In a Mirror Darkly

---

Newt didn't go out much these days, for numerous and varied reasons really. The most pressing of these, of course, was his want to avoid being spotted by August, whom he did not doubt was out there somewhere, in London, stalking the streets with just the faintest hope of catching a glimpse of the lanky 'young' man. It had been years since they'd spotted each other last, and he wanted to continue the streak. There was also the matter of his general social ineptness too though, and the fact that he didn't like to leave his house guests unattended for too long. Who knew what thug or nosy landlady might decide to just let themselves in? It would be a disaster! Even if he did keep them in the lovely, mirrored closet while he was away, someone was bound to look there eventually, if they broke in. They'd get quite a shock, finding the little space mirrored from floor to ceiling, and above. Hundreds of repeating reflections of their shocked, wan face and the slack, waxen features of whoever he'd brought home a few nights ago bouncing back at them in mockery. No, no, it was best to just avoid this situation. So he didn't go out much, and when he did, it was only for a few hours at a time, usually looking for someone else to take home.

That was the case on the night that actually found London being dusted with a fairly heavy dose of snow -of all things. Heavy by London's standards anyway. A few inches already, which was nothing compared to how he remembered the weather when he was alive. Once upon a time, they'd gotten feet of snow at once. Now London was a chicken with it's head cut off at even the whisper of chance of snowfall. Newt didn't mind the stuff. It gave the otherwise dirty city a sort of clean, magical feeling to it. All the filth in the gutters was blanketed in pristine, storybook white, and you could almost forget that there was a used condom lying next to the drain if you couldn't see it. Almost.

His spirits were relatively high despite the evening's failure to produce a playmate. He'd weirded out too many people and wound up going home alone, which was fairly commonplace. The snow was like a quiet consolation prize though, and he was smiling faintly as he slugged up two flights of stairs, to his door. There was a brief jangling of keys, and then he let himself inside, a bag of chinese take-out hanging from his hand. Amazingly, he didn't notice that the living room was already occupied as he strode right through it, toward the kitchen. It was hard not to notice too, when every wall and corner was reflecting the familiar face back at him. There goes captain oblivious, whistling a little 80s tune. He had a mission, and that mission involved eating an entire container of Moo Goo Gai Pan before dragging his old playmate out of storage for a quiet night in. It was only after he'd been in the kitchen for a few seconds that he brain caught up. The meal was out of the plastic bag, ready to be opened and consumed, by the time his head suddenly jerked upright on the stem of his neck. What was... did I? He turned quickly around and skittered back to the doorway, staring into the living room right at him.

"Oh, for fu... What are... Why are you here? How did you get in?" Stupid questions really. When there was a will, there was a way. And August had always had will in abundance. Newt's greeting wasn't exactly the most... polite. But then it was hard to be polite to the man who'd basically kept you a prisoner in his fucked up love story fantasy house for years and years.

---

August Blackwood did have will in abundance, and it had only been a matter of time before that will led him to the one place in the world he wanted to find - Newt's residence. By the time he found it, the location seemed so bloody obvious he wanted to kick himself for not figuring it out sooner. Unfortunately, August couldn't figure out the logistics of kicking oneself with any measure of success, so he settled for a hearty self-scolding instead, mumbling insults to his own person as he let himself into Newt's spare, heavily-mirrored flat and stretched out on the floor of the front room. Curiously, he tilted his head this way and that as he studied his reflection on the ceiling, inspecting the fine bone structure that hadn't changed over time, the silken black hair that pooled around his shoulders like ink, the patrician nose. August was too infatuated with his long-lost fledgling to think much of himself, but he recognized his features as being handsome in a distant, distracted sort of way. A fine-looking fellow, if I do say so myself, he thought absent-mindedly, but not the one I came to see. Where is that damnable boy anyway?

It didn't matter. August would wait as long as he had to for Newt, just as he always had, and when he got tired of waiting, he would take matters into his own hands. But there was no need for that just now. Newt had to come home sooner rather than later, and he would because the last thing he'd be expecting upon arrival was the presence of his eccentric - that was one word for it - sire. August smiled at himself, a half-crazed wisp of a thing, as he tried to picture the look on Newt's face when he walked through the door. His reaction could go any number of ways, and though it didn't seem likely he'd be particularly pleased to see the older gentleman, maybe, just maybe, time, distance, and absence had changed his mind. Besides, it wasn't like August was planning to knock him out, tie him up, and drag him back to his place...yet. He'd come to Newt now, and with the tables turned, surely he'd be in a more forgiving state of mind this time around?

Newt's flat was everything he'd imagined it to be - humble, sparsely furnished, and decked out in mirrors. He didn't have to go beyond the sitting room to see that... not that it offered much in the way of seating, but there was plenty of floorspace to occupy. It wasn't on par with August's usual way of living, but he tolerated the boy's eccentricities because heaven knew he had enough of his own. The thought that there might be a corpse currently sharing the small space with him made his smile turn into an embittered, puckered frown, as if he was tasting something awful, but maybe that was just the lingering aftertaste of the bum he'd fed on in the next alley over. No, no, August was used to settling for less than he deserved in the way of blood these days, but what he definitely couldn't stomach was the thought that Newt still preferred stiff dead bodies to a pliant living one. Living in the loosest sense of the word, anyway. August wasn't sure that he really lived in the strictest sense of it, but he was still here, still carrying on though existence had lost most of its sparkle and shine. It wasn't worth much, but it was something.

