followups | way down we go.

Louis' insistence that the bond seduced him and his maker into being the only two people on Earth was met with skepticism because they had a third (and a forth, in Antoinette). But he understands now it was plain and simple favoritism making it true, and he finds himself unable to even consider the hypothetical of Armand making another. His mind skitters away from it. Probably a fucked up sign. A fucked up sign, of more things that are fucked up, and he welcomes all of it, because despite all of his shit talking, he really, really likes feeling like he and Armand are all there is.

Daniel takes stock of these ideas, imagining them, letting the potential wash over him. Impossible to miss the way his breathing ticks up a little, and the way he's only growing warmer. The idea of being served by someone with Armand's past threatens to string a stitch of unease through him, but he's a little foregone in the arousal department, and besides, Armand has had quite a while to unpack his own issues. If he has. But telling a survivor what they can and can't be turned on by is bullshit.

Ownership. His pulse speeds up, telltale. A horrible thing to know that in 1973, Armand described him accurately, and that a part of him in the midst of the most intense fear and shame he'd ever felt, thought it was kind of hot. That part of him seizes onto something now and says Yes, more of that, and has to take a slow breath.

Complicated. Yep. Here we fucking are.

"You're the only one," he says, and he's shocked at how affected he sounds. Uncharacteristically, he falls short on explaining what he means by that. Maybe it's clear. Armand is singular. In the world, and to him.

It catches him off guard, having not intended to press for this kind of assurance. Unless some part of him had, had wanted to hear it, but it doesn't stop him from going still. His own growing warmth, quicker bloodflow, speaking his own arousal into being and helped along by hearing it echoed in Daniel's body. And now this, a more private reaction unless Daniel were to drink the truth from his blood, or,

catch it, there, in Armand's expression. Seeing through the dark, the subtle widening of his eyes, some near-nervous set to his jaw. A drawn breath in, slowly let out.

"Yes," he says, on a delay. "As you are for me."

No other fledglings, no other immortal lovers. He had turned Daniel because he wanted Daniel to live forever, because he wanted a companion, and here it is. Almost embarrassing, how simple it has all turned out to be.

Is it reassurance? Is it offering himself? All of it? Daniel meant to say more, the only person he'd trust like this, the only one he's going to let this happen with, ever. Ever, and forever is so fucking long, so fucking long that Armand is living on an alien planet, and someday, Daniel will be, too. And it lands just the way it is, correct even without his say-so, and he sees it in Armand.

His own breath is nervous. This is a lot.

"Please kiss me."

A sharper breath in, before he sinks down. Obeying without feelings of obedience, gladly fitting them back together as Armand kisses Daniel. The contact feels certain and sure of his own welcome, and like it is going to be one of many such instances, and like it is the first time again. His hand, smooth and warm against Daniel's cheek.

New ones are so fragile. Armand knows this better than most. The amount of times he has flicked a glance at one, focused in on the core of them, and set them ablaze like they were made of tinder and dry straw—scarcely effort on his part.

And now there is this one, immortal but fragile. He has never cared for one. He can't begin to fathom the idea of the true ancients waking, so he can at least take some comfort that by the standards of the active vampire populace, his presence is armor enough.

Daniel pulls his arms around him, feeling so strangely needy in a way he hasn't been since he was much younger. Or maybe never before— he finds it too difficult to think of a time that was exactly like this. There's no comparison. This is another life, and Armand is unlike anything, anyone else, for good and ill.

He kisses him with intent, learning the taste of him, what makes him press back the most intently, and he forgets everything about kissing in his life before, even his unlife before. They don't strictly need to breathe, he doesn't have to hope nothing turns sharp in his mouth and give him away; it's different, an endless heated loop of sensation. Armand feels so good on top of him. Dangerous and safe and erotic and sweet. Someone who might hold his hand for hours, someone who might try and keep him in a fucking cage. Either way, forever.

Daniel shifts up to rub against him, then touches his face, his chest, and slips a hand between them to press a hand where he's growing hard. As easy as decades ago, though really, the only thing that had finally made a major dent in his libido had been disease. Still, this too is a little different; blood pressure feels just that little bit more euphoric when you are all blood inside. He hitches them together so it's hard on hard, layers of fabric teasing separation.

