friends only book & hc based daniel molloy from the vampire chronicles w some minor canon divergence. this is devil's minion territory / written by josie
aes blog @danielsmolloys
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friends only book & hc based daniel molloy from the vampire chronicles w some minor canon divergence. this is devil's minion territory / written by josie
aes blog @danielsmolloys

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If Armand is listening in on this indignant thought, he doesnât let on, not to insist nor to laugh. Smooth, pleased is his composure, indefatigable, his feigned innocence.Â
Heâs drinking Daniel in, the mouth, the throat, yes, but he notes too the way Daniel has settled himself, the reluctance to set all his weight down on his feet or his thin ankles. He reads the discomfort, now only a murmur, but which will surely mount the longer he holds the position. And Armand lets him, thinking about how much greater the relief will be when the hands readjusting him come after a long, dull hum of pain. And then thereâs the drumming fingers, anticipatory and impatient. Daniel is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Itâs years too late to convince Daniel he isnât up to anything. But what if this is the something heâs up to? Can Daniel imagine that? That the novelty of putting Daniel on his knees, on the floor, at heel and finger-feeding him to watch him take it is what Armand is after?
Another grape is offered, pushing past Danielâs lips. Then another. He watches Daniel accept bite after bite until his handful of fruit is spent, and reaches then for the ornamentation of a prosciutto rose. Fingers peel away a fleshy petal and the paper-thin marbling of the meat lays draped on Armandâs thumb. This time when Daniel opens his mouth, Armand presses it to his tongue in a grotesquerie not unlike a communion wafer received by the sinner.Â
âGood, isnât it?â he asks, his thumb still in his mouth, fingers curling around Danielâs chin, holding his jaw open. He can see a glint of drool accumulating at Danielâs lower lip.
Armand is as languid with the grapes as if he has a whole evening to unspool. Even as Danielâs attempts at finding a comfortable way to hold himself are abandoned, it is of some comfort that he cannot be on his knees from dusk to dawn if they are already halfway to dawn. If there is a particular pleasure with which Armand selects Danielâs next course, he does not notice the sharp pivot until Armand slots his thumb into Danielâs tongue and has him pinned down by the jaw.
A lashing buzz of emotion stumbles over arousal and the jarring sensation of exposure. The vague smell of meat hits him before the taste, and he sooner tastes the perched tip of Armandâs nail. It does not drive into his tongue, and it does not slide back and pull a retch from his throat, but rather holds him steady and open.
On instinct, Daniel scrambles to straighten his spine, then keeps the rest of himself stiff and still. It will be an ongoing problem he thinks, knowing what to do with his body from the chest down. A finger is braced against the tender space between upper and lower jaw. It will jut into him if he tries to close his mouth over Armandâs thumb. Stupidly, he finds himself searching for the press of the shard-tipped fingers cradling his face. He waits for the squeeze, certain it is only another heartbeat or two away. Or perhaps his thumb will angle downward like an arrow tip and mingle blood and table meat before Daniel has to swallow.
He cannot see whether Armand is drinking his fill of the inside of his mouth. Or perhaps Armand is too pre-occupied waiting for the presence of the meat to make Daniel drool down his chin. Regardless, arousal is a warm caress rubbing down over the front of his jeans as he submits to being examined.
Armand goads him with his question, but his thoughts are pink-tinged and swimming. What comes back is an echo, courteously indignant, nakedly needing.
I donât knowâ is it good, Armand?
Overeager, the unmanaged attention straying to Armand's body, the salivation pooling at the thought of the emptiness on his tongue being filled by something more than honey-drizzled fruit. Armand listens to the crackle of the anticipation rolling off of Daniel and meets it with a cool, serene expression. "There you are. That's your place." The tag of the collar jangles as Armand lets the ring fall back down and crooks his finger beneath Daniel's upturned chin. He lets the tip of his nail scrape against the pulse. "Good boy. Sit pretty for me." Cool, serene, yes, but not devoid of a certain doting, condescending pleasure.
The hand that doesn't hold that electric point of contact is extending to hover over the meal. Armand seems to be weighing, not by the look of the food, but by reading the spark in Daniel's eyes, where to start the feast. Whatever he sees there, the nimble fingers are quickly guided; he plucks a grape and brings it to Daniel's lips. The knuckle of his forefinger drags across his lips for an indulgent moment. "Open up." And then the grape is pushed into Daniel's mouth, the tip of Armand's thumb pressed to his lower lip.
