[ Louis is kicked up along the embroidered sofa, sock showing, pointed and polished shoe resting on the wooden arm, book held over his head. He hasn't really stopped reading since he found out the Duchess gifted them with the Rubean language in his absence.
He looks calm, but his heart is a hideous giveaway of his anxiety, lines of tension in his wrists. It's been two days since he killed Felipe — tenderly, bloody-mouthed, certain he was breaking some kind of rule when he broke open the fount of his own wrist. Without Lestat's guidance he had been as clumsy as when he was the fledgling, hoping he wouldn't be condemning Felipe to awaken in the castle again. But he didn't know what else to do, where to put his feelings, how to make him understand Louis' agonies and also keep him safe. Two times, he died without Louis here. Two times too many. This is the third and the last.
It's evening, now, and he's unbolted the cellar trapdoor to let Felipe out, posed himself to seem casual, like this is any other evening in his (their) bookshop. ]
[ can death be tender? certainly, if you compare Louis' fine mouth to the brutalities Felipe experienced at the hands of Ghostface and the other murderers. the resurrection was lovelier this time as well, but when he woke, he was no longer a man and he was locked into a small space. not the best start. ]
I didn't know that the cellar could look so beautiful. [ he remarks, easily hauling himself out of the trapdoor. the cellar was dark, but there had been a string of light where the dust danced – the sight hypnotized him for hours and hours, distracted him from making a scene. and now, finally upstairs, he looks around the store like he had never seen it before. and he hasn't. not like this. it's like he's entered another world. suddenly, his dark brown eyes, gleaming almost red from a certain angle, settle on the vampire reading on the sofa. they make quite the pair. Louis manages to looks so sophisticated even in his comfortable outfit and Felipe is covered in dried blood. ] I've never been so hungry in my life. What have you done, Louis?
[ The book goes to the side and Louis is upright too fast — but no longer so preternatural in his rapid movements now that Felipe can track them with his own heightened awareness. He goes to Felipe, not touching (yet) or blocking him (yet), just close and careful, concerned. ]
I shared my power with you.
[ He tries to remember his own hallucinatory awakening, what Lestat had done, had shown him. Yes, there had been hunger — and pain, and ecstasy. ]
We'll hunt together, now that it's dark. Get some food in you.
[ his wide pupils focus on the movement – like he was memorizing something, before he replies. ]
You seem scared of me. Did I hurt you?
[ is that why he was locked up? everything went down in a dark blur and his mouth tasted of copper. it was foul and strange and yet he could not get enough of it. he studies the man in front of him, some part of him idly wondering if doing it again could sate the desire clawing inside him. it's why he didn't flinch at the word "hunt". he's so hungry he could do anything. ]
[ He slides a hand gently into the crook of Felipe's elbow. How strange not to be able to hear him, as though he's human again. But that had been his appeal the first time around, right?
Louis manacles him there as he tells him of his new situation: ]
There's not much that can hurt creatures like what we are. But sunlight does it, and I didn't want you haring off and burning yourself to ashes. Better to keep you safe until night fell.
[ Has it only been a day? Or has it been two? He'd hoped to have blood ready for him, to save them having to go out into town, but he hadn't been able to do it, pick a stranger and talk him into coming into the bookshop to die. Part of it is that he's using the bookshop at all — it feels wrong to bring killing here, when it's something he built during the brief dream that he might be allowed to be human. Plus it's more Wesley's than his own these days. ]
[ Louis, you don't want to know what goes on inside this head. ]
No, you didn't keep me safe, you locked me up. Out of sight.
[ there was no reason to do that unless Louis really was scared of him. he feels invincible. strong. hungry. impatient. the frustration that nearly took over in the basement dances at the edges of his being. he's always hated being chained to anything – to responsibilities, to places, to people. Louis holds him still, but he wants to break free. ]
Hey, I wasted so much time down there already. It'll be fine, I promise.
[ he doesn't know what he's saying, he isn't really listening to Louis, he just wants out of here. there's so much he wants to see. ]
That cellar's the only place I got bigger than a closet to keep you safe from the sun.
[ It had been good enough for Lestat, is good enough for Louis. But he's only arguing because he likes arguing, is used to the shape of frustration in his mouth. ]
Forget about that. Let's go.
