him praying once. That wouldn’t be such a strange claim if everyone at school hadn’t seen the little pentagram looking thingy Sam had drawn in front of the classroom door. He said it was for protection, but most kids thought he was a devil worshiper. If he’s praying to Lucifer, he shouldn’t need something with Jesus Christ all over it. 

If only to make up for Sam’s silence Dean can’t seem to shut the fuck up. If he isn’t talking, he’s whistling. If he’s not whistling, he’s humming. And if he’s not humming, he’s moving or tapping or drumming in a way. Like he’s trying to fill up space. His clothes are the ones always too big. He tries to fill those too. His jacket, his flannels, his jeans. Why are these boys always wearing that shit anyway? It could be 90 degrees out and they would still be covered head to toe. 

The thing most people always notice first is how close they are. Always touching. Always standing right next to each other. Always whispering between themselves. Sure, yeah, siblings are affectionate, but they didn’t know where to stop. If Sam and Dean were in the same room, their hands were on each other. Whether it was brushing shoulders or knees or Dean’s hand on Sam’s arm or thigh. Adults would tell them to cut it out and Sam will try and hide how he still leans into Dean’s side. The other kids noticed too. Sam gets teased for needing his big brother like a little girl. Dean gets side eyes from the older students for touching someone young like that. Touching his brother like that. 

Old ladies think it’s sweet. Old men think they need to grow up and separate. If people ask, Dean will make a joke about how ever big his Sammy gets, he’ll always be his baby brother. Sam will dodge the question. 

The boys leave town two days after the school year ends. Almost like their stay was a contract. People will quickly forget their names and the more intricate details about them. Still, a decade down the road, people in that little town will talk. They’ll talk about those strange brothers and how the only place they seemed to fit in, was in each other’s arms.

What had tipped him off, finally, was the regression.

That had been hard to identify too, because Armand didn't exactly act like anything Daniel would call a child.

Sometimes, Armand would go very quiet, but instead of growing distant, he would cling to Daniel like a shadow, following him around the house.

At first, it had unsettled Daniel. He didn't know what to do with it. Armand seemed to want to be near him, but wouldn't speak to him, wouldn't touch him. For a long time, Daniel simply let it be.

Then, one day, they'd had an argument, fueled by irritation over a hunt postponed, a sprinkle of angst about the state of the kitchen, a budding erotic frustration after a week without sex. Daniel had screamed in Armand's face, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, practically daring him to throw Daniel across the room.

Instead, Armand had gone quiet again, and when Daniel had given in to his exasperation and tried to retreat to the bedroom, Armand had followed, standing by the side of the bed until Daniel had finally sighed and said, "Well, don't just stand there. Get in."

The sex had been… strange. Good, but strange. Armand had been receptive and pliant beneath him, breathing in soft, ecstatic gasps and breathing out little moans that drove Daniel mad with desire and then formed a pit in his stomach in retrospect, as he lay with Armand's head resting on his chest.

"Hey, Armand," he'd finally whispered, half hoping that Armand was still asleep.

Two orange eyes turned to peer up at him. Daniel ran his fingers through Armand's hair with a sigh.

"What's going on, baby?"

When Armand didn't answer, Daniel continued, "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I yelled at you. It was stupid. Are we good?"

Armand's single blink only served to highlight the strangeness of his otherwise unrelenting stare.

After a long pause, he said softly, "Why are you so nice to me?"

Daniel frowned. He didn't think he was all that nice to Armand, even if he had been making an effort to be better.

"And why do you call me Armand?"

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

Many months and several complete meltdowns later, on both sides, Daniel thought he had basically figured it out.

Sometimes, when Armand was under a lot of stress, he felt like he was the age he'd been just before he'd met Marius.

