In Loving Detail
Lady Moon-Chan
AN: This was inspired by the 30smiles prompt table on LJ, specifically set
Beta. The theme was "My apologies..."
What's the connection between that and softcore porn? I have no idea, but
that's what this turned out to be. This is my first time attempting to write
Armand x Marius, so please be gentle with the criticism.
Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own any rights to the Vampire Chronicles,
The Vampire Armand, or Marius de Romanus. This is a non-profit, fan-based work
of fiction.
In Loving Detail
Not for the first time, Armand wondered what had possessed him to agree to this
– modeling for a portrait for Marius, just like old times. No, he knew – he had
wanted the excuse to be close to his Master again, but without any of the
awkwardness, any of the baggage of a more intimate encounter. Childish of him,
but there it was.
It had been foolish, too; these sessions had always been intensely intimate.
And so it was awkward, if only slightly and only for Armand; Marius appeared
intensely focused on the canvas in front of him, except for those brief minutes
where he would tear his eyes away from the canvas to let his eyes rake over
Armand. Awkward was not quite the word for it. 'Nerve-wracking' would be more
appropriate. He felt as he had five centuries ago in Venice – that Marius could
see into his soul.
The room was warm, the couch plush; if he closed his eyes, he could just
imagine that he was back in his Master's palazzo in Venice, and the intervening
five hundred years had been naught but a terrible nightmare. A dangerous flight
of fancy, that; dangerously easy to let himself slip into the role of Amadeo
once more.
"Amadeo."
His eyes snapped open and he glanced over at Marius. For a brief moment, there
was -or seemed to be- something like nervousness in Marius' eyes. But that
couldn't possibly be right – when had his Master ever had cause to be nervous
about anything? Then Marius was setting his brush down and walking over,
frowning slightly. He touched Armand, adjusting the position of his head and
the arrangement of his limbs in minute increments with his strong white hands.
Hands that could so easily crush Armand in this moment if their owner wished,
as easily as they might have crushed him years ago when he was a mortal boy. It
was a struggle for Armand to not tense up under his touch, to not react in any
way and just let Marius adjust his model. Finally, Marius stepped back,
satisfied, and returned to his canvas and paints.
His retreat left Armand feeling inexplicably cold and with half a mind to
follow Marius or call him back, a craving for more of his Master's touch. But
he pushed the desire back, forced himself not to acknowledge it. Armand was a
creature of caution; he did not gamble unless he was reasonably sure he could
win. And the stakes were particularly high here.
"Amadeo, look up."
Armand lifted his chin toward the ceiling obediently, glancing over at Marius
to confirm that he'd interpreted the instruction correctly. Marius regarded him
thoughtfully, then came over again. He knelt beside the chaise longue Armand
was reclined on, cupping his chin in one hand and his cheek in the other.
Armand closed his eyes, letting Marius do what he would. Finally, those hands
stilled, but instead of leaving, as Armand expected, the hand cupping his chin
slid up so that Marius was cupping his face in both hands. Confused, Armand
opened his eyes.
Marius had paused, looking down into Armand's face with the most tender of
expressions. A sharp longing rose within Armand, to close the distance between
them, to kiss his Master. Of old, he had done it often and easily. He lacked
the confidence now. Marius stroked his thumb over Armand's cheek very lightly,
as if he were afraid a more forceful touch might break Armand, and Armand
couldn't be sure it wouldn't. And then Marius kissed him. Once, twice. Armand
was too surprised to react until the third kiss, lips parting in a gasp. And
then he immediately tasted blood, Marius' blood. Armand groaned, tangling his
fingers in Marius' hair and pressing closer to his Master. He wanted more.
Marius indulged him, another stream of blood passing from him to Armand, then
another, and the sweetness of it left Armand reeling.
Then Marius pulled away, despite Armand's grip on him and attempts to pull him
back down. They looked into each other's eyes for a long moment, Armand caught
in a kind of swoon, drunk off Marius' blood and wanting more. He let his eyes
drift down to the pale column of his Master's throat, watching the play of
light and shadows there with not-entirely-lucid interest. Marius directed
Armand's gaze back up until their eyes met again, and lucidity broke over
Armand in a cold, clear wave at the look in Marius' eyes. It was a look Armand
was quite familiar with in his own self, a look of regret. Marius lowered his
head so that his long, straight hair hid his face like a curtain. Blindly -or,
more likely, from memory- he traced the curve of Armand's bottom lip with the
pad of his thumb. "My apologies, Amadeo." Then he drew away completely, leaving
Armand alone and trembling on the chaise.
