A shaky breath out for the feeling of Daniel trying to adjust to him, the wandering up of his knee and scrabble of hands, a long breath in. Feels powerful for it, allows himself to enjoy the feeling, even though Armand is certain he is moments away from his own scrabbly sense of desperation. That it's probably already visible in his expression.
"It's just," he starts, panting already. Trying again. "It's just bodies, Mr. Molloy." A gleam of teeth, and maybe his canines are sharper now. Drawing back, pushing in, still adapting. "Just blood, just. Friction, and tension. Just neurochemistry, electricity."
Does he believe that? Probably he has, previously. He hasn't said Mr. Molloy since, when, possibly Dubai? Maybe a sarcastic echo later on.
It shouldn't feel like distancing. Not when he is beginning to fuck him this way, and his hand catches desperately at Daniel's hip, and his eyes are as bright as hearth coals. Teasing, perhaps. Challenging, even now. Being insane, as standard.
Fuck Daniel feels incredible. Made to be fucked by him, even.
Mr Molloy, and Armand trying to play it cool while his breath is coming so much quicker, driving slowly in and out of him. Daniel feels something in him tighten and twitch, every nerve keying in to the feeling of this, hitting the threshold of where fingers started to feel good and going past it into much, much better.
"Purely mechanical?" Breathless. Voice scraping deeper as everything coils in him, and he finds the ability to engage in something besides mindless grasping. "Yeah, I get it. Like that."
(Metronomic, my Rashid / Counting down your thrusts)
"You push in, and the pressure around your dick feels good, and it goes over all my nerve endings to reach the anterior position of a gland that feels good in me, and you pull back, and we both want to fucking die from the removal of it, so you push back in. Hormones change. The brain says, I like that."
Daniel's eyes are almost yellow. Sweat on his temples, his throat, his chest. He is a writer, but he's never tried erotica. Too blunt for it.
Nothing wrong with mechanics. Blood pressure and nerve endings and secretions and the vacuum of pleasure with each withdraw, filling it again with a shift of muscle and bone that won't tire no matter how long Armand chooses to keep Daniel here, folded beneath him. Realises his gaze as wandered and reorients it towards golden irises and jetblack pupils, the shimmer of blood-tainted moisture on Daniel's brow.
This is better. Better than erotica, flowery prose, professions of love and passion. Dissection, revelation. No need to make something what it isn't when it is already good. At least, not today.
Armand's fangs pressing against his lip, visible when he curls it. No known reason to him why his never seem as wolfishly long as most others, even in the midst of a hunt rather than just love making, but they do the job. Probably hurts more, anyway.
Shifts his hands, or reaffirms them. A grasp at Daniel's hip, keeping him still. The one near his shoulder settles on it, bracketing him close. Like, let's test this theory, before moving—the slow, adjusting motions resolving into something real, and the initial earnest impact between them punching a sound of Armand even as he does it.
Just mechanics, when they're each who they are, when they're staring at each other face to face for it. Armand inside of him, brute force physicality and not just his blood. Daniel drags in his breaths and looks up at his maker, his beautiful, fucking bizarre eyes that mirror his own in their coloring, his hauntingly pretty face, the lovely pinprick teeth that made him.
Armand bears down on him and Daniel almost chokes with it, sensations he hasn't felt in ages raking through him like electricity. He squeezes Armand's wrist, rakes his other hand down his chest to reach between them and feel where his cock is pushing into him, obscene and slick, and then he has to grab his hip, nails denting skin. He's hard, which is a bit of a shock, feeling the weight and heat of it between them— good, ridiculously so.
He's going to say something else. Some mechanical, daring bullshit, but as he opens his mouth (tips of his own canines elongating, just a little) he becomes suddenly aware of the thing binding them together. How it feels. That silver thread and the way he can sometimes sense Armand's mood or his presence, and how fucking overwhelming it is in this moment.
"Yeah," another echo, the most coherent he can be. Armand is holding him still but he digs a heel into the bed and pushes into him, more, fuck.
It's not mechanical, he thinks, the pleasure he feels for that moment of resistance. Daniel's heel against the mattress, muscles pushing back as if to take him deeper and faster, strong and alive. As vital as he was when Armand took him into his arms (both times) and bit his throat (both times)—
No, more. Not the quivering, sacrificial thing. Something else, something he has made, touching him intimately and clutching around his cock and only struggling so he can get more of it.
Armand does that, burying in and pressing down. Long arms sliding around, pushing in between bed and back, shoulders. Their proportions makes this easier, a vampiric tolerance for the strain of mobility and the demands being imposed on Daniel's body that allows Armand to have him like this as well as snake up a hand to find a handful of silver curls and coax Daniel's head back.
Because he wants to drink from his throat. Wants that sense of submission, of repeat, of demand. Armand pressing his mouth against the side of it, hot breath and warm tongue and lips felt first in open mouthed kiss.
There's an easy and weightlessness of moving that shocks him, feeling less human than ever and liking it, experiencing a momentary hysterical thought for how he could have ever thought he was properly alive before— quickly scattered away under the force of how good this feels. It's so easy to shift into the perfect angle and hold there, grind back against every snap forward, and he fucks right into where it feels best and Daniel thinks, oh, okay, this is what getting fucked is supposed to feel like. Kind of insane he's figuring it out at this age. But he's not going to complain.
