"Shh," comes his voice, mingled with the tap of a closing door and the settling down of keys. The world rustles much too loudly around him, and he stops in his tracks, wondering where all of that noise is coming from.
Long night, Edward. Short night. It's only 1am, and already he's giving up. Well, not so much giving up as...needing to change surroundings. And home is as good of a surrounding as the club, the bar, the dogfights, the peoplefights...
Dieu, the sane side calls. That's why I stopped doing this. Look at yourself.
Laughter.
No, really, look at yourself. You look pretty good, actually. Inhale.
God, you're too filled with blood to even stand straight. Well, parts of you are standing straight, but the flowers ahead look faintly crooked.
Dieu. I've got to get upstairs. Quietly. Quietly, dammit. Edward wipes his nose again and looks ahead towards the living area, hand coming to rest on the secretary. Shit. The plant is moving.
Step forward, old man. Gaily forward. More snickering. That's funny. You're killing you. Better than killing someone else, hmm? Nah, that would have almost been enjoyable right now.
Oh, my God! You think he can hear me? Shit. Where is he?
Edward tries to blink, to clear his vision. To see ahead.
Oh, maybe he's in bed. Cripes. Maybe he is in bed. Oh, that'd be nice...
Shh. This way. Step. Foyer. Living room. Stairs. Dieu. You'll have to deal with the stairs. Okay, I can do this. I can do this. You can do this, Meurelle. Just one foot at a time. Dieu, you haven't been this fucked in ages. Sheer ages.
But that's alright, really. I mean...such is the way of life.
More snickering.
Stop that. You're going to wake him and he won't be surprised. Just stay calm, old man, just be calm. Quiet. You can do it. You've done it before. Folks have died in total silence. Just be quiet. There. Turn. See. There's the stairs, over there...
I gave up about an hour ago. I got bored. I almost left the house and then I thought: well, he'd kill me, yes? So, I started rummaging for something to do. There's evidence of it everywhere. Particularly in the exercise room. I spent most of my time in there. Well, and buying things online using my platinum card. I'm such a good customer.
I should have insisted...
No, you take me there, wherever you are going. I don't want to be bored...
I find it pisses me off, makes the blood boil. But no...ami... you were right, it was business. And, quite frankly, I didn't want to see that piss-ant Francesco again. He was rude.
The form lies sprawled upon the bed, upon his stomach, between the soft sheets -- they cost a fucking fortune but are so worth it -- and he is asleep, almost, not quite. No. He heard you come in, but he has decided to play coy.
That should last for all of five minutes. What is it about you that just makes me want to give up everything? Always has. I gave up my life, didn't I?
Arms are under the pillows, his face is turned, eyes are closed. Legs are lording over space, wide, a foot peeking out of the bedding there. Shoulders bare. Well, likely so is the rest of him. He has taken to sleeping without clothes of anykind. Naked as the day he was born...
And such is the way of things now, I am reborn every day.
Valan is still. There is only the slightest motion, breathing practiced to the point of becoming a habit. But it is shallow. Out of rhythm. He doesn't really need to do it, not even when napping. His clothes are nearby, folded, lying over a chair. Evidence of his boredom lies around here and there, empty bottles of Loire wine...
Surprising he can be so quiet. But it's unfair...vampire ears lord over the mundanity of lack of coordination.
Almost, almost. See. See what you can do when you put your mind to it? Fuck if you're not the shit, Edward.
Dieu. He is asleep.
Edward blinks.
Shit. Well, shit.
Then, a pause.
Well, he crooks his head, it might not matter. In fact, it doesn't.
The stillness of the room is marked only by the shuffling feet and the creak of the door he's tried to push closed.
Fuck. Shit. Leave it. Just leave it. Shh. Christ, door, shut up.
Here, okay. Okay. Swallow, stand up. Upright.
More snickering.
Okay, not that upright. I mean you. Not there. Right. Okay. Jacket first. Arm. Arm. Twist...but quietly. Okay. Okay. That can go right there. Bend. Right there on the floor.
Shh. This is supposed to be a surprise. I can do the shirt. Okay, see, there, you're so quiet. Barely heard. I like this shirt!
