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.
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.
This little gesture observed, absorbed, ribbons heat through him despite the relief that has made Armand rest heavy on top of Daniel. The flash of fang in his mouth, wet tongue, that Daniel has stolen a taste of him in return. He lets out a breathed sound that seems to concur with this assessment.
Settles against him, head resting on his chest as if they were still watching cartoons or settling in to sleep, although Armand isn't certain he feels tired.
Satiated. Rare that a vampire ever knows that sensation. His mind feels heavy, like a sponge, like it might be impossible to second guess, to fret, synapses too sluggish.
And pleased, that's also what he feels. Experience a marriage of the better part of a century in which all love, romance, gratification slowly drained from the bed, watch your companion fuck a thousand men and dream of his former lover while sleeping a foot away from you, and it doesn't matter how much you have done before: you may start to believe you could never elicit this response from a person again. Shivering and desperate and choking and gasping.
No. Too much reflection. Too much past. Armand wishes to be present. Draws Daniel's hand to him, and tastes their mingling as well with a touch of his tongue to the heel of his palm.
Different, because he doesn't feel like he's going to pass right out (even though they're well into the day by now), because he doesn't need to extricate himself before things get too weird. Sated and content and still elated, a new kind of experience, brought on by something as simple as scrambling at each other to rut and pet. Inelegant, but it feels so profound.
More, somehow, when Armand licks his hand too. Daniel lets him have it, splaying fingers for him, once more captured, everything laid out and permissive. Diamond nails, exposed wrist. He still feels shivery from climax and from the blood drained from him. He wonders if Armand likes the way he tastes, or if it was just an instinct at the height of sensation.
He tucks his other arm around him, encouraging him to settle like he so often does. No pajamas or blankets between them this time, and staying still will be disgusting when it all cools down, but Daniel's never been particularly put off by that sort of thing. Bodies and their mechanics are an interesting part of existence, living and undead. He pets over Armand's hair, his shoulder, down his spine. Covetous, a little greedy still. Who knows. His maker might decide this was a bad idea and bolt, abandon Daniel to a dark chamber he can't leave for fear of being immolated if he ran after. He'll enjoy what he can.
Daniel's hand opens to him, glint of sharp, hard nails, the blue veins in his wrist, the sheen of blood and come. Instinct and pleasure both, driving Armand to lick him clean. Shivers beneath the taste of Daniel against his tongue and the feeling of his other hand petting through his hair, down his back.
Bolting is not off the table, but the spark of that impulse doesn't surface, not while they attend each other in this way, not while it feels there is nowhere else for Armand to be.
Eventually, a kiss to inner wrist, to forearm, and then settling again. They will need to get clean, but the animal in him doesn't particularly care, nor the vampire, nor the figment of a person caught between these extremes. Silence, then, and Armand says, "Say something," as he rests his chin on Daniel's chest.
Those kisses are sweet in a way he wasn't sure Armand was capable of. At least not aimed at him— but no, he knew that, he thinks. They've held each other before, and Armand has stroked his hair before and coaxed him into the dark. Daniel pets over his hair and looks at him, fuzzy up close, but well enough to see the colored rings of his eyes.
Like sunset in fall. The only sun he gets.
"That was really good," is what he says. He slips Armand's hair back and trails his touch down his neck, his shoulder, then back up again. "A pretty big change, for us."
This isn't the first time it occurs to Armand that in spite of his inability to read Daniel's mind, he is certain that he will never be lied to. Not to flatter or to deceive or any number of things that petty insecurity may otherwise encourage. He has thought it before, and believed it already, or else there would have been very little cuddling, held hands, even arguments.
There would likely be no The Vampire Daniel to begin with, but he needn't venture all that far back. Reflects that Daniel likely does not have this same reassurance, but then, he has never possessed the ability to read his mind to miss it. And has never really needed it.
"Yes," Armand says. It was really good. It is a pretty big change. "I hadn't intended it." He shifts so that they can speak a little easier, less cross-eyed blurriness, and he can also bring around a clean hand that can do its share of petting, laying on the cushion beside Daniel's head, toying with grey-white curls behind his ear. "There's been very little intentionality throughout."
