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Perhaps every maker feels this particular thrill taking a part of their fledgling inside of them, suckling on it like a desperate child.
“I don’t want to be the first guy in five hundred years to complain about getting his dick sucked,” Daniel pants from above him, “But it is getting pretty early, if I have to get in the box before I do something about the wet spot on the mattress and the blood sets–“
Armand pulls off and growls, “I’ll re-furnish your whole flat.”
“Just the mattress and the bedsheets, thanks. My relationship with that kitchen table is older than my marriages. Oh, Christ!”
Many of the pleasure techniques Armand has learned are ways of hurrying a lover to completion and he wants to enjoy this so he makes a game of it, sucking on the head or mouthing at the shaft before pulling away. When he moves lower to suck one ball, then the other, Daniel finally grabs his hair and puts Armand right where he wants to be. It’s almost perfect – Armand on his knees, Daniel half-sitting on the bed, the weight in his mouth, the wet noises – except for the crass squeaking of the mattress springs. Armand misses the intimate rustle of a straw mattress, the crunch of down as his face was pressed into the bedding. Even if the blood-tinged come doesn’t stain he’ll have the bed replaced. Horsehair, or maybe some modern fiber. It will be here before Daniel wakes up tomorrow night.
Daniel’s hand clenches in his hair and Armand slackens his jaw so that Daniel’s blood-warm cockhead can push back, past the roof of his mouth to his soft palate. They should always do this after Daniel feeds, he decides. He presses his nose against the wiry hair of Daniel’s stomach and swallows, and feels his own member jump, untouched, at the sensation. In another life this was a skill learned with practice and no little dread, but with no need to breathe he is free to work him as he pleases. Daniel’s skin is slippery with sweat and he keeps trying to alternately thrust forward or move away. Ordinarily Armand would order his lover to be still with his mind, but now he sets his hands on the seam of his thighs and pins him to the bed.
When Armand forces himself to retch around Daniel’s cock he is rewarded with his fledgling shouting, “Please, I’m already dead!” Armand sets a rhythm with the muscles of his throat, pulling back just for the pleasure of swallowing him down. Each time he gags there’s disappointment in the knowledge that it won’t bruise him, even there. He looks up from his task and sees Daniel looking down at him, eyes hooded and jaw slack. Golden eyes meet golden eyes in the dark, a reflection of the self in each other. Armand drops his gaze and reapplies himself. It should bruise, he decides.
Armand shoves Daniel up the bed and climbs astride him, head down and knees by Daniel’s shoulders. One of Daniel’s hands is on his thigh, talons digging into the flesh, and his moans are muffled in the way that Armand knows means he’s thrown his own arm across his mouth. Armand loses himself in the spit-slick rhythm, and the only warning he gets is a sudden clench of his belly. He pulls off, half-covers his mouth a moment too late, and vomits half-day old blood down his front.
They separate in a fumble of limbs on limbs that leaves Armand on his elbows and knees. Another surge at the back of his throat, and once he coughs it’s too late to stop. It’s been a long time since his own body rebelled like this. He’s aware of Daniel holding him from behind, holding his hair away from his face. He closes his mouth, half swallows, and his stomach turns again. The average human has perhaps a gallon and a half of blood in them, and Armand is recently-fed.
Afterwards he feels shaky and sweaty in a way he half-remembers from his mortal life. His head is clear, and he is still hard. The mattress is so soaked with blood it squelches when he pushes them both upright. What comes up inside him now is anger – at not knowing his own limits, at losing control. Not what was expected of him as a youth, not what he expects now as a maker. But this will be an easy mistake to play off.
“I’ve always been sensitive there.” Armand’s voice is rougher than even he expected it. He can work that. “A poor habit I never broke, I’m afraid. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
Daniel makes a noncommittal noise against his ear, arm tightening against Armand’s chest, hand roving up his thigh. “Was that everything you drank?”
Daniel pulls them back against the headboard, tipping his head to the side and digging hard into his carotid artery with one talon.
“Here. You can have some of mine.”
A little drink, un petit coup, what a lie. Once Armand gets a taste he is shoving Daniel down onto the pillows, hands on his shoulders, greedy for it like he hasn’t been in centuries. His own blood and not his own, sweet on his tongue and in the corners of his mouth. Daniel jerks under him, panting little ah-ah-ahs and Armand feels as if they are soaring together above the clouds, beyond the stars, into some Hell where there is only light. You should hate me. You should never give yourself like this to me. If you ever let anyone else taste you, I’ll throw you on the fire and then follow after you.
Daniel wraps one hand around Armand’s erection, still sticky with blood and pre-come. “Next time let’s do that in the shower. You can hunt right before and I’ll spray you off afterwards.”