Nails dig into Armand's back, a kneejerk impulse, and he shudders and flattens his palms out, not sure if this hurts or not, if Armand would like it either way, if, if, if, fuck.
He tips his head back, sees Armand, the ceiling, some other fucking universe of sensation. A shudder when he kisses his throat, heart hammering. He was out of his mind and near death the first time, he did die the next time. He'd asked for this, and for Armand to decide to take it like this—
Yes. It's what he wants. He feels like he's high. He feels better than that.
Something obscene in the way saliva gathers in his mouth, a genuine instinctive hunger paired with this other kind of desire. A breathy groan pressed against Daniel's throat, feeling the other man strain for this, arch for it.
A far cry from the defeated acceptance of his prey. Of former lovers, even.
Fangs, piercing skin. As painful as that should be, as numbing as it swiftly becomes, and then as pleasurable as it had been before of blood gently coaxed through broken pathways under the force of a monster's appetite. Armand humming his pleasure at the taste of blood coating his tongue, filling his mouth, allowing it to well up messily beneath his mouth before more earnestly drinking it down.
And none of it detaches himself from what he is doing. From being buried deep in Daniel and holding their bodies pressed close together, feeling the shape of Daniel's cock pressing against his belly, the heave of his breathing. All of these sensations, amplified even, at the steady intake of warm blood.
The shock of pain is good, heightening the contrasting pleasure for the interruption, and this time Daniel doesn't have the presence of mind to avoid clawing at Armand. Getting fucking, being bit, his cock moving him, body over him, blood moving like silk over his nerves and veins out into his maker. It slams him into the line of what he thought was as much as he could handle, and then slingshots over it, another realm past human experience.
Pretty fucking cool, might be his eloquent writer's note about it later. Keeping himself from waxing too poetic.
But if there's any transfer of feeling in blood-drinking, now that Armand is doing it with such intent, Daniel can't hide from sentimentality whirling out of ecstatic control. Armand drives him crazy. As comfortable to be around as he is frustrating, fascinating, that lit dynamite word, Daniel sees him sitting cozily and sketching something, he sees him with eyes blazing as he drains someone, he envisions himself reaching out to him in the mist of the kind of horror that should break him and pressing into him for a kiss.
This post-life has been good. He's glad it was Armand.
There it is, again. That thing that hooked in him the first time he drank from Daniel like this, only amplified. Love is not the word he is looking for, he has started to feel doubtful for its efficacy, having involved himself in more love stories than he'd ever cared to experience. Having been told he is loved before.
No, this is different, more specific. Addicting, addiction. Sentiment and lust together, something in Daniel that craves something more vital in Armand than just Armand's behaviours, his abilities, his tasks, his duties. Presentations, personas, names, faces. Down, down, to where he had felt there was nothing.
How it hurt, to feel each thing torn aside, and so ruthlessly. How good it feels.
Blood runs, escaping past his teeth, streaking down Daniel's neck, into his hair, over his shoulder, on his sheets. Vampire skin will knit itself together, and Armand kisses away the excess as if he would prefer to bathe in it. Hot panting against Daniel's cheek, in the moment he resumes fucking him, his breath shaking.
Monster. Maker. A creature bonded to him for eternity; a creature that's turned Daniel into a monster, too. But being a monster feels more correct. He feels like himself. Through death, Armand didn't just make Daniel a vampire, he made him real.
Nothing damned could feel this good. No clearer proof to him that heaven and hell aren't real than his maker fucking him and spilling his own blood everywhere, hot and liquid and smelling like both of them— a part of him is always tainted just so with Armand, now, his life having filtered entirely through the ancient being in magic transformation.
Crazy that it's the bite that's going to do it. The feel of his blood, Armand re-arranging his insides, the fact that he can keep up with it and the only pain is from their sharpest edges. He wants to drown in it, choke in it. Daniel rakes claws down his back to grab at him, encourage him to take more, take what he wants, take everything. He is on the edge of shattering. When he kisses him, it's a badly aimed mess that scrapes the softest parts of his maker's mouth with fangs.
Claws in his back, his ass, his hips. Drawing white lines, his fledgling beading blood to the surface of his skin, a scrambling desire that feels sharper for the way Armand feels so close to satisfied. Lazily turns his head to meet that kiss, gives a small hiss at where fangs catch against his lip. More blood. Only answers it by kissing Daniel back deeply, bearing down.
If there is some removed part of him, it's barely a sliver, the rest of Armand too present for the kinds of dissociative analysis that he has often made room for, retreated to. This tiny part of him, observing the side this brings out in Daniel. Clawing and demand and desire, naked desire, unmediated. Not unfamiliar. They can be so cynical, sometimes, but honest too.
But enough of that. Armand has the briefest urge to tell Daniel he's about to come, some twisted up thing that is both seeking permission and giving apology, and ultimately too far gone to do anything but sink into this role of taking he has begun, that Daniel encourages with words, with hands and teeth. Grasps a hold at the base of Daniel's throat, the curve of his shoulder, kiss breaking in the moment, mouth red and wet with blood and spit.
Claws sinking in. Doesn't pause his rutting. Even the abstract part of him looking on doesn't give him a helpful reminder to see to Daniel's pleasure.