"Very important to keep my Daniel well fed," he purrs, and the possession in my is warm and heavy rolling off his tongue. He picks more grapes, a handful, but does not immediately offer them to Daniel. He waits and watches for the signs of of Daniel splitting the first beneath his teeth and chewing â for the feel of Daniel's throat swallowing against the back of his fingers.
Daniel would feel less unnatural if Armand would take by the waist and show him exactly how he is intended to sit pretty. The two words, like the jingle of his collar, strum affectionately against him even as he keeps his knees together and picks sitting stiffly on his ankles. It will kill his toes to let them hold his weight, so he slides his feet out flat onto the hardwood, ass to his heels, and finds it not much better. Every section of the uncushioned bone in his feet is jammed up against the floor.
Open up is all it takes. Daniel tastes Armand before the food, and his freezing and perfect fingers like icicles are more welcome and familiar than anything on the table. As he breaks the skin and chews the grape's soft insides, he is overtaken by the sensation of being examined. It seems that Daniel is all mouth and throat. The rest of him is of less interest and may as well not be there at all, like being set up in a dentist chair. He doesnât know where to look and opts to keep his gaze trained on Armand. He looks like he is eating too. When Daniel swallows, he politely leans forward into the knuckles curled up against his neck. He should be less indulgent, or at least make it harder to earn, but he doesnât know if he could help it if he tried.
Your Daniel? Come on manâ
Now that he thinks of it, he isnât sure whether an incredulous tone comes across telepathically. Braced and anxious and needing, his left hand drums a staccato against his thigh as he watches for Armandâs hands.
Getting your face cradled by hands that kill>>>>>

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Delicate hands, careful with their vicious nails, wind around Daniel, one in his hair and the other making slow sweeps over his back, down to his hips and up again. Usually he can feel the idle warmth of Daniel radiate out to him when they are this close, and he should feel it all the more considering Daniel's fever, but the flush of Armand's meal has yet to fade from his skin. Rare and strange, he muses, to find their temperatures so nearly matched.
A thoughtful hum buys him a moment to remember such a thing as sweets â to remember a boy who would have thrilled at the taste of sugar on his tongue.
"I do not think I had a preference." And it is not an evasion, though he makes so many of those when asked about the past. Daniel asks the right kind of question now, something small, personal, insignificant. It is easier to answer than the greater demands he used to make (What was it like? What was it like?). "I did not grow up knowing sweets. ... I remember my first taste of marzapane. Maybe that." The musical, latent lilt of a Venetian is unknowable, but there. His hand stills in its roving over Daniel's back, and then he taps his fingers, punctuating a thought, a sudden memory. "No. Panforte. I liked that very much. They put pepper in it, and it was spicy and sweet..."
It is amazing how quickly Daniel begins to drift slotted against Armand. He is held fast in the soothing rhythm of tender hands petting his sweaty hair, sweeping down his waist and up between his shoulders. Even Armandâs accent curling around his letters lulls him gently.Â
Armandâs decisive tap wakes Daniel with a little jump only because he wants to be alert enough to listen to Armandâs answer.Â
Marzapane first, and then panforte with pepper, which was spicy and sweet. It feels important. The anecdote nestles somewhere in Danielâs heart to be admired later like a stolen trinket. If Daniel has tried panforte, he cannot place it, nor can he conjure the image. His head is not keen on cooperating with him any longer, and he refuses to try and force it.Â
What floats through his mind instead is the brisk jet of shower water from an hour or two prior. He thinks of sitting curled up with his phone resting on the arm of the bathtub where he watched the dark screen unhappily, waiting for another notification. He thinks of resting his cheek on the bathroom tile. He was past waiting out waves of nausea and merely taking refuge in a cool place, familiar and welcoming as always.Â
I wish you didnât eat today. Youâre too hot. I miss the tile.Â
He hugs Armand tighter anyway and tries to fit more of himself in Armandâs lap.
Pull me closer. I miss your kisses. I miss your tongue.
IVE BEEN JERKING IT TO VAMPIRES, THEYRE CALLING ME BRAM STROKER
sorry for being unsettling and weird it's the demon
Warm brown eyes drink Daniel in, half-lidded as they look down on him. Daniel's complaints don't bother him now; he understands that they've slipped into their roles now â he, the unbending master and Daniel, the unruly charge, pretending he doesn't want exactly what's coming for him.
