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.
Once, Daniel had pitched a theory to Louis, that Armand was going to make Daniel say yes, so that he could control the both of them. But maybe there's a grotesque gothic romance option where Armand loses it last second, and does it himself. An absurd thought. Fanfic level delusion.
(But maybe.)
Armand's eyes looks so beautiful. Alien, unlike anything else in this world living or dead. Daniel can see them in the dark, and he knows his own mirror their color. Amber-orange-smoldering fire of interest, a thing he used to think was about him being angry, and that being angry just happened to overlap quite often with thinking about Armand.
Daniel kisses him back. Lets him into his mouth, curls his tongue against his, presses one hand flat against his chest so he can pet him, uses the other to slide around his side and encourage him to press even closer. No, not about to kick him out. If he's honest with himself — and this seems like the day for it — he's wanted this for too long to let it fade into sleep so soon. He wants to taste the satisfaction he saw in Armand's eyes, and gloat to himself about being the one to put it there.
Armand, eager for that bare line of contact, knees to chests, pressing in as urged. It will be gratifying when sleep does take Daniel from him to feel like he might join him there, and if not, enjoy the fucked out relaxation of holding him and listening to him sink into that deep, vulnerable sleep. Long minutes, then, of returning to kissing, friction, the mess they've made between them on their skin, on the sheets.
His hand at Daniel's cheek, thumb stroking along against soft skin, and then around to his chin to force the kiss to break as he pulls back a crucial half-inch.
"Say what you would like," he bids. "And I may give it to you."
Will give it to him, of course. But what's wrong with flirting.
Making out and warming up again, free from stereotypical post-coital male helplessness; being a vampire is fucking great. Daniel's going to go insane if Armand decides this was just a one-day thing, even aside from the earth-shattering profound emotional impact of this.
A shuddering breath, with that instruction. His hand flexes where it's clutching at Armand's side, venting restless energy in the face of flirting. What a fucking tease. But he had to know that was in there, surely. He did the same thing torturing him. Meticulously unspooling him.
"I'd like—" Fuck. "I'd like you to bite me again."
Shy? A smidge. He also wants the reverse, but he's keeping in mind Armand's boundaries.
"You're the only one who's ever done that, you know. I mean, since way back then. I never expected it to feel this way."
No blood sharing on the disaster road trip, at least not with Daniel. Armand, and only Armand, after Louis gored his neck.
Armand opens his mouth like he might say something, but he doesn't. Lured, more like, as if tasting the air when he breathes in.
Thumb trailing down from chin to throat, gentle down the centre of it. A fond and gluttonous memory, as if the velvet texture of throatfuls of blood surpassed how extremely horrible everything else was about that moment—which, well, it did. This biting would not be the indulgence of that taking.
But it would be an indulgence. "You're going to be hungry tomorrow," he says.
No one else. Louis, briefly, but the taste muddied with drugs and poor memory. He's not sure he would have been capable of rending either of the other two apart for daring, what with his long habit of watching helplessly as the things he wants are scattered apart, but he can enjoy the fierce gladness of a thing that had scarcely even occurred to him.
"That's only a problem if you don't intend to let me out of the house," he notes. Flirtatious if you squint. (Please squint.)
No blood bags in the fridge. Gross. NYC has an overpopulation problem, Daniel has no problem killing. Armand knows that. Daniel palms over his chest, his belly, slides fingers over the curve of his hip. Considers.
Decides that there's no reason to buck the trend on honesty.
"You've never indicated an openness to sharing your blood. I wouldn't want something that you're not comfortable with." A squeeze, where his hand is laying on his side again, obviously reluctant to stop touching him. Knees bumping, close enough to be oh-so-quiet. "I liked that you did it. I mean it: Everything's yours."
Important that Armand knows he has blanket permission to do what he wants to Daniel. And besides, nobody talks about fledgling blood like it's a tool to be bartered with and used as some kind of video game level-up, the way ancient blood is talked about. He doesn't want Armand to feel like some ... commodity. He'd want him to enjoy it.
It's what he wants. What he expressed wanting. There is no specific change to Armand's expression as Daniel talks, save for the flickered emergence of flirtation, and then stillness again. The telltale shift of eyes at close proximity reading the other set in front of them, and then a deeper breath in.