He told Armand to have everything, and he meant it. No point in doing any of this shit halfway. Armand accepted Daniel's graceless up front refusal to play maitre, so he's holding up his end of the bargain, giving everything over. (Would he like to fuck Armand? Yes. Christ, yes. That's not the point.)
It's rough and probably more than would be comfortable for a mortal, but none of that matters, because neither of them are human. It just sends him spinning higher, dragging in labored breaths, heart hammering, everything good, good, fuck, good, better, perfect.
Armand looks demonic. Like he did when he was torturing him. Daniel thinks he might climax from feeling him this way, looking like that. Clings to him, blood boiling, shuddering, holding him tightly through it. Hands slide up Armand's back, holding him, up to cradle his head and stroke his hair. Nerves twitch all through him, still hard, still right there. But hanging on the edge feels good, and knowing he brought Armand over feels even better.
Finally slows as the last of it wrings out of him, as Daniel's arms go around him, hold him, fingers through his hair. Too tempting to collapse into it, some structural integrity giving way as he goes still on top of Daniel, clinging to him. Driftwood in choppy waves, and an endless depth beneath his feet.
The scent of blood, sweat, sex everywhere, the whole world condensed down to the tangle they have made of each other. Aware of Daniel's hardness, still, and likes that too, the feel of it against his skin, signalling mutual desire, gratification.
In a moment. He wants to be held.
He doesn't think he wishes to cry, exactly, but this fullness of feeling resembles the urge. Pressing its hands against his ribcage from within, pushing. Catches his breath. Not quite his mind. Returns his mouth to Daniel's healing bite, kissing and licking away the last of the blood drying there. "Tell me," murmured. "Tell me how you want it now."
Daniel feels pinned in place on a high crest, maddening and relaxing at once. He holds Armand, feeling strangely protective in the midst of everything else. This monster made him, hurt him, and he understands it.
A shivery sigh after that kiss, as Armand tastes lingering blood. Still pushed inside of him, even softening, makes everything light up. Armand's weight feels good, his dick feels good, his mouth, his fangs, all of it. Daniel licks blood-tinted sweat at his temple.
"My hand over yours," he answers. Nudges the side of his face, presses a kiss to half of his mouth. "Just like this."
They don't have to move. Wedge between their bodies, he just wants Armand to touch him. He'll even do the work, fingers wrapping over his maker's on his cock.
A nod, more felt than seen, Armand allowing his hand to be found, moved, wrapped around Daniel's stiff cock. Squeezing, a covetous kind of touch, before relaxing, and drawing in a breath as he feels Daniel moving them together.
Allows it, allows Daniel to do what he needs. His fingers make a narrow passage to fuck through, attentive in this way, but otherwise he settles where he is, nuzzled in against the side of Daniel's neck and face, eyes half-closed and out of focus. A very human feeling, this kind of daze. Unprofessional. Luxurious to linger in. He had always been fond of this part, the after.
Although not quite after, not yet. Lifting his head, eventually, watching Daniel now, hazily hooded but focused, burning gold. His face, first, then down, the configuration they make, the swollen-needy colour of his cock in their hands together, the press of lifted thighs, wiry silvered hair, the long line of muscle running from wrist to elbow. Every little detail, all of it, possessively collected.
The first curl of Armand's fingers around him makes his cock twitch, the edge raw and cranked. Getting fucked had felt so good, and the way Armand is staying here like this, sated and language but still seemingly present, is making it even better as much as it's making it more surreal. (Will they do this more? Will Daniel get used to it, lose the nerves, end up coming while Armand is still fucking him, get to feel him while he's hypersensitive in the immediate aftermath, everything tipping to one side of pain?)
Something about it all feels so decadent. Too rich, overwhelming. Armand fucking him and finishing first, Daniel using his hand after. Fetishizing self-indulgence. He realizes Armand is looking at him, their folded-over hands on his cock which is leaking and desperate.
Fuck, he thinks he's going to say it, but his breath catches in his throat in some shattered half-sound. It hits him like something sharp, makes him flinch, orgasm shocking him with its intensity. One more experience lost to age, brought back again in death, ten times better, a hundred times better.
"Armand," gasped, grit out, instead of swearing. Maybe his name is an obscenity, though.
After those last hot pulses, Armand's hand is still. A subtle difference, from the active desire to shape his fingers just so to wring out satisfaction, to this more settled, possessive, endeared thing of holding him as he softens, goes still. Give them a minute or two, the sound of his name in Daniel's mouth that way, and they could probably do this again.
That Armand doesn't reach for that indulgence is both that it skirts too far from his instinct to do so, but also that he wants just this. Breathing together, satisfied. Settled back down, now, head on shoulder.
He could ask, was that good? Was he good? Knows it would be childish, knows the answer already. It was good, he was good, Daniel made it all very clear. How tattered his own esteem of his performance had become, a slow and hopeless wearing down over years. Parceling out control in carefully considered portions, Louis doing nothing to him that was not pre-established, Armand doing nothing to Louis that he was not absolutely certain would be welcome, beneficial.
Daniel's mind sealed off to him. Silence that is full of the sounds of hammering hearts, stuttering lungs, churning blood. Dreadfully, he feels his eyes prickle, a deeply rare sensation, and he makes himself go still and silent, huddled in close.