It wasn't a conscious decision on his part when he rose from the chaise and
followed his Master, clutching at the sleeves of Marius' red jacket. And then
he was at a loss as to what to do. Once, he would have used every trick he knew
to seduce his Master into continuing from where they'd left off on the chaise;
but he couldn't quite summon up the courage, the boldness, to do that now. He
was too flustered still, and too unsure of himself.
As close to Marius as he was, Armand could feel the tension in his Master's
muscles, the shiver that ran down his spine. Marius turned his head, and Armand
could see the fierce hunger barely concealed in his blue eyes. "Amadeo..."
"Marius." It was a new thing to call his Master by name, and Armand decided he
liked it. Especially the way it made Marius' eyes darken with desire. Marius
grabbed his shoulders and leaned down to kiss him once again, and Armand met
him halfway. Marius growled, tugging Armand closer, and he went willingly.
Always before, he had submitted to Marius. Now, though, he attempted to
dominate. The kiss ended, and Armand got another glimpse into heated, hungry
blue eyes before Marius cupped the back of his head and leaned down, sinking
his fangs into Armand's throat. Armand groaned – surprising himself by just how
wanton the sound was – and tangled his fingers in Marius' hair, urging him on.
It was no different than he remembered; the intimate connection, the sensation
of being bitten which was sweetest pleasure tinged around the edges with pain.
Marius' hands crept up his sides, teasing the hem of his shirt further and
further up, then finally tore it open. Armand unwound his arms from Marius'
neck just long enough to shrug off the ruined garment. Against his throat,
Marius' sighed, running his hands over Armand's back, sides, and chest. He
feathered over one of Armand's nipples with his thumb, prompting another wanton
little cry from Armand. Marius lapped at the wound he'd made, and then it was
over and Armand was looking into his Master's eyes once again.
Before Armand could think, he was moving, lowering his mouth to Marius' throat
and biting in. He fumbled with the buttons on Marius' linen shirt, pushing the
jacket off his shoulders. The moment Marius' blood hit his tongue, he was
seeing visions of Venice, of their intimacy, and the happiness they'd shared. I
want all this again. I want you. Armand couldn't be sure which of them the
thought came from, and that frightened him enough that he withdrew his fangs,
closing the connection. He bit his tongue and licked the wounds he'd made,
closing them with his own blood. Then Marius was kissing him again. Armand
nipped at his Master's lip and lapped kittenishly at the blood that trickled
from the wounds.
Marius drew away, holding him at bay by the shoulders when he tried to close
the distance between them once again. Marius was a vision in that moment, hair
mussed up from Armand's fingers in it, eyes blazing with hunger, lips smeared
with blood from their kisses, his jacket hanging off his shoulder, shirt
half-open to reveal a portion of his chest, one faded coral nipple. He smiled
slowly, sensually, so utterly divorced from his usual composed self that he
seemed to be another person entirely. The sight inflamed Armand, and he pressed
forward, trying to kiss Marius again. His Master permitted it for a moment,
then drew away but only barely. His lips still brushed Armand's as he murmured,
"Not here."
"Then where?" Armand realized dimly that he was trembling. "Master... Marius.
Please, I-" he stopped, not quite sure what he was asking for.
"I know, cherub, I know." Marius lifted Armand's hand to his lips and dusted
the knuckles with soft, light kisses. Then he met Armand's eyes and smiled
again, that darkly sensual expression that simultaneously did and did not suit
him. "Come," he said simply, taking Armand's hand and leading him out of the
studio. His grip was loose, but he didn't need to hold tightly; Armand couldn't
have pulled away now if he'd wanted to.
They paused here and there along the hallway to exchange another kiss, and then
another; yes, alright, one more. A trail of clothing left behind marked their
progression along the hall; Marius' jacket just feet from the studio door, his
shirt perhaps a yard beyond that; then Armand's pants, and finally Marius'
pants.