Ah, yes, there was the sound he wanted to hear - keys jingling outside the door, the smooth slide of one inserting itself into the lock and turning the tumblers. Eager as a puppy, August jerked himself up into a sitting position and perched in the center of the floor, legs crossed Indian-style, as if he had all the time and patience in the world, and in a way, he did. His own image reflected back to him from myriad shining surfaces as Newt... strode right on past him, oblivious to the dark, liquid eyes turned his way from every conceivable angle. August blinked and watched him go, the fragrant aroma of Asian cuisine trailing him into the kitchen. Briefly, he considered getting up and cornering him in there, but what was the point? Newt would notice him, if he hadn't already and just worked the vision of August's many faces up to a trick of the light. Soon, he'd see that his eyes weren't deceiving him at all. August's satisfaction came a moment later when the young man retraced his steps into the living room, balking. "I have my ways," he trilled in response to the question, waving elegant fingers through the air as if he was conducting a silent orchestra. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

---

"Well, let's see..." Newt took up a likely familiar posture of hands on hips that were canted to one side in a manner that looked more impatient on his lanky frame than seductive, and settled a down-turned gaze on the man sitting in the middle of his living room. "I've spent the last three years trying to avoid you, actually. So am I pleased to see you..?" No. No, he wasn't overly. Bit of an understatement, actually. But at least you're not alon- Oh yeah, that boy in the closet... Balls! "There's a dead boy in the closet," he blurted, and huffed impatiently, his hands falling from his hips as he took a leisurely pace across the living room, toward August. Stopping at a 'respectable' distance, which seemed a little silly given their history, he once again stared down at him, almost in reprimand. No, not almost. "I was going to eat Moo Goo Gai Pan and then fuck him on the bathroom floor." Abashed? No, not Newt. Not at this point. And besides, he knew it got under August's skin, which considering all the crap the man had put him through seemed fair. Quid pro quo, Clarice. Or something like that. "I had a whole night planned." Only, not. The plan had been to bring someone else home to join the party actually. If he could. He probably should get rid of whatshisname first, but he wasn't totally done yet. And maybe he could keep two around for a while. A little three-way action?

"Still, since you're here anyway, maybe you can join us." Pearly white teeth caught the light in a brief flash of a sarcastic grin. He knew August wasn't into that sort of thing. From the dour look that was no doubt on his face by that point, he knew it was probably touching a nerve, actually. Which had been the point. A little salt in the wound before some angry make-up sex on the living room floor. And then he'd leg it before morning, like he always did, and disappear into the aether for another three years. Maybe I should move to Australia. As long as the air conditioning's good. Definitely cut the shelf life down considerably otherwise... "I'd offer you some Moo Goo Gai Pan, but I intend to eat it all later, since you interrupted my plans for the evening. But, since you're here, I suppose you may as well stay for a bit." His mind derailing to various scenarios they could get into, he glanced up at the array of mirrors surrounding them. It was true. He wasn't alone at least. A moving, willing body really did beat a slack, room temperature one if you wanted to really get into anything. That was where the mirror part came in. It was just better with two animated bodies. He didn't even mind being tied up, if he had a clear enough view... And if the person doing the tying was actually going to untie him afterwards rather than jam him into the trunk of a car and drive off to their house in the suburbs.

A good portion of Newt's life had been spent with August. Decades upon decades, it seemed. He'd weathered the wars with the man and his eccentric, crumbling house, dodging Nazi shells when they threatened to level London. There had been some genuinely good times amongst the innumerable bad, and on occasion, he found himself missing it. That was before he kicked himself, anyway. Eventually, being watched and adored all of the time grated on a man's sanity, and it was questionable as to whether Newt had had much of that to begin with. The afterlife had been rather unkind to him, it seemed, and all of the crazy had come out of the woodwork within the span of a few years. Maybe it was August's fault, or maybe he was just reborn that way. Nights of being restrained so he wouldn't run like he'd threatened to had taught him to live inside of his head a lot of the time, and all that had ever really come out was more twisted forms of lust, things people oughtn't to be fantasising about. Once he was free of it all, he'd indulged on a more and more frequent basis until it was to the point -where he was now- where sleeping in his flat without another body -dead or alive, take your pick- was almost unbearable. Perhaps, at the end of the day, he was lonely after all.