Okay, um..pants. Pants can go. Buttons. Buttons and leather pants. Right, this works well. Fuck if you didn't come prepared! You are perfect like that, you know.
So. Button. Undo button. Sigh. Another button. Shit. I think you broke that one. Okay, whatever. Bloody fuckin' things. Okay, button. Find the last one. Shit. I can't find it. It's in there. Find it.
Oh, wait. There's four. Okay, okay. Good then. Just four. That's done.
Push. Down. There! Ahh...freedom. Air. That feels so good. Gah. Dieu. Wait. Boots. Shit. Chair.
Edward blinks and looks around. The nearest chair...a couple of feet away. Bed, much closer.
But...he'll hear. He'll hear. Nevermind.
Ass up, Edward bends to push at his boots, wobbling the entire time. Stand still! Just, be careful old man. Go slow. Boot and pant. Be gentle.
Thud.
Shh! Shh! Shh! Damned boot!
Head jerks up to look across the bed. Are you moving? No, you're not. Okay. If you're still, he can't hear or see you! You're invisible! Dieu, you're so smart!
Okay, okay. Other pant. Bend, push. Puuuulllll! Ugh. Gah. Okay. Okay. Breathe -- it's off. Set it down. Push pant, step out. Exhale.
Brilliant. God didn't know how briliant he made you until tonight, Edward. Amazing, when you think of it! I've gotten into the house, come upstairs, gotten undressed, and he doesn't know!
Soft snickering ends in a grin.
Oh, yes. Now. For the whole reason I've even come home, Valan...
Interesting how vampires presume no one shares their abilities. The bed gently caves as Edward crawls into it. One knee. Hand lifting sheet. The backside of a handsome young man.
Dieu, he's perfect. Every inch of him.
Stop smiling, Valan. He'll see you. There, there. Just a dreaming twist of the mouth, maybe I'm dreaming of you. I'm going to let him do this. I want him to do this. I will not protest. I will not stop him. I will not tease. That will come in the morning, when I tell him that Helen Keller could have heard him coming up the stairs. Oh that's a good one. I'll have to tell Davydd that one day...
Of all your friends, Edward, I like him best. He is the truest. He is who and what he is. I admire that. I still do not know who or what Plantagenet is. i don't think he wants me to know, and maybe no one knows. Francesco? I don't even want to remember I met him, let alone know him...
It is a wonder you do not fall, tugging off your pants the way you are doing, loaded on I don't care what. I'll get to share it in a little while. Damn it, I hope I am not smiling. I do not want to give away the surprise that he is not surprising me. Aha, I will turn my face...
He does not wake, your Valan, but at the thump of your boot he twists a little. Not moving from his stomach, no, but he turns his head the other way, his arms stretching beneath the pillows, secretly bracing against the headboard. His legs still wide, one knee lifting, which gives a better angle on the whole proceedings. Ah, the little gifts of fate!. His breathing softens again, almost on rhythm, almost. And still shallow...
I can smell your cologne. I can smell the club on you. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Debauchery. And I am about to be debauched. Oh, Valan, try not to smile. Try not to smile so much...
"Are you --" Edward begins, then shuts up. Of course he's not awake, you blustering idiot. Edward gently slithers beneath the sheet behind you, letting it fall upon your skin.
"Ami," he whispers, the evening everywhere upon him. Not that he should wake you this instant, that will come in the next.
His mouth falls open at your back; his hands, roughened by the evening's wear, land at your skin. The length of his body presses at your side, though he remains perched upon an elbow above you.
I wonder if he knows I'm here. Well of course, he has to.
A kiss never comes. Edward's lips remain wide, trailing up...up to your ear.
There is the truth of it Valan. The night's smell. Chemistry upon alchemy. All swirled up in a need to vent itself.
His mouth soon tugs at your ear, the scent of blood airing at his skin. He's had too much, it is true. It threatens to explode at the delicate corners of his eyes, the curve of his lip.
His hand seeks darker climes, those legs that remain parted. The rounded parts of you he cannot get enough of -- so sayeth the exploring fingers and his tongue that coils behind your ear. He thinks that he loves you... Edward thinks much right about now. Yet he remains soundless, too eager to act instead of speak.
