That hand to the back of his neck. He had no desire, no inclination to move before; now Hansl is almost melting. He had only the faintest moment where his fears and insecurities came racing back. The anticipation of failure - the expectation of rejection. That touch ...
     "My head is spinning," Hansl answers, so softly; a mortal would be unable to pick up on that whispered breath. "I want you... Gott. I have not stopped wanting you, craving you yet." The blonde youth leans into that contact, a soft, echoing moan parting his lips. He can barely move, but still he seeks out that contact, as if seeking to be petted. "I could do nothing to stop you, least of all, wish you to be stopped."
     He lifts his hand to touch Greydon's face, such a gentle, light touch, and his eyes are halfway open. No ice now but the pale blue of summer in the early morning. How could winter stay, under such dazing heat? Hansl sighs, curling into the contact of hands, into the body pressing against his. He is feeling it; he is not mortal, but he knows how thoroughly he has been taken. It makes his stomach clench for a moment, another soft sound escaping him. "Plucked flowers die, unless transplanted," he murmurs, quoting something he once was told, when still in Saarbrucken.

     The hand travels up from where it held to Hansl's neck, caressing along his head to run through the blonde locks, kneading into his scalp. So beautiful; so strong, and yet so deliciously vulnerable...
     Plucked and held, a beauty taken from the place where it lived in safety and security, a beauty consumed, and thereafter left to wither? Greydon murmurs softly, his lips pressing faintly at the edge of the young man's mouth, "You were plucked so long ago, Hansl; taken from life and preserved eternally as you are. I have simply taken you from the glass where you were put on display... Do you think you will no wither?"
     The Lord Trevelyan shifts against the young man, rolling over on top of him and allowing his weight to settle there once more, his green eyes intent upon Hansl's own sky blues.

     "Things may still change, even for such as we," Hansl says quietly. He closes his eyes, arching into the touch to his head, the massage against his scalp. Oh, yes; these are sensitive spots. And he doesn't want it to stop.
     He's pinned again, colour faint in his cheeks as he looks up at the English lord bearing down against him. His hands lift to frame Grey's face, and for a long moment, he simply regards the elder, expression solemn. "...A rose may wither, even once preserved, if the glass which protects it is removed, my lord," he says softly, "if the world is allowed to see the rose for what it is, to touch fragile petals; its own thorns are no true deterrent against the determined grasp, if that rose is left in the open. I am, I fear, a marred rose at best."
     His palms slide slowly along Greydon's face, until his fingers can clasp together at the back of the man's neck. That gentled touch, as if afraid of what is inspired in him; what he in turn inspires. Hansl lifts his head slowly, mouth offered for a pouting kiss, closing his eyes. "Do you think, Greydon, that having answered you one time, I will not wish to again...? And that this longing does not consume me, even now? Mein herr... kommandant... you are something I did not expect."

     "Handsome Hansl." murmurs Greydon against the young man's lips, his teeth taking gentle hold of the lower one and tugging upon it, even as his arms wrap his body, holding him close and near. "It is not my intention to leave you in ruin, beautiful rose." And then he presses a kiss against those lips, consuming and speaking of desire that is not fully satisfied, but it is brief.
     He rises up, pulling away just enough to allow his eyes to trace down upon the length of the German's golden form, a faint smile lingering upon his lips, "My beautiful rose; I would not see you wither, for if you do, how am I to again drink so deeply of your willing desire?"
      And then he is once again pressing down upon the Toreador, one of his hands slipping about to take a firm hold on his firm ass, pulling his hips up against him, even as he lightly grinds down in return, whispering darkly though his lips are so near, "..And yet, after the sun has fled the sky tomorrow evening, I will board a plane and fly home to London. This, I warned you of before you gave yourself to me."

