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"These definitely weren't here before," the older man mumbles, touching the smooth texture of his fangs. Frank's fingers taste like sweat, like the chili they ate earlier, like Peter. A whimper drags itself like a beaten dog from the back of his throat, high and needy. It makes something darken in Frank's eyes. His expedition continuing mercilessly, running along every ridge and bump from his flat teeth to the canines. Back to his gums, rubbing them, playing with his tongue until Peter's knees feel weak and his brain is dissolved web fluid. Sludge and goo.
Frank lays his fingers on the flat of Peter's tongue, and he glances up, curious and helpless to speak as shiny drool collects in his mouth, spills from the corner of his lips to the floor and over his bare feet.
"Bite." Frank instructs, voice thick with want.
—
Or, Peter grows fangs.
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