Dizzying afterglow, and it feels like a shattering thing that took hours to build to; Daniel draws in steadying breaths and lets the last aftershocks spark and twitch and leave him sated and awed. It is strange being a vampire, it is strange getting fucked, it is strange that it's Armand.
Armand, who he can feel draw into himself with a stillness that wasn't there before. Something he would notice even if he couldn't feel the bond that links them, ebbing and flowing with its intensity and feeling so present right now. He wonders if Armand feels it the same way, or if the lack of telepathy makes him struggle. Could be that Daniel just pays too much attention to it, fascinated by the way he's never felt alone since changing, and not in a way that crowds him.
A shift, heedless of how everything is sticky and bloody, so that he can wrap both arms firmly around his maker and hold him fully. He tips his head so he and press a kiss to Armand's forehead, his temple, catching dark hair. He should probably ask if this is okay, if maybe he wants to get up, let him leave. But something catches in his chest and he just— hopes.
"Stay with me," he asks, hushed. A pleading note. Please stay.
The difference between telepathy and whatever this is—
Tactile, almost. Here, laying still, sinking inwards by some measure, Armand can do what feels like winding a finger around the thread that connects them, testing its tension. In answer, nearly, to the way Daniel holds him tightly, kisses him that way, says what he does—and only nearly because he is sure Daniel can't feel it. Right?
The bond between a maker and fledgling was flawed, he had said. He had believed. That they could never touch each other completely in the way two other vampires can meant that there was no true ability to trust and love and be united in the way that eternity had demanded. Another thing Lestat had disagreed about. Armand could play at vanity, and imagine his actions in New Orleans being done to prove him wrong.
"Yes," he says. Slightly movement, then, a creeping across of his hands to reset his hold on Daniel. "I'm here."
They hadn't, of course. But Daniel hadn't needed telepathy at all. Doesn't need it now, to put his arms close around Armand and bid him to stay.
He does feel it, or at least he thinks he does. Maybe because he's young and every little difference is all the more obvious, maybe Louis primed him to be on the lookout, maybe there's just something about him. All of it, none of it. A hallucination. He wouldn't be able to articulate it if he attempted to do so out loud, but this tether is ever-present, and he can tell when there's tension pressed on it, like he can tell when Armand is in the next building over compared to three hundred miles away.
Armand pulls it a little and Daniel presses into it. Does it feel like anything to him? That phantom limb he thinks he feels, holding him alongside their physical ones, trying to reach into whatever made him go to still and wrap fingers around it, hold him close.
He nods, pleased. Yes, Armand says. Daniel has to believe him. He kisses the top of his head and cradles him. They'll really have to rinse off before they fall asleep, but not yet. He just wants to keep him in his arms for now and feel, connected like a circuit by something that only exists for the two of them.
Laying here in Daniel's arms, like a much loved thing.
The ever present urge to, you know, bite him all over abated, satisfied, for having done that a little and then some. For the open display of affection, for the vocalised desire for him to stay. Soon, that great flood of feeling that had almost pushed Armand adrift, that too withdraws, and he breathe a little like a boot isn't planted on his sternum, pressing down.
Some undisclosed amount of minutes later, Armand shifts, brushes his lips against where he'd been resting his head. A matter of fact rearrangement of bodies into something less like they collapsed mid-fuck. Raises himself up a little, enough that they can see each other, if still pressed in close.
"I want to stay," sounds like reiteration, which he realises, adds, "For sometime. I want to cancel your plans for the week."
Daniel has a moment, too young for a forever-seventy-year-old, blinking up at Armand because for a second he thinks something laughable like, why, I didn't think you had a problem with any of the projects I have going. He has not spent the past lifetime locked in a loveless companionship, but he, too, has his hangups; even aside from the more shallow matters of disbelief around Armand being attracted to him, there are his divorces, his failures, his reckoning with being solitary. Passion aimed at him is fleeting. People get sick of him. That's just how it is. And so he stares at Armand, cancel your plans, a beat, and finally gets it.
Oh.
"Cool. Done."
A few nice things now and again about being this forever-seventy-year-old. A professional in his prime would have to make excuses and save face and reschedule. Daniel can just say The weather's getting to me, I have to cancel, and everyone is fine with it, because he's about to shrivel up and die anyway. Huh. A week. Locked away with Armand. Again.
He slides hands up his maker's back, along his spine, draws nails over his skin. Survived the first time. Roll the dice again.
He hadn't particularly expected resistance, but its easy lack brings about a flush of pleasure—satisfaction, a kind of floating, detached arousal that can't quite get its hooks in him just yet, and then something soothing. Maybe a mirror of whatever Daniel got out of asking him to stay, his agreement.
They are filthy and Armand doesn't care. Happy for them to smell of each other, of Daniel's blood. Feels his nerves spark eagerly under each stroke of Daniel's nails across his back, craving repetition. Settles in against him, arms insisting themselves around him, a vine-like cling.
He has no plans to cancel. Daniel has been his plans for sometime, now. No impatience in his body to find some other thing, outside the little hobbies (!) he's been encouraged to have. He can go a long time with nothing at all.
