snaggleteeth | Saltburnt Inbox

[there's familiarity to it—the feeling of being ... what. hunted? he makes bad prey, he believes.

i didn't get to choose before.

don't you want your chance to do so, now?

prey would know when to run. in the right direction. instead, a lilt of his hand in the air opens the door. a jab of his elbow evens out the pillow deformed by his inelegant slouch.]

[ Showing off, a little, a display of strength and skill returned: beside that open door, just empty air. Then, a moment later, a shiver of speed and there's Armand, already closing it behind him -- though not before Babou slides into the room, the ocelot flowing into the gap.

The vampire is dressed in layers; modern cut charcoal kurta pajamas and soft shoes, a touch of gold in the collar at his throat and glinting off the rings on his fingers. He regards the man on the bed thoughtfully, a guarded interest in his expression, not unlike the jungle cat winding behind his calves. ]

Amadeo was never given a choice. [ A faint accent on the name, Italian-style. He approaches the bed, slowly. ] But you would have preferred if he had. You can't change what they did to him. But would it make you feel better about what you did to him, if I chose you? Is it guilt in you, or ego? A chance to save that boy, or to show him that you would be the better Master?

Edited (word vanity) 2026-02-02 11:30 (UTC)

[the cat elicits more interest than, perhaps, it should. the stranger's eyes go to it for a long moment, delaying the next thoughtful blink of fringey lashes. then his gaze shifts back to the vampire. he is reclining on his bed, pajamas of his own choice, off-white—a good choice for contrast against blood as long as it's fresh. the cut vaguely japanese in sensibility, though he doesn't think of them that way.

he doesn't think of most things from earth the common way, he's found. it makes consensual reality shaky and fraught with tension. that much, admittedly, isn't new. but now, he tosses aside his phone. sits up. sifting through the wide basket of questions put to him, recognizing that none of them are the question, because that one exists, no doubt, between armand and someone else. someone from a long time ago, a galaxy far, far away. 'qimir' looks at him with a friendly squint in his eyes.

and then an upturned hand, offered.]

I've never met someone who believes so little in freedom and so much in desire. Most of us, at least, like to pretend about liberation through the body.

[ A winding way to end up in front of someone, from blackout to text messages to mind-to-mind contact and now here in the room, where Armand can hear the steady thump of his heart and smell the warmth of his blood under his skin. There's a temptation to venture further into Qimir's thoughts, but Armand resists it for the moment, content to let them make themselves known -- or not. He doesn't imagine the other man will let anything leak through unless he means to.

Which makes the offered hand even more interesting. Armand moves slowly closer, but Babou goes ahead of him, leaping easily from floor to bed, emitting a low groaning noise of curiosity, closer to a growl than a meow. The ocelot isn't shy about climbing over Qimir's legs to reach that offered hand so he can sniff and lick at the outstretched fingers, provided they remain offered to him.

His master and the other half of his small and wild soul pauses beside the bed, watching the pair of them. ]

I've had very little experience of freedom. And far more of desire. It's been a long time since my body solely belonged to me.

[ A necessary distance; his vessel and instrument, but not his alone. Belonging to the coven, to his Master, to the brothel, and to God and Satan and the darkness. He purses his lips thoughtfully, fingers idly fidgeting at his side, running the points of his nails back and forth over the pad of his thumb. ]

A very long time.

[is this what hesitation looks like on a vampire? the stranger would be mystified, but confusion is a waste of sentiment between the walls of this horror house. instead, he lets the ocelot's whispers trace fine lines of sensation across his fingers. empties his mind, so he doesn't have to wish that it was vampire fangs or fingernails instead. you come into every world with nothing. if you're lucky, you live hard enough to leave with even less.

the jedi are good at humility. he is good at bastardizing it. thoughts clad not in armor, but a loving depth of nothing. a present-focus. he runs his hand over the rosetted dome of the ocelot's head.]

You know of my students. [not a question.] You know I fuck around, breathe, eat, want what ordinary men want. Congratulations. [there's a playful, boyish dare in his glance up, as if, as if armand would deny it. his blunt nails are very slow, almost cautious, following the serpentine ridge of vertebrates down the cat's spine.] You've won the chance not to care. [hands off the cat, finally. just the creature on his legs. in range to go for the throat. a countdown has started, somewhere, behind the stranger's pretext of patience, his little smile not unkind.]