"I'm not going back, by the way, if that's what you're thinking. Took me forever to collect all these." He gestured to the mirrors surrounding them, and then closed a little of the gap that separated the two vampires from one another. Ducking into a crouch, he put himself more at August's level, and peered at him with those dream-like, powder blue eyes. They had always looked so innocent when he was alive. Now there was something faintly sullied beneath the glaze of virtue. The canker in the rose. Wasn't that the way with their kind though? "But... if you fancy a tumble I can delay my plans for a few hours..." Familiar flesh. Familiar hands and lips and passionately contorted positions. There was something to be said of love, that was for sure. Newt was fairly certain that August did in fact love him. He'd said so enough times, and he just kept on coming back. There was a fire that love gave to a rendezvous that couldn't be replicated in one night stands. Their souls already knew each other. They each knew the little quirks and preferences of each other. Essentially, they knew what the other liked, and how to satisfy them. You couldn't buy that, or find it anywhere else. But did Newt love August? He wasn't really sure. All he knew was that he'd felt true hatred for the other man more often than he'd felt real warmth. But they said there was a fine line between love and hate. Regardless of either, he did want him. At least for now, in a non-committal, please-don't-cuff-me-to-the-radiator-again kind of way.

"I'll even keep the dead boy in the closet..."

---

August rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose. A dead body in the closet. He wasn't surprised, to be sure, but he was nonetheless disgusted by the confession, clearly intended to provoke. "Ugh, of course you do. Old habits die hard." He paused to titter at the accidental pun. How very fitting. "Tell me, what is it about the dead that you find so appealing? What does a dead boy have that I don't? Wait, don't answer that question." Was it true that the certifiably insane didn't know they were crazy? And if that was the case, did that mean August wasn't completely mad after all? He knew he wasn't the best companion for another of his kind, knew that his passions were too wild and pronounced for most to tolerate, but at the end of the day, was he really that bad? Had his company always been so unsavory that he'd driven Newt to this, living alone in a flat full of mirrors and a corpse in the cupboard? These kinds of questions often went deliberately ignored by the static tangle of August's fractured mind, but he gave pause to consider them for a brief moment as he peered at Newt's face, trying to see where he'd failed him, where he'd gone wrong. He wouldn't be any vampire's first choice for a sire, he knew. He had a reputation for being a loner and an eccentric in death just as he had been in life, and his eternal desperation for a loving companion had moved him to do some terrible, awful, despicable things, most of those to the very man standing in the room with him. Even knowing that, he offered up a silent plea to anything in Newt's spirit that might remain beholden to him on some level. Do anything but cast me out. Kick me, hit me, spit on me, laugh in my face, but don't make me go. I've waited so long to see you.

"You... were going to fuck him... on the bathroom floor," August repeated, the words crisp, sharp, and hollow as he enunciated them one by one. "I say, that does sound dreeeeeeadfully romantic, but you know my feelings on the dead. They're no use to me once they've stopped breathing." The grimace of distaste wasn't completely gone from his face yet. He didn't want to imagine Newt heaving on top of some rigid, bloodless young man, no manner how many times he'd caught him at it in the past. It had been a bone of contention between he and his fledgling when they'd both been living in August's decrepit manor home in the country just outside of London, but he'd loosely tolerated the behavior in an effort to keep the other close, to keep him from wanting to leave. It wasn't as if August had been willing to let him leave anyway, but the younger was clever, slippery, near as tricky as August himself, and he couldn't help but adore him for that even if it forced him to shackle him to the radiator on more than one occasion. He couldn't fathom why Newt had ever wanted to leave in the first place. Hadn't he given him everything? He'd taken him in off the streets when he had no place else to go, provided him with a home and a job, food to fill his belly, and while it was true that August hadn't really seen him until he'd worked his way up the ranks, once he did, he found he couldn't look away, and then he'd wanted to give him more. August was willing to grant Newt anything but his freedom, and wasn't that a small price to pay considering he was the one responsible for bestowing this life upon him? August was the only reason Newt was alive now, and at the very least, wasn't that worth some measure of gratitude?

"You don't have to go back," August murmured, smiling wistfully. "I don't live at Blackwood Manor anymore. It remains under my ownership and I still visit it from time to time, but I have a home in Kensington now. The top floor, all to myself. See, I'm finally catching up to the modern world. You should be proud of me." What August didn't say was that his primary motivation to move house a year ago had been so he could hunt for Newt with greater ease, prioritizing his time a little better. He'd acknowledged the possibility that his fledgling was no longer in London, but believed he would have felt it in his bones if it had been true. For better or worse, August and Newt were linked inextricably, bound by blood, and for that reason the latter could never go too far away without the former knowing about it. He might not be able to pinpoint his exact location, but he knew when he was getting closer. Earlier that night, as August had passed Newt's apartment block, an alarm had cried out within him, urgent, beating behind his temples and making him double back to study the building with greater care. He'd sent feelers out, the tendrils of his mind slithering under doorways and through cracks in the walls until he'd found Newt's signature hidden somewhere in the maze. It was funny; he'd been down this road innumerable times before without being alerted, but perhaps he hadn't been paying enough attention all those other times. It was true that August tended to get so lost in his own head that he often failed to notice what was going on around him. Nostalgic would overtake him at the strangest moments, and before he knew it, he'd be seated at the edge of a pond in Hyde Park wondering how he got there. His feet had carried him, of course, but he couldn't remember the journey. He would have thought his mind was failing him if he didn't know his own penchant for distraction.