Complex thing, love is. I guess William and Ian would be the best to explain just how complex. I cannot imagine the knot their relationship must be after eight centuries. It is confounding. Incomprehensible. But what I need to know for now, all I need to know, is found in the coil of your tongue...
There is a wakening groan, a turn of his head, stirring from one dream perhaps to another. Or maybe you can fancy it's like this, Edward. You seduct him from his sleep, and eyes open sparkling. Maybe he was really sleeping. Maybe you really are...just...that...good. His hips lift from the surface of the bed, and he strains, craning his neck for a kiss. Is this what you missed? He wakes up damn near serpentine, your Valan, and his legs do not close out of shock but widen to what they waken.
And then I smile...
"Je vous aime," my words slow, wakening, edged with the lull of my nap. You are in serious straits, I think. I think I want to be where you are. I want to ask you mundane questions, but I do not want to stop you. Or distract you from this thing that you must do...
It is instinct, perhaps. Mais oui, let us call it instinct, when your hands find me parted, open, I sink into your palm. As if I would dissolve there like sugar on your tongue. And I say it, even if you only think it. I love you. So much for complexities.
So you live.
When you speak, Edward eases his languid motions, his forehead coming to rest at the crown of yours. Your words find the man who loves you, and he pauses in the recognition.
Yet it does not stop him. His hands are eager for tactile knowledge, fulfillment of the dreams of you he earlier bore. They are true. You are as Edward remembers. Perhaps even more so. Great comfort and pleased desire rises from the reaffirmation of you. You are, and it will be, as he imagined earlier tonight.
At your ear, Edward takes a deep breath. His nose brushes the cuff, searching beneath sandy hair and above fencer's shoulders. Can you feel him close his eyes, Valan? The brush of his lashes along golden strands? There, he exhales a long breath that pulls his stomach convex. Muscles release, and his fingers continue to explore famililar territory.
I'm trying to be good, really I am. Slowly, Edward. But I cannot tell how gentle I am. No, this I do not like, not being able to know what is happening. I want him, God knows, but I can't tell if I would hurt him. And that...is unacceptable. And that is why...something like tonight can never happen again. Now, I'm stuck. No senses to guide me. No notion of how he feels. I'm out there, a flailing lover with no touchstones. Removed by choice.
Yet still, fingers move and he groans. Or was that you? It is difficult to tell. But the distinct hint of blood...there is no mistake with that. It trickles quickly at your arm. It is his own, escaped. And soon, it will fall at your expensive sheets...
It reminds me of that one night, the one I thought you were going to kill me. Well, not on purpose, ami. Of course not, nor was I frightened. I was fucked too gloriously to be frightened. But do you remember? When you had me in the sauna, pushed me to the edges of what this body could then bear. I stood to go to the bed, I got dizzy. I fell. Do you remember? Or I thought I was falling...
Weightless, hovering...
Like the night I died...
In blood. Blood. Liquid drops make his skin jump, trembling, tactile, Knowing. Not worrying about the bedding. Eyes open immediate, searching for how that came to be. What is it? What else could it be between you. But why there? No here, my mouth aches, my throat is tight for it. And the young man stiffens beneath you, unfolding, moving beneath you, moving toward and away from your touch. Teasing in that unconscious way. He calls out your name. That's him calling, and maybe even a thousand others who wish you'd come. Who wish you'd come to them like this. Can you hear the echoes of the city in that?
Valan shifts, drawing his arm back to him, maybe I can steal a taste. Oh, I want a taste of you. He twists, his voice earthy. Pleading. "Je veux vous gouter." He says. I want to taste you. And now he is awake, whether his nap was feigned or no, he is awake. And he rises from the lull of sleep like a phoenix. His legs, like wings, spread as far as the fencer's flexibility will allow, hips lifted to meet you. There is only one way to translate that...
A fading groan escapes Edward as he finally leaves his half-perch to slide downwards.
Slow, Edward. Try and think. Try and be calm. Try not to look as you feel.
