Daniel should get spooked. Armand is spooky. Flavors of haunting, of witches, of demons. But all those things are alluring, too. A past that still wants to keep you company, and the seductive nature of the dark, and magic. Even if it's scary, who doesn't want to reach out and touch all of that?
Particularly when all of that is naked and pressed against him, kissing him, rubbing and shifting and finding nice ways to braid their limbs together. He hums something into Armand's mouth, not really an answer; easy agreement. Yeah, he doesn't spook. No more nerves around Armand, except for when it's adrenaline, like being on a rollercoaster just before the drop. Terror, excitement, fucked up glee. Louis would be disappointed to see all the souvenir pictures of Daniel stuck in Armand's Wild Ride, smiling over and over with each rotation.
Sensual and cozy, erotic, strange. Daniel lets his hands roam, petting wherever their enmeshing movements take him. His initial concerns with bringing sex into their complicated disaster of a connection, his stubborn insistence that there be no foundation of the curse of maitre, seems insignificant. None of that matters, because none of that's here. It's just skin, warm from blood, mouths and the prickle of hair, of teeth. Daniel's fangs are there for a few moments, then not, indecisive, but he's barely conscious of it.
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.
The temptation to prick a hole in Armand and taste his blood is there, but it would only be about intimacy; Daniel's textbook is sated, which is a nice feeling. He doesn't want to starve himself, or lose the desire to drink blood with age, or pick up dogs and cats. (Who could ever eat Peanut?) He's glad that they did this. That they do this, that they can share kills, drink together. Armand should take more in general, he thinks. People who are a little happier. It's alright. There are plenty of happy people in the world to prune a few leaves aside for the good of the whole plant.
"Mmn?"
Has he ever received a sweeter order? Daniel smiles to himself, and continues his appreciative petting. Stops only to press his index finger down on a spot at the base of Armand's spine. Playful. Hm? Oh? Does this work? Is there a button he can push?
Hands stroke up, down, the breadth of his palms, then careful, light trails of pointed claws. Thinks about how he might do that, even as they continue to shift and rub against each other. Daniel is hard, or at least halfway, a comfortable thing that's crept up on him. It feels more real, now that Armand has bid him do this, but still dreamy, high. He rubs Armand's hipbones, the curved muscle of his behind, and slides his touch into the cleft of his rear. Everything is easy and exploratory with clear appreciation to the way his body feels under his hands, and it's unhurried. When he begins to slide fingers (and the tease of nails) over hidden-away parts of him, it's mostly the tops of his inner thighs. Leisurely searching for places Armand likes to be touched.
Blunt teeth close at Daniel's earlobe. No, that doesn't work. Keep going.
A favourable comparison: the way he can feel shy with Daniel, the way he had felt it on occasion with Louis, the way Lestat had to coax such feelings out of him, speaks to a certain amount of presence that he could choose to opt out from. He has had half a millennia with his own body, has run the gamut of thinking himself as grotesque, of believing he is beautiful, of caring about either thing, of feeling nothing at all. Has known how something like feeling embarrassment would be a luxury for what it means.
And Armand feels claws tease at such an intimate place and feels his body flush hot, has to urge himself to follow the impulse to skid his knees a little wider as Daniel's fingers make their unhurried exploration. Daniel touches him as if the experience of that alone is arousing, the feeling of his skin beneath his palms and fingertips, and he warms for that too.
His own hands make less work for themselves. One grips a shoulder, the other lingers over his ribs, an anchoring kind of hold for the time being.
Feels good to touch him, to shift against his body, to trade kisses with him. Daniel's mind supplies an extra layer of sensation, like the colors from all the stars and flower petals are draping down over them, making shivers rise on their skin and slide around curiously, sensually, toes to noses. Armand fits well against him, and Daniel encourages that shift of his thighs with more attention in the gap created. Yes. He wants that— this, Armand leaning into it, Armand asking for more, silent or otherwise, Armand enjoying it, wanting it. Wanting Daniel to do it.
Everything is heightened, awareness zeroing in on physical contact. Armand's weight against him has turned his whole body into pleasant, easy nerves. He steals a kiss as he squeezes one globe of his ass, kneads it, and experiments with sliding fingers inward. Not seeking penetration, instead, seeking the soft skin tucked away there, where the right pressure will stimulate the prostate externally.