[ Out; the front door is also locked, but from the inside. Louis will walk them both through it into the town, like bosom companions, his fingers stroking slowly over Felipe's bicep, still linked at the arm. He wants to find some place he can let Felipe off leash, but knows the main gates close this late at night, so he'll settle for a quieter part of town, narrow streets with empty shopfronts, far from the boarding house. ]
Pick up your feet, we're gonna find you some food.
[ it seems too much at first, the arm snugly linked with his, but once they leave the familiar space of the bookshop, Felipe realizes why he's done it.
the endlessness of the night sky hypnotizes him, the warm, flickering lights in the windows call for him and he wants to trail off to inspect each rustling sound, to pause to listen to the overwhelming whispers carried by the wind. people talking to themselves, spilling secrets and confessions. watching Louis was fascinating before, but now he nearly forgets his company. it's only the arm and the hunger that keep him from wandering away from his guide. ]
Do I have to kill them?
[ he mumbles the question, no other emotion in his voice but wonder. shit, tonight he could kill anyone. ]
It's rare that Louis gets to be the one watching Armand sleep, and he relishes it even as he has to fight to resist the desire to disturb it with rumpling touches. He isn't under the covers, feet bare, limbs akimbo, a dead man.
"Wish I knew what goes on in your head," Louis whispers, half to himself. He feels all at odds and ends; together they'd built this inviolable tower, both literally and the figurative one made of money, and Louis had built a matching one in his head so he wouldn't be so reckless and emotional anymore, could pad around the concrete reading books untouched by the outside world and its outside griefs. And then he had decided they should reach out to Daniel.
He studies Armand's sleeping face from too-close, nearly touching but not quite, beloved familiar beautiful face. It hurts him with its beauty sometimes, makes him feel so much love he's all clenched up and worthless inside over it.
Carefully, he touches Armand's bare skin, one finger along the jawline. It will be enough to rouse him from this catnap, doubtlessly, but that's good because Louis can't keep his hands to himself anymore, and he doesn't want Armand waking to find himself deshabille. There's stuff they don't do to each other, the same way Armand doesn't really fuck around about Lestat.
"Hey," he murmurs, low, fond. Full of promise as his hand drifts lower.
Ancients don't need sleep as the young ones do. As one ages and grows into power, it's enough to simply sit in meditation for a few hours, stilling the body and the mind, falling into a state of preservation. There are no dreams, no nightmares. Just quiet, like the death they have abandoned. A time to contemplate and be with the blood and the dark gift.
So he had been taught, many years ago, and so he does, out of habit, on the prayer rug of his childhood, facing Mecca; on the couch beside Louis, watching mortal television programs; in the pool and in the rooftop garden. Occasionally, as now, in bed, where he allows himself to slip a little deeper and touch that well of silence where their most ancient ones brood and bide their time.
Where Louis finds him, and brings him back.
He opens his eyes, drawing his awareness up out of the darkness. Turns his head on the silk pillows to look at Louis and behold that sweet fondness, the welling up of emotions that Louis hasn't yet lost to the slow grind of time. Those fiery passions, the stubborn strength of his honor, the fragility of his grief, his ability to behold beauty and still be awed by it -- Armand loves to be witness to it, to be part of it. It makes him feel young, and wanted.
"Hello," he says, smiling. He glances down at the hand moving across the front of his pyjamas, then back up, silently enquiring, maybe a little mischievous.
They can finish each other's sentences but Louis still doesn't understand that place he goes. Maybe it's just because it's never so silent in his own head, always narrating and commentating and remembering.
Though right now he's not thinking about much of anything except the slender cut of Armand's waist, smiling a little to himself as his hand pushes up the hem of the pajama shirt just enough to ride the waistband of the pants, skim a couple fingers over his stomach.
"Hi," Louis says again, coÿ, even though what his body is saying is: been thinking about you, been wanting you. A third person in the house and Armand's charade making him aware of them all over again. He smiles as he leans in and takes a kiss like he's stealing it, quick and firm.
The body under Louis' hand hasn't changed in 500 years. Smooth, soft, perfect. The faintest lines of dark hair on his belly, but silk-soft, remade in angelic brushstrokes from the crude clay of his beginning. A young man, then, in Venice. But old and wise in the ways of the world, and the ways men can be cruel.
