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QIMIR

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[snaggleteeth]

['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.

cw: child sexual abuse, child slavery, dissociation

[nishtha]

[ 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.

[snaggleteeth]

[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?