"The mirrors are a nice touch. Kinky." He smothered a giggle, the fingers of one hand splayed against his lips as he considered Newt's... proposition. He was close enough to touch now, to reach out and grab, and August was sorely tempted to do so. It had been a lonely three years without his protege, and while he hadn't been entirely abstinent during that time, all the boys he'd ever brought home were painstakingly-selected for their likeness to Newt. August had never really wanted anyone else, once he'd known him, and even before that he hadn't desired much. When he should have been out making social calls, he'd stayed home instead, far more interested in pulling things apart to see how they worked than courting suitable young women or hunting with his father's friends. Once his parents had gone on to the great beyond, both dead of influenza within the space of the same month, he'd become even less interested in the things able young men of his age were supposed to give a damn about. Not long after that, he'd become a vampire, and in a way, it had been a blessing in disguise... He'd faked his own death, closed up the manor house, and lived there alone with only his remaining staff for company until the night Newt had come along. He hadn't realized it at the time, but something had stirred inside of him then, something that would never rest for as long as he continued to draw breath: his passion, his joie de vivre, his reason for carrying on when the whole charade seemed pointless.

Now, he was being invited to stay by the one person who had given him his purpose... and who also hated his guts. It was safe to say he hadn't expected it, so the look of surprise on his face was genuine, almost comical. August was the master of exaggeration - no one could ever accuse him of not being able to tell what he was thinking or feeling, and he considered that a merit even if it bit him in the ass sometimes. "Do you mean it?" He breathed, trembling fingers seeking purchase in the front of Newt's shirt to pull him closer with barely-concealed strength. "You had better mean it, sweetling, or I'm going to be very pissed off." August didn't know why he was delaying. He had envisioned their next meeting many times over, and it had never begun this way, not with hesitation on his part. In his visions, he fell upon Newt without consideration as to what the other man would want, crushing his lips like the petals of a rose, arranging his limbs until they were displayed prettily beneath him, taking him by force if necessary. He supposed that maybe that wasn't what he wanted after all, not when it had been so long. It would be nice to know that Newt genuinely desired this too, even if he didn't plan on letting him stick around after. His bruised ego could use the affirmation.

---

"Of course I mean it." Newt leaned forward a little and half fell to his knees because of it, his balance thrown off when a trembling hand caught his shirt. The possessiveness of the gesture was not lost on him, but right now he couldn't seem to care. Nor did he care about August's warning. A pissed off August was a... crazy August, in his opinion. Insufferable was another word for it. "I would've leapt out the window by now if I didn't. The thought did cross my mind though." And that was true enough. His immediate gut reaction to being discovered was to run as fast as his long legs could carry him, and pray that for some reason -which seemed horribly unlikely- August would not be able to keep up. It would probably be a foolish move anyway. There was no way he could outrun August now, so he might as well make the most of it, and his mind was already investigating its darkest, most sordid corners, inquisitive as a snake disturbing the cobwebs. It had been a good few nights since he'd had someone here who... well, moved, frankly. Some part of Newt sang to August too, and ached when he was away. Perhaps it was just the remnants of August's blood in his veins, or simply the sheer weight of the years they had spent side by side. It's Stockholm Syndrome, you fucking loon. Maybe.

Whatever it was, Newt was no stranger to indulgence, and the damage here was already done. It had been done the moment August found him. No use crying over spilt milk. The bones in his knees creaked inaudibly beneath the skin, grinding into the bare floor in a way that was not at all unpleasant. Sometimes he'd wondered about the mirrors himself, and what exactly it was about them that turned him on so. He'd read it was due to a narcissus complex, but that just didn't seem to fit with him. He didn't admire his reflection like a work of art, some glorious adonis cast of fine marble and spun bronze for hair. If anything -as with most things to do with Newt- it was more sordid even than that. He leaned more toward the submissive spectrum when it came to other kinks, and it was more seeing himself put upon that did it for him. There was something degrading about it, about seeing himself, something sullied and gritty. In a word, it just did it for him. And now the idea that experienced hands would be aiding that was doing it for him to. August already knew what he liked, so it completely negated the necessity to explain it, or make encouraging or discouraging noises during. It was free and easy, minus the free part. Actually, this is a fucking disaster. But I'll think about that later.

Eager, hungry fingers found August's knees first, and raked a smooth line up the insides of his thighs. August would be hard pressed to ever find Newt completely unwilling, except for those few times when he had been genuinely pissed off at him and had tried to turn a cold shoulder. The result had been a flailing of limbs, wrestling for dominance. Newt's had been dedicated to the idea of hurting August in some way, where August's had seemed only to want to capture his and stop them, try to force them into stillness and compliance. Even then, it had still done it for him, just a little bit, but he'd been far too defiant to ever admit it, far too angry to realise or to find release. Just stop smothering me! Leave me alone! I don't belong to you! None of that mattered right now. Only their hundreds of reflections in diligently polished mirror surfaces. The desperate frustration he had felt all those years ago seemed like a distant dream now, fashioned of crumbling limestone columns and peeling, antique wallpaper, desiccated roses in vases of primordial ooze. He had loved that house for whatever reason. Endless hallways and rooms to explore all over again, even when he already knew them by heart. Dust-slicked and threadbare coverlets on sagging mattresses in the spare rooms. Everything had seemed so ghostly, like some magical horror scene from a Dickens novel he couldn't remember now. The crumbling plaster had clung to his hair like ethereal snow, filled his nose and lungs with the tang of decay. It was hardly a wonder he'd wound up enjoying keeping his house guests around past their expiry date, in a place like that. Maybe he'd learned the trait from August, who couldn't seem to let his own eternal house guest go either.

