[ Set describes his quarters from the windows inward, because he rarely utilizes the hall door to access them. He's half a mind to force Armand to seek him out via the window, a challenge always eager to be spoken by his tongue, yet awaits with both window and door open to grant him wordless permission. Flattery gets you everywhere. With his hip balanced against the elegant vanity tucked across from his sleek, humbly-sized bed, he shuffles through some last minute readings — looking up only when he thinks the vampire with the pretty eyes is finally approaching. ( He'd smell him in the air, if the game had not stuffed cotton in his senses and swaddled him in a neutralizing power. ) ]
[ Considering the ways the house twists and warps itself, finding the windows is the easiest way for Armand to find the rooms, so he does in fact opt for that entrance. And it doesn't take him long, with his vampire senses -- he slides down out of the sky like a wraith, barefoot and dressed in loose black clothes, low cut at the throat and high above his ankles.
He alights on the sill and climbs in, his attention fixed on Set from the first moment. There's an old world familiarity about the room; his blood throbs with the song of the sand, the call of the muezzin as it rings through a city's streets, thrilling with the presence of ancient power. It would be blasphemy to prostrate himself before the desert god, but that crime is far from his worst at the moment, so as soon as he's close enough he sinks to his knees before him. Desperate, hungry for something he can't name. ]
[ The power of a vampire remains known only to him by the word of others alone; the description of predator and parasite, neither alive nor dead piques his interest. Sparks a flurry of embers behind his ribs, like he ought to learn-know-remember more that he cannot actively draw to the surface of the dark, vast sea of his existence. Armand says they are not natural beings, and certainly, they usurp the natural order of things ( life, to death, to rebirth ) — but, as someone who once broke that same cycle over his knee, how he is to spurn such creatures?
Especially when they come to him, sweet-mouthed and devoted, upon knees and speaking words that he both craves to hear, and to tear from mouths of others.
Paper falls from his fingers, discarded across the surface of the vanity without second thought. Let it fall to the floor if he misses the table, for all he cares. Let the subtle chaos and destruction within his room be added to, as he uncrosses his ankles and presses up to full height, from where he's been leaning. ( He would not say, at this point in time, that he like-likes men, not the way others within the manor do, but it would be a lie to say he does not enjoy the sight of men on their knees. ) ]
Let's not waste either of our time, hm?
[ He steps forward, fingers light upon the plane of the other's cheek. Stroking the side of a nail down to Armand's jaw, to curl fingers, one, two, four, along the underside of his chin. To bend at the waist sends his hair, a curtain of red silk, to fall across Armand's face as he tips it up as if to turn a flower toward the sun. He needs. Set can provide. ]
You may sate yourself upon me, however you need. I will get what I want from you, as well.
[ Vampires were desert creatures before they were anything else, born from Akasha's curse, the call of the dry sands passed down through the blood they all share. Armand doesn't know as much about it as he should, but as he looks up into Set's eyes he's aware of a rightness in his body and soul, a feeling almost like coming home to a place he has never been.
Without protest, he allows himself to be handled, lips parting slightly as his pupils dilate like a cat's. Maker and unmaker, he would surrender himself to anything Set wished to do with him. Oblivion beckons, the silent mind of the perfect slave. ]
Yes. [ He sighs the word, a grateful supplicant. Carefully, without lowering his gaze, he reaches out a hand to skate his own fingertips up Set's thigh to his crotch, lightly stroking what he finds there. ]
[ There is a soft hum of pleasure-trepidation within him, while observing Armand: his willingness to submit, the perfect way in which he takes to a place Set has little desire to inhabit. He feels that hand brush high, and reaches with his own free fingers to the bottom edge of the black shendyt he wears most commonly. Lifting the cloth higher across his strong thighs, as the hand that cradles Armand's jaw firmly, purposely leads him forward toward the line of his cock.
One day he will learn of the root origins of this creature's kind, and some natural part of him will treasure them for their strangeness.
The soft whsk of sands flowing across one another fills the air with sound, the pressure of fine, loosely packed grains moving independent of wind and gravity slipping into the cradle of Armand's knees. Winding like serpents around his hips, pale living ribbon that twists toward those wrists. Holding them, unrestrictive. A reminder. ]
[ The display of easy power is no surprise to Armand. He accepts it as he's accepted everything else since setting foot through the window, even going so far as to put his arms behind his back, taking hold of his own wrists to allow the sand-ropes to wind more effectively around him. It's a pose he's held many times before, though most of the memories are lost -- but the body keeps the score, as Daniel reminds him, and he knows how to do it without thinking.
