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}
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.