Thin, soft fabric, fabric for sleeping in, and concealing very little from one another save for the precise texture of their skin, a fuzzying of detail. Daniel tucks his hand between them, evoking a soft noise from Armand muffled into their kiss, and he finds himself quite hungry for those missing aspects.

But willing to tease himself with it, satisfy instead in the warm weight of himself bearing down, at the way Daniel shifts them even closer together. Armand has no shame at all about another and much more precise roll of his hips, the specific slide of blood-filled flesh, mutual interest.

This, for a moment. Wiling away seconds and minutes like this, where the occasional, languid shifts of his body against Daniel's feels less like he is attempting to evoke, provoke, but more what he said already: seeking his own satisfaction while Daniel is caged beneath him, between his knees, his hands, beneath his weight.

The kiss breaks, and Armand kisses up under his chin. Down to his throat, a scraped open mouthed feeling across his adam's apple, the flick of a tongue, and then finally tilting up so he can insist Daniel's shirt off of him. Gets as far as helping it up around his shoulders before abandoning Daniel to that task, occupying himself with a blunt-toothed, gentle bite lower down on bare chest.

:E

The way Armand grinds down on him feels good, and definitely evokes what he said he wanted, just using Daniel as something to get himself off. It sparks through him, and feeds something—

He almost laughs, almost pulls up something dark and terrible (Armand might shrug it off, tell him You were fine, which would also be funny, be infuriating), because if he isn't anything more than an eager hole, then maybe that's what Armand wanted in the first place. Projecting more than just insecurity onto the half-dead boy in that apartment. Would you have fucked me then, while Louis was in the other room? Would you have wanted it for more reasons than making him feel worse?

Pleasing, that the fucked up thing in Daniel interlocks with the fucked up thing in Armand.

He lifts enough - easy, like he's weightless, like Armand is, too, just hovering his spine over the bed, moving this way is still a marvel after mortality, after aging, after disease - to finish sliding his shirt off, peeling the sleeves away, letting it drop mindlessly beside him. He's going to reach back down and tangle fingers in Armand's hair, but then there's that bite, which makes him flinch. Good flinch, the rest of him twitches, he lets out a faint, unbidden 'Oh', and it's not anything with fangs, no blood, but it opens up a desire that sends a searing rush through him. Motherfucker. Daniel pets over dark curls but doesn't stay there, reaches down his back instead and starts tugging at his maker's shirt in turn.

Nearly a laugh, the shape of his breath, warm against Daniel's skin. That was a good sound to encourage, and he can almost taste the bodily reaction it evoked. Armand is considering doing it again, but—yes, that first, greedy for the intimacy of skin on skin contact. He moves just enough to help encourage the T-shirt off of himself.

Something a little unearthly about the golden tones stubborn in his skin, even under the distant blue light of idle electronics. Something charming and ordinary in the peppering dark hair across his chest. Not much time to appreciate, when the T-shirt is tugged clear of him and Armand lowers his head to bite again.

This time, little pinpricks of pressure, barely enough to draw a smear of blood, but a taste is all he is after for the moment, giving a throaty sound for the sting of copper on his tongue.

Armand is absurdly beautiful, which surely he knows, which surely he's sick of (or not, vanity is delicious in its way), and Daniel isn't immune to it no matter that he's ever been quicker to see him as a monster than a person. He looks at him now, nearly glowing despite the darkness, textured in a way that makes Daniel want to get his mouth on him everywhere, and thinks that he's still a monster, and still absurdly beautiful.

Another bite, just sharp enough, and that fucking noise Armand makes. Everything is so small and it nearly makes him gag with how much it turns him on.

"Armand," nothing else, just his gasped name, hands clasped at his shoulders and scrambling at his back. Encouragement, frustration, desire. Daniel hitches up into him, rubbing together restlessly.

His name in Daniel's mouth, spoken like that. (An echo of a memory, Amadeo, Arun, drawing blood, and worse still, later, later when he thought of it again, with the memory of Daniel's blood in his mouth, the way it had made him want.) Textured, a friction to it, like it interfaces directly with his nerve endings without needing to bother itself with physical contact.

But Daniel hitches up against him. Makes a good case for exactly that.

Armand gets his fingers in Daniel's waistband and drags the fabric down, just dexterous enough to make it a smooth enough process, a sudden baring. Panting, a little bit, with the desire to taste, and his hand captures Daniel's cock, a feeling and assessing kind of contact, memorising his specific dimensions, a fingertip questing over the head of it.