He leans in carefully to put his mouth reverently to the heavy line of the desert god's soft cock, small licks and kisses, his fangs kept back. Amadeo's skill, this, not Armand's. He angles his head down to take the fat head briefly into his mouth, giving it a gentle suck as he glances upwards through his lashes, checking that his work is well received. ]
[ The beauty in Set's power is in the versatility, the way in which he has more limbs than not. Armand tucks his arms behind his spine with ease, and the sands coil loose around his supplicant's body, without need to push or pull because he is so willing. It leaves his hands free, to do otherwise with. For now, he traces his fingers across Armand's brow — pushing aside dark strands of hair to better look at his brilliant eyes. Luminous and warm.
Perhaps he is slow to warm, even while those eyes look upon him with reverence. The heat of Armand's mouth wrapped around him elicits a faint animal-thrum in his chest; the rolling gurgle of a leonine purr, the bone-quaking low of a distant crocodile. A sweet ache stirs in his thighs, as he steps forward and out to straddle the kneeling figure of the vampire below, nudging the head of his cock past those lips. ]
— would you enjoy having your face mounted, Armand?
[ The arched, elegant sound of his voice makes the base way he questions the act that much more filthy. ]
[ The cock that slides into his mouth tastes like the mineral salts of a brackish oasis pool, the sweetness of the date fattening on the palm, blood drying in the sun. Armand sinks into the sensations, Set's warm hands moving over his face, his muscled thighs warming the air either side of him and bracketing his vision. Shrinking his awareness into the familiar and unfamiliar.
He hollows his cheeks, relaxes his throat. An advantage Set is soon to discover about face-fucking a vampire: he doesn't need to breathe. Though soft puffs of breath escape him anyway, instinctive reactions of his body he doesn't bother to shut down, assuming Set might enjoy witnessing a struggle. The same for the blood-tinged tears that gather in the corners of his eyes as his jaw stretches to accommodate Set sliding down into his throat, making soft choked noises of effort.
Like this, he can't really nod, but his acceptance is in the way his eyelids flutter, the yearning heiroglyph of his body as he leans into it, bobs his head to take him deeper, aching tongue working as he swallows around him. ]
cw thoughts of dubcon, dissociation, whatever the heck this mentality is
[ He rolls the hem of his shendyt high enough to tuck it into the snug waistline, so that the material does not fall back upon Armand's face. He wants to see it, study it.
The pleasure in his taking of Set's cock is — well, it is entirely foreign to him. The enjoyment, even as tears of red build in his eyes, lingers there upon him. It is in the suckle of his mouth, the submission of his figure. Yet, how does one come to personally enjoy such an act, though? Does one have to be born for it? Is it a matter of experience, or training, or perhaps — is it a casual lie to assure the other? Is Armand truly looking back at him, aware and alert, or has his mind drifted elsewhere? ( Because Set cannot envision himself in the same position. On his knees, with someone's cock in his mouth. Not again. Not while feeling pleasure of his own. )
He studies Armand like one might look upon an insect, like he wants to peel apart his skin and find the fine filigree of his wings below the shell. Pull open his mouth and look down his throat into the dark hollow of his body.
Instead, he cradles Armand's jaw and feeds him his cock — purring faintly at the physical pleasure of the moment. It feels good for him, even as his mind races at a distance. Holding him steady as he draws his hips back, feeling the slide of his flesh within the wet of Armand's mouth. Then, straddling his face a little closer, he slips a hand into the dark coils of his hair and fucks into him again. A small gasp of pleasure huffed from his own throat, jaw softened. Again. Quicker now. Again, a little harder. ]
[ There's a bright blankness in Armand's eyes, like water pooled in beaten copper bowls, reflecting back the merciless heat of Set's regard. His throat vibrates with a moan that has nowhere to go, choked around the god's cock, pleasure and pain intermingled and running in cold and bloody lines down the sides of his cheeks. He takes each thrust, hands tightening on his wrists behind his back but otherwise passive, his own body responding in kind, making him lift his hips a little, longing, leaning into each slide of Set's cock into his throat.