Easy, to hold him. To drift to sleep like that, and to wake up and remember, oh. Yeah. This is happening, apparently. He clears his schedule, doesn't even follow up with anything, just dumps it and pulls Armand onto the sofa while his phone slips to the floor.
Daniel exists in a strange state. It's comfortable and it feels correct, versus, the worry that it's temporary, that Armand is going to vanish when the timer's up and he won't see him for another fifty years. It makes him greedier for it, handsier, even through the jitters of getting used to being wanted. By anyone, but especially Armand. Fortunately he has little shame — done worse, humiliated himself a hundred times over, lived a life Louis called fascinating but was mostly a fucking trainwreck — and feels perfectly fine asking Can I suck your cock? and getting on his knees in the kitchen around all his sketches charcoal smudges.
Sooner are later Daniel will have to eat something. Maybe they can go out. Maybe they can play a game and see who'll show up at the back door and how drunk they'll be.
The cat carries one of Armand's slippers from room to room in clenched teeth, occasionally staring at them while holding it and then immediately scampering away when approached. Daniel has yet to decipher this behavior, though he does manage to grab Peanut later. He holds the cat up by his armpits (?) making it look far more elongated than it should, and asks it what the deal is. Peanut has no answer, and just stares back with his big, weird eyes, until Daniel sighs and cradles him in his arms instead.
He doesn't think about work. (He doesn't think about work much.) He thinks a lot about Armand.
The changing shift of his eyes, for example. He doesn't know what it means. He will ask Daniel what he thinks it does, eventually, but it's good enough to observe it just for now—what hue they turn when Armand is inside of him, or when he wakes up as the sun sets and he awakes to find himself being observed.
Thinks about his hands, wrists, forearms, the appeal Armand finds in them—has drawn focus to himself by setting his teeth against the curve of muscle, just as he'd started all of this with gentle kisses. At one stage, sketches out Daniel's hands, the dance of them on his laptop or the angle he holds the TV remote, or the loose curl of fingers when asleep. Hides these away at first, and then leaves them out to be found.
Thinks about his cat and its fetish for his slipper.
Finds it under an armchair, Armand levering the whole thing back as he retrieves and inspects it. No discernible harm or biological nastiness, so he slips it back onto his foot. Goes and finds Daniel and sees him holding the cat to his chest, and thinks—he is still in a habit of observation. Perhaps that's fine. But it does mean there lacks a natural instinct to walk over, wind his arms around Daniel's waist as if they were romantic partners in a more traditional sense.
And thinks about it instead. Arms folded around himself instead, loose, easy, chin tucking in as he observes, "You're hungry," which isn't a commentary on Peanut's presence in Daniel's arms, probably.
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no subject
"It's just," he starts, panting already. Trying again. "It's just bodies, Mr. Molloy." A gleam of teeth, and maybe his canines are sharper now. Drawing back, pushing in, still adapting. "Just blood, just. Friction, and tension. Just neurochemistry, electricity."
Does he believe that? Probably he has, previously. He hasn't said Mr. Molloy since, when, possibly Dubai? Maybe a sarcastic echo later on.
It shouldn't feel like distancing. Not when he is beginning to fuck him this way, and his hand catches desperately at Daniel's hip, and his eyes are as bright as hearth coals. Teasing, perhaps. Challenging, even now. Being insane, as standard.
Fuck Daniel feels incredible. Made to be fucked by him, even.
no subject
"Purely mechanical?" Breathless. Voice scraping deeper as everything coils in him, and he finds the ability to engage in something besides mindless grasping. "Yeah, I get it. Like that."
(Metronomic, my Rashid / Counting down your thrusts)
"You push in, and the pressure around your dick feels good, and it goes over all my nerve endings to reach the anterior position of a gland that feels good in me, and you pull back, and we both want to fucking die from the removal of it, so you push back in. Hormones change. The brain says, I like that."
Daniel's eyes are almost yellow. Sweat on his temples, his throat, his chest. He is a writer, but he's never tried erotica. Too blunt for it.
"Yeah?"
no subject
Nothing wrong with mechanics. Blood pressure and nerve endings and secretions and the vacuum of pleasure with each withdraw, filling it again with a shift of muscle and bone that won't tire no matter how long Armand chooses to keep Daniel here, folded beneath him. Realises his gaze as wandered and reorients it towards golden irises and jetblack pupils, the shimmer of blood-tainted moisture on Daniel's brow.
This is better. Better than erotica, flowery prose, professions of love and passion. Dissection, revelation. No need to make something what it isn't when it is already good. At least, not today.
Armand's fangs pressing against his lip, visible when he curls it. No known reason to him why his never seem as wolfishly long as most others, even in the midst of a hunt rather than just love making, but they do the job. Probably hurts more, anyway.
Shifts his hands, or reaffirms them. A grasp at Daniel's hip, keeping him still. The one near his shoulder settles on it, bracketing him close. Like, let's test this theory, before moving—the slow, adjusting motions resolving into something real, and the initial earnest impact between them punching a sound of Armand even as he does it.
no subject
Armand bears down on him and Daniel almost chokes with it, sensations he hasn't felt in ages raking through him like electricity. He squeezes Armand's wrist, rakes his other hand down his chest to reach between them and feel where his cock is pushing into him, obscene and slick, and then he has to grab his hip, nails denting skin. He's hard, which is a bit of a shock, feeling the weight and heat of it between them— good, ridiculously so.