It wasn't exactly that he was that age, that person. While he retained little episodic memory from his life after that age (15, according to Armand), he remembered many of the things he'd learned in that time, and memories would suddenly present themselves to him before slipping away again, sometimes leaving residue. He knew that he lived in this apartment with Daniel. He knew that he loved Daniel, and was safe with him, though it was sometimes difficult to remind his nervous system to relax accordingly. He spoke English, when he spoke. He knew that he was a vampire, and remained a fierce and frightening hunter.

He also had a drive to please Daniel that Daniel found frightening. It grew, Daniel knew, from a bone deep insecurity and a fear that had been carved into him over and over again by men like Daniel, men who wanted him the way Daniel wanted him.

It was all sort of overwhelmingly horrific, when you came down to it.

But then again, it was also joyful. When Armand had relaxed a little, after Daniel had started to understand, they'd found that they were able to play together in a way Daniel found shockingly natural. They performed kitchen experiments. They played board games on the living room floor and fooled around with an ever growing collection of arts and crafts supplies. They played with their food. They teased each other like brothers. Daniel taught Armand how to play exquisite corpse and soon Armand had taken the game off the page and into the world of sculpture, leaving their apartment littered with little clay monsters.

Sometimes, Armand climbed into Daniel's lap and kissed him sweetly, a wholly different kind of kiss than any of the kisses Daniel got off him when he was big, vulnerable and nervous and hopeful and a little sad.

It was at once just like having a child again, and not at all like having a child again. Daniel found it all terribly confusing.

Armand often seemed to find it confusing as well.

He had been turned sick and wasting, his body desperate for nutrients and on the verge of shutting down entirely, and as such it was rare for him to bleed.

That was how he put it, when it happened.

"Daniel," he'd say, "I'm bleeding," and then Daniel would pick him up and carry him to bed and settle between his legs to feast.

This time was different.

"Daniel," he said, his voice full of tears and panic. "Daniel, I'm bleeding."

Daniel looked up from his book to see him standing in the doorway, shaking, in nothing but a worn, oversized t-shirt Daniel had owned since the 90s.

Daniel tried to focus on the tears and not the miles and miles of bare leg or the expressive curling of Armand's toes, the one foot raised to press against his calf, the bent knee.

"Hey," he said, putting his book down on the table, his glasses, folded, on top. "Hey, hey, you're okay. C'mere."

Armand shook his head and hugged himself tightly.

"Okay," Daniel said, frowning. "Do you…"

He trailed off, flipping through the many questions coming to him all at once, trying to decide where to start.

"Why don't you want to come over here?"

Armand squeezed himself tighter and looked down, tapping the floor with his toes.

"Do you… Do you not want to be touched?"

Daniel didn't think that was it. In the early days, Armand had been like a cat when he was in pain, hiding in corners, curled up in a miserable little ball, but for a long time now he was clingy as anything when he didn't feel well.

Armand's face scrunched up and he sniffed, a blood red tear rolling down his cheek. He shook his head.

"I'm dirty," he said.

Daniel looked down and watched him rub his thighs together. He couldn't see any blood, but he'd bet it was there, pressed between those thighs. He licked his lips, then winced when he realized he'd done it.

"What's happening to me?" Armand whispered. "I feel like…" He shuddered, clutching at his belly. "I feel like I'm dying."

Daniel suddenly felt like a real asshole.

"You're not dying," he said quickly. Armand looked at him doubtfully. "I promise. Sometimes your body just… I dunno, forgets that it's dead, I guess."

Armand gave him an anguished, confused little frown. It was excruciatingly cute.

"Come on," Daniel said, pushing himself to his feet. "Let's get you into the bath. I'll get in behind you and rub your tummy, okay?"

"But—"

"No buts, babe. You think I'm afraid of a little blood? Seriously?"

Armand pressed his lips into a thin line, rubbing them together, then ducked his head down, looking at his feet. Daniel thought he caught a tentative little smile.

Armand was slouching enough that it was easy for Daniel to kiss the top of his head, and when Daniel took his hand, he followed along towards the bathroom, only barely dragging his feet.