He almost wanted to say I missed you as he leaned up to August's face, his weight planted on the hands on the other vampire's thighs, and on his knees grinding against the floorboards. The words couldn't seem to come though. He wasn't sure the sentiment was actually true, or if it was just lust speaking gibberish again. He'd been known to say all sorts of appeasing, romantic things when he wanted something badly enough. I love you. He couldn't remember exactly when those words had passed his lips now, but he was fairly certain they had been a lie tossed about in the heat of the moment, head down and eyes on mirrors. He'd seen his own bruised mouth form the words, and it had seemed like he was watching someone else for a few seconds. Where had they come from? Perhaps he'd been possessed. They had been a disaster. Gasoline on the flames. While the heated moment had lasted, he'd forgotten about them, but it didn't seem like August ever would. Now he shoved all those gushy, fake sentiments aside, and pushed his mouth against August's hungrily, sliding his lips to the corner of his mouth, along his cheek and to where jaw met ear. "If you stay, you have to fuck me though, before I go mad."

---

Fuck. It was such an... ugly word, for starters. Inappropriate. Unnecessary. August didn't care for the modern language very much. It had been bastardized since he'd been a youth, twisted, reshaped, and reformed into something he hardly recognized now. The internet was the worst culprit, he thought. August didn't know his way around a computer very well, but he knew the basics, occasionally visiting an internet cafe or library to use one for research, though he much preferred the older ways of doing things. When he bothered to familiarize himself with happenings throughout the country and the rest of the world - which wasn't often - he picked up a newspaper, taking his time to savor the smell of the ink and the texture of raised print beneath his fingertips. The light hurt his eyes if he stared at a computer or television screen for too long. Modern technology was a marvel, to be sure, and August was fascinated by how it all worked, but that was about the extent of his interest in it. It pained him to hear Newt use the current dialect so carelessly, as if he'd always been a child of this age. He wasn't, of course, but he'd lost his roots somewhere in the quicksand of time. Perhaps he didn't care to think about the past because so much of it had been spent with August. He'd made it clear enough, several times over, that he had no wish to return to those days. August longed for them all the time, naturally. Things had been simpler then, just the two of them against the world...

He couldn't stay mad at Newt for his choice of verb, even if he found it distasteful. August knew what he meant and wanted it very much, though he would have expressed his desire in a different, more eloquent, way. He was no long-suffering poet composing verse by the light of an oil lamp, but the language of his age still called to him, seducing him with its elegance and romance. It was a shame Newt didn't feel the same, but deep down August knew they would always be fundamentally different in ways, and though he didn't have to like it, he tolerated it as best as he could. What other choice did he have? It was either that or let him slip away, into the night to find a partner who wouldn't talk back, and August wasn't willing to let that happen now that he'd found him after three long, torturous years of self-imposed solitude. He didn't have a plan on how to keep him yet, but one would come to him, he was sure, when he wasn't so blinded by the immediacy of lust.

Nimble fingers released their unbreakable grip on the front of Newt's shirt as the younger vampire's hands slid up the insides of his thighs, making his muscles twitch and breath shiver in the air between them. He closed his eyes, hands describing a path up Newt's torso to his shoulders, the bones feeling oh-so-fragile and bird thin where they shifted beneath alabaster flesh and the weight of August's palms. He thought about what Newt had said, about being tempted to jump out the window, and was glad that he'd decided against it. His biggest fear for tonight had been that Newt would take one panicked glance at him and bolt without looking back. If so, would he have had the heart to chase him? He supposed he would have. He'd been looking for him for too long, after all, to let him slip away so easily. August was going to get what he wanted one way or another, and it would be so much easier if Newt was willing to come along for the ride.

Now that he seemed compliant enough to spend the night in August's arms, he wondered what it would be like this time. No two tumbles had ever been the same for them, though the theme stayed roughly the same. Newt was kinky in a way August didn't know if he could do without anymore. Growing up as a gentleman at Blackwood Manor, it had never crossed his mind that lovemaking should be enjoyable or anything other than vanilla. It was just something one did with one's spouse in order to bear children and carry on the good family name. If he was honest with himself, he'd always found the notion a little unsavory, and it took him many years to realize that it was because he wasn't interested in women at all. No women aside from his mother, at least, and he hadn't been interested in her in that way. That was too fucked up even for August, who found it perfectly reasonable to keep a young man captive in his home because the world was unsafe and the thought of being without him made him feel as if he might perish. He had not existed before Newt came into his life, only ran through the motions of everyday because it was what was expected of him. He didn't want to go back to that way of living; he'd hardly call it "living" at all, actually.