A mirror, almost, of the feeling of—no, not exactly after Dubai, when he'd found himself slingshotting himself around the world in search of nothing, too much freedom. More like that one last night in Paris, when Louis had taken his hand and proposed they fuck off to Africa, and the anxiety and the fear abated, momentarily, in favour of something hopeful. A blank canvas of a future.
"That's," he says, and then the sentence fails, and his eyes flick down. He should speak of where he stands on bloodgiving, but this sober reiteration is so consuming that he forgets about that for the moment.
Hands on Daniel, tightening, bodies pressed firmly together, insistent, still.
"That's a relief," he manages, finally. That Daniel liked it. (That everything is his.)
Is this is a good reaction? He hopes so. Armand doesn't seem to be withdrawing, rather, he seems like he's seeing something past this basement. But then his maker clutches a little tighter, and Daniel thinks: maybe it is a good reaction, and he hasn't pushed too far. He could try to make excuses for himself, that he's just trying to be transparent, and sure, he is. But there's also greed in him, he can't deny that. A part of him wants it all to be too fucking much.
Because it's Armand, and Armand is out of his goddamn mind, and as much as Daniel wants to help him, he just wants him authentically, too.
Which is insane.
Daniel nudges forward, bumping noses and pressing foreheads together. Here we fucking are, together.
His eyes hood as Daniel settles in closer, feeling that sense of his, his, his like his own pulse. He could ask, maybe, if this means Daniel trusts him—but what does that mean? Trusts him not to abuse the privilege? Perhaps. Does Armand trust himself? This, perhaps, the part that overwhelms him.
The concrete wall, cracking behind his back. Louis had never looked at him that way, not even in Paris. It was not the same way Lestat had looked at him, not the same way Marius had as well, but they all had some flicker, towards the end, that indicated to Armand that they found him lacking, or too much, or—
His nails, dimpling into Daniel's skin. Maybe this is why the past feels so close. Louis, a part of it, and it has barely been months.
Armand angles his head, kisses him. Sweet, brief. Back on task.
"I would like it," once he is sure his voice will come out level, "for you to take from me, sometimes. Perhaps if you ask for it. And don't mind if I tell you no."
Boundaries. Important. Very important, if they're going to do this. Daniel had been mocking in Dubai, during the interview, maitre in the bedroom, maitre when it's hot or convenient, and it was deliberately unkind. He knew what he was doing, at least potentially, as he'd yet to be fully convinced of anything the odd vampire had asserted about himself. He was angry at Armand, he knew it would hurt if it landed. (Honesty is not a tactic.)
And so he's got the potential for it. He realizes that Armand is handing him yet more potential, and whether or not he trusts Daniel, he's trusting him with that. Boundaries that have been pushed. Daniel, with fingers laid on them.
"Think I'm clever enough to figure out when you'd like me to ask?"
He can always tell Daniel no, and not be punished for it, not resented, not withdrawn from. This is what Armand understands him to mean. It would be unfair to Louis to say he might have contributed to some habit otherwise (not that Armand minds being unfair to Louis), but some little reflection in himself. The way he might respond to refusal. The way it can feel.
But Daniel is made of sterner stuff than all of that. Perhaps it's why he chose him. The question evokes a twinge of amusement in Armand's expression, and he says, "Yeah."
Yes he does.
He remembers his insistence, when he was playacting as mortal. Daniel refusing by pretending to prefer Damek. Armand, as Rashid, one of a selection. A certain kind of debasement that, had Louis pushed any further, might have brought out his fangs. Or perhaps it might not have. I serve a god, he had said, and there had been the too vivid imagining of draining a sampling into a glass, or something even more obscene, Molloy's mouth to his wrist. His neck.
Maddening.
He kissing Daniel again, pulling their bodies closer together. Daniel wishes to be bitten, and Armand thinks he wants to do it while they are fucking. It's been a long time since that specific configuration of sensations. His hand slides down his back, a grasping across his ass that communicates that desire, little pinpricks of claws drawing white lines in pale skin.
He'd been captivated by 'Rashid' immediately, despite everything between himself and Louis. That whole encounter, being stared at (through brown contact lenses, you fucking weirdo) during something so obviously intimate even though it was being passed off as food. Daniel has too many conflicting thoughts about that whole thing, but it stands out in his mind now, a mirror of Armand's own thoughts.