     This illusion of safety...
     Of security...
     It is enough in and of itself to drive me to ruin. To madness. To despair. My one hope was to remain aloof, but he draws upon me, tugs me into his orbit; he holds me hypnotized, and I can do nothing but answer his call. I desire nothing but that, in this moment. My feet are braced not upon rock, but sand.
     Hansl rumbles quietly, a sound caught in the back of his throat as his mouth is so toyed with, and he rises into the kiss before subsiding once again. He lies back, arms falling to either side of his head, watching Greydon as the other man's gaze travels along his frame. "For you, I am willing as for no other, Lord Grey," the German murmurs, English thickly accented. His control is absent tonight. Practice makes perfect. "There are those at Versailles who have approached me. I have given myself only where I must; without this passion. Without this need. It is not enough, for it to be of the physical, for we who are dead but do not decay." He nods slowly. It is not enough. It has not been enough. "I ... have been moved by beauty before. But never as by your words; by what you have shown me. Through you I am transfixed and transformed."
     The Clan of the Rose. That is what we are known as; and though our weakness is beauty, it is also our strength. Our purpose, our guide, our binding. Together, we are many thorns. Apart and single... we wither.
     His eyes widen, lips parting as he leans up to grasp the Brujah, digging his nails into his shoulders for purchase as he groans. "...I know," Hansl whispers. "I have not forgotten." He bites his lower lip, as if to contain the pout, the boyish instinct to decry unfairness. They're vampires; how fair is anything? "I ... wish to ... see you again, though." Hansl's eyes plead with eloquence that his lips cannot manage. Desire, so strong, intoxication as of the headiest of wines.
     I need you...
     I do not wish to be parted from you...

     For a long moment, the English lord gazes down upon the beautiful young German who is so prone beneath him, so full of desire yet, so soft. The very admission of his need and longing, it is as a lure which the Brujah latches onto and seems unwilling to just let go. Better, easier to just turn and leave him here and now; to walk away, free of any lingering bonds, the pleasure having been taken...
     Yet, Greydon does not. Perhaps it is a sense of honor, or perhaps it is simply a desire that is lit anew within him by the other's words,.. Or perhaps it is both. But he leans down towards Hansl, and he murmurs, "It is not often that I take a lover, save for the desire to feed; and it is not often that I take one for a second time..." And then he presses in, responding to the pull of the need and the nails upon his back, a hard and full kiss pressed against the German boy's lips...
     Sometime during it, as his body rolls and grinds lightly against the other during what is more then just a kiss, he rolls over onto his back, carrying the other with him, hands roaming possessively over his body. And sometime, eventually, he breaks it and murmurs, "Yet, you have an invitation to my home that still stands. You will see me again, when you may. Come to me, to my haven, to my world, and I will welcome you."

     Easier, yes. Infinitely simpler; a single encounter, without deeper significance, deeper meaning. Without the emotional complications that the German youth so very obviously, vividly represents. Is it not there, in his eyes? In the pucker of his tasted mouth, the curve of his ravished body? It is evident...
     "I have taken no lovers," Hansl says softly, the admission made lowly. "Save to feed, or when required to do so for politics' sake. I ... have only wished to, a very few times before. Confessed so - once before." It went badly. It shows in his eyes for a moment, a flicker of eyelashes. The kiss descends upon his mouth, and the thought is destroyed where it stood; it ceases to exist in his memory. How can he think of such things? Look, in front of you, there is such passion, such presence, such strength. The past is of no moment.
     The world shifts, and where before he was beneath, now he is above; pleasurably tormented muscles making him moan quietly as he finds himself astride the other man, head tipped downwards, thighs slowly spread so that he may brace himself on his knees. Hansl makes no move to push himself up, to peel himself off; he arches his back into the touching, the roaming of hands like some sleek cat. "I will come as soon as I may," he whispers, eagerness lighting his face with that feeble candle-flame. Hope. When did he last feel hope? When was he last motivated to explore the unknown? He does not remember. Though he still fears, here is something which motivates him to move nonetheless. "Und ... danke."
     He lowers his head, lips brushing against the other man's forehead, then pressing to his lips as well. "Thank you," the boy murmurs, fingers twining lightly in Greydon's hair. "I will not fail you... I pray."