It's almost cute— Lestat, his big, bad wolf, laying on the floor on his stomach in his striped pajamas, playing with the train set Daniel and Armand gave them for Christmas or flipping through old magazines to find pictures to cut out and glue into chaotic collages that will find their way into the drawer where Louis keeps all of his Lestat memorabilia, safe from any future versions of Lestat who might want to throw them away. He's quieter like this, and he lets Louis play with his hair as much as he likes.

The hardest part is that when Lestat is small, he doesn't remember that his sister is gone.

"When will Claudia be home?" he'll ask as he uncaps a glue stick, a throwaway question, no weight to it at all.

At first, Louis had tried to explain to him, gently, that Claudia was dead. Lestat hadn't reacted with anger or sorrow or even confusion— he'd just kicked his feet and asked again, "When will Claudia be home?" It was as if he couldn't hear the words.

Louis had done some reading after that. A lot of reading, actually. Funnily enough, it wasn't anything about dissociation or trauma that had helped him in the end. Frustrated, out of ideas, he'd picked up at random a book about dementia.

"When discussing a diseased family member," the book had said, "it is best not to lie to your loved one, but trying to remind them that a lost loved one is gone is likely to cause agitation and confusion. Instead, ask them questions about their loved one. Reminiscing will help your family member to feel connected both to you and to those they have lost."

So that's what he does now; he encourages reminiscing.

"What are your favorite things to do with your sister?" he asks, or, "What is your favorite thing about your sister?" or, "What do you think your sister would want to do if she were here right now?"

His voice almost always cracks on the questions, but Lestat doesn't seem to notice.

"I like to play chess with my sister," he might say, or, "My favorite thing about my sister is that she is the best hunter in the world," or, "If my sister were here right now we wouldn't be at home, we'd be out in the park, listening to people's thoughts and laughing at their silly human troubles. Can we go to the park, Louis?"

Eric was less surprised by the request than Assad had expected. He only laughed, and then launched straight into negotiations.

Assad would be caged. Well, yes, he had expected that. He had also expected the stipulation that no one but Eric would be allowed to touch his hole.

"Belongs to daddy," he finished in unison with Eric, affecting a bored voice and an eye roll that he immediately undercut with a warm smile.

"Just my mouth then," he said. "That's what I was envisioning anyway."

Eric reached up and ran a thumb along his bottom lip.

"Such a pretty little mouth," he said. "I'll be reluctant to share. Just don't forget how far I'm willing to go to make you happy."

Assad smiled, leaning into the touch.

"It's yours too," he said. "And I'm sure you won't let anyone forget it."

The day of the party couldn't come fast enough. By the time the first guests knocked on the door, Assad was fidgety with anticipation, bouncing up and down on his haunches as he kneeled by Eric's armchair.

He wasn't restrained at all, other than his cock. He wanted to be able to touch, to feel, to soak up his present through his fingertips as well as his mouth.

Eric had bought him a pretty little purple dress for the occasion, with a short, frilly skirt and a white lace floral overlay and a neat little bow at the back. Assad had blushed when he'd opened it, but when Eric had said he didn't have to wear it if he didn't want to, he'd clutched it to his chest and shook his head.

Now, he almost regretted the decision. He felt painfully self conscious, warm all over, as Eric patted his head and then walked over and opened the door.

"Hi Sam," Eric said, and Assad wished he could curl up into himself and disappear.

"Hi Eric," Sam's deep, resonant voice said, hitting someplace deep in Assad's tummy. "Good to see you, as always. Where should, uh… Where should I put this?"

Assad couldn't see them from where he was sitting, but he thought Sam must either be holding up a present or a bottle of something.

"Kitchen table," Eric said. "Unless it's something you want to use on him now?"

Sam laughed.

"Well, that would violate one of your possessive little rules, old man," he said. "I'll let you save it for when you're alone later."

Assad bit his lip and fiddled with the hem of his dress. He wondered what the present was. A plug maybe? A vibrator?

Sam peaked around the corner and gave him a goofy, affectionate grin.