Daniel's enjoying this configuration too much to want to move, not even to wriggle a hand between them. Not yet. He wants to stay just the way they are, and he wants to touch Armand in a way that doesn't ask anything of his maker besides accepting the touch. He feels almost selfish, wanting Armand to just let him do whatever. But how often does he get to feel up his terrifying, beautiful maker, while he's a warm, high puddle draped over him?
They can both feel selfish, then, which is perhaps as good an outcome for sex as one could hope for, and Armand feels particularly indulgent in the way he stays draped over Daniel, pliant only for receiving the attention he asked for. Still an instinct to anticipate, to control, to give—
Scatters apart with each new thing, like here, the press of fingertips urging a soft, approving sound out of him. Flushes away that brief clawing feeling of embarrassment at himself, suffuses it into something simpler, and his hips shift back against this hand in needy response at that deeply rooted pulse of pleasure.
Kisses Daniel's neck. Shoulder. The bone and muscle leading back to the base of his throat, wild curls of hair tickling along against his face. A panting hot breath across warm skin as Armand catches himself with a rub of hardening length against Daniel's hip, low on his abdomen.
And overall, a tug of need pulls at Daniel's body, something like telekinesis or a shift of gravity that presses them closer together. Like Armand has command over local physics, impulses eking out into the air around them.
Daniel keeps on touching him, emboldened by the welcoming response. Not wondering about what Armand usually prefers, sexually; not worried about it. If he wants something, then he hopes Armand asks him, but he most of all he hopes they're able to do their own thing. Taking the past into consideration where they need to, but... just going on ahead, exploring, learning, sharing.
When did he get so fucking sappy?
Probably the mushrooms. The universe expanding his mind, brushing away all the cobwebs of self-deprecation and hesitation. Daniel feels good, and Armand likes him, and he has no reason to be shy or insecure. He can slide his touch further in, find where he's questing for, rub at him. He can shift just enough let Armand feel that he's getting hard for him, too, and he can turn his head to kiss his maker's forehead and temple, breathe in deep the smell of his silky hair, and—
Feel that. Like a current pulling him. Reality bending to envelop just the two of them. Daniel lets it coat him, and he reaches for it with his mind, even as he continues to look for just the right angle to make Armand sigh.
Is it new, or just rare? This sense of comfort, being comfortable, this sense of letting his influence leak out beyond the primitive trappings of his physical self, letting it be merely the nexus through which he can connect to his fledgling and be given pleasure. New, he thinks, decides. The drugs. The person. The circumstance.
Armand sighs. Moves only as impulse directs, the lift of his hips back against Daniel's hand, and then back down to rub himself against soft skin, the sympathetic burgeoning hardness nestled against his own. Gravity is replaced by something more magnetic, trapping them together. Pulling Daniel's body against his own, off the ground by fractional degrees.
He has ruined the rug a little. More than a little. Patches have become thin and shabby through threads unravelling, twisting, making shapes and patterns of their shared, imagined garden, if not so artful, just wild, tangled. Daniel can reach out and maybe it feels like a series of invisible hands linking fingers, testing strength.
Armand is stronger, of course, but isn't interested in overpowering, showing off in that way. Just showing, demonstrating the texture of reality that creatures like them can appreciate.
It feels like they're floating. Not just because they're high, but because they're being lifted off the ground; threads spinning to make flowers, vines, stars, and Daniel finds himself conceptualizing Armand as a presence that only has a physical body because he feels like it. Because it might be the center of him, but it's not all of him. He is the carpet threads and the melting paint and the particles around them, so it's not so surprising to be laying against 'nothing'— it's not nothing, it's him, as him as the soft skin, and the chest hair that drives Daniel slightly crazy, and his cock, which is warm and comfortable, a funny word for it, but it's all the same emotion, now.
Arousal and curiosity and contentment. Daniel hopes Armand feels, if not the same way, then a way that's just as good.
Armand wants Daniel to make him come. He can do that. He did that semi-professionally for a while. He wanted to do that years and years ago, decades ago, even though Armand had terrified him. The memory isn't a bad one right now, not even when he's wrapped up Armand's spiderwebs. It's just an interesting one, and a link in the silver chain that binds them.
