Ian's eyes tell it all. The grey infuses with the gleam of lightening, as if a light has been turned on behind the stormclouds. His tongue swirls around his mouth, efficient in capturing every drop and taste of Marco's blood from his lips. In his twist, he does not smile. Ian exhales gently, and he turns his face to resume drinking from Marco's open wounds. Bending, he follows the crimson trail up from Marco's shoulder, burying himself once more at the curve of Marco's neck.

     Strength at your mouth. Strength surging between your lips, the insistence of Life in the presence of Mortality. Smoke and fire, wine and sustenance. It is All. The cosmos, the quickening loins of Divinity. And Marco's hands clasp to your skin, his body becoming heavy, but he fights that drowsiness. He stands to the pleasure. There is valiance beneath the surface of his skin...

     Amadeo's hand slides against your skin. And another hand is there. You know that hand. All bodies become one body. Two rivers of blood. Four men.
      Indigo opens, violet smoldering with the infusion of Mediterranean blood. How he thrives on it. It is to him as flagrante delicto in the bottle. Its effects on him the same as the wine you created with this experience in mind. Amadeo's hand flutters and water is displaced as he twitches a little in the water. That Angevin mouth. Bloodied it lifts from Amadeo's skin. William swipes Amadeo's skin with his tongue, a healing swirl, and then his mouth closes over the skin again, pulling, tugging, although no more blood spills. There is a sigh again.
     It pleads...
     If you open your eyes you will see your husband's tongue drawing a line up the young man's throat, and he grins, bloodied, at Amadeo's chin.

     He has drunk much, this is true. So, when Marco weighs in his arms, Ian lifts again, cradling him. The wound is closed, and quietly he holds the young man to himself, stilling them both.
     If I could, with no harm, I'd give it back to you.
     But he cannot, without consequences. Ian swallows, one arm at Marco's shoulder and back, the other slipping around his waist.
     "You'll forgive me," Ian whispers, "...one of these nights..."

     If you could without harm...
     Moreso, without Consequences...
     Though his body is weighted, he does not relent. As with your William, there is no surrender. There is merely contentment. Marco rests thickly in your arms, heavily against the side of the pool. His touch is light. He will sleep. He will dream. But not in the water...
     Not here...
     "We should put Marco to bed," comes the slow pull of Occitan, the throb against your blood like the rise of flame. And the tongue heated with Amadeo's blood lilts the words at your skin.

     Amadeo fared better than Marco. William did not drink very fully. He reserves that for you, the long draughts, the twisting. His hunger is so often sated... he... sated in every way these nights.
     Amadeo looks to Marco, lastly to William. "Posso prenderlo," he says. "Riterra migliore dopo che si trovi un istante." Cinnamon eyes look to Ian, and his hands come out to guide his friend, his companion, into his arms. "... li desidererete piu successivamente?"

     Ian twists and nods, unwilling to let Marco go so easily. It is his fault, really. Only when Amadeo takes Marco's hand does Ian's embrace slacken, his arms falling to his side as he watches the young men make their way out. "Later," he whispers, affirming without demand.

     Marco still has the power to move. He is sluggish, but not dead. There is hesitation. It is palpable. It is real. He would rather stay here. He would rather remain with the two of you. But when Amadeo offers an arm, the arm is taken. There is a smile Ian, for you there, there is a smile for William.
     "Go to the room," the master bedroom, "... we will be there in a little while. Rest. Eat," the last throb of the extension of power, the warm ease of compassion. As the young Italians rise from the pool, William looks to you. He comes to fill your arms made empty by Marco's and Amadeo's departure.
     His mouth parts at your chin and follows the curve and line of your neck. A breath. A sigh. Your name. And now it is your back that rests against the body of the pool, pinned there by Normandy.
     Hunger is a strike of flint against the air, and his vipers play against the skin that he treasures most.

     He had not been as inflamed by his dinner as one might have thought. In fact, Ian was quite cool until you touched him and fell to kissing his neck.
      No one is immune, Ian thinks. Not even me.
     His arms encircle you, and Ian closes his eyes, thrilled suddenly now that he is caught in the arms of a desiring vampire. Ian's breaths come slightly quicker, the body instinctively feeling his immediate vulnerability.

     The mortals that pass his way these nights serve only as appertifs. With their blood upon his mouth, still he turns to you. It is within the blood you share, steeped in thick history, rich bloodlines, power and lust in ancient flavor, that he finds desire, hunger.
     William is not quick to strike. He is not quick to do anything. He holds still, perfectly still. He listens to the echo of the water tinkling in the background, the bath, the ripples moving over your skin, his skin. His mouth brushes at your neck, you can feel his breathing. And then his mouth parts, his mouth tugs at your skin, just beneath your ear, the spiral of his tongue around the lobe ends in the slow parting of flesh. The Angevin's body presses flush to yours, you feel the rumble of his groan vibrating against your own skin. William draws in a breath. A gasp. Shocked and surprised. The taste of you. The taste of Marco...
     But he does not give in to it. He does not dive into you like he dived into the pool earlier. A suckle. A taste. His tongue swirls and presses against your skin, closing the wound and his mouth finds your mouth. You taste Marco. You taste Amadeo. You taste William. Beneath it, it is all you.

     "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me to bed with you," Ian says softly, voice raspy. He smirks and looks again to some point in the stone wall. Out there. His energies focus, swirling around his line of sight to pinwheel at the stone. Ian smiles absently, for no particular reason.

Posted by rowan at August 03, 2003 01:44 PM