Make me! Now that Daniel has satisfied Armand's desire to see him put himself on his knees, flushed and indignant and nevertheless obedient, Armand will take the nasty decisions out of Daniel's hands and let him feel pushed around. Armand will take care of him.
"Awful?" he echoes thoughtfully, the crooked finger releasing the ring of Daniel's collar to trail its glassy nail down the bare skin in the hollow of his throat. The even voice, the placid expression, the teasing touch all say they do not credit Daniel's outrage. Armand does not deign to contradict it. The single, disbelieving word is sufficient to insinuate the damning truth: that Daniel is hungry for whatever depravity Armand can think up for him, just starving for it. And that he wants the demands to come with a force he has no choice but to surrender to.
The eyes narrow. The lips curl in a grin. He gives a bemused little hum of laughter. "Closer." The velvet smooth order is chased by another jerk of the collar ring, so casual and yet so powerful that it unbalances Daniel and forces him to catch himself with his palms.
That wealth of patience lets him wait unbothered but unyielding for Daniel to shuffle forward on his hands and knees, right up to Armand's chair. Let him turn those clear, bright eyes up at him through his lashes and try to hide the hunger, the real hunger, there.
With only the touch of a nail to the soft cartilage of his throat, Danielâs body perceives a command to see more of his neck. He tilts his head back, unaware of himself, too distracted by how his cock is pressing against the front of his jeans. Â
Armand gives him a catlike smile, and the approval alone stokes the heat blooming in his chest. Daniel would do anything so long as Armand watched him with pleasure.
It is not Danielâs job to decide when his wants will be acknowledged, nor is he any good at guessing. So it catches him by surprise when Armand nods to the hideous need crawling from his bones and snatches him forward like an unruly animal.
It elicits a startled yelp and his palms hit the hardwood. He intends to hiss out a curse, but all that comes out is a breathy hum. The fingers of his left hand tap erratically, nerves and eager anticipation mixed up into the same color.
Humiliation grinds hard against him at being commanded to crawl to his own debasement. He does as Armand expects and peers upward, both indignant and feverish with desire, and a pair of eyes as unyielding as his hands reflect back at him.
Daniel's heart pounds as he crawls to Armandâs lap on hand and knee. He feels stupid, and he feels his desire grows more directionless by the second. His mouth is beginning to salivate either by the smell and sight of the food it is about to be subject to, or by being level with Armandâs dick. If Armand pivoted, grabbed him by the hair, and slid his cock down his throat instead, it would be both a relief and a disappointment.
Armand is only too happy to welcome the hands that grasp him. Daniel has taken the bait belatedly, but now his hungry thoughts hardly require the Gift to hear, and Armand seizes on the opportunity of distraction, rolling his hips and pressing back into that groping palm. He won't have the rest of this conversation if he can help it. Not out of cruelty, no. He just... knows how these things end. He will refuse, and Daniel will be hurt, and the hurt will turn to anger, and by degrees their conversation will turn to a fight that neither of them wins. How long until the shouting? Until the tears come? Until in his fury and heartache he thrusts into Daniel's mind a vision of poor, mutilated Ricardo and the hunger that could kill any love? Assuredly, talking will only lead to misery. Daniel won't be talked out of his want, and Armand won't be talked out of his reservations.
The nag of Daniel's logic won't go away, though. Not tonight, and not when Armand crawls back into his coffin alone at daybreak. A seed of doubt is planted. 'Armand would sooner find an excuse than a solution...' Is that true? Does he just want an excuse? Is it just easier to say a thing is impossible than to ever acknowledge the wanting of it simmering within him? Armand's entrance into the modern age has been characterized by so many impossible things becoming possible before his eyes. He has seen a sunrise with the craft of the camera. His voice has reached the other end of the world with the telephone. He sates his every caprice by easily-won wealth. His name is known by a mortal who lives. He has fallen back in love with humanity. He has fallen in love. Why not one more impossibility conquered...?
But his doubt is not to be bared in front of Daniel, who will coax and plead and dig his fingers into the slightest crack and pull Armand open wide into the yes he loves to spoil Daniel with. ... And after all, he gave a little bit, Armand tells himself. He gave a truth or two more than he'd have liked to, and that was something like a compromise.
And what he wants to give Daniel now, he is certain his beautiful boy will not refuse.