He pets and rubs the tender skin of Armand's perineum, pressing in as if to reach into his body from somewhere it can't be reached into from. He rocks up against him, gentle, but deliberate. One heel presses down into a bird's nest of pieces of luxury rug to give him a little more leverage. He feels fingers, or something like it, all along the undersides of his legs, and spine.
And in the abstract, expansive nebula of Armand's awareness, Armand's control, there's the centrepoint of quiet that is Daniel's mind. The thing he can't touch, invade, control. Can't order it to rest or to spin or to feel or to think. Can't spool thought out of it like so much glossy black tape.
And it's a relief. Otherwise, he might accidentally unravel Daniel in a way he can't easily fix. It would be harder to relax.
To make the sounds he is making, little urgent sighs and groans at the dedicated press of Daniel's fingers, and the by now somewhat slick alignment of their cocks pressed between them. Lifted inches off the ground, he can sense Daniel's bracing his heel back down against it for leverage.
Another push, a little further upwards. Gravity is each other. He winds his arms around Daniel's waist and shoulders, moving against him with hedonistic intent and lifting his head to kiss him with more intent than the wandering grazes of teeth and lips against his fledgling's neck and shoulder.
A feeling of weightlessness at the same time as a feeling of being so very grounded. They aren't doing anything but petting each other, and yet there's a sense of deep merging. Sharing this strange, unique experience, the only two creatures who will ever be right here, right now. And they happen to be monsters, who happen to be maker and fledgling, and Daniel thinks he can feel the bond like a tangible thing, like the threads from their clothes and the rug have become something stitched through them. Warm eroticism instead of stinging needlework, like expanding nerves, feeling.
Rocking gentle up into him, hard against hard with wet, sticky proof of enjoyment melting out of them both, pressing against him with intent. Intent, but not urgency; the idea of an explosive end is as seductive as the idea of being here, suspended, forever.
Aimless, indulgent almost-kisses, open mouths finding each other, or cheekbones, or earlobes.
"What colors do you see when you come?" What is this question. Incredible journalism. "You're like... the sky the first time I really saw it, in this life. So dark as to be bright again."
Maybe Mr. Molloy missed a calling to be a poet. And no, not in the vapid romantic sense of the idea, because Daniel is about as unromantic as a rubber mallet, deliberately so—but not unsentimental. Every poet needs to be sentimental, even the kinds Armand has shown to favour, the odd ones, the cynical ones, who wield words like hardware, seeking the weak points, pounding them together to hold fast or break apart.
And even with talk of skies that are so dark as to be bright again, the poetry is in the asking. Finding a question that no one in Armand's long life has asked him, would ever think to ask him. Poetry in the feeling this induces, as poems do. As journalism can.
Does he have an answer? He kisses Daniel, and a fang catches the other man's lip.
"I don't know," he says. He has enjoyed sex. He has gone into that internal and selfish space, allowed himself to receive pleasure. It has been a long education, with few educators. He is certain an answer exists, but he can't summon it now. Now, now, feeling himself desperate. "Show me."
He could come like this, too, but he wants more. Reaches back to grasp at Daniel's hand, presses, an urge, and invitation to use his hand properly. Unabashed in a way he can't recall being before in this direction.
The sharp tease of teeth makes him want more, makes his cock jump, and at any other time he might be embarrassed at how obvious and predictable it is, but right now it just feels warm and good and like another layer of thrilling sensation. If Armand wants to bite him, he can have all of him, if he doesn't, even just the scrape, the hint of his own blood, is achingly enjoyable just as it is, and—
Show me, so much better than Rest. Daniel presses a kiss to Armand's mouth, all messy heat, and curls strong fingers around both of their erections, delves deeper with his other hand, following the way his maker guides him. He can do this, follow the artful lines of flesh, press into the tight clutch of him, careful with diamond-sharp claws but free from anxiety about them. He wants to feel Armand go tight then tip over the edge all around him, in his hands, against him, every shiver of his body and all the ways it's extended in the air, in the threads, in their woven, painted grotto of vines and stars.
Maybe he'll follow him over. It's a good night to be enamored, and lost in shimmering lust and affection.