Until he sets it aside. Being here right now is more important, especially with the way Armand is pawing at him. It makes him shiver. He nips his maker's lower lip, gentle and teasing, even as his own breath hitches.
(Daniel decides he's going to wait to ask, and pick a time when he's sure Armand is about to fucking kill him for not asking.)
"Yeah?"
Been decades since anyone's fucked him. No complaints (howsyour—) historically but he wonders if he's still, you know, got it. His dick is pretty interested in finding out, his pulse ticking back up with sharp excitement.
"Yeah," again, but less of a word, a breath, a sound.
Here, Armand would ask: may I? Do you want me to? But Daniel has been clear, the limits (or lack thereof) of his permission, and the idea of just having thickens the blood in his veins, makes his mouth sting bright in the wake of teeth. He thinks he can hear Daniel's heart beat quicker.
It has, likewise, been decades since he fucked anyone. Where the careful dynamic maintained itself between himself and Louis allowed for deviation, such instances were rare, and only became rarer. Armand hadn't minded (or cared), but he considers it now, his own want, an intrusion of desire.
They could talk about that too. Maybe they will. Not now.
"I want you on your back," he says. "So I can look at you."
Daniel kisses him firmly. Armand wants him. Fucking crazy.
"I want that, too."
He's nervous about it, but it's not a bad kind of nervous. Settling into his skin all over again, peeling away things he thought he'd put to rest, and all of it quicker than he might have imagined— though of course he didn't, not in earnest.
"I have to grab something, though, unless you have some trick I didn't manage to interview out of anyone—"
He has jokes too. Just because they didn't appreciate the sunglasses bit—
Armand lets up, allowing Daniel to fetch what they need. His awareness expanding, permitting the edges of the bed, the room, back into his consciousness, as if he has been spending the last however long its been within a coffin-sized dimension, population two. He snags at the edge of the sheet to clean himself off a little, but distracted, preferring to watch Daniel.
Feels the next pulse come a little harder. Want. Desire. With more distance between them, he can look him over better, imagine where in the future he might feel him with his hands, or sink his teeth. The desire to dominate and consume, the desire to serve and to fawn, and maybe also, the desire to just be normal. To tangle in ordinary ways, and have affection, and—
Hm. Something in that sentiment like a sharp, broken off thing. Warrants further investigation or none at all.
Shifting to kneel up when Daniel returns, hands out for him.
Armand is funny sometimes. A fucked up theater kid.
Every bitter argument, every awkward overture of peace, there was always something. Something. A deeper thread stitched somewhere unbelievable. Now this strange thing they've sewn together is being flipped over and exposed, and all the handiwork holding them together is right here, and Daniel is marveling at it.
Just a touch of cleanup while he grabs something. Kept in the bathroom, a half-guilty purchase. (Daniel is straight and he doesn't fuck men anymore, Daniel is single and even though both women he married were as adventurous as he was, he just isn't doing much anymore, he's content enough with is lot in life, Daniel is, is, is, a bunch of shit he should be embarrassed for pretending.)
Less guilt, when he returns. The sight of Armand waiting for him like that, reaching, makes heat and affection flood him like being dunked in hot water. He should run the other fucking way from an ancient creature with arms extended towards him, claws and fangs and inhuman amber eyes. Daniel's hands find his, back in the bed, climbing to meet him and press another kiss to his mouth, flickers of his expression as he goes both shy and elated.
This expression is studied intently in the split seconds Armand has to view it, and it evokes a rare kind of smile out of him by the time their mouths are pressed together. Keeps one of Daniel's hands while the other wraps around the back of his neck, enjoying the difference of position, the way gravity isn't bearing him down against his fledgling, who comes to him so willingly. Eagerly.
He had told Daniel that he often thinks about the fact that vampires should not exist. That he should not. The logical conclusion that he had drawn Daniel into the perversion of nature that is them. Punishment, anger, revulsion. A lot of complexity, philosophising, for something as simple as wishing he could cease to be, with only a duty towards persisting keeping him tethered.