Obviously. But this, too, is different. Perhaps he should apologise for the way that if Daniel is caught in some labyrinthine scheme after all, it's currently under construction, building itself from the centre as they explore it.
A cozy shuffle, onto his side. Daniel continues to touch him, his uncannily beautiful face, down to the chest hair he likes a whole lot, finding a place to hold at his side and draw circles with his thumb. He contemplates all the ways Armand has stared at him, and files this away as a new favorite.
"Mm." An amused sound. "We do seem to have been a series of land mines and trip wires for each other the whole length of this thing."
Life-altering explosions, one to fuck Daniel's head completely in San Fransisco, one to destroy Armand's relationship in Dubai. All the other smaller blowups and bloody stumbles in between. A very twisty pipeline from trying to hook up with Louis in 1973 to now laying in bed naked with Armand. Dead, bonded for eternity.
"Though that's a kind of wanting. The kind that takes over when something suddenly looks like it's within reach."
Be it blowing up Armand's web of manipulation, or bringing Daniel into the blood. Or a kiss.
Onto his side, then, facing one another, clear-eyed and sober. Armand wanders his fingertips from Daniel's shoulder, over his chest. The evidence of bite marks, the wounds themselves faded, but traces of dried blood smeared with sweat and movement. It catches up to him that he sank his fangs into his fledgling at least three times and once in earnest, and that he'd been relatively restrained even then.
Something to think about. Daniel, so free and willing with his permission. Armand, who doesn't know what he is doing or will do at any time, these days. Land mines and trip wires.
The revulsion he had spoken of. The connection that tethers creator and created, the eternal imbalance of power. He doesn't feel revulsion now, that isn't the word any longer, not when he has now admitted to wanting something of it for himself. His fingernails play along pale skin, coarse hair, lines defined by bone and muscle.
"Is there any part of you that wonders at it?" His eyes, ticking back up to study Daniel's. "If what we are to one another creates the wanting."
Impossible not to think about. It is so present between them. So much that Daniel thinks Louis was underselling it during the interview, and in turn, sometimes finds Claudia's actions to be repulsive and alien. (He might take that one to his grave.)
And yet,
"Kind of a moot point, though. Without it there's nothing to want, because I was dying. I could branch off from that, and think what if it was someone else, what if it was Louis, is there still this. Is there still any of the things before this."
He looks at Armand, and thinks of the way they would look at each other in Dubai. He thinks of the way that Armand held him in San Fransisco.
"I think it had to be you. I think it was always going to be you. Or not at all."
The present, is what he wishes to focus on. The cord, the invisible cord, that binds them together. He doesn't want to consider, for the countless time, what he'd felt when it ran the other way. What he was even capable of feeling when flayed open raw in the presence of a vampire whose origins predate the son of God. Of course he had worshipped. Continued to worship.
Daniel is saying—things. This moment of resistance, failing to resist, is only a flicker, and he tunes back in in time for because I was dying and Armand slides his arm around him, over his side, fingertips trailing up along his back.
"I wasn't lying," he says. "When I said that we had planned to offer it. That Louis was going to be the one to give it to you, had you agreed."
Close their minds off forever from each other. This, Armand had told himself, would be his silver-lining. The interview would be written, it would forever immortalise the story in cement and steel, and then—
Grand plans that don't bear thinking about. Now, laying here, the idea of Louis having Daniel is enough to make his fangs itch. His.
He can tell when Armand is lying. He was just mad at him, then, and various self-esteem issues have caused him to shy away from Louis whenever he's reinforced that the offer was going to be real. It's just a mess to think about, and he doesn't like doing it— he'd have said no. Trip wires, land mines. Does Louis accept 'no'? Does Armand make him say 'yes'? Doesn't matter.
Daniel slides a hand up over Armand's chest, his throat, so he can cradle his face and ghost a thumb over his mouth, thinking about the fangs in there, and how good it felt when he bit into him each time. Different, teasing at first, then serious, then in the throes of it. He wants to feel more of it.
"I just think you were going to be the one to kill me, one way or another."
Maybe he was going to lose his temper there at dinner. Explode his head then turn Louis into a shell. Or maybe: always this, always his maker. Maybe farther back. Maybe Louis never gets up out of the coffin in San Fransisco. One way or another, his heart was always going to stop under Armand's bite.