Sweetness, now, in the way Louis touches him, as though he's fragile. He kisses Louis back, eyes closed, tasting it as fully as he can. Leaning up to kiss him again, chasing him where he would have pulled away, he reaches down without looking to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his pants -- tailored, a matching set for the two of them, during a trip to London in the 1960's -- and pushes them down his hips, onto his thighs.
A simple moment of concentration, hardly noticed, is enough to send blood where it needs to be, filling out his cock as he raises both hands to cradle Louis' head and kiss him more thoroughly.
Louis smiles into that second kiss, hand still gentle as he slips it upwards instead, first to the soft plushness of a nipple over marble-firm skin, then around to span his waist, down to his hip and the curve of bared ass, just the barest caresses. Enjoying the shape of him, his stunning love, but culimating willingly with a hand between his legs.
Finding him hard pulls a groan out of Louis, desire flaring sharply. He likes to do it for himself, when he's restlessly horny, get everything thick and sensitive and available for use — but it's still always a conscious act, as much a part of it all as removing clothes. "Goddamn," he murmurs heavily into Armand's mouth, like he's never held a dick before — and he's smiling, eyes open into another kiss, watchful.
He's been talking a lot about Lestat lately, but right now it's just them in the room, Louis thumbing playfully over the head, snugging Armand's cock into his palm like it belongs there — but still treating Armand like he's breakable, like his body is something to take care with. That's not an always thing, but he's feeling it right now.
It's a tender gift, Louis' appreciation. Armand handles it carefully, reverently, always somewhat surprised to find that it continues. He smiles against Louis' lips, lifts his body a little from the sheets to push himself more firmly into Louis' hand, making it clear that although he enjoys being treated as something precious and fragile, there are times he feels anything but. Sometimes he is just another animal.
He gasps at the feeling of Louis' thumb across the head of his cock, rubbing into the blood-threaded slickness that leaks from him.
You're in an interesting mood, he points out, into their mental connection. His mouth is occupied by kissing across Louis' jaw, nuzzling against his throat.
That makes Louis grin, a huff at the back of his throat even more indicative given sometimes he gets tetchy at having his emotions commentated — mostly due to long years of being reminded he's so sensitive and dolorous.
Been reminded what matters, he responds, telepathic at first and then out loud just to feel the words in his mouth: "And I thought about fucking you while you were sleeping." His voice is low and soft, rasped with lust, pairing that admittance with a hand slow over the shaft. "Coming back to me inside you." That put him in a mood, and this is the next best way to sate it.
Armand is at his pulse and can feel the soft groan that gets, but Louis is still all adoration, fingers playing at the base of his cock, thumbing the stretch of skin to his sac. Maybe it's more selfish than it seems, Louis indulging in their bodies, in Armand's masculinity, refusing- as he so often does - to simply give way to his passions even as he fantasises about them.
A crueller and pettier person than Armand -- Lestat, say -- might wonder why it's taken an interview with an old man for Louis to be reminded of what matters. Armand himself keeps his mouth and mind closed from that line of thinking, concentrating instead on the gentle slide of Louis' hand on his cock, the taste of his skin beneath his tongue.
You think I would remain asleep for that? He asks, his mouth otherwise occupied. With a low pleased noise, he lets slip his fangs and sinks them deep into Louis' neck, precisely over the point where his major artery lies closest to the surface. Blood flows; he begins to suck it down with practised swallows, tasting Louis, tasting the young man he fed from the day before, smoke and iron and the deep richness of the life that sustains their dark gift.
Louis gives an almost pained groan at the bite — almost, but not quite. Closes his eyes as Armand penetrates him, ice cold fangs amidst flesh gone hot. Taking a part of Louis into himself, through that sudden connection, and Louis' telepathy doesn't answer the question posed, his thoughts devolved into Yes, love.
Like this, they aren't human, but they aren't vampires either. Louis doesn't feel like anything except sensation, and he moans and clutches fingers through Armand's soft tousle of hair, the other hand leaving his dick to pull him closer, press their bodies together like he can feel that life pounding out of him and into Armand. The beauty of symbiosis, two bodies as one. The intimacy is almost better than the physical euphoria of the bite.