"Hey, babe," he said. "Look at you in your party dress."

Assad swallowed.

"Hi Sam," he said. His voice came out small, higher pitched and breathier than usual.

"Looks like I got here first. What do you think I should do while we're waiting for the rest of your guests to arrive? Looks like your daddy has some snacks set up in the kitchen. Think I should go gorge myself on grilled pineapple skewers?"

Assad shook his head.

Sam slipped around the corner and came closer. His movements, Assad thought, were so different than Lestat's — more understated, more grounded. He had his hair pulled back in a low ponytail and his jeans were loose and worn at the knees.

"Hi, sweetheart," he murmured as he bent down and kissed Assad gently on the mouth.

"You already said that," Assad told him.

Sam laughed, stroking Assad's cheeks with his thumbs.

"Impatient, are we?"

Sam's fingers found the collar around Assad's neck and tugged gently. It was a simple black leather collar with an O-ring, an ancient artifact from Eric's early days in the scene. Eric had offered to buy him a new one, but Assad liked the worn, buttery-soft leather and the history it carried.

He opened his mouth and gave Sam a pointed glare.

Sam rolled his eyes, but his fingers were already on his fly.

"You're such a brat," he said. "Alright, fine. Is this what you want?"

Assad's mouth watered at the sight of Sam's flushed, hard cock. He was cut, unlike Eric, and much smaller, but it was a very pretty thing, slender and curving upwards, with a drop of precome already glistening at the tip.

Assad stuck his tongue out and waited, staring at it.

"Well," Sam said. "Go on."

It wasn't exactly what Assad wanted, but he took the instruction, licking kittenishly at the drop of precome, tasting salt and drawing out a little huff from Sam above him. When he'd licked the tip clean, he swirled his tongue around the head, then slowly, steadily pushed forward until his nose was pressed against Sam's pubes and he could feel Sam's tip in the back of his throat.

"Fuuuck," Sam groaned, digging his fingers into Assad's hair. "You're so fucking good at that."

The sounds of more guests arriving only heightened Assad's high as he finally lost himself in his ministrations, licking and sucking and grasping at Sam's thighs. The taste of Sam, the sounds of Eric chatting with their friends while he was on his knees in plain view, the weight of the collar around his neck and the rustle of his skirt every time he moved were almost enough to make him forget how badly he ached to be brutalized.

This was fine. He'd never expected Sam to be rough with him. They were barely getting started; there was plenty of time.

But Jacob was gentle with him too, calling him princess and stroking his hair, and Ben made him do all the work. Delainey was a little rougher with her strap, but only a little, and Nick and Bill were too focused on making out over his head to fuck his face until he cried.

"No one understands the assignment," he grumbled to Eric, when Eric brought him some water and a plate of biscuits.

"Mmm," Eric hummed. "Yeah, I'd noticed that. But hey, Chris should be here soon."

Assad shivered.

"Mmm," he said. "Yeah."

Eric grinned and fed him a biscuit.

The night went on in much the same vein for far too long, and Assad grew increasingly frustrated. His poor, neglected cock ached in its cage and he felt restless, his mind wandering even as his friends used him, even as he put his tongue to use.

The whole point of this, he thought in despair, was to stop his mind from being able to wander, and here he was thinking sadly about the fact that his new dress hadn't been ruined at all, even as Delainey's strap found his tongue for the third time that evening.

When she gently tucked a curl behind his ear, he pulled back and glared at her, swiping away the strand of saliva connecting his mouth to her strap with his hand.

"Why is everyone being so nice to me?" he whined.

Delainey raised an eyebrow at him.

"You couldn't possibly look sweeter and more vulnerable if you tried," she said. "Are we really supposed to look at you in your pretty dress and perfect angel curls and want to be mean to you?"

Assad pouted.

"Yes," he said. "You're supposed to want to ruin me."

"Hey, babe," Eric said from across the room. "Look who just got here."

Assad looked up. And up again.

"Oh," he squeaked.

Chris gave him an absolutely evil grin.