"Victim. Mmm, is that what you are, Daniel? My victim?" He sets the fork down with a prim little clink against the china. It frees his hand up to press over Daniel's chest, to feel the beating heart as he rocks his hips again. He's ignoring the questions, breezing past Daniel's point, and he does it oh so seductively. The purr of his voice comes quiet as he turns his head to murmur against Daniel's jaw, "How many times must I say lover before you believe it?"
Reflexively, Daniel tilts away to bare more of his neck at the warm kiss of Armandâs whisper. Like a malfunctioning prey animal, when he senses the proximity of Armandâs mouth, he exposes himself more. His body does so without his thoughts intervening. There is no help to be found from his thoughts. The sensation of elongated canines dragging torturously, lovingly slow over his flesh, flashes through his mind. And with untrimmed nails, Armand would press his thumb into the soft of Danielâs chin and hold him exposed, and then those teasing pinpricks would pierce throughâŚ
He feels pinned down. Beneath Armandâs palm, his heart beats faster, perhaps only to remedy the distance between it and Armandâs hand. A shudder hides in the slow breath slipping past Danielâs pleased smile.
âYou make it difficult when half of what you say is only true on technicality,â His words are a sliver quicker than they should be. Faint color dusts his cheeks, and he finds himself helplessly grabbing hold of Armandâs hips. âIf you loved me, youâd answer my questions. Lovers do less talking.â
He lets go just as quickly to push against the sheets as he tries to shift position. It does little to help him and only creates more friction between his lap and Armandâs ass. Daniel is not yet so far gone as to forget that he wanted something else from Armand. He is not yet so far gone as to forget that for someone unhappy to have Daniel in his coffin, Armand went very quickly from affronted to fucking him.
âYou said you were pleased to wake up next to me. You didnât hunt before I saw you this morning. Your hunger was mine first, and Iâm perfectly alive. I know you can stop yourself either way.â

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as a model train enthusiast and stupid hole in recovery ,
Armand does not waver when Danielâs hand twitches as if it might strike him, and lets it melt back into its desperate clutch on him. Daniel is still only an infant immortal, too weak to hurt him anywhere but between his ribs, and Danielâs words have done much worse there than his fists ever will.Â
The accusation in Danielâs voice is not new. Itâs one of the things that will always haunt Armand from their final fights. His fledgling had accused him of so much; it was easier to accuse Armand than to accept that it was his own mind failing him. He used to lash out at Armand with such conviction that he was lying about something, that Armand lied about losing the ability to penetrate Danielâs mind. âI heard you! You said it in my head! Why are you lying to me?â Ironic that tonightâs accusation is of an opposite restraint â why didnât Armand use that nefarious tether to Daniel to find him? But the truth is as it was then. Armand has no such power anymore. Not for scheming or for saving. In its absence, they should have learned how to talk, really talk, and understand one another. The first years of Danielâs immortality were a bitter testament to how impossible such communication had been. Will it really be any different now?
The fire dies down into an anxious whimper, and Armandâs claws keep stroking the back of his neck, pushing through his locks which would never grey, using his thumb to rub away the mist pooling red at the corner of Danielâs eye.
âShh. Hush now, you are working yourself up again. Listen to you, âhow is it you didnât think of me? How was it so easy?ââ He shakes his head, and it gives him a moment to swallow an accumulating thickness in his throat. âYou always imagine me stronger than I am. I have thought of you every day. Do not doubt it.âÂ
Were Daniel himself, fully himself, and in possession of his wits, Armand tells himself he would apply himself to the terrific trial of explaining. He would try to make Daniel understand how it had all come to be, remind him how he had resented Armand at the end, suspected everything he did. He would ask if Daniel thought differently of him now. But lost in his clouded memory, ignorant even of his own vampirism, what would Daniel understand of all that? What good would it be to shatter his soothing illusion? If he can give Daniel honesty or happiness but not both, he knows which he will choose every time.
âNow I will not leave. Not without you. We are to be chained together after all, you and I. Breathe, collect yourself. Just think, Daniel, there is a plane awaiting us, and we have only to decide where we want to go. Somewhere new, yes? Somewhere it can be just us, a whileâŚâ
Daniel is a reopened wound, and Armand tells him that he is bleeding on the floor. Hush now. Something of his tone lands softly even as he feels his wound open wider. If Armand keeps speaking soothing nothings to him, he might start to scream. He hopes Armand does not stop, anyway. He cannot dig his nails into Armand any harder, and he knows they will snap off at the root sooner than break through his skin. Stronger than I am. But it is like the bottom of the ocean or the edges of the sky tell him that he has misunderstood what they are. How could it have happened any other way? Armand makes it impossible for Daniel to know him.