A deep, black silence rises up in his mind, a brackish tide that tugs at him as his body takes over, aware only of Set. Each thin breath he manages to pull in is thick with the god's musky scent, sweat and sun-baked stone. Fat thick cock jamming his jaw open, hand fisted in his hair, the ancient power that thrums through the desert god's veins. The pounding of Set's heart, like the clashing of swords, the great drum that blocks out the rest of the world. His own body is a vessel, empty, waiting to be filled, and that's okay. He knows the emptiness. Has long since forgotten how to fight it. Now it brings him comfort, to be gone for a while. To remember what it was like, the fractured times. Younger, softer, more pliable. Before he died and became Armand.
Armand closes his eyes as Set fucks him, lashes fluttering, the renaissance curves of his cheeks wet with joyous tears. ]
[ It comes to him, slow waves of recognition, that Armand does not need to breathe. His throat remains soft, his body slack with that distant pleasure. While Set has not had a wide variety of sex, especially with anyone other than his ( former ) wife, he knows enough that he'd expect anyone who isn't divine ought to need to breath. The lack of struggle is — some darker, richer part of him cannot latch onto it, to drive upon Armand like a predator seeking the writhing of prey. What he can do is hold those dark curls, wound firm around his fingers; his free hand spreads before Armand's eyes, using the tips of his forefinger and ring to blot out those copper depths.
He's like something that Hathor would decorate her temple with. Beautiful, ornate. Something that the goddess of beauty would keep for herself, until the next pretty thing came along to adorn her. Ruining him on his cock is — it feels good. All pretty eyes and clutching mouth, while Set's hips stay slow, steady, deep. As he strokes his fingers down his face, smearing trails of red tears with attentive purpose.
From sharp-eyed predator, to beatific worshipper. What multitudes this one carries. ]
Ease back.
[ As if it's not Set using his face, but Armand driving onto him.
He draws his hips back, wet and aching and regretful already. Ribbons of sand flow continuously, lacing back and forth around Armand's hips. They tighten, little by little, to draw him weightless and powerful across the floor; elevated, levitating the way he had arrived to the door, as Set flicks his tear-stained fingers and casts him on the bed. ]
Not that we need to be comfortable, but I really do not use the bed otherwise.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Sorry, Set. He's deep in the sauce. ]
I will be there shortly.
(8 gremlin..
no subject
He alights on the sill and climbs in, his attention fixed on Set from the first moment. There's an old world familiarity about the room; his blood throbs with the song of the sand, the call of the muezzin as it rings through a city's streets, thrilling with the presence of ancient power. It would be blasphemy to prostrate himself before the desert god, but that crime is far from his worst at the moment, so as soon as he's close enough he sinks to his knees before him. Desperate, hungry for something he can't name. ]
My Lord.
no subject
Especially when they come to him, sweet-mouthed and devoted, upon knees and speaking words that he both craves to hear, and to tear from mouths of others.
Paper falls from his fingers, discarded across the surface of the vanity without second thought. Let it fall to the floor if he misses the table, for all he cares. Let the subtle chaos and destruction within his room be added to, as he uncrosses his ankles and presses up to full height, from where he's been leaning. ( He would not say, at this point in time, that he like-likes men, not the way others within the manor do, but it would be a lie to say he does not enjoy the sight of men on their knees. ) ]
Let's not waste either of our time, hm?
[ He steps forward, fingers light upon the plane of the other's cheek. Stroking the side of a nail down to Armand's jaw, to curl fingers, one, two, four, along the underside of his chin. To bend at the waist sends his hair, a curtain of red silk, to fall across Armand's face as he tips it up as if to turn a flower toward the sun. He needs. Set can provide. ]
You may sate yourself upon me, however you need. I will get what I want from you, as well.
no subject
Without protest, he allows himself to be handled, lips parting slightly as his pupils dilate like a cat's. Maker and unmaker, he would surrender himself to anything Set wished to do with him. Oblivion beckons, the silent mind of the perfect slave. ]
Yes. [ He sighs the word, a grateful supplicant. Carefully, without lowering his gaze, he reaches out a hand to skate his own fingertips up Set's thigh to his crotch, lightly stroking what he finds there. ]
no subject
One day he will learn of the root origins of this creature's kind, and some natural part of him will treasure them for their strangeness.