     Eventually, Greydon's hands find themselves to Hansl's hips, stroking slowly over them even as he leans up into that soft kiss. He rises, wrapping his strong arms around the boy's waist, holding him securely near even as his lips slide over the soft skin of his neck. It is there that he murmurs, "I have great confidence that you will not; but you should not thank me. Do you suppose that I did not do this for my own purposes, for my own desire?"
     He smiles faintly, lips brushing against Hansl's own, and continuing, "One before you have told of your desire, and you did not succumb to it? Did he refuse what it is you have to offer, or did you flee from the vulnerability of truly giving into what you want?" And then there are hands, hands wandering down to take a firm grip of Hansl's ass, and squeeze it with a faint grin rising up to his lips, "No, no; you will not fail. You may not wish to leave though, once you come to London."

     "I do not presume, nein," Hansl murmurs, tilting his head with heavy-lidded eyes, exposing his throat to Greydon's lips. "I ... am so very weak for you, my lord. You make my bones dissolve as to water." His cheeks colour a little, and for a moment, he curls against the solid form under his own. One hand hooks against Greydon's shoulder, and he sighs, fair hair falling, floating before one eye.
     He tenses slightly at the words which follow, but cannot sustain the tension. He is safe. Secure. There is no reason to flee before the scourge of memory, surely? If only it were so easy...
     "It was my sire," Hansl admits, quietly, not able to entirely dismiss the tension which returns, the shadows which creep into memory and into his voice. "I ... confessed to him my desire. And nein, he did not respond; did not return it. He had me return to my chambers, to consider my work and its value. And then..." The blue eyes shutter, eyelashes falling to hide his gaze completely. "It does not matter, ja? You are not him." His breath jerks from him at the hands on his ass, and he quietly rubs his lips against Grey's shoulder, nuzzling, licking, hot words in his ear.
     "I will come to London. But with you, you will bring a gift. The painting; it is yours, as I am. You will recognise me in it. Think of me often... please."

     The Englishman's hands glide over the German boy's back, caressing into it, before they venture down along his thighs. That neck is lavished with attention, although it is soft, the hint of fangs felt, and the danger there, but it is a danger unrealized.
     "There are some Toreador that are so consumed with art, that they think it is the sole of existence-- just as there are some of my blood who are so utterly consumed by rebellion..." His breath is almost warm against the moist skin, and he pulls up to look once again at the neonate's face... Such blue eyes, such beauty, such potential.. For a lingering moment he is lost in gazing into the eyes, at his face.. For a lingering moment he is consumed by the desire to take him once again, and hear his cries..
     "Yes." he murmurs, "I thought I saw you in it when I first saw it; alone in a world of such beauty, tranquility, and yet that was only on the surface.. The cold, harsh current was threatening to pull you into it and take you away, drown you,..."
     Greydon's lips curve into a faint smile, "How can I not think of you? There is potential in you; great potential. You are watched for this reason. But more importantly, you make demands upon me that I can not refuse. To hold and press against you, to take everything you have to give. Everything. Does the depth of the desire that you create within me frighten you?"

     "It was then that he had me sent to Paris." From the shelter of Saarbrucken's relative isolation, its smaller politics, to be dropped with such a splash in deep waters. The shock of it nearly broke him; the shock, too, of his sire's then-death. There are ripples upon ripples, cause and effect. Hansl rolls his cheek against Greydon's shoulder, making a soft sound as his neck is so caressed, so teased, laved with such attentions. He almost purrs, then pouts again when that warm mouth pulls away.
     The pout vanishes as he is examined. He is lost in that stare, unable to look away. Why look away? It is not like looking into a mirror; he does not see his flaws, his masques, his duties. One hand lifts, his palm curling against the Englishman's cheek. I am falling. If I land, I will surely break and be destroyed. I am no fit creature for this...
     "You see truly." Hansl says it quietly, and he trembles in that strong grasp, dipping his gaze downwards. "...Perhaps it is not a fit work after all. I ... did not know that it could communicate thus so - thoroughly." He is exposed. Far beyond nakedness. Far beyond having been taken, possessed, ravaged and ravished alike. His soul is naked, now, and it bends him to longing. To such flashes of emotion that pierce him, cut through him like ice, like knives.
     "You frighten me," the truth comes easily to his lips, "ja. I am very frightened of it; because I feel it as well. I want you, Greydon Trevelyan. And though my body knows that it has been held and possessed, though I feel your touch upon me still, I am unsatisfied." He braces himself on his knees, sitting up slowly and placing his palms on Grey's chest, looking down with a beautiful vulnerability in his expression. "I fear retreating into poetics. I am no poet. But I fear I will remain unsatisfied until you have held me so completely within your grasp, within your keep, that any thought of fleeing you dies as mortal flesh. Curious, ja, that though my heart does not beat, it lurches when you gaze upon me?"