Endearing, his sense of Daniel's cock twitching in response to (he assumes) the sharp sensation that must have come before the tang of blood between them. At a sudden rush, Armand wants to know everything that incites such a reaction, all that Daniel has done before and still favours, anything he hasn't. But it's mostly borne of arousal, the pre-orgasmic rush and flood of neurochemistry and blood in veins. He is in no position to pursue experimentation.
Currently. He lets out a coarse sound as Daniel does as requested, the crude burn and stretch of being entered. More for that than any articulated probing after nerve clustered, sensitive spots.
Kisses him rough, fangs down, liable to cut. Goes tight around Daniel's knuckles. Shudders, muffles a rougher moan into his mouth.
Daniel will feel the ground slam into his back, but it doesn't feel like falling. More like being pinned to a surface that may as well be a wall, the ceiling. A clumsy pursuit of friction as his orgasm is rung from him. Armand is still his centre of gravity—who knows where he might fall if he were to let go?
(No unlocked secrets of the universe, no spontaneous astral projection or elevated states of being. He comes and it feels good, better than it has in a long time, and sees colours.)
Death is freedom. From illness, from pain, from society, from morality, from endings. And from grocery bills, and having to piss, and vegetables stuck in teeth. Daniel thinks of stars, spiral galaxies, flowers blooming, and little freedoms, like how every body part being engaged with now only exists for feeling good. A shit joke, in the midst of drug and sex addled euphoria. No one has to know but Daniel.
It doesn't do anything to lessen the experience for him. Stray spiderweb thoughts all seize together, like Armand's body around the intrusion of fingers. So easy, to pull him into ecstasy this way? Or has it been hours, and has he been edging him? His own fangs have manifested, pearl daggers, nicking his own mouth, or Armand's, he can't tell, the smell of blood in his come is nearly as intense as tasting it. And he wants to, as the last warmth their free, dead bodies can produce pulses over his hand and the ground finds his back again. Like the force of his maker's orgasm has restuck them to the earth.
Good thing. They might spin away otherwise, join other planets and roaming asteroids in orbit.
Daniel feels suspended on an edge. It's good. Tense and satisfied at once. Armand is beautiful, Armand is horrible. He likes both of those things, and his teeth against his mouth, and the shivering grinding into his hand, and the mess of blood and frayed carpet.
They lay in a wreckage of bald carpet and tangled thready weeds of mixed colours, and slowly, Armand's invisible grasp of his surroundings slowly retracts. He is a more ordinary weight on top of Daniel. He shivers in his own skin, feeling sweat and come and blood and friction and slickness.
But not out of tune with the sublime. No sudden hit of sobriety. Focus, maybe, lifting his head to look down at Daniel, let out a heavy breath at the sight of him with a bloodied mouth and long fangs and orange eyes. Daniel, who he likes to draw because he is handsome, because his body is aged in a pleasing way, because he wants to capture in some external way the way he sees him.
He captures Daniel's jaw with a hand, a gentle but firm bracket of force. Wandering a thumb over his chin. Judging his current state.
Still hard, but still kind of in space. High and feeling perfectly fine with it. Better than fine. Armand grabs him and Daniel stares at him, aware as though he can see himself from outside his own body, admiring their sunset-colored eyes that glow like mirrors of each other. A matching gradient. Daniel a bit more yellow, Armand a bit more amber.
Head tips to try a playful bite at Armand's thumb. Hmm. What a nice time, all of this. He shifts his weight to feel how his maker pins him, and the pressure of his own hand against his arousal.
"Magenta," is a ready response, as he shifts in response, weight balanced across Daniel's hips, feeling the ball of his fist at the crook of his own thigh. A shift of his hips adds pressure, clumsy and broad.
Colours without names, like the gradient Daniel's eyes take on when they shift between blue and predator orange-yellow. He runs his hand back down from Daniel's chin, over his throat, his chest, relishing in the shifting texture of muscle and skin and hair and fat and bone, letting his claws leave white tracks behind, bloodless abrasions.
No objective beyond chasing whims, which has made for a nice night.
An exhaled laugh, marred by a slight hitch in breath as Armand moves, the slow-scorching pleasure of it like moving in a hot bath.
"Some kind of amber-magenta, that's what you are," he sighs. "On a spectrum people can barely see. I'm glad I can remember you in the sun."