The soft whsk of sands flowing across one another fills the air with sound, the pressure of fine, loosely packed grains moving independent of wind and gravity slipping into the cradle of Armand's knees. Winding like serpents around his hips, pale living ribbon that twists toward those wrists. Holding them, unrestrictive. A reminder. ]
Just mouth.
no subject
He leans in carefully to put his mouth reverently to the heavy line of the desert god's soft cock, small licks and kisses, his fangs kept back. Amadeo's skill, this, not Armand's. He angles his head down to take the fat head briefly into his mouth, giving it a gentle suck as he glances upwards through his lashes, checking that his work is well received. ]
no subject
Perhaps he is slow to warm, even while those eyes look upon him with reverence. The heat of Armand's mouth wrapped around him elicits a faint animal-thrum in his chest; the rolling gurgle of a leonine purr, the bone-quaking low of a distant crocodile. A sweet ache stirs in his thighs, as he steps forward and out to straddle the kneeling figure of the vampire below, nudging the head of his cock past those lips. ]
— would you enjoy having your face mounted, Armand?
[ The arched, elegant sound of his voice makes the base way he questions the act that much more filthy. ]
no subject
He hollows his cheeks, relaxes his throat. An advantage Set is soon to discover about face-fucking a vampire: he doesn't need to breathe. Though soft puffs of breath escape him anyway, instinctive reactions of his body he doesn't bother to shut down, assuming Set might enjoy witnessing a struggle. The same for the blood-tinged tears that gather in the corners of his eyes as his jaw stretches to accommodate Set sliding down into his throat, making soft choked noises of effort.
Like this, he can't really nod, but his acceptance is in the way his eyelids flutter, the yearning heiroglyph of his body as he leans into it, bobs his head to take him deeper, aching tongue working as he swallows around him. ]
cw thoughts of dubcon, dissociation, whatever the heck this mentality is
The pleasure in his taking of Set's cock is — well, it is entirely foreign to him. The enjoyment, even as tears of red build in his eyes, lingers there upon him. It is in the suckle of his mouth, the submission of his figure. Yet, how does one come to personally enjoy such an act, though? Does one have to be born for it? Is it a matter of experience, or training, or perhaps — is it a casual lie to assure the other? Is Armand truly looking back at him, aware and alert, or has his mind drifted elsewhere? ( Because Set cannot envision himself in the same position. On his knees, with someone's cock in his mouth. Not again. Not while feeling pleasure of his own. )
He studies Armand like one might look upon an insect, like he wants to peel apart his skin and find the fine filigree of his wings below the shell. Pull open his mouth and look down his throat into the dark hollow of his body.
Instead, he cradles Armand's jaw and feeds him his cock — purring faintly at the physical pleasure of the moment. It feels good for him, even as his mind races at a distance. Holding him steady as he draws his hips back, feeling the slide of his flesh within the wet of Armand's mouth. Then, straddling his face a little closer, he slips a hand into the dark coils of his hair and fucks into him again. A small gasp of pleasure huffed from his own throat, jaw softened. Again. Quicker now. Again, a little harder. ]
cw: see prev tags
A deep, black silence rises up in his mind, a brackish tide that tugs at him as his body takes over, aware only of Set. Each thin breath he manages to pull in is thick with the god's musky scent, sweat and sun-baked stone. Fat thick cock jamming his jaw open, hand fisted in his hair, the ancient power that thrums through the desert god's veins. The pounding of Set's heart, like the clashing of swords, the great drum that blocks out the rest of the world. His own body is a vessel, empty, waiting to be filled, and that's okay. He knows the emptiness. Has long since forgotten how to fight it. Now it brings him comfort, to be gone for a while. To remember what it was like, the fractured times. Younger, softer, more pliable. Before he died and became Armand.
Armand closes his eyes as Set fucks him, lashes fluttering, the renaissance curves of his cheeks wet with joyous tears. ]
no subject
He's like something that Hathor would decorate her temple with. Beautiful, ornate. Something that the goddess of beauty would keep for herself, until the next pretty thing came along to adorn her. Ruining him on his cock is — it feels good. All pretty eyes and clutching mouth, while Set's hips stay slow, steady, deep. As he strokes his fingers down his face, smearing trails of red tears with attentive purpose.
From sharp-eyed predator, to beatific worshipper. What multitudes this one carries. ]
Ease back.
[ As if it's not Set using his face, but Armand driving onto him.
He draws his hips back, wet and aching and regretful already. Ribbons of sand flow continuously, lacing back and forth around Armand's hips. They tighten, little by little, to draw him weightless and powerful across the floor; elevated, levitating the way he had arrived to the door, as Set flicks his tear-stained fingers and casts him on the bed. ]
Not that we need to be comfortable, but I really do not use the bed otherwise.