The scent of blood strengthens as Edward ceases to shadow you. Hands that once explored now find their marks, stroking skin and parting the curves where lover ends. His tongue replaces his fingers; his hands are instead wide across reddening buttocks. The bed creaks with Edward's motions, his elbows sinking into the bedding left and right of his temples.
My love is like a desert rose
Beautiful in its heat
Then, it bares petals to me
And deep within lies my joy...
A smile draws across your skin -- his lips. A poem remembered. His tongue circles gently, hands reaching outward toward your back. "Je suis distrais," he whispers, grinning at where he finds himself -- looking up a fencer's body. His first meaningful words of the night. And they are true. But he smiles and closes his eyes, continuing what he has begun.
I will tell you of the poem later, ami...
I give up the game of it and left behind there is only truth. Truth in the groan. Truth in the sinking to the bedding. Truth in the unconscious motions made, a revolution around your mouth, your tongue. It is the sun, so the metaphor goes, and I a fiery planet now spinning around it. Held to it with so much gravity...
It makes the head spin...
The pose is obscene, there is no other way to say it. So open and meeting you, your tongue, with lascivious trembling. His head turns, a look to you over his shoulder. His eyes are bright, glinting more than human, green and gold. His mouth is parted, and from it comes your name, and words as obscene as his position. Beautifully obscene. Loving it. Wallowing in it. "Oui," he breathes, and, "...plus..." he groans. And his flesh flutters parting, trembling wherever you touch.
Je vous veux. Je vous veux...
It's a mantra. Repeated. Edged with fuck me -- it sounds better in French -- and his body transforms into an extension of your tongue. It moves, he moves. It swirls, he writhes. It penetrates, he's undone. And the bed's squeaking softly, haphazard, there's no real rhythm to it. No musicality. Just percussion.
Does it call you, this arhythmic rhythm? What of control? Valan has none. None, no, none at all...
His groan and push forward says, I will. We will, ami. Very soon.
Lips press a kiss at the thighs before them. Left. Right. His hands draw backwards, signalling his lift. If you look, Valan, you will see the source of the sweet aroma. Stripes of color peel along your skin where his hands have been. A watercolor of crimson, painted on your skin. Familiar impressions of blood -- lips, palms, fingertips.
When Edward of Blois comes to his knees and settles, the matching image streaks in red upon his face and chest, pouring down his forearms. Cuts made of his own volition. It was all too much. Much too much.
"Je veux vous voir, ami," he whispers, beckoning you to him. Droplets of blood trickle to his bent thighs, fallen from his elbows. For a moment, he seems mesmerized by it, looking down and staring at the rivulet that snakes like syrup on his lap.
It was all too much, ami. You cannot understand that now, maybe, but perhaps you will see later.
He looks weary now, hands extending to you. Edward's face turns to you again, hoping you will not flee.
"Venez au moi," he murmurs, fingers shuddering as they part. Palms bare to you, save the blood that has pooled in the cupping.
"Amour vous saignez. Ce qui vous out fait..." he breathes and his twist is quick, rolling over to face you. He comes to you immediate. You bleed, but the wounds will close ne c'est pas? 'Etes-vous bien," he whispers. "Etes-vous bien," he says louder. His hand to your face. "quel est errone?"
No, he does not flee, but neither does he think of jumping your bones which, until this instant,, had ben foremost on his mind. Hands swipe at blood, he does not fear blood, he even leans in , lapping at it. His mouth suckles your skin, suckles the blood from it to get to the wounds beneath. What are they, scratches, Edward? No, he does not flee...
His eyes glint, eyebrows furrowing. He dotes now...
Come to you. He came to you. His hand in yours, his hand in your blood. "Venez a moi. Je vous aime," Valan whispers. "Je vous aime." Come to me, he says, I love you.
I love you.
He is so brave. You said it once yourself. And he is still...now...not shrinking. Tell me you are alright, Edward. We will get you cleaned up. I will drink it from your skin, so long as you are well...
The smile beams replendent through the smears on his cheeks. Edward's brows lift, almost in relief. He is fine and with his arms moving to cradle you, the faint cuts in his hand and at his wrists become apparent. Nothing large, these, just passion inflamed.