Editor's note, Daniel could probably stand to sound a little less like he thinks that's hot? Or not. Could be fine, considering they just did what they did.
Author's aside, Armand could stand to feel a little less self-satisfied in response to this assertion. Has no right to the twinge of smugness he knows in belated reflex to Louis' plans and intentions to acquire this fledgling for himself, and even less right to the rattlesnake coil of possessiveness, even more belated, for the kill that he had claimed for himself in 1973, and was denied. He does not actually want Daniel dead fifty years ago, but all the same, an itch scratched.
Daniel's hand at his face. Being admired, being wanted. His eyes don't go huge, as established, but gleam what may become a familiar shade of wanting amber. And so it all probably reads perfectly clear in Armand's expression, and made all the plainer when Armand settles in closer to nudge past Daniel's hand and kiss him again.
He could worry at it more. Would he have said 'no' to Louis? What would he have said, if Armand had allowed him the choice? Moot point, to use his parlance. And besides, it isn't as though Armand was fully conscious as to why he was doing any of it. He remembers, after, thinking of it like: it had given him something to do. A new, pleasing dimension to that turn of phrase, suddenly.
Telling on each other, maybe, when Armand's kiss insists itself a little more, warming up to it, and when the probability of him being thrown out of bed is low.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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Settles against him, head resting on his chest as if they were still watching cartoons or settling in to sleep, although Armand isn't certain he feels tired.
Satiated. Rare that a vampire ever knows that sensation. His mind feels heavy, like a sponge, like it might be impossible to second guess, to fret, synapses too sluggish.
And pleased, that's also what he feels. Experience a marriage of the better part of a century in which all love, romance, gratification slowly drained from the bed, watch your companion fuck a thousand men and dream of his former lover while sleeping a foot away from you, and it doesn't matter how much you have done before: you may start to believe you could never elicit this response from a person again. Shivering and desperate and choking and gasping.
No. Too much reflection. Too much past. Armand wishes to be present. Draws Daniel's hand to him, and tastes their mingling as well with a touch of his tongue to the heel of his palm.
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More, somehow, when Armand licks his hand too. Daniel lets him have it, splaying fingers for him, once more captured, everything laid out and permissive. Diamond nails, exposed wrist. He still feels shivery from climax and from the blood drained from him. He wonders if Armand likes the way he tastes, or if it was just an instinct at the height of sensation.
He tucks his other arm around him, encouraging him to settle like he so often does. No pajamas or blankets between them this time, and staying still will be disgusting when it all cools down, but Daniel's never been particularly put off by that sort of thing. Bodies and their mechanics are an interesting part of existence, living and undead. He pets over Armand's hair, his shoulder, down his spine. Covetous, a little greedy still. Who knows. His maker might decide this was a bad idea and bolt, abandon Daniel to a dark chamber he can't leave for fear of being immolated if he ran after. He'll enjoy what he can.
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Bolting is not off the table, but the spark of that impulse doesn't surface, not while they attend each other in this way, not while it feels there is nowhere else for Armand to be.
Eventually, a kiss to inner wrist, to forearm, and then settling again. They will need to get clean, but the animal in him doesn't particularly care, nor the vampire, nor the figment of a person caught between these extremes. Silence, then, and Armand says, "Say something," as he rests his chin on Daniel's chest.
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Like sunset in fall. The only sun he gets.
"That was really good," is what he says. He slips Armand's hair back and trails his touch down his neck, his shoulder, then back up again. "A pretty big change, for us."
One that feels easy, despite the danger.
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There would likely be no The Vampire Daniel to begin with, but he needn't venture all that far back. Reflects that Daniel likely does not have this same reassurance, but then, he has never possessed the ability to read his mind to miss it. And has never really needed it.
"Yes," Armand says. It was really good. It is a pretty big change. "I hadn't intended it." He shifts so that they can speak a little easier, less cross-eyed blurriness, and he can also bring around a clean hand that can do its share of petting, laying on the cushion beside Daniel's head, toying with grey-white curls behind his ear. "There's been very little intentionality throughout."
Obviously. But this, too, is different. Perhaps he should apologise for the way that if Daniel is caught in some labyrinthine scheme after all, it's currently under construction, building itself from the centre as they explore it.