"Goddamn," he whispers roughly into the quiet air, eyes closed. He could die like this and it'd be a pretty good death.
It's one of the oldest rituals, the deepest mysteries, used to bond vampires together. The exchange of blood, life into death pumped by the vampire heart, sharing one's essence, the core of their being, a baring of throat to another's teeth the ultimate vulnerability and submission. Armand glories in it, grateful, letting himself go into the cycle of blood from throat to heart to throat to heart, stretching back beyond the mortal who died to give Louis this blood, beyond himself and Louis, to the throats and hearts of their makers, of their makers' makers, all the way back into the darkest ages.
He arcs up into Louis' arms, half undressed and hard against Louis' thigh, drinking deep. Then, before he can take too much, he pulls back with a physical wrench. Licks his teeth and his lips and gazes, full of adoration, at Louis. Without speaking, he lifts his hand, offering his wrist towards his companion. Eyes shining with the renewal of their connection.
"Take from me, my love. And then you can take me. Everything I have. Everything I am."
Louis got hard at some point getting sucked, and his fangs are already dropped: even in the throes of pleasure he's made his body ready to take more. He's smiling heady when Armand pulls back, kisses him deeply.
Gimme a sec. Because he's greedy, Louis, wants all his pleasures at once. He sheds his sleepwear, careful not to tear anything, and pulls Armand in by the hips.
"I love you," he says — it's still rare he says it first, always finds it contrived outside of these moments. Dips his head and kisses Armand's collarbone, the rise of his chest, licks a hot tongue there. Still lingering in foreplay even now - he really is in a mood. Though there's nothing sweet and slow in the way he takes Armand and flips him, ruts up on his ass. Smothers him with his body, kissing at his neck, behind his ear. Nothing else matters, no-one else matters except Armand, and the feeling of sinking into him.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rubiverse??
please excuse me being default icon only
He looks calm, but his heart is a hideous giveaway of his anxiety, lines of tension in his wrists. It's been two days since he killed Felipe — tenderly, bloody-mouthed, certain he was breaking some kind of rule when he broke open the fount of his own wrist. Without Lestat's guidance he had been as clumsy as when he was the fledgling, hoping he wouldn't be condemning Felipe to awaken in the castle again. But he didn't know what else to do, where to put his feelings, how to make him understand Louis' agonies and also keep him safe. Two times, he died without Louis here. Two times too many. This is the third and the last.
It's evening, now, and he's unbolted the cellar trapdoor to let Felipe out, posed himself to seem casual, like this is any other evening in his (their) bookshop. ]
no subject
I didn't know that the cellar could look so beautiful. [ he remarks, easily hauling himself out of the trapdoor. the cellar was dark, but there had been a string of light where the dust danced – the sight hypnotized him for hours and hours, distracted him from making a scene. and now, finally upstairs, he looks around the store like he had never seen it before. and he hasn't. not like this. it's like he's entered another world. suddenly, his dark brown eyes, gleaming almost red from a certain angle, settle on the vampire reading on the sofa. they make quite the pair. Louis manages to looks so sophisticated even in his comfortable outfit and Felipe is covered in dried blood. ] I've never been so hungry in my life. What have you done, Louis?
no subject
heightened awareness. He goes to Felipe, not touching (yet) or blocking him (yet), just close and careful, concerned. ]
I shared my power with you.
[ He tries to remember his own hallucinatory awakening, what Lestat had done, had shown him. Yes, there had been hunger — and pain, and ecstasy. ]
We'll hunt together, now that it's dark. Get some food in you.
no subject
You seem scared of me. Did I hurt you?
[ is that why he was locked up? everything went down in a dark blur and his mouth tasted of copper. it was foul and strange and yet he could not get enough of it. he studies the man in front of him, some part of him idly wondering if doing it again could sate the desire clawing inside him. it's why he didn't flinch at the word "hunt". he's so hungry he could do anything. ]
no subject
[ He slides a hand gently into the crook of Felipe's elbow. How strange not to be able to hear him, as though he's human again. But that had been his appeal the first time around, right?