Despite his request for you, he acquiesces to your comfort. Edward leans forward, bringing you both slowly horizontal. "J'ai fait rien," he murmurs, his state evident. Mania has gone. In its place? The unstable wash of chemistry. "Shh," Edward whispers, kissing your lips and cheeks, pillow now beneath you. "Shh," the blood heady now, smeared between you both. His kiss quickens, knees moving between yours. "Je t'aime," he says, "je t'aime..."
You are unstoppable force, this we know. And as you move forward, as you lay him back, there is no protest. The wounds, not great. Incidental. His hands at your face, smearing the blood, he leans forward and he suckles from your mouth, parting the kiss to flick his tongue against your cheeks, blood disappears. And the kiss explodes...
You see, the chemicals imbued in it race through him now. Sparkling against his blood. Surging. Crackling. Like fire in a tenderbox.
One hand clutches you, an arm around you. His other stretches, bracing against the headboard. And with it, the lifting of his thighs, your agile fencer. He lifts them, spreading them. It is gloriously lewd. "Venez a moi," he breathes again, words finding themselves against your mouth and tongue, a tangle. "Venez a moi ici..." Come to me. Here. Do you know his blood? Can you hear it? Tell what moves it? Mania leaves you, but jumps to him like a current over a broken circuit. Hopping. His hand leaves you, and, bloodied, surrounds his length, stroking it. Bloodying it. Hardening it. And you can't help but see it from where you are. Done for you. And because of you.
If you do not take me now, I will lose my mind...
Suddenly, Edward's hand grasps yours at the headboard. He moves on instinct now, for his vision fails him. Everything is cloudy now, and sable eyes you know so well smolder from the fog that fills them. The grasp clenches like a vice, his hand joined in this with yours.
At your mouth? A vampire's canines, lengthened and sharp. They are visible only a moment, bared for you to see. No, this is not how your Christophe likes to reveal himself. And the disease with it flashes across his features, before vanishing beneath the muss of obsidian and gold that is your tangled hair. Fire leaps from the wound at your throat, causing Edward to groan and curl his hips forward, taking the invitation you present.
"Ou--" slips from his lips, only to be muffled by skin. The word is murbled there, a syllable of affirmation grumbled in sympathy with his frenetic thrusts between raised thighs.
Summarily had. Is that the phrase in your English, ami? If so, I am the willing giver -- there is nothing taken that I do not with the whole of me surrender...
His own lips curl, your Valan's, and at the striking of his throat, the parting of flesh for you there, he tips back his head, his own canines exposed. And his voice loud, the moan gutteral from where you and he are now joined. One hand with yours to the headboard, his other slipping away from his own hardened length -- doesn't matter how long he grasps or pulls at himself there, that is not where release is found. Not anymore. Agile, so agile. His legs lift, his hips pivoting beneath you, squirming to tease. Squirming to keep up. Squirming to meet you. His ankles come into view. Agile, so agile, they are at his ears. The headboard rattles as it is used as brace, as leverage, pushed and pulled.
His other hand braces at your back, your side. Fingers clasping. Nails digging in like anchors. His eyes close, squeeze close, and his expression is one of pained delight. Such delight. His blood surges between your lips, rhythmic. Sweet Bordeaux. And he whines, fingers trembling at your skin...
Valan flutters around you, your thick length squeezed, released, squeezed. He hangs on. It's all he can do now...
It's all he can do to keep up...but he keeps up...
More of you is spilled than drunk. Sticky and warm, his hand slides with yours. Splinters glide mercifully, finding no traction for purchase. He should have more of you, to consume in what he finds so glorious. But he's had too much this night, and so you shall share in a commingling bath.
"Oui, prenez --," thoughts unfinished, falling to inaudible motions of his lips. But the syllables are the same. Take me. Take this from me. A passing of self and energy as much as pleasurable fucking. I have to give it to you, for it has no other place to go.
The bed laments as much as the two of you enjoy and anticipate. Edward's motions sends the sheets into retreat, his own feet dispensing with the linens. Edward's hand not clamped to yours holds your hip, fixing the source of his pleasure as he wishes.