He's going to say something else. Some mechanical, daring bullshit, but as he opens his mouth (tips of his own canines elongating, just a little) he becomes suddenly aware of the thing binding them together. How it feels. That silver thread and the way he can sometimes sense Armand's mood or his presence, and how fucking overwhelming it is in this moment.
"Yeah," another echo, the most coherent he can be. Armand is holding him still but he digs a heel into the bed and pushes into him, more, fuck.
no subject
No, more. Not the quivering, sacrificial thing. Something else, something he has made, touching him intimately and clutching around his cock and only struggling so he can get more of it.
Armand does that, burying in and pressing down. Long arms sliding around, pushing in between bed and back, shoulders. Their proportions makes this easier, a vampiric tolerance for the strain of mobility and the demands being imposed on Daniel's body that allows Armand to have him like this as well as snake up a hand to find a handful of silver curls and coax Daniel's head back.
Because he wants to drink from his throat. Wants that sense of submission, of repeat, of demand. Armand pressing his mouth against the side of it, hot breath and warm tongue and lips felt first in open mouthed kiss.
no subject
Nails dig into Armand's back, a kneejerk impulse, and he shudders and flattens his palms out, not sure if this hurts or not, if Armand would like it either way, if, if, if, fuck.
He tips his head back, sees Armand, the ceiling, some other fucking universe of sensation. A shudder when he kisses his throat, heart hammering. He was out of his mind and near death the first time, he did die the next time. He'd asked for this, and for Armand to decide to take it like this—
Yes. It's what he wants. He feels like he's high. He feels better than that.
no subject
A far cry from the defeated acceptance of his prey. Of former lovers, even.
Fangs, piercing skin. As painful as that should be, as numbing as it swiftly becomes, and then as pleasurable as it had been before of blood gently coaxed through broken pathways under the force of a monster's appetite. Armand humming his pleasure at the taste of blood coating his tongue, filling his mouth, allowing it to well up messily beneath his mouth before more earnestly drinking it down.
And none of it detaches himself from what he is doing. From being buried deep in Daniel and holding their bodies pressed close together, feeling the shape of Daniel's cock pressing against his belly, the heave of his breathing. All of these sensations, amplified even, at the steady intake of warm blood.
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Pretty fucking cool, might be his eloquent writer's note about it later. Keeping himself from waxing too poetic.
But if there's any transfer of feeling in blood-drinking, now that Armand is doing it with such intent, Daniel can't hide from sentimentality whirling out of ecstatic control. Armand drives him crazy. As comfortable to be around as he is frustrating, fascinating, that lit dynamite word, Daniel sees him sitting cozily and sketching something, he sees him with eyes blazing as he drains someone, he envisions himself reaching out to him in the mist of the kind of horror that should break him and pressing into him for a kiss.
This post-life has been good. He's glad it was Armand.
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No, this is different, more specific. Addicting, addiction. Sentiment and lust together, something in Daniel that craves something more vital in Armand than just Armand's behaviours, his abilities, his tasks, his duties. Presentations, personas, names, faces. Down, down, to where he had felt there was nothing.
How it hurt, to feel each thing torn aside, and so ruthlessly. How good it feels.
Blood runs, escaping past his teeth, streaking down Daniel's neck, into his hair, over his shoulder, on his sheets. Vampire skin will knit itself together, and Armand kisses away the excess as if he would prefer to bathe in it. Hot panting against Daniel's cheek, in the moment he resumes fucking him, his breath shaking.
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Nothing damned could feel this good. No clearer proof to him that heaven and hell aren't real than his maker fucking him and spilling his own blood everywhere, hot and liquid and smelling like both of them— a part of him is always tainted just so with Armand, now, his life having filtered entirely through the ancient being in magic transformation.
Crazy that it's the bite that's going to do it. The feel of his blood, Armand re-arranging his insides, the fact that he can keep up with it and the only pain is from their sharpest edges. He wants to drown in it, choke in it. Daniel rakes claws down his back to grab at him, encourage him to take more, take what he wants, take everything. He is on the edge of shattering. When he kisses him, it's a badly aimed mess that scrapes the softest parts of his maker's mouth with fangs.
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If there is some removed part of him, it's barely a sliver, the rest of Armand too present for the kinds of dissociative analysis that he has often made room for, retreated to. This tiny part of him, observing the side this brings out in Daniel. Clawing and demand and desire, naked desire, unmediated. Not unfamiliar. They can be so cynical, sometimes, but honest too.
But enough of that. Armand has the briefest urge to tell Daniel he's about to come, some twisted up thing that is both seeking permission and giving apology, and ultimately too far gone to do anything but sink into this role of taking he has begun, that Daniel encourages with words, with hands and teeth. Grasps a hold at the base of Daniel's throat, the curve of his shoulder, kiss breaking in the moment, mouth red and wet with blood and spit.
Claws sinking in. Doesn't pause his rutting. Even the abstract part of him looking on doesn't give him a helpful reminder to see to Daniel's pleasure.
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It's rough and probably more than would be comfortable for a mortal, but none of that matters, because neither of them are human. It just sends him spinning higher, dragging in labored breaths, heart hammering, everything good, good, fuck, good, better, perfect.