"Your daddy's covering for me," he said. "I've just been in the kitchen, letting you squirm."

Assad couldn't even muster any annoyance at that— he felt too desperate. Chris could be relied upon to treat him roughly.

As he came closer, Assad craned his neck to keep looking at his face. His height was always striking, but from this angle it was awe-inspiring.

"Well?" Chris said as he calmly unzipped his fly. "Beg."

Assad licked his lips, eyes glued to Chris's cock as Chris's big hand pulled it out and stroked it lazily.

"Please, Chris," he said, voice breathy and desperate. "Please, I need… I need…"

Chris hmphed.

"What did you call me?"

Assad glanced in the direction of the kitchen, eyes passing over all the people watching him, searching for Eric, but Chris grabbed his chin and forced bis face forward.

"I know he won't let you call me daddy," he said regretfully. "But you can do better than Chris."

"S-sir," Assad gasped. "I need your cock, sir, please. Need you to— need you to fuck my, fuck my face until… until…"

His throat felt dry. He swallowed.

"Until the back of your throats bruised?" Chris suggested. "Until you can barely speak?"

Assad nodded vigorously.

"P-please."

Chris chuckled.

"A real slut never outgrows it, huh?" he said, forcibly turning Assad's face this way and that. "Still pretty as ever too. Alright. I suppose I'll indulge you."

Chris grabbed him by the hair and violently yanked his head back. Before Assad could catch his breath, that impossibly long cock was being shoved down his throat.

He closed his eyes, trying to relax and modulate his breathing, but Chris gave him no time to adjust. He slammed into the back of Assad's throat again and again, and it was all Assad could do to keep his gurgling and choking from turning into a full blown coughing fit.

When spit was soaking Assad's chin and dripping onto his dress, Chris pulled back just long enough to slap him across the face with a loud crack.

More than one person in the crowd gasped. Assad moaned, his cock twitching in it's cage.

"Whore," Chris said, and spat on Assad's face.

Assad grinned. He let his eyes flutter shut, riding a wave of bliss as Chris forced him down onto his back. He went easily, laughing when the short skirt of his dress rode up, exposing his caged cock to the room.

When Chris's knees landed on either side of his head, now bare ass hovering over his nose, he opened his mouth, waiting.

He didn't have to wait long.

At this angle, Chris's long cock curved down the length of his throat, fucking deeper than he could believe was possible. He was sure it must be bulging his throat even before Chris's hand closed around it, feeling himself under the skin.

"Fuck," Chris cursed.

Assad wished that someone would touch him. His cock ached in its cage. His belly swirled with heat that had nowhere to go. If only someone, if only someone would…

"Eric," Chris panted. "You want to?"

Assad couldn't see anything, but he knew Eric's hands immediately as they pushed his thighs apart. Eric grunted as he forced himself inside Assad's hole, still wet and loose from when he'd fucked him after caging him and before the guests had arrived, unable to resist temptation. Eric hadn't allowed either of them to come, and Assad was so desperate now that the moment Eric's cock brushed against his prostate he spilled, come spurting through the cage and onto his belly as he whined.

Immediately, everything felt ten times more overwhelming. The heat of Chris above him, the long cock fucking down his throat, the thick, oh so familiar cock pounding his ass, all those people watching, the slide and scrape of his dress between his body and the floor. He felt a tear roll down his cheek and let out a sob.

"Such a good boy," Chris said. "You needed that, huh?"

"Insatiable," Eric grunted. "Are you close?"

"Yeah," Chris panted. "You?"

"Yup."

"Let's ruin his party dress, shall we?"

Assad tasted salt as Chris pulled his cock from his throat, and then Chris was coming, covering Assad with come as Eric pulled out and added his mess to the pretty purple dress.

They all panted, not moving, trying to catch their breath. Then, Chris slapped his thighs and stood.

"Well folks," he said. "That's how it's done, if anyone was wondering. Try and bear that in mind if you go back in for another round."