Almost dreamlike, feeling a fang against his tongue, his lip, feeling it melt blunt again. Daniel is rewarded with a panted sound, a more fervent kiss.
Armand wonders: does he miss it? For a moment, he doesn't know. It had been satisfying to bare his neck to Louis, to feed him his blood, to be the supplementary course in his dining that had done as much to keep his lover functional as the Farm had, and wasn't that pleasing? It had felt like service, yes, an act of submission to sit obediently and tip his head aside, but something else. The feeling of his own essence snaking into Louis' body, strengthening it, slipping through his arteries, pumped by his heart, into his brain, into his cock.
And now there is Daniel. Much the same. No, more so. If Armand is a plant, then Daniel is sodden earth and he feels it like a tangled root system inside of his fledgling. His fledgling, his, a strange extension of himself, an additional nervous system intrinsically connected to his own, no matter how far it wanders. He rubs against him, presses up into roaming hands, thinks about Daniel's long fangs sinking into his throat, his blood saturated him, claiming him, claiming each other.
Some sober part of him says: no. Not yet.
"Make me come," he says, a murmur against Daniel's shoulder. An instruction, for all that it's so softly delivered. He can feel himself becoming calculated. He doesn't wish to be. Armand might have to make a note to feel embarrassed later, plastered and wriggling against Daniel and making this plea, but for now, it is what he wants too much for that to matter.
no subject
Armand wonders: does he miss it? For a moment, he doesn't know. It had been satisfying to bare his neck to Louis, to feed him his blood, to be the supplementary course in his dining that had done as much to keep his lover functional as the Farm had, and wasn't that pleasing? It had felt like service, yes, an act of submission to sit obediently and tip his head aside, but something else. The feeling of his own essence snaking into Louis' body, strengthening it, slipping through his arteries, pumped by his heart, into his brain, into his cock.
And now there is Daniel. Much the same. No, more so. If Armand is a plant, then Daniel is sodden earth and he feels it like a tangled root system inside of his fledgling. His fledgling, his, a strange extension of himself, an additional nervous system intrinsically connected to his own, no matter how far it wanders. He rubs against him, presses up into roaming hands, thinks about Daniel's long fangs sinking into his throat, his blood saturated him, claiming him, claiming each other.
Some sober part of him says: no. Not yet.
"Make me come," he says, a murmur against Daniel's shoulder. An instruction, for all that it's so softly delivered. He can feel himself becoming calculated. He doesn't wish to be. Armand might have to make a note to feel embarrassed later, plastered and wriggling against Daniel and making this plea, but for now, it is what he wants too much for that to matter.