A velvet-dark void haloed by the unimpressive star that Armand probably still think orbits the Earth. He rocks up into him, feeling more, more of his body, more of his nails.
Good. Armand would like to participate in granting him the ability.
He reaches down, takes Daniel by the wrist, tugs his hand away from himself. The plan had been to then touch him, but whim dictates he look him over. His own spend glistens on his skin, rough grey hair, the thready dregs of annihilated cloth clinging here and there to both of them like persistent spider web.
"Do you recall what the sun feels like, still?" he asks, as he makes this study. Imagines it rendered in charcoal, decidedly pornographic, a frame that cuts Daniel off at the knees and neck, a needing cock rendered only in vague strokes and shadows.
Being admired is new-old; something he's experienced before, but not in a long time. It makes Armand feel all the more singular. No one else is looking at him this way. No one else has a gaze that melts over him, scouring and caressing.
"I recall the first time I got really, really sunburned," he says, laying back to let his maker get his obscene fill. Daniel draws his hand up to his mouth, and licks the pomegranate-colored mess from them, and it makes his eyes shift, makes his cock twitch. "I moved to Los Angeles, after San Fransisco. July. Venice Beach, sitting in between the bodybuilder yard and the volleyball posts. Everyone was sweating, baking, it felt like needles all over my skin, I just had this shitty baseball cap and sunblock that had sweated off in ten minutes, hours behind me. I had burns," he moves his hand, down over his own chest, indicating some slutty, awful, early 1980s v-neck, "all the way down here, and here," lower, the top of his thigh, he must have been in sports shorts, or trunks, or raggedy cut-off jeans. "That's what the sun feels like, right? Do you sweat still, in the sun?"
Fingers trace what he can reach of Armand's chest, between his pectoral muscles, conjuring thoughts of rivulets of sweat, pink-tinted, shining.
Daniel speaks. It feels sensory, even this, just a story. Still pleasantly high, vaguely synaesthesic for it. Armand lets his eyes wander, tracks the journey of sticky fingertips to mouth.
"Yes," he answers.
Armand feels out curves, dips, textures across Daniel's chest in return, down the centre of him. The highest of the high has been journeyed over, but some of it lingers, remains, and it only takes a little bit of intentional thoughtlessness to feel something like ash lifting off his touches as he goes. Coloured chalk. Pencil dust.
"I don't stay in it for long," he adds. "Relatively. An hour, two hours, and I can feel it. A sensitivity. Needles."
His fingers travel to Daniel's cock, stroking along the underside it volunteers. A gently applied itch of nails.
Armand in the sun, the summer head of Daniel's memories (what a thing, putting him in more memories) in a flimsy white t-shirt, fraying cut-off denim shorts that would be too short by today's prudish fashion standards, everything made half-transparent by sweat. A nice thing to picture.
Nicer, the teasing attention to his arousal, which makes him hiss. Ah, it's good, though.
"Do you like it?"
Sensitivity. Needles. The itch of nails. The initial poke of teeth.
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Particularly when all of that is naked and pressed against him, kissing him, rubbing and shifting and finding nice ways to braid their limbs together. He hums something into Armand's mouth, not really an answer; easy agreement. Yeah, he doesn't spook. No more nerves around Armand, except for when it's adrenaline, like being on a rollercoaster just before the drop. Terror, excitement, fucked up glee. Louis would be disappointed to see all the souvenir pictures of Daniel stuck in Armand's Wild Ride, smiling over and over with each rotation.
Sensual and cozy, erotic, strange. Daniel lets his hands roam, petting wherever their enmeshing movements take him. His initial concerns with bringing sex into their complicated disaster of a connection, his stubborn insistence that there be no foundation of the curse of maitre, seems insignificant. None of that matters, because none of that's here. It's just skin, warm from blood, mouths and the prickle of hair, of teeth. Daniel's fangs are there for a few moments, then not, indecisive, but he's barely conscious of it.
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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.
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"Mmn?"
Has he ever received a sweeter order? Daniel smiles to himself, and continues his appreciative petting. Stops only to press his index finger down on a spot at the base of Armand's spine. Playful. Hm? Oh? Does this work? Is there a button he can push?