His, his, his. At this point, requesting permission would be an overly polite show of manners, but Armand thinks he would have asked or found a way to extract it before he slides further down and tastes him with an open mouth. Does not, clearly, his cupping hand and the hot-wet of his tongue sudden things in the dark, hungry too for the sounds Daniel is making, the shape of his hands on his back and shoulders.

Movement is so different. Daniel has never fucked around with another vampire, as he's already reflected on, but it's stark— Armand slips lower so effortlessly, quick and easy without any fumbling and shuffling because he's so unhindered. It's dreamy, it's shocking, but it feels so much more real.

A hand around him, then more all at once, and Daniel's breath catches in his chest on an expletive. A dizzying view of the ceiling as what's happening sinks in, the impossible velvet heat of Armand around him, elegant fingers, the threat of teeth that cranks everything up. Then, hands engaged again, scraping through his hair to cradle his skull and touch his shoulder, before Daniel is up enough on one elbow to do this and watch him.

Is this really happening? Jesus Christ. Apparently. This is his life, and this is Armand, and Daniel is more into this than he's been into maybe anything. He thinks to reach into his mind and to the bond between them, and shudders.

He can feel his own excitement like a slow winding up tension, and it happens without reluctance, without qualification. Without the ability to slip his awareness through the seams of his partner's skull and take measuring assessment of his own performance, their unspoken desires and needs, and anticipate them, or divert them. But he can hear Daniel's breathing, feel his hands, feel him shift to sit up so he can look.

And that brings about a flush of warmth, as does the tasting touch of his tongue at the tip of him, at the desire to encourage him deeper, just that little bit, and tip his head so Daniel can watch. Little fangs present, still, but kept out of the way enough that if there is the slight sense of them scraping sensitive flesh, it should mainly encourage stillness more than anything else.

Service, possession, both things can be true and complicated in the simple act of taking Daniel into his mouth in contemplative strokes of movement. His hand, flattening against his abdomen.

Blowjobs are always good. Armand makes it a thousand times better, and his brain is scrambled a little because of the intensity of the sensation, having been diligent about condom use since turning. Explaining to humans— just, you know. Pass. His mouth directly on him is maddening, and seeing it just makes everything so much hotter.

Every now and then, the faintest touch of teeth. He holds very still in his propped-up position, trying not to squirm despite ragged breathing and the clench of his hand against Armand's hair, his shoulder, attempting not to dig claws into him during moments of too-good near-flinching. He's not sure if this Armand is serving him by doing this or if he's the one offering it up, held here to give Armand whatever he wants.

Good thing, actually, that Armand can't read his mind. He wouldn't find anything useful in there, no roadmap for better pleasure, just deranged shit like It wouldn't be the worse if he actually bit me here, okay yes it would, okay stop thinking about it.

After long moments, Armand lifts his head, and he is breathing heavier by the time the end of his tongue leaves Daniel's cock. A break, maybe, where the tight fist of his hand slides over saliva-slick flesh to make up for the absence, except Armand glances at Daniel once again—brighter orange, a thin rim of it around the pooling black, diminutive fangs beneath his lip which pulls back—

Sinks a proper bite into the meat of Daniel's thigh, blood quick to rise, coaxed beneath a languid swallow that draws golden threads beneath the surface of his skin, the blood-thick flesh in fluttering abdomen muscles, reaching for his heart.

Hand, squeezing. Service, possession, some ideal thing between the two when there will be times maybe either of them will crave one more than the other. Armand's eyes slide closed under the taste of hot blood in his mouth. It's been a very long time since he's really itched for exactly that.

He says something, incoherent, kneejerk without the actual kneejerk. Maybe it's Armand's name, maybe it's Ohfuckyes, maybe senseless noise. Not aware, just knows sound leaves him, and for a second after he thinks maybe he popped off early like a fucking teenager— no, but maybe it was a near thing, this kind of pleasure he's never felt before that somehow goes past it. Fucking miles past it when Armand drinks, the bite a quick pain-pleasure jolt deeper than he's ever known, and then more.

Daniel goes weak for a second before he's clawing at his shoulder, the back of his neck, his other hand grabbing at Armand's on his abdomen. He doesn't think about heroin. He feels and goes to some fucking other dimension. Everything is blood, connected, a glowing conduit made of nerves and magic. There's desperate, aborted pleasure in his dick where it's still hard practically pressed to the side of Armand's face, feeling his silky hair, there's mind-melting pleasure in his thigh where he's bitten into him, and everything runs head to toes like a shock from something deeper that holds the note instead of sparking and moving on.