And then, the despair that weeps from him is cauterized at the mention of a plane.
His breathing shudders, and suddenly all he wants to do is sob until he canât anymore, but he tries to breathe because Armand reminds him to. He swallows and forces his chest to take in enough air to speak again.
âThereâs a plane? Whâwhere? Are we going home?â
He wants to go home so desperately it could split him down the seams. He wants the smell of coffee when flushed hands pull him out of bed. He wants his feet to hurt sleepwalking through and endless night, like being awake grinds against his soul. He wants to hear the ocean outside his bedroom window, and the eternal murmur of thousands of guests on their island.
They must have been traveling for some time, and it must have done something to his head. Homesickness is not a disease that often afflicts himâ how little opportunity it would have if he is always next to Armand. But he is weak with it, like it has eaten out the marrow of his bones and made him brittle enough to snap.
âPlease donât lie to me. Iâll die if youâre lying, youâll kill me.â
His hand skitters like an insect, as if frighted of letting go of Armand, and reaches over his chest to feel for his amulet. It isnât there. His gaze drifts like an untethered boat, as if only now seeing their surroundings. They seem to be encased in a stone block of nothing, only tight corners and windowless walls.
âAre we in New Orleans? There was a doorâthere was a door there, what happened to it?â
Claws card through Daniel's hair, brushing damp curls out of his face, petting him fondly while he begs. And Armand does let the begging go on. He feels Daniel needs it, just as he needs the pain, as he needs that merciful moment to catch his breath and brave Armand's unblinking gaze. The begging is a release, a vent to that grotesque, unabating want in Daniel.
Did he sound just like this when he begged Louis for a taste?
Armand does not say it. He thinks he will â can feel the words' weight on his tongue, the flare of jealous possession that sparks them... but a moment passes in silence, and then another, and another, and he finds he can keep them locked behind his teeth.
He listens passively to the babbling pleas and to the echoes of his own voice in Daniel's mind, hearing again the warp in them: Daniel's own assessment of himself bleeding through. Worthless. He doesn't realize yet, he doesn't understand thatâ?
"Don't stop? Desperate thing, in love with his pain." 'Did you forget this is supposed to be a punishment?' He fists his hand in Daniel's hair and holds tight, grounding him in the places they grasp one another. "Do not worry, it won't stop, not ever. One high to the next, isn't it? And I give it to you because," â a hand knotted in Daniel's hair, another curving with the line of his jaw, stroking his cheek with his thumb. 'Look at me. I mean it. Hear it.' â "because you are not worthless, but precious." He puts the flash of memory into Daniel's fumbling mind: Armand on the couch, eyes boring into him, saying without speaking, 'Of course I want you, Daniel, I want you desperately, or else I would never work so hard to keep you, to help you.' "Remember, Beloved: all this because you endanger yourself. Because you cross boundaries I set for your own protection."
How the grip in his hair stays, steady and steadying, as Armand disappears from Daniel's clutch and vision, is a dazzling, momentary mystery. But the instant Daniel loses sight of him, Armand's voice is at his ear, and his presence is at his back, close enough to set the air between their bodies crackling.
"The words are good, but it's only the feeling you'll remember. And I don't know that you feel it, really, truly feel it yet, how you need my forgiveness."
A hand ghosts around Daniel's waist, dipping below the waistband of his pants and pulling the half-hard cock out.
"Now touch yourself, Daniel. I know you want to." Slut. Easy. Base. "With this hand," he purrs, leading the swollen, curled digits of the right hand to the base of his arousal. "Go on. Apologize to me with your body." Precious. Precious. Mine.