Doesn't the animal of your body tell you anything? Is it only good for sacrifice?

[ The other half of the cat's soul in undead bone and flesh, a shiver of something undefinable rolls down Armand's back at the pass of the man's hand over his ocelot's spine. His pupils bloom in black relief against his orange irises, widening with feline interest, an invisible tail flicking in echo to the one his cat possesses. Babou flows off the man's lap to the bed beside him, ceding the territory to his older brother. Armand steps closer to the bed, until his knees bump against the mattress. ]

It has skills. Many skills. It remembers pleasure.

[ His frown is softer this time, a little wonder in it. His turn to extend his hand, graceful fingers lightly curled palm up, towards Qimir -- for whatever he wants to do with it. ]

['qimir's hand, when it arrives, is a contrast. chalky to the earthen glow of armand's skin, callused in a particular way.

he draws armand closer, close, down to the bed. armand's soft-focus face, the tremulous connection with the feline on the mattress, tasted with instruments of analysis tenderer than his tongue. he would like to know more. he doesn't ask. instead, a crack opens in the bulwark of his mental defenses.

he was held, once. more than once. by firm arms, a circle of golden sleeves. desire, longing, secret fear not prohibited so much as—irrelevant, at the time; in hindsight, the mess of it warped with pain so thoroughly that only the stark, flashbulb reality of physical detail remains with reliability. some of the robes clothed humans. some did not. a woman with green skin touched him but rarely. yet all of them offered companionship. no more, not less. and the want of that, rotted with lust and rank with ambition, is still not gone from him yet.

he drags armand against his chest. shapes his lip to the austere line of the vampire's brow. inhales, for a chance vapor of blood sweat.]

You don't have to pretend no one ever paid for this, too. But I have no money for you.

[ That seemingly sun-warmed skin is cool as a corpse to the touch, but Qimir doesn't seem to care, as he hadn't cared when he'd spread Amadeo's legs and paid homage to ancient scars. Armand doesn't remember it, but he remembers, as Qimir does, the alien arms around him. Solace and desire in complicated harmony, rituals and unknown magics no replacement for the mammalian need for contact and community. He sighs and trembles a little with it as he's dragged down, all his aloof confidence melting away, becoming long and pliant as he climbs onto the mattress and sinks down.

Warmth. Mortal bodies are always so warm, full of the steady thumping and tidal surges of blood. Noisy, vulnerable things; Armand curls his fingers into Qimir's shirt and hitche one knee up a little, resting it on top of Qimir's leg as he listens to the beat of his heart and the tide of his thoughts. ]

Sometimes. [ He starts and stops, then starts again. His hand flexes, then relaxes, flattening out over Qimir's chest as it rises and falls, rises and falls. ] Sometime all they wanted was a pretty boy to play music. He was taught the lyre and the lap harp. Or to sit and be an ornament for the table, or a muse for a work of masterful hands. They would talk, but never to him. Just about him.

[like you are, now, talking about him? the stranger does not let this minnow slip into the psychic flow. he has a bad habit of taking his oaths seriously. sure, he'd only described himself as curious, as interested in armand beyond sex. he'd hardly done so down on one knee, in a sanctum, following writ of binding order or known ritual. but those formalities are fucking stupid, anyway.

he doesn't hurt people or break things for the sake of harm itself. it's not a rule. just gravity. makes a well you can rest in.

his heartbeat mumbles promises in armand's ear: something about bearing witness, about acceptance, about not leaving. not anytime soon. not unless some vampire cuts those fingers through his ribs and personally punctuates the matter. the shape of 'qimir's thoughts is easy. he has not seen a lap harp. but he can imagine the boy. pictures amadeo's face brown-eyed with humanity, his tempting ponytail, an imagination free of treachery. but it's armand's kneecap that his finger circles.]

What would he have liked to play instead? Did he think about it?

Saltburnt Inbox

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: child sexual abuse, child slavery, dissociation

no subject