     The blue eyes of the artist are like a trap, something which once stepped into Greydon finds himself unable to escape...
     He feels too much, too fast; he burns with longing and need and imagines depth that can not be there, not now, not yet...
     I should turn away, or he will be destroyed...
     Greydon's arms enfold the young man once again, holding so securely as he rises, lifting him with such ease into the air. He is walking, walking somewhere, ensuring legs are wrapped around him and this delicious body is held so close.
     "It is not my desire to see you destroyed, Hansl; to see you ruined and weeping tears of blood... The artist, he feels so swiftly, so passionately, he leaps into depths of love and despair, and he thrives there. Your infatuation with me will pass, and you will climb out of the river once again and perhaps find tranquility for yourself." But they remain walking, to the bathroom where against the wall near to the shower Hansl is placed, his body pinned, coolness on one side and faint warmth on the other, but such hardness in every way...
     "I am that river as much as the Court and its intrigue, am I not?"

     He gasps softly as he's lifted, arms and legs clinging for balance. It is so precarious a balance. It is as the rock in the river; and the river itself. Hansl listens, but it is difficult; so difficult to find his way amid these stray currents. "It is my kind's way," he whispers, closing his eyes against the surge of emotion, shuddering as he is placed between contrasts; the cool tile, the warmer flesh. "Do you wish me to lie to you?"
     He opens his eyes again, the clear blue depths open and honest, tilting them up to the intent green gaze that is so focused upon him. "If ... it is what you wish, then I will tell you what I believe you would prefer to hear. That my soul is unmoved; that this - that I know this to be an interlude of flesh, only, and no matter how enjoyable - even if it is repeated, it means little." The words are painful; they cut at his tongue. But he says them, the stoicism creeping back into his expression. This, then, is the ice that turns blue summer into cold winter. "I will resist being so affected... and so dramatic. As you wish, mein herr."
     It curls in his belly, and he swallows, looking away, then down, then back up, over Greydon's shoulder with a glassy stare. No pout, now. No visible emotion, for all that he is still standing there, his flesh still touched, still affected, his soul becoming locked behind the bars of his own creation. The soldier, the squire, not the farmboy, the artist. And he blinks, then closes his eyes.
     "You are the first river in which I have longed to swim and yet swam."

     There is a slight frown that touches to Greydon's lips, and his hand comes up and takes firm hold of Hansl's face, tilting it up so that the deep greens may make their demands of the Toreador's eyes. "I did not say I wished you to lie; I would prefer that no word escapes your lips save the truth. Those lips I have kissed and through which I have felt your desire, your passion, the warmth of your soul.. Do not dare taint them with lies to me."
     That is a command; his voice lashing out with sharp certainty even if some of the words were like honey dripped onto the boy's tongue. He is Lord Treveleyan, after all, and he is quite capable of commanding.
     He is, however, also capable of a certain softness, and it is that place where his voice now goes, as the hand slips free of Hansl's chin and down around his neck, holding him there and kneading his fingers as he has done so before, "I wish only you to be careful, if you can. For I fear that I will crush you where I would prefer to inspire you."
     The other hand reaches out into the shower, leaning as he does without moving away, and turns on the water.

     He blinks, and the recently erected defenses crumble at this touch, that command. Hansl stammers, German coming first, then English in its wake. "Ich bin, verzeihe mir traurig - forgive me. Bitte..." He does not grovel, but he does beg, lips puckering, then falling open in a moan as his neck finds itself suddenly caressed. His weakness, indeed.
     His hands go to Greydon's hips, and he leans in against the elder. He is caught on the horns of a dilemma; his desire, his need, the potential for his destruction. "I will not lie to you," Hansl whispers, so softly beneath the sudden hiss of the spray of water. "I ... will try to be careful, ja." Try. His heart is in crystal. Fragile, frangible, so obvious, so easily destroyed. It only required the Word, and it was revealed. "I desire you, still," the youth continues, so softly, his palm stroking against Greydon's hip, down his thigh. "You are ... I do not know the words for it. Not in any language."