Armand looks demonic. Like he did when he was torturing him. Daniel thinks he might climax from feeling him this way, looking like that. Clings to him, blood boiling, shuddering, holding him tightly through it. Hands slide up Armand's back, holding him, up to cradle his head and stroke his hair. Nerves twitch all through him, still hard, still right there. But hanging on the edge feels good, and knowing he brought Armand over feels even better.
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The scent of blood, sweat, sex everywhere, the whole world condensed down to the tangle they have made of each other. Aware of Daniel's hardness, still, and likes that too, the feel of it against his skin, signalling mutual desire, gratification.
In a moment. He wants to be held.
He doesn't think he wishes to cry, exactly, but this fullness of feeling resembles the urge. Pressing its hands against his ribcage from within, pushing. Catches his breath. Not quite his mind. Returns his mouth to Daniel's healing bite, kissing and licking away the last of the blood drying there. "Tell me," murmured. "Tell me how you want it now."
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A shivery sigh after that kiss, as Armand tastes lingering blood. Still pushed inside of him, even softening, makes everything light up. Armand's weight feels good, his dick feels good, his mouth, his fangs, all of it. Daniel licks blood-tinted sweat at his temple.
"My hand over yours," he answers. Nudges the side of his face, presses a kiss to half of his mouth. "Just like this."
They don't have to move. Wedge between their bodies, he just wants Armand to touch him. He'll even do the work, fingers wrapping over his maker's on his cock.
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Allows it, allows Daniel to do what he needs. His fingers make a narrow passage to fuck through, attentive in this way, but otherwise he settles where he is, nuzzled in against the side of Daniel's neck and face, eyes half-closed and out of focus. A very human feeling, this kind of daze. Unprofessional. Luxurious to linger in. He had always been fond of this part, the after.
Although not quite after, not yet. Lifting his head, eventually, watching Daniel now, hazily hooded but focused, burning gold. His face, first, then down, the configuration they make, the swollen-needy colour of his cock in their hands together, the press of lifted thighs, wiry silvered hair, the long line of muscle running from wrist to elbow. Every little detail, all of it, possessively collected.
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Something about it all feels so decadent. Too rich, overwhelming. Armand fucking him and finishing first, Daniel using his hand after. Fetishizing self-indulgence. He realizes Armand is looking at him, their folded-over hands on his cock which is leaking and desperate.
Fuck, he thinks he's going to say it, but his breath catches in his throat in some shattered half-sound. It hits him like something sharp, makes him flinch, orgasm shocking him with its intensity. One more experience lost to age, brought back again in death, ten times better, a hundred times better.
"Armand," gasped, grit out, instead of swearing. Maybe his name is an obscenity, though.
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That Armand doesn't reach for that indulgence is both that it skirts too far from his instinct to do so, but also that he wants just this. Breathing together, satisfied. Settled back down, now, head on shoulder.
He could ask, was that good? Was he good? Knows it would be childish, knows the answer already. It was good, he was good, Daniel made it all very clear. How tattered his own esteem of his performance had become, a slow and hopeless wearing down over years. Parceling out control in carefully considered portions, Louis doing nothing to him that was not pre-established, Armand doing nothing to Louis that he was not absolutely certain would be welcome, beneficial.
Daniel's mind sealed off to him. Silence that is full of the sounds of hammering hearts, stuttering lungs, churning blood. Dreadfully, he feels his eyes prickle, a deeply rare sensation, and he makes himself go still and silent, huddled in close.
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Armand, who he can feel draw into himself with a stillness that wasn't there before. Something he would notice even if he couldn't feel the bond that links them, ebbing and flowing with its intensity and feeling so present right now. He wonders if Armand feels it the same way, or if the lack of telepathy makes him struggle. Could be that Daniel just pays too much attention to it, fascinated by the way he's never felt alone since changing, and not in a way that crowds him.
A shift, heedless of how everything is sticky and bloody, so that he can wrap both arms firmly around his maker and hold him fully. He tips his head so he and press a kiss to Armand's forehead, his temple, catching dark hair. He should probably ask if this is okay, if maybe he wants to get up, let him leave. But something catches in his chest and he just— hopes.
"Stay with me," he asks, hushed. A pleading note. Please stay.
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Tactile, almost. Here, laying still, sinking inwards by some measure, Armand can do what feels like winding a finger around the thread that connects them, testing its tension. In answer, nearly, to the way Daniel holds him tightly, kisses him that way, says what he does—and only nearly because he is sure Daniel can't feel it. Right?
The bond between a maker and fledgling was flawed, he had said. He had believed. That they could never touch each other completely in the way two other vampires can meant that there was no true ability to trust and love and be united in the way that eternity had demanded. Another thing Lestat had disagreed about. Armand could play at vanity, and imagine his actions in New Orleans being done to prove him wrong.
"Yes," he says. Slightly movement, then, a creeping across of his hands to reset his hold on Daniel. "I'm here."
They hadn't, of course. But Daniel hadn't needed telepathy at all. Doesn't need it now, to put his arms close around Armand and bid him to stay.