The room Marius lead him to was surreally familiar, though Armand had never
been in it before. Much of the furniture was passingly similar to what he
remembered being in his Master's rooms in Venice, though it was all thoroughly
new and modern. The bed especially was familiar: a large, four-poster affair
decked out in red velvet and gold fringe. Apparently, Marius' tastes hadn't
changed much over the course of five centuries. Armand stepped toward the bed,
his own heartbeat thundering in his ears and painfully conscious that if he
could hear it, then so could Marius. He laid down on the bed, daring a glance
at his Master. Marius joined him, returning his curious gaze with a steady look
and a gentle caress – down his cheek and his neck, and then down his side to
his hip, lightly, ever so pulled Marius down for another kiss, shivering at the
feel of bare skin against bare skin everywhere. Marius sent another stream of
blood from his mouth to Armand's, and Armand arched beneath him, groaning,
biting at his Master's lips and tongue, eager for more.
In the past, Amadeo had always surrendered absolutely to the Master; Armand did
not surrender an inch to Marius, not without a fight. It could have been called
a battle, perhaps, in the same sense that those scenes of such bitter tension
between Coriolanus and Aufidius were battles; a battle between lovers for
sexual dominance. But that was a sort of surrender in itself, because all
caution, all pride, all sense of consequence were tossed to the winds by this
point and without those feelings to hold him back, there was nothing Armand
wouldn't say or do.
But that added to the thrill, in the end; vulnerability and excitement mixing
into the pleasured haze and driving all rational thought from Armand's mind.
And with that, all he could think of was Marius: cool skin and sleek muscles
beneath his hands, long fingers probing what seemed to be every inch of his
body, coaxing him to react and returning again and again to those spots that
elicited the loudest cries, and that slick, teasing mouth that grazed as the
hands did, sometimes kissing ever-so-lightly, sometimes nipping just hard
enough to break the skin and lapping at the blood that welled up. Now Marius
bit into the junction where neck met shoulder, and Armand cried out louder than
he had yet so far; the sting of the bite combined with the sweet caresses
melded into a single sensation, a perfect combination of pain and pleasure, and
Armand fell back against the matress, shuddering. Climax.
He had barely a moment's rest before Marius was covering him again, all slow,
gentle kisses and caresses. Hands still moving – yes, keep going, I want more –
stroking, trying to coax a reaction even now. And Armand could not but react to
the sweet torture. He writhed beneath Marius' touch, even as his own hands
roamed his Master's body, trying to coax a similar reaction out of Marius. He
had never been able when he was mortal, but perhaps now that he knew the
pleasures and the limits of a centuries-old preternatural body himself... It
worked. Marius groaned against his neck, and, locked together as they were,
Armand could feel his Master trembling.
Marius rested his weight on his arms, keeping himself from lying directly on
top of Armand, though his Master's full weight would hardly hurt him now. And
there was enough room between their bodies that Armand could have slithered out
of the bed and left if he wished. But the thought of doing so left as quickly
as it had come, and he was lifting his face to receive the feather-light kisses
Marius was placing on his forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and lips. And Armand could
think of no place he would rather be in this moment than here in his Master's
embrace.
He dozed, and when he woke, though it seemed like it had only been minutes, the
clock and his vampiric senses both told him hours had passed, and there were
only a handful of hours left until dawn. A wave of emotion rose in him
suddenly, love and tenderness mixed with confusion mixed with fear, and Armand
was filled with an instinctual desire to get away. With utmost care not to wake
Marius, utmost stealth, Armand crawled out of the bed.
He pulled a robe out of the closet (red silk, reminding him entirely too much
of the bed he'd just left), threw it on (he couldn't quite remember whether or
not any of his clothes had been left wearable, his mind had been on other
things) and belted it. It was, of course, much too long for him, and too broad
in the shoulders as well, though not to the same degree. But it covered him,
and that was all he cared. Still quiet, still careful not to wake his sleeping
Master, Armand left the room.