Hands stroke up, down, the breadth of his palms, then careful, light trails of pointed claws. Thinks about how he might do that, even as they continue to shift and rub against each other. Daniel is hard, or at least halfway, a comfortable thing that's crept up on him. It feels more real, now that Armand has bid him do this, but still dreamy, high. He rubs Armand's hipbones, the curved muscle of his behind, and slides his touch into the cleft of his rear. Everything is easy and exploratory with clear appreciation to the way his body feels under his hands, and it's unhurried. When he begins to slide fingers (and the tease of nails) over hidden-away parts of him, it's mostly the tops of his inner thighs. Leisurely searching for places Armand likes to be touched.
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A favourable comparison: the way he can feel shy with Daniel, the way he had felt it on occasion with Louis, the way Lestat had to coax such feelings out of him, speaks to a certain amount of presence that he could choose to opt out from. He has had half a millennia with his own body, has run the gamut of thinking himself as grotesque, of believing he is beautiful, of caring about either thing, of feeling nothing at all. Has known how something like feeling embarrassment would be a luxury for what it means.
And Armand feels claws tease at such an intimate place and feels his body flush hot, has to urge himself to follow the impulse to skid his knees a little wider as Daniel's fingers make their unhurried exploration. Daniel touches him as if the experience of that alone is arousing, the feeling of his skin beneath his palms and fingertips, and he warms for that too.
His own hands make less work for themselves. One grips a shoulder, the other lingers over his ribs, an anchoring kind of hold for the time being.
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Everything is heightened, awareness zeroing in on physical contact. Armand's weight against him has turned his whole body into pleasant, easy nerves. He steals a kiss as he squeezes one globe of his ass, kneads it, and experiments with sliding fingers inward. Not seeking penetration, instead, seeking the soft skin tucked away there, where the right pressure will stimulate the prostate externally.
Daniel's enjoying this configuration too much to want to move, not even to wriggle a hand between them. Not yet. He wants to stay just the way they are, and he wants to touch Armand in a way that doesn't ask anything of his maker besides accepting the touch. He feels almost selfish, wanting Armand to just let him do whatever. But how often does he get to feel up his terrifying, beautiful maker, while he's a warm, high puddle draped over him?
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Scatters apart with each new thing, like here, the press of fingertips urging a soft, approving sound out of him. Flushes away that brief clawing feeling of embarrassment at himself, suffuses it into something simpler, and his hips shift back against this hand in needy response at that deeply rooted pulse of pleasure.
Kisses Daniel's neck. Shoulder. The bone and muscle leading back to the base of his throat, wild curls of hair tickling along against his face. A panting hot breath across warm skin as Armand catches himself with a rub of hardening length against Daniel's hip, low on his abdomen.
And overall, a tug of need pulls at Daniel's body, something like telekinesis or a shift of gravity that presses them closer together. Like Armand has command over local physics, impulses eking out into the air around them.
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When did he get so fucking sappy?
Probably the mushrooms. The universe expanding his mind, brushing away all the cobwebs of self-deprecation and hesitation. Daniel feels good, and Armand likes him, and he has no reason to be shy or insecure. He can slide his touch further in, find where he's questing for, rub at him. He can shift just enough let Armand feel that he's getting hard for him, too, and he can turn his head to kiss his maker's forehead and temple, breathe in deep the smell of his silky hair, and—
Feel that. Like a current pulling him. Reality bending to envelop just the two of them. Daniel lets it coat him, and he reaches for it with his mind, even as he continues to look for just the right angle to make Armand sigh.
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Armand sighs. Moves only as impulse directs, the lift of his hips back against Daniel's hand, and then back down to rub himself against soft skin, the sympathetic burgeoning hardness nestled against his own. Gravity is replaced by something more magnetic, trapping them together. Pulling Daniel's body against his own, off the ground by fractional degrees.
He has ruined the rug a little. More than a little. Patches have become thin and shabby through threads unravelling, twisting, making shapes and patterns of their shared, imagined garden, if not so artful, just wild, tangled. Daniel can reach out and maybe it feels like a series of invisible hands linking fingers, testing strength.
Armand is stronger, of course, but isn't interested in overpowering, showing off in that way. Just showing, demonstrating the texture of reality that creatures like them can appreciate.