     The Lord Grey gives a slight nod of his head, and he brushes his lips against Hansl's own, his other hand sliding down over the boy's body, caressing along his side before slipping about to settle at the small of his back and tug him close.
     "You are beautiful. But understand: I am not a creature of deceit, if I can avoid it." And then his hand leaves where it was, kneading at his neck, and Greydon is pulling away, stepping into the shower... The hot water splashes over his powerful form, cascading down his muscles, and his hands go to Hansl's to urge him within.
     "I have desired you from the first moment I laid eyes upon you, and ever after; it has not been diminished for a moment." He chuckles softly, "The Rose is, apparently, my favorite flower. I would not have you wilt. Come, blossom against me?"

     It does nothing to diminish his turbulence. Perhaps nothing will; but for now? He moves willingly, following his fascination to under the pressurized water. "You saw me, fending off one of the silly children," Hansl counters softly, his hands lifting to caress Greydon's chest, gaze lowered to look upon him. It is temptation made flesh. "And now I am that silly childe."
     Wanting too much. Wanting what I cannot have, what I should not reach for. Knowing all the same that I will reach for it, and be burned. Oh, Hansl, what have you done?
     The German closes his eyes, lips parting against Greydon's shoulder, lips and tongue caressing down, forward against his chest. It is a slow movement, sensual but without haste. He bends his knees, sinking to caress the older vampire's stomach, his thigh, his hip with his lips, his cheek; and he rises again, an arm twining around the waist, his other arm around the neck as he pulls himself close.
     "I want," Hansl says suddenly, "to paint you..."

     Within the cascading of water and the rising steam, Greydon's hands roam along over the Toreador's body, able to reach every part of him. He strokes over the boy's ass, kneading it and pulling them tightly near, before caressing upon thighs, exploring his back, kneading everything that he touches. Greydon's eyes remain on the other's face. "You are anything but silly." he says in a deep voice.
     He groans softly, watching Hansl explore his body as he has not been able to before, his smile slight upon his lips until he returns and makes this request. "You may paint me, on one condition."
     The hand comes up and takes firm hold of the boy's neck once more, using a thumb to urge his face upwards while his fingers rub into the soft skin, "Paint me as you painted the harpy in the first painting; the one you will not show her.. Paint me /true/, and not what you think I want you to say to me with your strokes. No matter what you paint, I will not be offended... as long as your art is true."

     Gott in Himmel...
     Will it always be like this? Will I always feel so vulnerable, so affected - his touch, tearing at my soul? I do not know whether I long for it more than I fear it...
     Hansl still aches, from that crushing passion. Every moment is so pleasurable as it twinges, reminding him of how he was taken. And here, here is his conqueror, still present in the all too solid flesh; here are his hands. Here is his skin. He can't keep his own hands to himself, now; they move against Greydon's back, clasping, caressing, downwards to brush his ass, clinging for a moment to the backs of his thighs.
     I am dissolving like spun sugar against him. This heat, this water, his touch - I have never known it to be like this. Now I understand - more than I sought to. It is hopeless. I am helpless.
     And, in a flash of humour - No wonder we wished to bomb England...
     His face is lifted, and Hansl looks up obediently, lips pouted, eyelids half-closed. "Jawohl, mein herr," he murmurs. "I ... will do as you command in this. I will paint you as I see you. As honestly as I may. As best I can. To you ... I give my word. When I come to England, I will bring my supplies." That it gives him an excuse to stay the longer does not occur to him. He is - still - without such artifice. But he will arrive. And he will paint. When he is permitted to rise to his art for so long...