What a colossal mess. What a gory, glorious mess. These linens, they will never be the same. Ah, these are the events that mark a love affair between vampires. The first set of sheets to be obliterated. Not simply ruined, mind you, but sent to a place even thread should not have to go. Every couple has such a story. Bedding ruined. Blood ritual bathing after a night of too much blood and various and sundry chemicals...
Valan is where he likes to be. At your mercy. The only thing that could make it more pleasurable were if his ankles were bound to his wrists. Oh, the little contraptions he purchased this past New Year's. What a way to ring in the new year, yes? Next time, ami, we will pull them out...
He is pinned beneath you and now held in place. It is you who move him now, you who fill him, and in this position you feel twice as thick. His body flares outward, flushed where you meet. His face. Valan opens his eyes. Pleading. You ask him to take it. He pleads with you to give it to him.
Good God, it's a good thing you purchased the other half of this townhouse. Otherwise, you'd be making news with the neighbors...
Single syllables. Groaned and cried. And you feel him flutter around you again. Again. His body convulsing. Synapses snapping. His thighs widen, lying out to the sides. "Renversez-moi plus de," Valan breathes, "Faites- tournermoi et prenez-moi..."
Turn me over...
Compressed Time.
Your lips move, Valan. I hear you. I feel you. But this...this is more than you can bear, is it not?
I hear the sounds of rushing traffic outside. Blocks away it must be. Yet it fills my ears as if I were standing at the corner of Kensington and Coventry. And a bit over? Another couple, rustling to enjoy the minimal pleasure of mortal copulation. What I wish for them, they can never know. To feel half of what we do, half of what we can. They will die, so empty.
And here? I can feel my own muscles frantically enjoying what we make. Even beyond me, they take their own delight from our bloodied, grinding bodies. It is as if they have their own agenda. Please me. Make me ache. Then give me relief. They look for it and cannot wait for their moment.
Ah, old man. The night's chemicals are wearing off, oui? You speak to yourself. Yet, it cannot be for so long -- Valan is moving and so am I. Turning over. Oh, yes, sweet Valan, you know us both too well...
Edward blinks as you move, as if startled. The request. The groaning. The tightening around him and the surging of blood through his length. Hand unfolds from the headboard, other release your hip. Edward comes back on his knees, and before you're given full range of motion, hands already are turning you and pushing thighs open, left and right...
He will be sore tomorrow. Used tomorrow. Wearied tomorrow. As if he had done the drugs, as if he had done all the drinking. And then some. He will be pale tomorrow. He will smile innanely tomorrow. And it will not go away.
He's on his stomach for only a brief moment, then he's on his knees. I like it best this way. You behind me. Your hands on my hips, pulling me to you...
I cannot hear the couple down the street, your neighbors, I can't hear anyone else fucking but us. I can't hear the traffic. I can only hear the bed. You. Me. Blood on my skin, sticky fingers curl into the bedding, grabbing a pillow for momentary comfort. I'll be biting it shortly, I know. And I turn myself over, over to you.
His skin is reddened, showing the wear and tear. Showing the relenting, in spasms that do not stop. You are pushing him to the edge of what even his immortal body can take. Forehead on the pillow, Valan turns his head to look back to you. I want to watch you. I want to watch you take me. His face is contracted. If he could sweat, he would be covered in it. His sounds are constant. His motions constant.
He is beyond his own control. You, Edward, will have to have reason tonight. You will have to stop this. You will have to call an end to it. Valan is long past that...
His hands seem to take up so much space. Cover so much. They spread and splay in unabashed control. And why not? This room, this bed, you...all belong to him. He would never say it in so many words, but it is Truth. The joy of it all, is that he expects you to feel the same about him as well.
The blood has stopped seeping from his arms, but there is much to go around. Crimson face and chest tower above the line of your back, and his eyes close.
Quiet, Edward. How can your mind race at a moment like this? You have him in the palm of your hand...and he has you squarely in his. There's nothing you would not give him. Does he know this?
I bend, and I can feel him beneath me. Against me. Pressing backwards. A kiss to his skin. And me? Inside him. It is the only place I can be right now. We'll both know it when it happens. Chills will come. It is the only time I feel peace...