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He does feel it, or at least he thinks he does. Maybe because he's young and every little difference is all the more obvious, maybe Louis primed him to be on the lookout, maybe there's just something about him. All of it, none of it. A hallucination. He wouldn't be able to articulate it if he attempted to do so out loud, but this tether is ever-present, and he can tell when there's tension pressed on it, like he can tell when Armand is in the next building over compared to three hundred miles away.
Armand pulls it a little and Daniel presses into it. Does it feel like anything to him? That phantom limb he thinks he feels, holding him alongside their physical ones, trying to reach into whatever made him go to still and wrap fingers around it, hold him close.
He nods, pleased. Yes, Armand says. Daniel has to believe him. He kisses the top of his head and cradles him. They'll really have to rinse off before they fall asleep, but not yet. He just wants to keep him in his arms for now and feel, connected like a circuit by something that only exists for the two of them.
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The ever present urge to, you know, bite him all over abated, satisfied, for having done that a little and then some. For the open display of affection, for the vocalised desire for him to stay. Soon, that great flood of feeling that had almost pushed Armand adrift, that too withdraws, and he breathe a little like a boot isn't planted on his sternum, pressing down.
Some undisclosed amount of minutes later, Armand shifts, brushes his lips against where he'd been resting his head. A matter of fact rearrangement of bodies into something less like they collapsed mid-fuck. Raises himself up a little, enough that they can see each other, if still pressed in close.
"I want to stay," sounds like reiteration, which he realises, adds, "For sometime. I want to cancel your plans for the week."
To start with, anyway.
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Daniel has a moment, too young for a forever-seventy-year-old, blinking up at Armand because for a second he thinks something laughable like, why, I didn't think you had a problem with any of the projects I have going. He has not spent the past lifetime locked in a loveless companionship, but he, too, has his hangups; even aside from the more shallow matters of disbelief around Armand being attracted to him, there are his divorces, his failures, his reckoning with being solitary. Passion aimed at him is fleeting. People get sick of him. That's just how it is. And so he stares at Armand, cancel your plans, a beat, and finally gets it.
Oh.
"Cool. Done."
A few nice things now and again about being this forever-seventy-year-old. A professional in his prime would have to make excuses and save face and reschedule. Daniel can just say The weather's getting to me, I have to cancel, and everyone is fine with it, because he's about to shrivel up and die anyway. Huh. A week. Locked away with Armand. Again.
He slides hands up his maker's back, along his spine, draws nails over his skin. Survived the first time. Roll the dice again.
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They are filthy and Armand doesn't care. Happy for them to smell of each other, of Daniel's blood. Feels his nerves spark eagerly under each stroke of Daniel's nails across his back, craving repetition. Settles in against him, arms insisting themselves around him, a vine-like cling.
He has no plans to cancel. Daniel has been his plans for sometime, now. No impatience in his body to find some other thing, outside the little hobbies (!) he's been encouraged to have. He can go a long time with nothing at all.
A week. A week and a day.
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Daniel exists in a strange state. It's comfortable and it feels correct, versus, the worry that it's temporary, that Armand is going to vanish when the timer's up and he won't see him for another fifty years. It makes him greedier for it, handsier, even through the jitters of getting used to being wanted. By anyone, but especially Armand. Fortunately he has little shame — done worse, humiliated himself a hundred times over, lived a life Louis called fascinating but was mostly a fucking trainwreck — and feels perfectly fine asking Can I suck your cock? and getting on his knees in the kitchen around all his sketches charcoal smudges.
Sooner are later Daniel will have to eat something. Maybe they can go out. Maybe they can play a game and see who'll show up at the back door and how drunk they'll be.
The cat carries one of Armand's slippers from room to room in clenched teeth, occasionally staring at them while holding it and then immediately scampering away when approached. Daniel has yet to decipher this behavior, though he does manage to grab Peanut later. He holds the cat up by his armpits (?) making it look far more elongated than it should, and asks it what the deal is. Peanut has no answer, and just stares back with his big, weird eyes, until Daniel sighs and cradles him in his arms instead.
He doesn't think about work. (He doesn't think about work much.) He thinks a lot about Armand.
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The changing shift of his eyes, for example. He doesn't know what it means. He will ask Daniel what he thinks it does, eventually, but it's good enough to observe it just for now—what hue they turn when Armand is inside of him, or when he wakes up as the sun sets and he awakes to find himself being observed.
Thinks about his hands, wrists, forearms, the appeal Armand finds in them—has drawn focus to himself by setting his teeth against the curve of muscle, just as he'd started all of this with gentle kisses. At one stage, sketches out Daniel's hands, the dance of them on his laptop or the angle he holds the TV remote, or the loose curl of fingers when asleep. Hides these away at first, and then leaves them out to be found.
Thinks about his cat and its fetish for his slipper.
Finds it under an armchair, Armand levering the whole thing back as he retrieves and inspects it. No discernible harm or biological nastiness, so he slips it back onto his foot. Goes and finds Daniel and sees him holding the cat to his chest, and thinks—he is still in a habit of observation. Perhaps that's fine. But it does mean there lacks a natural instinct to walk over, wind his arms around Daniel's waist as if they were romantic partners in a more traditional sense.
And thinks about it instead. Arms folded around himself instead, loose, easy, chin tucking in as he observes, "You're hungry," which isn't a commentary on Peanut's presence in Daniel's arms, probably.
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