Louis manacles him there as he tells him of his new situation: ]
There's not much that can hurt creatures like what we are. But sunlight does it, and I didn't want you haring off and burning yourself to ashes. Better to keep you safe until night fell.
[ Has it only been a day? Or has it been two? He'd hoped to have blood ready for him, to save them having to go out into town, but he hadn't been able to do it, pick a stranger and talk him into coming into the bookshop to die. Part of it is that he's using the bookshop at all — it feels wrong to bring killing here, when it's something he built during the brief dream that he might be allowed to be human. Plus it's more Wesley's than his own these days. ]
no subject
No, you didn't keep me safe, you locked me up. Out of sight.
[ there was no reason to do that unless Louis really was scared of him. he feels invincible. strong. hungry. impatient. the frustration that nearly took over in the basement dances at the edges of his being. he's always hated being chained to anything – to responsibilities, to places, to people. Louis holds him still, but he wants to break free. ]
Hey, I wasted so much time down there already. It'll be fine, I promise.
[ he doesn't know what he's saying, he isn't really listening to Louis, he just wants out of here. there's so much he wants to see. ]
no subject
[ It had been good enough for Lestat, is good enough for Louis. But he's only arguing because he likes arguing, is used to the shape of frustration in his mouth. ]
Forget about that. Let's go.
[ Out; the front door is also locked, but from the inside. Louis will walk them both through it into the town, like bosom companions, his fingers stroking slowly over Felipe's bicep, still linked at the arm. He wants to find some place he can let Felipe off leash, but knows the main gates close this late at night, so he'll settle for a quieter part of town, narrow streets with empty shopfronts, far from the boarding house. ]
Pick up your feet, we're gonna find you some food.
no subject
the endlessness of the night sky hypnotizes him, the warm, flickering lights in the windows call for him and he wants to trail off to inspect each rustling sound, to pause to listen to the overwhelming whispers carried by the wind. people talking to themselves, spilling secrets and confessions. watching Louis was fascinating before, but now he nearly forgets his company. it's only the arm and the hunger that keep him from wandering away from his guide. ]
Do I have to kill them?
[ he mumbles the question, no other emotion in his voice but wonder. shit, tonight he could kill anyone. ]
@tartibli
"Wish I knew what goes on in your head," Louis whispers, half to himself. He feels all at odds and ends; together they'd built this inviolable tower, both literally and the figurative one made of money, and Louis had built a matching one in his head so he wouldn't be so reckless and emotional anymore, could pad around the concrete reading books untouched by the outside world and its outside griefs. And then he had decided they should reach out to Daniel.
He studies Armand's sleeping face from too-close, nearly touching but not quite, beloved familiar beautiful face. It hurts him with its beauty sometimes, makes him feel so much love he's all clenched up and worthless inside over it.
Carefully, he touches Armand's bare skin, one finger along the jawline. It will be enough to rouse him from this catnap, doubtlessly, but that's good because Louis can't keep his hands to himself anymore, and he doesn't want Armand waking to find himself deshabille. There's stuff they don't do to each other, the same way Armand doesn't really fuck around about Lestat.
"Hey," he murmurs, low, fond. Full of promise as his hand drifts lower.
no subject
So he had been taught, many years ago, and so he does, out of habit, on the prayer rug of his childhood, facing Mecca; on the couch beside Louis, watching mortal television programs; in the pool and in the rooftop garden. Occasionally, as now, in bed, where he allows himself to slip a little deeper and touch that well of silence where their most ancient ones brood and bide their time.
Where Louis finds him, and brings him back.
He opens his eyes, drawing his awareness up out of the darkness. Turns his head on the silk pillows to look at Louis and behold that sweet fondness, the welling up of emotions that Louis hasn't yet lost to the slow grind of time. Those fiery passions, the stubborn strength of his honor, the fragility of his grief, his ability to behold beauty and still be awed by it -- Armand loves to be witness to it, to be part of it. It makes him feel young, and wanted.
"Hello," he says, smiling. He glances down at the hand moving across the front of his pyjamas, then back up, silently enquiring, maybe a little mischievous.
no subject
Though right now he's not thinking about much of anything except the slender cut of Armand's waist, smiling a little to himself as his hand pushes up the hem of the pajama shirt just enough to ride the waistband of the pants, skim a couple fingers over his stomach.