Edward moves gentler now, not wishing to have the moment disappear so quickly. The blood still fills him and drives him forward, sending him slowly along the path that is you. He stiffens at it, as if shocked by the experience, and only opens his eyes once he allows his hands to relax upon the back ahead of him.
He is covered in your blood. Your hand-prints leave a trail of possession. Yours. There in the lines your fingers leave behind, like the demarkation of territory. There, lies what is of Blois. Valan Montague has become a map of France, curling beneath the hands of the Vicomte.
And he is utterly pliant, surrounding you as effortlessly as the finest silk. Or sunlight. Bending around you. But what is pliant is not weak. He holds you firmly within, meets you with insistence, his skin beating out a cadence. And he lowers his chest to the bed, his hips lifting, legs spread. Surrendering. And yet...
Even this is meeting you in the middle. He gives, he gives without being asked, he unfolds to you. But he also takes. He knows what he wants, and he reaches for it. Sometimes when he smiles at you. Sometimes when he lightly touches you in the morning. Or like now, when he grasps and releases around you, purposely pleasing.
There is nothing quiet about any of this. There is your name. God's name. Love's name. Encouragement. Affirmation. And his face shows the wear in only the most beautiful ways. The glassy eyes, dazed by all of this, by you. The parted mouth, the hoarse voice. The French that pours from him like the blood that comes from you.
Yes, Edward. There, Edward. More, Edward...
Brave thing. Even as you will be the end of him, he calls out for more.
Between your shoulders, at the top of your spine, Edward places another kiss. His body so easily folds, despite its bulk, and he shadows your move. You call for God, he whispers that he loves you. When you speak his name, it's magic. He sighs to hear it, to know that it is him you call. Upon your skin, clear droplets fall.
Along your arms, his own rest. Hands land at your forearms, stroking softly. His thighs thunder firmly behind your own, and brown eyes open to see the world in motion.
This cannot go on forever, no matter how much we may wish. Ah, old man, rational thought. A concern. But for whom? He must have me soon enough, so that we both may rest...
Beneath you, perhaps barely in your view, Edward's wrists turn over. Your choice, ami. Pulsing veins are laid bare, even as he continues to move within you. He has lost some of the essences that threatened to consume him, but there remains so much more for you to take.
He can hear the cloth moving. Loud, so loud. He can hear the fibers rubbing against one another -- the sound of you moving upon the bedding. The upturn of your wrists. Your name is now constant. Groaned. Whispered. Whined. Chanted. Sung. Silent -- spoken only by his eyes. And then it is murmured at your skin.
A turn of his head and his mouth is warm, pliant against your skin. He suckles a finger, mimicking the rhythm of how he yet clasps you. And he closes his eyes, breath of your name moving against your own skin, soothing, and his mouth parts, suckles again at the belly of your wrist. Heady. Intoxicated. Worn. Wrung. Valan moves with you, his head resting a moment within your palm -- I'm in the palm of your hand, Edward, literally and figuratively -- and then, with one last suckle, canines find purchase in your flesh, the tender portion of your wrist. And his hips quicken. He flutters around you.
There is nothing that compares with how you taste. It is life. It is love. It is everything. It makes everything make sense. It is completion. And Valan is ravenous. His tongue, teasing, flecks against your skin, even as his lips pull against your flesh, drawing your blood and life and love inward.
His entire body trembles and stills, opening to you. Expecting to be thoroughly had. Wanting it. The last intensity. The last rending of his body, blood, soul.
When your teeth sink into him, Edward groans, coming still. He leans upon you, transfixed by the mesmerizing pleasure that only another of his kind can give. His weight becomes more and more yours as he slowly slackens, relieved of the energy that's overwhelmed him.
The taste of Loire still shines through his blood. A hint of straw and fragrant wind. Aged carefully is this, bolstered by dance, horses, and fighting. Nothing delicate or subtle. Edward grins, feeling his signature -- still strong after all of these years.
His is so light in comparison to this. Not half so heady. Full of time. Of you. Of ages come and gone. Old Loire. Full-bodied -- he'd laugh at that thought, if he weren't so overwhelmed, it so fits you, Eduard. Heavy, but he adores it. The weight of it. The weight of you pressing upon him as you sink. Valan sinks with you.