Daniel as tether. As companion. (And there is a lurking essay about how Armand hated that notion, too, of a vampire forcing someone into this world just to make it more bearable for themselves, and on and on—)
He gets a hand under Daniel's chin and pushes it aside so he can kiss down his throat. Warming back up.
Why did Armand make him? Will he ever have a real answer? Or does it just not matter, because they're here and going forward?
Daniel sinks against him, hungry for it, but he tips his head back to let Armand have whatever he likes from him. It makes him shiver, and he slides hands over Armand's shoulders, letting the bottle drop down beside him. Pointy nails are a bit of a nervous-curious note around the prospect of anal sex, but also, intriguing on a kink level. He expects it'll be less racy than it seems, though. It's not like he's ever accidentally sliced a toe off while absently scratching an itch.
Thinking about existence, thinking about the exact mechanics of getting fucked. Duality of man, etc.
"Every little thing with you feels so fucking good," he says, his voice a breathy clash of appreciation and exasperation. How.
Daniel's voice, the things it says to him, the specific swift unfiltered away words emerge cloaked in it, feels as textural and real as his hand sweeping down over his shoulders. Warm as the skin under Armand's mouth. He finds himself greedy for it.
So he asks, "Did you think of me like this," after his teeth leave blunt little marks in Daniel's shoulder, "before you knew what I was? Or only after?"
However Daniel might interpret that. Before he knew Rashid was Armand. Before he knew Armand was a monster, specific to him, specific to Louis. Before Armand was his maker.
Perhaps there was nothing, and it was Armand alone with his fascinations. That would be fine too.
Moving them, meanwhile. Urging Daniel backwards by invading his space, a hand catching the side of his knee.
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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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(But maybe.)
Armand's eyes looks so beautiful. Alien, unlike anything else in this world living or dead. Daniel can see them in the dark, and he knows his own mirror their color. Amber-orange-smoldering fire of interest, a thing he used to think was about him being angry, and that being angry just happened to overlap quite often with thinking about Armand.
Daniel kisses him back. Lets him into his mouth, curls his tongue against his, presses one hand flat against his chest so he can pet him, uses the other to slide around his side and encourage him to press even closer. No, not about to kick him out. If he's honest with himself — and this seems like the day for it — he's wanted this for too long to let it fade into sleep so soon. He wants to taste the satisfaction he saw in Armand's eyes, and gloat to himself about being the one to put it there.
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His hand at Daniel's cheek, thumb stroking along against soft skin, and then around to his chin to force the kiss to break as he pulls back a crucial half-inch.
"Say what you would like," he bids. "And I may give it to you."
Will give it to him, of course. But what's wrong with flirting.
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A shuddering breath, with that instruction. His hand flexes where it's clutching at Armand's side, venting restless energy in the face of flirting. What a fucking tease. But he had to know that was in there, surely. He did the same thing torturing him. Meticulously unspooling him.
"I'd like—" Fuck. "I'd like you to bite me again."
Shy? A smidge. He also wants the reverse, but he's keeping in mind Armand's boundaries.
"You're the only one who's ever done that, you know. I mean, since way back then. I never expected it to feel this way."
No blood sharing on the disaster road trip, at least not with Daniel. Armand, and only Armand, after Louis gored his neck.
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Thumb trailing down from chin to throat, gentle down the centre of it. A fond and gluttonous memory, as if the velvet texture of throatfuls of blood surpassed how extremely horrible everything else was about that moment—which, well, it did. This biting would not be the indulgence of that taking.
But it would be an indulgence. "You're going to be hungry tomorrow," he says.
No one else. Louis, briefly, but the taste muddied with drugs and poor memory. He's not sure he would have been capable of rending either of the other two apart for daring, what with his long habit of watching helplessly as the things he wants are scattered apart, but he can enjoy the fierce gladness of a thing that had scarcely even occurred to him.
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No blood bags in the fridge. Gross. NYC has an overpopulation problem, Daniel has no problem killing. Armand knows that. Daniel palms over his chest, his belly, slides fingers over the curve of his hip. Considers.
Decides that there's no reason to buck the trend on honesty.
"You've never indicated an openness to sharing your blood. I wouldn't want something that you're not comfortable with." A squeeze, where his hand is laying on his side again, obviously reluctant to stop touching him. Knees bumping, close enough to be oh-so-quiet. "I liked that you did it. I mean it: Everything's yours."