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Arousal and curiosity and contentment. Daniel hopes Armand feels, if not the same way, then a way that's just as good.
Armand wants Daniel to make him come. He can do that. He did that semi-professionally for a while. He wanted to do that years and years ago, decades ago, even though Armand had terrified him. The memory isn't a bad one right now, not even when he's wrapped up Armand's spiderwebs. It's just an interesting one, and a link in the silver chain that binds them.
He pets and rubs the tender skin of Armand's perineum, pressing in as if to reach into his body from somewhere it can't be reached into from. He rocks up against him, gentle, but deliberate. One heel presses down into a bird's nest of pieces of luxury rug to give him a little more leverage. He feels fingers, or something like it, all along the undersides of his legs, and spine.
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And it's a relief. Otherwise, he might accidentally unravel Daniel in a way he can't easily fix. It would be harder to relax.
To make the sounds he is making, little urgent sighs and groans at the dedicated press of Daniel's fingers, and the by now somewhat slick alignment of their cocks pressed between them. Lifted inches off the ground, he can sense Daniel's bracing his heel back down against it for leverage.
Another push, a little further upwards. Gravity is each other. He winds his arms around Daniel's waist and shoulders, moving against him with hedonistic intent and lifting his head to kiss him with more intent than the wandering grazes of teeth and lips against his fledgling's neck and shoulder.
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Rocking gentle up into him, hard against hard with wet, sticky proof of enjoyment melting out of them both, pressing against him with intent. Intent, but not urgency; the idea of an explosive end is as seductive as the idea of being here, suspended, forever.
Aimless, indulgent almost-kisses, open mouths finding each other, or cheekbones, or earlobes.
"What colors do you see when you come?" What is this question. Incredible journalism. "You're like... the sky the first time I really saw it, in this life. So dark as to be bright again."
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And even with talk of skies that are so dark as to be bright again, the poetry is in the asking. Finding a question that no one in Armand's long life has asked him, would ever think to ask him. Poetry in the feeling this induces, as poems do. As journalism can.
Does he have an answer? He kisses Daniel, and a fang catches the other man's lip.
"I don't know," he says. He has enjoyed sex. He has gone into that internal and selfish space, allowed himself to receive pleasure. It has been a long education, with few educators. He is certain an answer exists, but he can't summon it now. Now, now, feeling himself desperate. "Show me."
He could come like this, too, but he wants more. Reaches back to grasp at Daniel's hand, presses, an urge, and invitation to use his hand properly. Unabashed in a way he can't recall being before in this direction.
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Show me, so much better than Rest. Daniel presses a kiss to Armand's mouth, all messy heat, and curls strong fingers around both of their erections, delves deeper with his other hand, following the way his maker guides him. He can do this, follow the artful lines of flesh, press into the tight clutch of him, careful with diamond-sharp claws but free from anxiety about them. He wants to feel Armand go tight then tip over the edge all around him, in his hands, against him, every shiver of his body and all the ways it's extended in the air, in the threads, in their woven, painted grotto of vines and stars.
Maybe he'll follow him over. It's a good night to be enamored, and lost in shimmering lust and affection.
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Currently. He lets out a coarse sound as Daniel does as requested, the crude burn and stretch of being entered. More for that than any articulated probing after nerve clustered, sensitive spots.
Kisses him rough, fangs down, liable to cut. Goes tight around Daniel's knuckles. Shudders, muffles a rougher moan into his mouth.
Daniel will feel the ground slam into his back, but it doesn't feel like falling. More like being pinned to a surface that may as well be a wall, the ceiling. A clumsy pursuit of friction as his orgasm is rung from him. Armand is still his centre of gravity—who knows where he might fall if he were to let go?
(No unlocked secrets of the universe, no spontaneous astral projection or elevated states of being. He comes and it feels good, better than it has in a long time, and sees colours.)
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It doesn't do anything to lessen the experience for him. Stray spiderweb thoughts all seize together, like Armand's body around the intrusion of fingers. So easy, to pull him into ecstasy this way? Or has it been hours, and has he been edging him? His own fangs have manifested, pearl daggers, nicking his own mouth, or Armand's, he can't tell, the smell of blood in his come is nearly as intense as tasting it. And he wants to, as the last warmth their free, dead bodies can produce pulses over his hand and the ground finds his back again. Like the force of his maker's orgasm has restuck them to the earth.