Back down the hallway where their clothes were still scattered, pausing before
the studio door. Attracted by a flash of color from within, he stepped inside
and his eyes fell on the painting for the first time. There was no mythological
or fantastical aspect to it; it was simply Armand himself in his reclining
posture on a chaise in the Master's palazzo. The relaxed posture, the tilt of
his head to watch the Master as he painted, was tender and vulnerable and
entirely Amadeo. But he wore all black, and there was a faint hardness to the
expression that he knew belonged to Armand alone – except for the eyes, which
were tender and cruel and sad all in one, a perfect blending of who he was and
who he had been, and the whole was rendered in loving detail.
Armand fell into contemplating the painting, the colors used, the deft
brushstrokes, each element by itself and then the picture as a whole. He
covered his eyes for a moment, then uncovered them to look on the painting once
again. It was beautiful. It was not Marius' master work (in fact, it couldn't
even compare to some of the paintings he remembered from the Venetian palazzo),
but it was made awe-inspiring by the obvious tenderness every last small detail
of the painting had been rendered with.
Absorbed as he was in his study of the painting, Armand missed the sound of
footsteps on the carpet of the hallway and the faint creak of the studio door
as it opened fully. He jumped when Marius' arms encircled him, caught
off-guard. Marius laughed softly and kissed his hair. "Were you planning on
leaving without saying goodbye, Amadeo?" Marius' tone was very light and
teasing, but the shame welled up within him and prevented him from answering.
But it seemed Marius gleaned the truth from his silence, and he stepped away,
off to the side so that Armand could read the disappointment on his face. It
was as if he'd plucked the truth from Armand's mind, as he'd done so easily and
so often when Armand was a mortal boy. Marius was not looking at him, and
simply looked at the painting in front of them. Armand was stung, unexpectedly
so, by the silence and by the rejection it contained. You wanted to leave
without saying a word, so do so. Armand bit his lip, felt blood tears wanting
to spring up but blinked them back, feeling childish and hating it. "I'm sorry,
Master. But I-" I was afraid.
Marius turned to him then, cupping his cheek tenderly. The look in his eyes was
warm, tender, but infinitely sad. "Amadeo," he murmured, stroking his thumb
over Armand's cheek, "why?"
"I was frightened."
"Of what?"
Armand couldn't make the words form. His own caution, his own habitual need to
control and dominate so that he would never again be vulnerable, was coming
between them now and he hated it. He wished he could be the simple-minded child
again just for a moment, that Venetian princeling who trusted his Master
completely and had faith enough to believe that he would never be without his
Master's love. He wished he could be that instead of the hurting, mistrustful
creature that he was, just long enough to speak what was in his heart. But he
couldn't, and so finally he had to break eye contact. "I think you could guess,
Sir, if you wished."
Marius cupped his chin, forcing Armand to look into his eyes again. "Perhaps.
But I would prefer it if you told me." A look of gentle amusement crept into
his eyes. "Why so hesitant, Amadeo? You were never afraid of my anger before,
my insolent one."
"But I never sought it, either. I could never stand it if you were angry with
me, Master." Marius nodded, resting his forehead against Armand's, and Armand
got the feeling again that Marius could see into his soul. "Tell me, Amadeo.
You need not be afraid," he said, softly and persuasively.
But the words he wanted to say wouldn't come. Armand wished he could simply
open his mind to Marius and let him simply read the thoughts therein. But that
was, of course, impossible, so he struggled for the words. What finally came
out of his mouth was, "Mea maxima culpa, Master." And with that, the dam broke.
"For not being strong enough... for the boys..." The demons he'd been wrestling
with for centuries now, even when he told himself otherwise. And Marius
couldn't have been more surprised than he was himself at the question that
escaped him in a broken whisper. "Why do you love me?"
Marius' steady blue eyes widened, filled with sorrow, then he shook his head,
kissing Armand's forehead. "Not your fault, tesoro." Then he kissed Armand's
lips lightly and chastely. Armand rested his hands on Marius' shoulders and
leaned against his chest. Marius' arms wrapped around him, and then the kiss
ended.
Armand shifted, wrapping his arms around Marius and burying his face in his
Master's neck. He felt... oddly light, absolved. Some of the weight taken from
the burden he carried in his soul, the guilt and grief he'd half-convinced
himself didn't exist. Then Marius kissed him again, and all thought lost focus
as he tasted Marius' blood on his lips and tongue. It was as Marius had said
once, long ago: all things were resolved in him. All things were resolved in
his love.