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"Mm." An amused sound. "We do seem to have been a series of land mines and trip wires for each other the whole length of this thing."
Life-altering explosions, one to fuck Daniel's head completely in San Fransisco, one to destroy Armand's relationship in Dubai. All the other smaller blowups and bloody stumbles in between. A very twisty pipeline from trying to hook up with Louis in 1973 to now laying in bed naked with Armand. Dead, bonded for eternity.
"Though that's a kind of wanting. The kind that takes over when something suddenly looks like it's within reach."
Be it blowing up Armand's web of manipulation, or bringing Daniel into the blood. Or a kiss.
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Something to think about. Daniel, so free and willing with his permission. Armand, who doesn't know what he is doing or will do at any time, these days. Land mines and trip wires.
The revulsion he had spoken of. The connection that tethers creator and created, the eternal imbalance of power. He doesn't feel revulsion now, that isn't the word any longer, not when he has now admitted to wanting something of it for himself. His fingernails play along pale skin, coarse hair, lines defined by bone and muscle.
"Is there any part of you that wonders at it?" His eyes, ticking back up to study Daniel's. "If what we are to one another creates the wanting."
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Impossible not to think about. It is so present between them. So much that Daniel thinks Louis was underselling it during the interview, and in turn, sometimes finds Claudia's actions to be repulsive and alien. (He might take that one to his grave.)
And yet,
"Kind of a moot point, though. Without it there's nothing to want, because I was dying. I could branch off from that, and think what if it was someone else, what if it was Louis, is there still this. Is there still any of the things before this."
He looks at Armand, and thinks of the way they would look at each other in Dubai. He thinks of the way that Armand held him in San Fransisco.
"I think it had to be you. I think it was always going to be you. Or not at all."
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Daniel is saying—things. This moment of resistance, failing to resist, is only a flicker, and he tunes back in in time for because I was dying and Armand slides his arm around him, over his side, fingertips trailing up along his back.
"I wasn't lying," he says. "When I said that we had planned to offer it. That Louis was going to be the one to give it to you, had you agreed."
Close their minds off forever from each other. This, Armand had told himself, would be his silver-lining. The interview would be written, it would forever immortalise the story in cement and steel, and then—
Grand plans that don't bear thinking about. Now, laying here, the idea of Louis having Daniel is enough to make his fangs itch. His.
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He can tell when Armand is lying. He was just mad at him, then, and various self-esteem issues have caused him to shy away from Louis whenever he's reinforced that the offer was going to be real. It's just a mess to think about, and he doesn't like doing it— he'd have said no. Trip wires, land mines. Does Louis accept 'no'? Does Armand make him say 'yes'? Doesn't matter.
Daniel slides a hand up over Armand's chest, his throat, so he can cradle his face and ghost a thumb over his mouth, thinking about the fangs in there, and how good it felt when he bit into him each time. Different, teasing at first, then serious, then in the throes of it. He wants to feel more of it.
"I just think you were going to be the one to kill me, one way or another."
Maybe he was going to lose his temper there at dinner. Explode his head then turn Louis into a shell. Or maybe: always this, always his maker. Maybe farther back. Maybe Louis never gets up out of the coffin in San Fransisco. One way or another, his heart was always going to stop under Armand's bite.
Editor's note, Daniel could probably stand to sound a little less like he thinks that's hot? Or not. Could be fine, considering they just did what they did.
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Daniel's hand at his face. Being admired, being wanted. His eyes don't go huge, as established, but gleam what may become a familiar shade of wanting amber. And so it all probably reads perfectly clear in Armand's expression, and made all the plainer when Armand settles in closer to nudge past Daniel's hand and kiss him again.
He could worry at it more. Would he have said 'no' to Louis? What would he have said, if Armand had allowed him the choice? Moot point, to use his parlance. And besides, it isn't as though Armand was fully conscious as to why he was doing any of it. He remembers, after, thinking of it like: it had given him something to do. A new, pleasing dimension to that turn of phrase, suddenly.
Telling on each other, maybe, when Armand's kiss insists itself a little more, warming up to it, and when the probability of him being thrown out of bed is low.
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