But this... this was. This was living at its finest, at its height, this delicious sexual tension, this unbreakable connection he couldn't replicate with anyone but this boy. Only he wasn't a boy anymore. August sometimes forgot that, but he remembered it now as he recalled their various other times together. Newt's passions, as twisted and perverted as they were, were not the passions of a boy, but of a man; an immature, infuriating man, perhaps, but a man all the same, who knew what he liked and would stop at nothing to get it. August admired that, because he functioned no differently, and he was proud to know exactly what made Newt tick: how to touch him, what kind of pressure to exert where, how to draw a moment out and when to give in to it. He was willing to bet that none of his precious dead boys had ever hit the mark well enough to satisfy him through and through. The only person who could give Newt what he truly needed was August, and it thrilled him to be able to make that sole claim. "I've already gone mad," August murmured, sliding one hand up his shoulder to cradle the stem of his neck, fingers clamping down roughly at the place where his hairline began. "I've gone mad with wanting you. Perhaps I should give you a taste of your own medicine, hmm?" They both knew that the threat was futile. August was powerless to resist the siren song of Newt's lips, his breath, his lily-white skin. "But that would be no fun for either one of us, I suspect."

Saying no more, August relinquished Newt's other shoulder and used his free hand to grasp his chin, forcing his head aside so that their mouths could meet again. The kiss that followed was nothing gentle; it reeked of desperation, of possession, of a deep, throbbing hunger that had gone unsatiated for far too long.

---

The only thing about newt's sex life that was vanilla might be a can of whipped cream lavishly applied to a lover's body, or to his own. A chilly and slow form of torture in a way. Missionary position was simply a distant dream, like something he'd read about years ago and forgotten now. A flimsy idea, too alien to comprehend. Not to mention, he'd been as bent as a pretzel perhaps since the day he was born. In his mortal youth he'd tried it with women, but it did nothing for him, and so the missionary position had simply dissolved into fable. It was possible between two gentlemen, to be sure, but it wasn't his preferred entanglement. He liked to breath in the dust of a hundred footfalls from the weather floorboards, stifling his cries into the old nails and splinters. Otherwise, predictably, he liked to grab the frame of the standing mirror, or be crushed up against the cool glass of those affixed to the wall. Whatever position they assumed, he wanted to see it, and it disappointed him if he could not. Blindfolds were out of the question.

Newt shrilled a small, muffled cry of mingled surprise, discomfort and want against August's mouth when they were crushed together, and focused his attention on the grind of teeth behind soft, velvet lips, the bite of August's fingertips under his chin. Far from being vanilla, it was this sort of rough handling that he craved. In his moments of solitude, he liked to imagine his limbs moved this way and that, pinned and bruised, manipulated to do unspeakable things to whoever was manipulating them. It wasn't the pain of it that got him off, it was the idea, the visuals. Pain was no fine wine for Newt to sip. It was a necessary discomfort he weathered because its cause was invariably too delicious to tear his gaze from. The smear of a bruised and bloody mouth against the glass of his many mirrors set all of the darkest places in his mind alight. He didn't hate the pain, no, but it played side fiddle to the main event of it all.

Trapped against August's desperate mouth, he felt the pressure of the fingers at the back of his neck lingering still, tangled in the sinew of muscles and nerves as if a ghost hand still remained. The angle was awkward, his neck arched forward precariously to maintain the contact between their equally feverish mouths. He thought he tasted blood, but he couldn't be sure whose it was, or who had really inflicted it. He was kissing August back with the same feral need, and almost falling down August's front, he scooted and crawled on his knees until they were arranged above Augusts, much of his weight now settled where he sat on his own feet. Clever and nimble fingers skittered over the fly of his sire's slacks, to the chrome belt buckle above, and a whisper of leather and jangling metal followed, where the flap came free of its trappings. He tugged at the faux silver, and for a moment, the accessory didn't want to come free of its loops. Eventually though it slithered through the inky trappings and came free of August, in his hands. Diligently, Newt set it aside, close to them, within reaching distance easily. A subtle foreboding of things to come, perhaps. A hint maybe. Whatever it was, it seemed it could wait though, because Newt's hands would not lay still. They worried the button at August's waistband, needing no guidance, and the fastening came free. Subtlety, they name is not Newton. And definitely not Newt.

He was certainly not shy, not any more. When they had first truly met, some time after August had first given the street urchin a place in his grand home, Newt hadn't been sure what to make of the master of the house. He was a dark and romantic enigma, intimidating in his broodiness and strange schedules. New's lips had trembled the first time they had ever kissed, and his hands too. He'd felt like a babe in the woods, lost and vulnerable, but willing, oh so willing. Not knowing the man, not really, he'd felt nervous and prickled with goosebumps at every caress. But time had changed him. He was no longer that nervous second footman, though there was always some silent whisper of a chance that that boy might still lurk beneath all the foolish confidence and foul words. Was this new Newt just a mask he wore to justify his actions, to make it seem like it wasn't him who was doing all of these vulgar, unspeakable things? Perhaps. But it was this new Newt who pushed inquisitional fingers into the top of August's waistband, seeking out secret places that really were not all that secret to him any more. By now, they were intimately familiar, like coming home. He stuttered to catch a breath against August's mouth, and finally closed his eyes for now, tearing his side-ways glance from the mirrors.