Eventually he gives way, lying spread legged flush to the bed, his arms and hands curved around your arm, he cradles it even as he drinks from it. His lips, tongue, teeth -- every part of his mouth throws itself into this act, into this pleasure, visceral, so physical. He adores you, there is worship in this.
But eventually, he has his fill. Your blood slams into his gut, with all its power, strength, intoxication, and he grows, Valan Montague groans gutteral. Closing the wound, he collapses beneath you. Whispering your name.
Eduard...
Eduard...
Oh... Dieu... Eduard...
Valan does not move beneath you. He lies spread, open to you should you think to have him again. His hips lift at the thought, you still within him, and you are held there, deeply, snugly. Good god, we are such sinners.
And Valan softly smiles.
It's as if he heard you. Edward laughs softly too, making no sudden move to leave his current position. "Vous le ferez ainsi je ne vous laisserai jamais, Valan Montague," he whispers, grinning at your ear. Tired, high, in love, Edward Meurelle cannot help but beam and chuckle. "Je ne rsisterai pas mille ans de vous," he whispers, following somberly with, "Mais je ne veux pas ne pas connatre," his words ending in a kiss.
"Mon Dieu," the first motion made to rise upon an elbow. Edward's head turns, another kiss at the nape of your neck. He glances around the room, then looks at your shoulder and his arm. Maybe he should get up.
If the two of you sleep in this bed tonight, you will wake up feeling so dirty. It is bloodied, the fine linen. It may or may not come clean. Maybe the fine linen will just have to be burned. Well, it would not be the first sheets you have ruined, nor in your however many years together shall it be your last. Valan chuckles, so soft -- nearly out of body -- and he turns his head, a sound lingering at his throat. "Vous faites de telles choses a moi," he murmurs, drunken, high, in love, full of your blood. "Vous m'incitez a vouloir se trouver diffusion comme ceci pour toujours," Valan exhales breathy laughter.
"J'aime ceci," he whispers again, and Valan turns his head, eyes opening slowly, dazed, brilliant. Seeking you as a focus. "Vous, comme ceci. Exactement comme ceci," he grins, hips lifting, curling and uncurling to punctuate his words. But it is not a motion he continues. He laments with laughter and with a groan, "Je vais etre si endolori!"
He settles on the bed, comfortable beneath your weight and marked by you. "I am bathing in you," he murmurs. "Maybe we should have a bath too..."
Maybe before dawn makes me sleep, I will call out your name again. Dieu, am I insane?
He laughs, looking quite surprised at your words and movements. "Bah, you are...incorrigible!" Edward exclaims, pressing harder than usual as he lifts himself upwards and over onto his back. A slow movement to begin...until he collapses beside you, legs in yours. Hand flops onto his chest, and for a long moment, he stares at the ceiling.
"Bath," he finally manages, a delayed agreement. "Bath." Right. Brows arch as he looks over at you and says softly, "Maybe, if we think hard enough...the water will draw itself..." the smile creeping across his face again.
"Suddenly, I wish we were spoiled and had servants." There's something to be said for the way William and Ian live. Mon Dieu, there is nothing they have to do. The mundane, banal tasks are done for them. All they have to do is to roll out of bed. Those lucky bastards.
I do not want to move. When he does, at last, it comes slowly, oh and with such soft lamentation. He is already making much of it. Turning his head against the bedding, he grins at you. "Hmmm... should we play the rock, the paper and the scissor to see which of us will go, ami? You know, we should hire someone to take care of us... to run our bath water when we have fucked into oblivion. Or, hmmm... maybe some sort of automated device. You know, a little remote control..."
He has plans, this one. And he takes French Sloth to a whole new level...
His hand moves against your chest, another roll of his weary body and he is laying against you. His mouth brushes yours, a brief, suckling kiss. Tasting you, just a moment. Smiling in the memory. And then, with shaky legs and arms -- his body still trembling and intoxicated on top of it all -- he starts to stand. A hand out to you.
Posted by rowan at June 22, 2003 01:35 PM