     Soap is fetched, and Greydon's hands spread over the boy's body, lathering his firm flesh and caressing into it, but it isn't really intended to get him clean.. It is more just another way, another reason to explore that body, to caress upon it and study every curve.
     So invigorating, so intoxicatingly beautiful... Once, he felt passion only in glimpses, true obsession only in books.. But here he seems captured by both at once..
     "Good." he murmurs, "Bring your supplies, and we will see what you find within me." He turns the boy around, pulling the boy's body against him. His hands slip about Hansl's waist, as his voice murmuring into the Toreador's ear, "You will do as I command in this? So qualified..." His voice is so deep, so dark, ".. or will you simply do as I command?"
     The question is not fairly asked, considering the Brujah's sex is pressed so firmly between the young man's legs, and his hands sliding down over his stomach, slowly drifting lower, lower. He's cheating.

     I thought that it would be impossible for me to faint. My vision is blurring; I thought that a trick of physiology. I must remember to ask someone later.
     Later will never come. He will not remember. He already is having difficulty distinguishing one moment from another. He has forgotten his past; the multitude of memories, of peace, of war, of training, of monastic seclusion. Now he is forgetting his present - of Courts, of presentations, of feeding any hunger but this belly-deep connection and yearning. And now, he begins to forget who he is.
     Hansl...
     Who is Hansl?
     His stomach muscles tense reflexively as he is touched, and he leans into the man so thoroughly tempting and taunting him, trying to steal a kiss. There's the pained desire in his eyes, overflowing into his skin, making him seem almost alive. He has forgotten his marred cheek, the one he usually turns more away when in private. It does not show so very much, but often he is sensitive to it; now, it has for him ceased to exist. "Bitte," Hansl murmurs against Greydon's mouth, touching there, tasting there, even as he feels hands descending against him. His own hand descends as well, to where there is that hardness separate from his own, making itself so pleasantly known.
     "If you command me, you will own me," Hansl says it so quietly, the yearning in his eyes again. "If you do, I will live again in that moment. Grau... it is so strange that your name should be Grey. You are grey, but you are vibrant, as well. I feel myself being stolen by you, my lord. And I cannot fathom being anything but yours to command as you see fit."

     "My beautiful boy." breathes Greydon into the Toreador's ear, one of his arms wrapping around the young man's chest to hold him so tightly, even as the other slips about his sex and strokes him gently.
     Is there any fruit sweeter then this? Greydon can not think of one. "And yet, you are like a prism set before what light I may have, so that when it strikes you it radiates into its own glory." His lips are upon Hansl's neck, kissing there, letting his teeth carefully scrape over the sensitive skin, the desire to sink his fangs into the flesh so powerful...
     That can not be, and so the boy will find himself pressed against the cool wall, Greydon leaning into him from behind, with the nearly burning heat of the water spreading over their bodies. Since he can not sink his fangs into Hansl, he sinks his body instead, another conquest, but one that is gentler then it was before.
     At least, at first. The Brujah takes the boy, murmuring his name, breathing deeply against his neck, holding him near and pouring himself and his passion into every stroke, every thrust, even as they come to show the true depth of his desire.
     He reaches around to call forth the young man's own release, and this is what eventually, in a powerful explosion, brings forth a low growl and a deep shuddering in the Brujah's body.
     Greydon slumps against the wall with the boy pinned between them. "Mine." he says at last.

     If he were a poet, right now he would be on some level, reaching for a thesaurus, calling forth synonyms for 'lost'. He would be ticking off the terms : adrift, astray, disoriented, forfeit, irrecoverable, irretrievable, irrevocable, wandering, wayward, without.
     But all he can think is of its antonym, instead...
     Not 'lost', then, but 'found'...
     It is only the weight of the Brujah against him that keeps him upright. His knees do not wish to hold him. His body does not wish to support his weight. Hansl moans a wordless answer to that simple, singular syllable. It is several long minutes before he can speak, can find a way to draw breath, to respond.
     "Yours," Hansl whispers. God help me... "You have taken me, my lord. I am yours, now. To do with as pleases you best." He's curling slowly downwards, cheek pressed to the cool tile, eyes drifting closed. Such power has washed over him, touched him; it is difficult. He is not unchanged by it.
     Yours... what will you do, I wonder...
     You do not seem in need or desire of a squire, a sexless servant, never that...

Posted by rowan at February 11, 2006 06:37 PM