For a few seconds, maybe their minds were in tandem, because Newt's thoughts spiralled downwards, through long, dark nights innumerable, and frustrations boundless. Their first nights in The master's bedroom drifted lazily behind his eyelids. The crackle of the fireplace, and the way he'd shivered and felt his heart race as the footman's livery had been tenderly, slowly and delicately peeled from his perfect, pale skin. Had he loved August then? He thought he might have. But again, perhaps it had been the folly of youthful lust playing tricks on his mind. They had both been so gentle, almost terrified, he thought, as they had begun to explore one another for the first time, breathless with the desperation not to scare one another off or do something wrong to break the moment. Where had that footman gone? Was he still here, in the suddenly slower and more tender stroke of fingers against flesh? Newt felt himself shiver against August's lips and fingers, and wrestled with the memory, fought to push it away. he wasn't that frightened young man any more. e knew what he wanted now, and how to get it, and the touch of his hand changed as he drew back from years gone by. it became more insistent, more demanding and self-assured. They weren't here to make love. They were here to fuck. That was the way of the world now. The days of candlelight and white gloves were gone.

---

There was a time when August hadn't expected anything of sex but that dreaded missionary position. Though the idea held no kind of appeal for him, ever, he had still resigned himself to the fact that one day he was going to have to get married, lie on top of a woman, and give her children. There was no excitement in that, but that was the way it was back then. It was only when his parents died that he dared to dream that life could be different for him. He wasn't happy that they'd been taken from him so early, but it was a delicious novelty to find himself so suddenly free of the duties and obligations they'd placed upon him from a young age. He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to anymore. It didn't matter what society expected of him. Society couldn't make him do anything; it was his parents' demands he'd always been helpless to refuse. They'd been good to him, after all, even if they were inaccessible and distant most of the time. August supposed that, for him, "good" was a relative term. They'd given him all manner of clothes, books, and toys, as well as free roam of the manor house, and that had been all his youthful, naive heart had wanted at the time. He'd never thought to ask for anything else, and since they'd taken care of him so well, it didn't seem unfair to agree to the kind of life they wanted for him in return. Not at first, anyway.

As August got older, he found himself growing ever more disenchanted with the way things were. He didn't want to be like everyone else, leading shallow, empty lives that revolved around money, breeding, and loveless courting. He didn't want to learn to love someone, he wanted to fall into it easily, naturally. It had come as a grave shock to him when he finally realized he couldn't achieve that with a woman. It wasn't for lack of trying. Many a night he'd found himself on the arm of some of London's finest debutantes, but no matter how pretty their smiles or impressive their dowries, none of them satisfied. They were as dull as dirty copper pennies lying in the gutter. Their suitors, on the other hand, and even the footmen... now they were the ones who caught his eye, but he could never admit to it. He'd be shunned, and friends of the Blackwoods already found him strange enough without adding that damning blow. It simply wasn't thought of, let alone spoken of.

Newt was the first man he'd ever truly been with, which probably accounted for August's obsession with him. There had been other boys before him, but August hadn't worked up the nerve to take things all the way, still relatively new to the task of running the manor by himself and not wanting to run them off when he needed all the help he could get. It was taking him longer than he desired to blossom into his own man, but the process of becoming a vampire seemed to speed up his progress after a time. In addition to the death of his parents, his newfound status as a creature of the night freed him up in ways he'd never before dreamed. He couldn't entertain guests while he was trying to hide it, and marriage was definitely out of the question; he'd do something to slip up, he knew he would, and then he'd have to kill them all. He didn't think he could stomach slaughter on a mass scale, so they had to be kept away for him to avoid suspicion or detection, and the only way to do that was to fake his own death. One of August's footmen was fortunately and eerily similar in appearance to the young lord, so he broke the young man's neck - but not before draining him - propped his lifeless body up on horseback, and sent the animal loose on the estate. They would find the corpse flung somewhere on the grounds, having sustained a terrible fall from his mount. How tragic. August pulled some strings in London to make sure the manor was closed up immediately, where he could hide in plain sight and live out his days until restlessness drove him elsewhere.

He stayed for longer than anticipated, finding that he liked the atmosphere of the place once he'd made it his own, and also the way that Newt looked within it, surrounded by all that beautiful, crumbling decay. He was suited for that kind of life even if he didn't realize it. He'd never looked so lovely as he'd done on his knees in August's hall of mirrors. Granted, sometimes August missed the tender times, especially that very first night, when he'd finally discovered who he was and what he was meant for, but change was inevitable and the dynamic hadn't stayed innocent between them for long, nor would it ever be again. He thought he preferred it that way too. For all his poetic musings when he was alone, the Newt he liked best was the one who bled, the one who defied him, the one who challenged him. It was never as much fun otherwise. If all he'd wanted was someone to hold, to murmur sweet nothings to, he could have had that many times over with other men. But he didn't. He wanted fire and passion and perversion. He wanted what was cruel and unusual and completely out of the ordinary, and Newt was all those things and more.