He knows better than this - this, sitting here, not reciprocating - he's always been pretty good (no complaints at least) (how's your head), but he's caught too expertly in Armand's claws and teeth to do anything besides gasp, in this moment.

The taste of blood, and a feedback loop of pleasure, and an indescribable other thing that feels like some more primal and wholly unconscious version of the way two vampires minds can mingle but theirs cannot. Part of the same organic system, blood flowing, spilling, consumed, assimilated. A muffled groan out of Armand.

It's enough. Just this one mouthful, two mouthfuls, and then his fangs withdraw and go blunt and he keeps his mouth against the wounds he's made to catch the oozing run-off, giving the flesh time to close.

Returns to himself. The feeling of a hand at his shoulder, a hand on his hand, and he tangles their fingers together. His own arousal, now aching between his legs, and Daniel's, and he has to decide if he wants to finish him that way, feels himself salivate for it, but finds himself wanting differently. Finds himself not thinking as clearly as usual. Louis, bless, had to do quite a lot of work to ensure Armand was at the level of empty-headed pleasure that he occasionally craved.

Daniel's blood still gathered between his teeth, beneath his lips, small smears at the corners of his mouth. With inhuman grace and speed, Armand returns to pressing the full length of himself down against Daniel, snaring him in a kiss.

Impatiently pushing his own sweatpants down, to gather low and out of the way.

For a second, it all makes sense: they can't read each other's minds because it's the same mind. Their hearts beat in time because it's the same blood. Daniel doesn't want him to stop, Daniel wants him to stop so he can do the same thing to Armand, he wants to come, he wants this to go on for-fucking-ever.

He squeezes their joined hands, pulls them back so Armand is pressing down and pinning him there by his head, holding on. He pushes into the kiss, tasting his own blood, tasting Armand, and the only thing that keeps teeth from growing too-sharp is the knowledge that Armand isn't receptive. That's his right, Daniel thinks; boundaries, all that shit. His maker. Daniel said It's yours, and he meant it. Anything, everything.

"Can I touch you?" he pants, against his mouth, other hand grasping at his side and his hip, pressing between them. He thinks Armand is going to say yes, that if asking at every step needed to be a thing then Armand would have done so before sucking his cock into his mouth or biting him, but he doesn't think he has any blood left in his brain. "Can I, can I—" begging, even fingers splay out to cradle Armand's erection, desperate to feel him even if not for long. Electric, right on the edge.

"Yes," is taut in his throat. "Yes, Daniel—"

Armand, reaching between them, a clumsy arrangement of appendages between the close press of their bodies, but not for long. His wraps his fingers around Daniel's knuckles, encouraging that press, gathering themselves together. "Like this," he encourages, like he has managed to work his way to the one articulate idea of what he might want beyond a formless ache.

All the more intense for it without cloth to mitigate, blood-hot flesh fitting together, beneath the squeeze of their hands. A little slickness between them, enough friction to satisfy, but none of this is particularly purposeful, chasing desire as it comes.

Strangely satisfying in the midst of different intensities: the feeling of his bare thighs on either side of Daniel's, the slight tickle of body hair, the warm softness of muscle, the hot line of bare contact from knee right up to where Armand kisses him again.

Too much in how it's Armand, in how he hasn't felt another man like this in so fucking long, not enough in that he wants to feel him everywhere, there's not enough time, not enough hands. Daniel strokes him, reveling in the feel of how slick and soft he is in his hand, lets Armand's grip guide him and follows his tempo.

Another kiss, like he's desperate for it. He is. The feel of his mouth, the taste of it, of everything there. They feel so tangled despite doing nothing but this, clawing and rubbing like teenagers. Gripping each other's hands, panting, sweating, wrapped up on his stupid bed in his stupid basement.

"How do you want to come?" grated out so close to him, mouth to the corner of his.

It is good, to feel how much Daniel wants him. Not really a balm, nothing soothing in it, too intense for that. Painful, satisfying, in that way painful things often are. Evokes the desire to sink his teeth in (again), his claws, his cock. It's enough, it's not enough. Daniel asks this question in a warm breath that feels like it sears across his cheek, and Armand closes a fist around a wrinkle of bedding.