Important that Armand knows he has blanket permission to do what he wants to Daniel. And besides, nobody talks about fledgling blood like it's a tool to be bartered with and used as some kind of video game level-up, the way ancient blood is talked about. He doesn't want Armand to feel like some ... commodity. He'd want him to enjoy it.
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A mirror, almost, of the feeling of—no, not exactly after Dubai, when he'd found himself slingshotting himself around the world in search of nothing, too much freedom. More like that one last night in Paris, when Louis had taken his hand and proposed they fuck off to Africa, and the anxiety and the fear abated, momentarily, in favour of something hopeful. A blank canvas of a future.
"That's," he says, and then the sentence fails, and his eyes flick down. He should speak of where he stands on bloodgiving, but this sober reiteration is so consuming that he forgets about that for the moment.
Hands on Daniel, tightening, bodies pressed firmly together, insistent, still.
"That's a relief," he manages, finally. That Daniel liked it. (That everything is his.)
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Because it's Armand, and Armand is out of his goddamn mind, and as much as Daniel wants to help him, he just wants him authentically, too.
Which is insane.
Daniel nudges forward, bumping noses and pressing foreheads together. Here we fucking are, together.
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The concrete wall, cracking behind his back. Louis had never looked at him that way, not even in Paris. It was not the same way Lestat had looked at him, not the same way Marius had as well, but they all had some flicker, towards the end, that indicated to Armand that they found him lacking, or too much, or—
His nails, dimpling into Daniel's skin. Maybe this is why the past feels so close. Louis, a part of it, and it has barely been months.
Armand angles his head, kisses him. Sweet, brief. Back on task.
"I would like it," once he is sure his voice will come out level, "for you to take from me, sometimes. Perhaps if you ask for it. And don't mind if I tell you no."
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Boundaries. Important. Very important, if they're going to do this. Daniel had been mocking in Dubai, during the interview, maitre in the bedroom, maitre when it's hot or convenient, and it was deliberately unkind. He knew what he was doing, at least potentially, as he'd yet to be fully convinced of anything the odd vampire had asserted about himself. He was angry at Armand, he knew it would hurt if it landed. (Honesty is not a tactic.)
And so he's got the potential for it. He realizes that Armand is handing him yet more potential, and whether or not he trusts Daniel, he's trusting him with that. Boundaries that have been pushed. Daniel, with fingers laid on them.
"Think I'm clever enough to figure out when you'd like me to ask?"
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But Daniel is made of sterner stuff than all of that. Perhaps it's why he chose him. The question evokes a twinge of amusement in Armand's expression, and he says, "Yeah."
Yes he does.
He remembers his insistence, when he was playacting as mortal. Daniel refusing by pretending to prefer Damek. Armand, as Rashid, one of a selection. A certain kind of debasement that, had Louis pushed any further, might have brought out his fangs. Or perhaps it might not have. I serve a god, he had said, and there had been the too vivid imagining of draining a sampling into a glass, or something even more obscene, Molloy's mouth to his wrist. His neck.
Maddening.
He kissing Daniel again, pulling their bodies closer together. Daniel wishes to be bitten, and Armand thinks he wants to do it while they are fucking. It's been a long time since that specific configuration of sensations. His hand slides down his back, a grasping across his ass that communicates that desire, little pinpricks of claws drawing white lines in pale skin.
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Until he sets it aside. Being here right now is more important, especially with the way Armand is pawing at him. It makes him shiver. He nips his maker's lower lip, gentle and teasing, even as his own breath hitches.
(Daniel decides he's going to wait to ask, and pick a time when he's sure Armand is about to fucking kill him for not asking.)
"Yeah?"
Been decades since anyone's fucked him. No complaints (howsyour—) historically but he wonders if he's still, you know, got it. His dick is pretty interested in finding out, his pulse ticking back up with sharp excitement.
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Here, Armand would ask: may I? Do you want me to? But Daniel has been clear, the limits (or lack thereof) of his permission, and the idea of just having thickens the blood in his veins, makes his mouth sting bright in the wake of teeth. He thinks he can hear Daniel's heart beat quicker.