Armandâs expression is unreadable. His lover is blurry and looming behind a veil of hot tears, touching him in a practiced manner, like idly acknowledging dog pressed to his knees. Daniel is enslaved to his own pleading, only tasting the words, not hearing them. Whether Armand is pleased, repulsed, or only lets him debase himself because he knows he canât help it, Daniel does not know.Â
Piercing need grips him in one hand as Armand seizes him with another. He forces his head back, and Daniel watches him with scared and wholly attentive eyes. He wants Armand to throw him down and grind him to the floor. He wants the pain clawing through his hand and down his back to dissolve him into unthinking. He does not want a puzzle.Â
It does not startle Daniel to hear Armand contradict himselfâ that he says Daniel is worthless and then says he is notâ but he dreads the echo of keep him? Endanger? His own protection? Daniel is still present enough in himself to know he does not understand what Armand asks him to hear. For a terrible flicker Daniel tries to discern what he is supposed to already know, and wading through panic and confusion, and he almost asks. But Daniel is grasped between the obsessive jaws of something unyielding, and it is better to lie stillâ writhing will only make it worse. He strangles the question before it can take shape. If Armand thinks him only pretending to understand and deems it another lie, he is helpless to it.Â
Armand vanishes for only a breath, and terror floods the space of his absence. The only unendurable punishment his lover could inflict upon him tonight would be to leave him alone. Just as quickly, Armand is everywhere. Daniel curves into the shiver dripping down his spine as hot words caress his ear. Fingers plunge beneath his waistband, and something needy and keening escapes his throat. More than Armandâs forgiveness, Daniel needs his eyes.
The layer of adrenaline coating the livid nerves in his hand has carved away nearly completely, unwilling to be ignored as he wrestles against the instinct to protect it. A bladed ripple of pain scores him anew as Armand curls fingers abused beyond use around his base.
Take it, trust me, take it, trust, trust, mine, mine, mine--
âFuckâ!â It comes out a whimper punctuated by a gasping sound. His heartbeat flails like caged prey clawing through his chest. His arm sings with pain as he forces his hand up and down. He can only approximate the motion and bite down. If Armand would have him climax, then Daniel will be on his knees until sunrise. When frustration spills over and he is sweating through his shirt, he takes to moving his hips instead, pushing them against his palm to save his fingers from having to bend.Â
"That's fine, Daniel, yes, you just lay back now." Armand answers the thought with nonchalance, and strokes Daniel's cheek with his thumb. He does not reach for the bottle, though; he reaches for pillows and props them up against the headboard. Swinging his leg back over Daniel's thighs and lounging beside him, he reclines on the plush support. The pillows and the sheets are saturated with the smell of Daniel, his sweat, his sickness, but Armand is not in any way precious about sinking into them.
'There is nothing of you I will not take, nothing too foul for me.' He does not share the thought with Daniel - thinks he doesn't have to, it's so obvious.
Settled, he reaches to draw Daniel close, and the kisses that peppered his jaw now linger on his lips. His tongue slips into Daniel's mouth, and in the press and pry of it, Daniel surely feels just the briefest jolt of the blood. Armand had promised, after all that the next taste he got would be from his lips, a languid tender kissâ Oh. When he touches Daniel's mind, he sees something else. A different desire. The blood pouring into his seeking mouth, yes, but not from a kiss â from fingers pushing past the circle of his lips, bleeding pads dragging along his tongue.... Fascinating boy, always, always, his fascinating boy.
Maybe Daniel will get what he wants. Maybe he won't even have to ask for it. Would that be reparation enough for making him wait tonight?
"Do you want to finish that?" Armand's breath ghosts over Daniel's skin as he asks it, low, soft, and his eyes drift toward the bourbon. "Go on, if you do, and then come into my arms, Beloved. You've been so very patient."
Armand slips his tongue in his mouth, and Daniel slips farther and farther away from his hurt feelings. Sometimes, Daniel thinks Armand underestimates how much even a meager drop of blood does for him. Feverish as he is, the warmth it carries with it is welcomed. The raw discomfort that comes with being awake falls a tick or two more into the background.
He blinks away his disorientation as Armand pulls away, then remembers himself. He glances over the honey remnants of his drink, fingers still tangled around the neck of the bottle.Â
âNo, I was about to pass it to you.â He flips his hand in a dismissive gesture as if sweeping away the obvious and tips back the rest of the bottle, then tosses it aside. He shoves his hands underneath Armandâs shirt and snakes his arms around his waist, tucking his knees close. Daniel hides his face somewhere close to Armandâs heart. It hurts to keep speaking aloud, but he does so on habit, and he likes to be sure Armand hears him anyway.Â
âWhat kind of sweets did you like when you were alive?â
1. If I fell through the floor I would keep falling. The enormity of my desire disgusts me. (Richard Siken, âBirds Hover the Trampled Fieldâ)
2. The extent of my perversity overwhelms me! (AimĂŠ CĂŠsaire, âNotebook of a Return to the Native Landâ)
3. Think about when the object of your desire is also the object of your disgust. Now weâre getting somewhere. (Wendy Xu, âRetrospectiveâ)

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