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
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.