"Like this," sounds like a confession, almost, like perhaps he should have retained the ability to do more, make more of this, but also he wants it fiercely as it is, rutting through Daniel's hand, against his cock.

A messy kiss against Daniel's cheek, his jaw. "With you." Whoever is first, permission is granted.

"Alright," he pants. "Alright." Shivery and heated. With you is like lightning. It occurs to him that they shouldn't be doing this, that his hate and resentment should be too much, but he looks at this fact the same way he looks at the morality of killing mortals. Differently than before. Maybe he's just insane now, maybe Armand passed more to him than immortality. But maybe, instead of all that, he'd have fucking killed to get this kind of intensity from any other relationship. What if one of his wives tried to kill him for leaving. What if one tried to throw herself out of a window, burned the house down, left one of the kids at an orphanage. Wouldn't he have liked it.

Sweat and precome make it easier, the heat off the both of them too much for two people who are dead, Daniel keeps pressing messy badly-aimed kisses against him as he strokes them both, somehow falling easily back into muscle memory he'd tried to make himself forget. Years of I'm not, and now it feels like I was just waiting. He rasps nonsense out, that it feels good, that Armand feels so good, all of him, his hands, mouth, his teeth, he says please, please, and he doesn't know why.

There is a shivering, frantic energy to Daniel beneath him that Armand thinks he would enjoy evoking again when he is in a more right mind than he is currently. He can at least instill a measure of control in himself, keeping Daniel caged between the set of his legs, arms, the pressing down of his body, even as Armand can't stop the needful sounds leaving his own chest, the jerking forwards of his hips, the sheen of blood-tinged perspiration rising on his skin.

Good, murmured. Nonsensical. Good and like that and keep going as if Daniel were in need of instruction and praise, and perhaps he is. Either way, Armand gives it between short breaths.

Then, inevitable: fangs again, pressing into Daniel's shoulder. Not a deep draw of blood, just a sharp clench of pressure and a louder groan, maybe as loud as Daniel has ever heard Armand when he isn't yelling, muffled there, pressed into skin and muscle as he comes in hot pulses. Doesn't freeze through it, wringing every bit of pleasure out of the feeling of Daniel's palm, his cock, low against his stomach.

A gut-punch. Teeth again, soaring pleasure from it even though it's superficial, in tandem with Armand coming between them, into his hand, onto his skin, his own cock, everything scorching hot there. The smell of him is like blood and sweat and more and overwhelming— and there's something else, an echo that he can feel, winding him tighter and tighter, he thinks of static on an old TV, particles made out of euphoria.

Same mind, same blood, maybe it's supposed to feel like this when they fuck. (Does this count as fucking?) (Yeah.)

He feels his fangs in his mouth, a spiral of hunger getting its hooks into him with the rush getting his maker off brings, but he doesn't bite down anywhere because he doesn't have permission to, and inspecting why he needs to figure that out first is too difficult right now. Instead he touches himself, quicker, more desperate, using Armand's come to make everything slicker and easier and faster as everything winds tighter until he fractures and follows him off the ledge with a choked sound.

A moment of distance, but only extremely relatively speaking—Armand still stupid from his own wrench pleasure, with blood in his mouth and muscles still clenched taut, but lifting away by very little indeed. Still feels Daniel's hand working himself, but with enough room to look down between them. They will have to do this again sometime,

which is a hilariously human thought to have, acting as if there is any limit to that 'sometime', a finite amount of sex acts they might perform before the heat death of the universe

so he can remember to admire them when they're held together and thick with want. But half an aftermath and watching Daniel attend to himself is gratifying too, lifting his focus up in the moment that the other vampire begins to come to then observe his face. Armand's eyes go hooded, and he ducks down to kiss at those choked sounds, almost sweet.

A deep unspooling and brilliant fireworks of aftershocks, shivers and twitches that go through him, and soft-mouthed kisses as his brain completely whites out. A mess as coordination leaves him, and too-sharp fangs in his mouth, unbidden.

Armand, Armand, Armand. His weight on him still feels good. Daniel still isn't thinking exactly clearly - though it's still done purposefully - when he raises his hand to his mouth to lick it. Bloody, like he's almost gotten used to, which feels free of anxiety in this moment and tastes better than a human's. By miles.

Fuck.

He repeats it, out loud.

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