Good thing. They might spin away otherwise, join other planets and roaming asteroids in orbit.
Daniel feels suspended on an edge. It's good. Tense and satisfied at once. Armand is beautiful, Armand is horrible. He likes both of those things, and his teeth against his mouth, and the shivering grinding into his hand, and the mess of blood and frayed carpet.
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But not out of tune with the sublime. No sudden hit of sobriety. Focus, maybe, lifting his head to look down at Daniel, let out a heavy breath at the sight of him with a bloodied mouth and long fangs and orange eyes. Daniel, who he likes to draw because he is handsome, because his body is aged in a pleasing way, because he wants to capture in some external way the way he sees him.
He captures Daniel's jaw with a hand, a gentle but firm bracket of force. Wandering a thumb over his chin. Judging his current state.
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Head tips to try a playful bite at Armand's thumb. Hmm. What a nice time, all of this. He shifts his weight to feel how his maker pins him, and the pressure of his own hand against his arousal.
"What'd you see?"
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"Magenta," is a ready response, as he shifts in response, weight balanced across Daniel's hips, feeling the ball of his fist at the crook of his own thigh. A shift of his hips adds pressure, clumsy and broad.
Colours without names, like the gradient Daniel's eyes take on when they shift between blue and predator orange-yellow. He runs his hand back down from Daniel's chin, over his throat, his chest, relishing in the shifting texture of muscle and skin and hair and fat and bone, letting his claws leave white tracks behind, bloodless abrasions.
No objective beyond chasing whims, which has made for a nice night.
"Do you want to see colours too?"
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"Some kind of amber-magenta, that's what you are," he sighs. "On a spectrum people can barely see. I'm glad I can remember you in the sun."
A velvet-dark void haloed by the unimpressive star that Armand probably still think orbits the Earth. He rocks up into him, feeling more, more of his body, more of his nails.
"Yeah. I do."
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He reaches down, takes Daniel by the wrist, tugs his hand away from himself. The plan had been to then touch him, but whim dictates he look him over. His own spend glistens on his skin, rough grey hair, the thready dregs of annihilated cloth clinging here and there to both of them like persistent spider web.
"Do you recall what the sun feels like, still?" he asks, as he makes this study. Imagines it rendered in charcoal, decidedly pornographic, a frame that cuts Daniel off at the knees and neck, a needing cock rendered only in vague strokes and shadows.
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"I recall the first time I got really, really sunburned," he says, laying back to let his maker get his obscene fill. Daniel draws his hand up to his mouth, and licks the pomegranate-colored mess from them, and it makes his eyes shift, makes his cock twitch. "I moved to Los Angeles, after San Fransisco. July. Venice Beach, sitting in between the bodybuilder yard and the volleyball posts. Everyone was sweating, baking, it felt like needles all over my skin, I just had this shitty baseball cap and sunblock that had sweated off in ten minutes, hours behind me. I had burns," he moves his hand, down over his own chest, indicating some slutty, awful, early 1980s v-neck, "all the way down here, and here," lower, the top of his thigh, he must have been in sports shorts, or trunks, or raggedy cut-off jeans. "That's what the sun feels like, right? Do you sweat still, in the sun?"
Fingers trace what he can reach of Armand's chest, between his pectoral muscles, conjuring thoughts of rivulets of sweat, pink-tinted, shining.
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"Yes," he answers.
Armand feels out curves, dips, textures across Daniel's chest in return, down the centre of him. The highest of the high has been journeyed over, but some of it lingers, remains, and it only takes a little bit of intentional thoughtlessness to feel something like ash lifting off his touches as he goes. Coloured chalk. Pencil dust.
"I don't stay in it for long," he adds. "Relatively. An hour, two hours, and I can feel it. A sensitivity. Needles."
His fingers travel to Daniel's cock, stroking along the underside it volunteers. A gently applied itch of nails.
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Nicer, the teasing attention to his arousal, which makes him hiss. Ah, it's good, though.
"Do you like it?"
Sensitivity. Needles. The itch of nails. The initial poke of teeth.