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.
Armand gives Daniel the flat of his palm, a luxurious spread of warmth compared to light fingertips, but then also sets the tip of a nail somewhere sensitive, enough to bring a speck of blood to the surface. Hands go firm immediately, a pinning lean through the heel of his hand at the centre of Daniel's chest, the other wrapping fingers around his cock. Smear of bright red.
Colours. "I tested it about thirty years ago or so. I spent a day on a white beach by the Aegean Sea, watching the sky and the water, sometimes the people. By the time the sun went down," strokes Daniel long, slow, tight, "I couldn't feel anything. Numb all over, half-blind, thirsty."
Chooses not to relay what came next. What Arun needed of Louis that night.
Armand looms over him, even as they just lay there together, like he's a unique moth being pinned. Free of thoughts like This shouldn't be interesting, it is what it is, with no second-guessing, and Daniel stares up at him with an expression that's startled, but awed. His blood, fresh, in with all else, and wants to bite Armand. He wants to fuck him. He wants to lay right here and watch pinwheels of colors, forever.
"Did it feel better than it had in years?" A light squirm, flex of his hands. They find Armand's arms, his sides, trailing, like he's drawing a touch over water's surface, making ripples. "Like sinking into cold glass? I think about—"
Pauses, to just feel.
"... That walk with you, after the diner. All the time."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"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?"
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
Armand gives Daniel the flat of his palm, a luxurious spread of warmth compared to light fingertips, but then also sets the tip of a nail somewhere sensitive, enough to bring a speck of blood to the surface. Hands go firm immediately, a pinning lean through the heel of his hand at the centre of Daniel's chest, the other wrapping fingers around his cock. Smear of bright red.
Colours. "I tested it about thirty years ago or so. I spent a day on a white beach by the Aegean Sea, watching the sky and the water, sometimes the people. By the time the sun went down," strokes Daniel long, slow, tight, "I couldn't feel anything. Numb all over, half-blind, thirsty."
Chooses not to relay what came next. What Arun needed of Louis that night.
"The night felt good."
no subject
Armand looms over him, even as they just lay there together, like he's a unique moth being pinned. Free of thoughts like This shouldn't be interesting, it is what it is, with no second-guessing, and Daniel stares up at him with an expression that's startled, but awed. His blood, fresh, in with all else, and wants to bite Armand. He wants to fuck him. He wants to lay right here and watch pinwheels of colors, forever.
"Did it feel better than it had in years?" A light squirm, flex of his hands. They find Armand's arms, his sides, trailing, like he's drawing a touch over water's surface, making ripples. "Like sinking into cold glass? I think about—"
Pauses, to just feel.
"... That walk with you, after the diner. All the time."
Colors.