"Hi," Louis says again, coÿ, even though what his body is saying is: been thinking about you, been wanting you. A third person in the house and Armand's charade making him aware of them all over again. He smiles as he leans in and takes a kiss like he's stealing it, quick and firm.
no subject
Sweetness, now, in the way Louis touches him, as though he's fragile. He kisses Louis back, eyes closed, tasting it as fully as he can. Leaning up to kiss him again, chasing him where he would have pulled away, he reaches down without looking to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his pants -- tailored, a matching set for the two of them, during a trip to London in the 1960's -- and pushes them down his hips, onto his thighs.
A simple moment of concentration, hardly noticed, is enough to send blood where it needs to be, filling out his cock as he raises both hands to cradle Louis' head and kiss him more thoroughly.
no subject
Finding him hard pulls a groan out of Louis, desire flaring sharply. He likes to do it for himself, when he's restlessly horny, get everything thick and sensitive and available for use — but it's still always a conscious act, as much a part of it all as removing clothes. "Goddamn," he murmurs heavily into Armand's mouth, like he's never held a dick before — and he's smiling, eyes open into another kiss, watchful.
He's been talking a lot about Lestat lately, but right now it's just them in the room, Louis thumbing playfully over the head, snugging Armand's cock into his palm like it belongs there — but still treating Armand like he's breakable, like his body is something to take care with. That's not an always thing, but he's feeling it right now.
no subject
He gasps at the feeling of Louis' thumb across the head of his cock, rubbing into the blood-threaded slickness that leaks from him.
You're in an interesting mood, he points out, into their mental connection. His mouth is occupied by kissing across Louis' jaw, nuzzling against his throat.
no subject
Been reminded what matters, he responds, telepathic at first and then out loud just to feel the words in his mouth: "And I thought about fucking you while you were sleeping." His voice is low and soft, rasped with lust, pairing that admittance with a hand slow over the shaft. "Coming back to me inside you." That put him in a mood, and this is the next best way to sate it.
Armand is at his pulse and can feel the soft groan that gets, but Louis is still all adoration, fingers playing at the base of his cock, thumbing the stretch of skin to his sac. Maybe it's more selfish than it seems, Louis indulging in their bodies, in Armand's masculinity, refusing- as he so often does - to simply give way to his passions even as he fantasises about them.
no subject
You think I would remain asleep for that? He asks, his mouth otherwise occupied. With a low pleased noise, he lets slip his fangs and sinks them deep into Louis' neck, precisely over the point where his major artery lies closest to the surface. Blood flows; he begins to suck it down with practised swallows, tasting Louis, tasting the young man he fed from the day before, smoke and iron and the deep richness of the life that sustains their dark gift.
no subject
Like this, they aren't human, but they aren't vampires either. Louis doesn't feel like anything except sensation, and he moans and clutches fingers through Armand's soft tousle of hair, the other hand leaving his dick to pull him closer, press their bodies together like he can feel that life pounding out of him and into Armand. The beauty of symbiosis, two bodies as one. The intimacy is almost better than the physical euphoria of the bite.
"Goddamn," he whispers roughly into the quiet air, eyes closed. He could die like this and it'd be a pretty good death.
no subject
He arcs up into Louis' arms, half undressed and hard against Louis' thigh, drinking deep. Then, before he can take too much, he pulls back with a physical wrench. Licks his teeth and his lips and gazes, full of adoration, at Louis. Without speaking, he lifts his hand, offering his wrist towards his companion. Eyes shining with the renewal of their connection.
"Take from me, my love. And then you can take me. Everything I have. Everything I am."
no subject
Gimme a sec. Because he's greedy, Louis, wants all his pleasures at once. He sheds his sleepwear, careful not to tear anything, and pulls Armand in by the hips.
"I love you," he says — it's still rare he says it first, always finds it contrived outside of these moments. Dips his head and kisses Armand's collarbone, the rise of his chest, licks a hot tongue there. Still lingering in foreplay even now - he really is in a mood. Though there's nothing sweet and slow in the way he takes Armand and flips him, ruts up on his ass. Smothers him with his body, kissing at his neck, behind his ear. Nothing else matters, no-one else matters except Armand, and the feeling of sinking into him.