It has, likewise, been decades since he fucked anyone. Where the careful dynamic maintained itself between himself and Louis allowed for deviation, such instances were rare, and only became rarer. Armand hadn't minded (or cared), but he considers it now, his own want, an intrusion of desire.
They could talk about that too. Maybe they will. Not now.
"I want you on your back," he says. "So I can look at you."
Maybe his eyes will change a whole new colour.
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"I want that, too."
He's nervous about it, but it's not a bad kind of nervous. Settling into his skin all over again, peeling away things he thought he'd put to rest, and all of it quicker than he might have imagined— though of course he didn't, not in earnest.
"I have to grab something, though, unless you have some trick I didn't manage to interview out of anyone—"
Comedy fumbling to grab lube?
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He has jokes too. Just because they didn't appreciate the sunglasses bit—
Armand lets up, allowing Daniel to fetch what they need. His awareness expanding, permitting the edges of the bed, the room, back into his consciousness, as if he has been spending the last however long its been within a coffin-sized dimension, population two. He snags at the edge of the sheet to clean himself off a little, but distracted, preferring to watch Daniel.
Feels the next pulse come a little harder. Want. Desire. With more distance between them, he can look him over better, imagine where in the future he might feel him with his hands, or sink his teeth. The desire to dominate and consume, the desire to serve and to fawn, and maybe also, the desire to just be normal. To tangle in ordinary ways, and have affection, and—
Hm. Something in that sentiment like a sharp, broken off thing. Warrants further investigation or none at all.
Shifting to kneel up when Daniel returns, hands out for him.
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Every bitter argument, every awkward overture of peace, there was always something. Something. A deeper thread stitched somewhere unbelievable. Now this strange thing they've sewn together is being flipped over and exposed, and all the handiwork holding them together is right here, and Daniel is marveling at it.
Just a touch of cleanup while he grabs something. Kept in the bathroom, a half-guilty purchase. (Daniel is straight and he doesn't fuck men anymore, Daniel is single and even though both women he married were as adventurous as he was, he just isn't doing much anymore, he's content enough with is lot in life, Daniel is, is, is, a bunch of shit he should be embarrassed for pretending.)
Less guilt, when he returns. The sight of Armand waiting for him like that, reaching, makes heat and affection flood him like being dunked in hot water. He should run the other fucking way from an ancient creature with arms extended towards him, claws and fangs and inhuman amber eyes. Daniel's hands find his, back in the bed, climbing to meet him and press another kiss to his mouth, flickers of his expression as he goes both shy and elated.
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He had told Daniel that he often thinks about the fact that vampires should not exist. That he should not. The logical conclusion that he had drawn Daniel into the perversion of nature that is them. Punishment, anger, revulsion. A lot of complexity, philosophising, for something as simple as wishing he could cease to be, with only a duty towards persisting keeping him tethered.
Daniel as tether. As companion. (And there is a lurking essay about how Armand hated that notion, too, of a vampire forcing someone into this world just to make it more bearable for themselves, and on and on—)
He gets a hand under Daniel's chin and pushes it aside so he can kiss down his throat. Warming back up.
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Daniel sinks against him, hungry for it, but he tips his head back to let Armand have whatever he likes from him. It makes him shiver, and he slides hands over Armand's shoulders, letting the bottle drop down beside him. Pointy nails are a bit of a nervous-curious note around the prospect of anal sex, but also, intriguing on a kink level. He expects it'll be less racy than it seems, though. It's not like he's ever accidentally sliced a toe off while absently scratching an itch.
Thinking about existence, thinking about the exact mechanics of getting fucked. Duality of man, etc.
"Every little thing with you feels so fucking good," he says, his voice a breathy clash of appreciation and exasperation. How.
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So he asks, "Did you think of me like this," after his teeth leave blunt little marks in Daniel's shoulder, "before you knew what I was? Or only after?"
However Daniel might interpret that. Before he knew Rashid was Armand. Before he knew Armand was a monster, specific to him, specific to Louis. Before Armand was his maker.
Perhaps there was nothing, and it was Armand alone with his fascinations. That would be fine too.
Moving them, meanwhile. Urging Daniel backwards by invading his space, a hand catching the side of his knee.
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