Blood painted their lips crimson as they kissed, and August reveled in its slick heat, the way the cold metal tang of it rasped against the back of his palate like a cat's tongue, urging the hunger on. He knew that their position was awkward, but it certainly wasn't the worst one they'd ever found themselves in, and he would have bent over backwards if he'd had to. Newt's hands were as deft and clever as ever, he soon found out, and the discovery was a pleasant one indeed. If it was possible, he'd gotten even better in the time they'd been apart. It was a matter of mere seconds before he had August free of his belt, moving on to dip lithe fingers beneath the thin barrier of dark polyester stretched over his hips. As this happened, August gasped appreciatively and returned his attention to Newt's torso, hands finding his waist and sliding beneath the fabric of his shirt to peel it up, up, and away from the skin, but not before pausing along the way to refamiliarize himself with his abdomen, ribs, and the small firm nipples he tweaked between playful fingertips before moving on. He broke the kiss long enough to whisk the offending garment over his head and toss it somewhere into the ether around them. That maddening hand was still moving, grinding down on him, and he had to bite his lip to smother a moan, hips arching off the floor. The only thing he succeeded in doing was bloodying his mouth even further while the sound echoed back to them from every corner. Leaning back on his palms, August's eyes left Newt's face to visit the mirror. He looked as mad with desire as he felt, and he knew what he wanted to see in that reflective surface next. Trembling fingers twisted in that shock of bronze hair, ready to guide it down his body. "Your mouth, Newt. Give me your mouth."

---

Newt knew where this was going next. He looked forward to it, in fact. August's lean fingers snaring his hair made him part from their kiss with a little gasp, a quiet moan of mingled frustration and need. But this was exactly where he wanted to be right now. It always was, at the time. He'd had so very, very many years to perfect this art too, especially on August. he satisfied himself over time that he'd learned exactly how to touch and slide to drive the other vampire half out of his wits. He could take him right up to the edge and then snatch him back from it if he wanted to -which was often. He wanted more than that. He wanted to be used and abused until he couldn't walk straight for the rest of the night, and such a thing was not obtained only by using his skilful lips and tongue where they were perhaps most appreciated, most at home. But he enjoyed it all the same. He revelled in the sordidness of it when it reflected back to them in the mirrors. It was at once a tactilely intimate and degrading pose, when he was on his knees, where he wanted to be. He liked the way alabaster knuckles stood out against the dark rust of his hair, usually, he enjoyed the contrast of the bruises on his cheek or around his mouth. The viscosity of the act thrilled him, and now, as his fingers peeled back the top of August's slacks, and his head was guided down, he revelled in the fevered heat of the other vampire's skin. He'd fed tonight, Newt could tell. Newt himself hadn't fed since he'd brought that dead boy home. The tang of blood on their mouths was already driving him slightly mad, whispering dark and dangerous things to him. He could gravely wound August right now, clamp his teeth down on that tender organ and suck him dry. But he never did. That -if only that- was crossing a line for him. It wasn't what he was about. But there was blood.

It cleaved to the velvet folds and lines of August's skin, mingling with a opalescent pink saliva and the barest trace of salt on his tongue. He sighed into the humid warmth, perfumed with clinical shower water, the lingering remnants of body wash, and August's own unique scent and taste. Blue eyes flicked a whiplash line up August's still clothed chest and met his eyes with a molten, writhing intensity. then beyond, far beyond, in the bowels of the room, the myriad of reflections of them both. A delicious shiver slid through the frost of sweat gathering down the length of his spine, and when he drew back enough to breath again, another sigh followed. Exactly where I want to be. Where I always want to be. And of course, the added bonus was that his smart mouth was silenced now, busy at a far more pleasing task. No foul words could break the moment when he was like this, wilfully gagged, silently blissful. The only noises to break into their little bubble of silence were his laboured breaths, and the quiet, wet sounds of lips and tongue over skin, over blood and spit. Nimble fingers trickled up against August's thigh again, and then delved back into the warm, inky void of the opened fly, sliding up and under to test the weight and strange fluidity of the skin that twitched and contracted beneath, reacting to his touch instinctively, the dance of human anatomy without any thought for the mind, for consciousness. The cool, damp palm of his hand cupped August close, and with another sigh his gaze returned to meet August's. he was earnestly working on bringing him to that edge now, so that he could deny him, snatch him back, drive him wild enough to begin the lustful grabbing and pulling and pushing that would discard half of Newt's wits too. I love you... his mind said, but his mouth was blissfully full. And it was a lie, wasn't it? It was just the lust talking.

---

Sweet oblivion. This was all he wanted, all he'd ever wanted, since the first time their lips had met. It had been so different then from the way it was now, starting out tentatively, gently, neither one exactly sure what they were doing or even trying to find in each other's arms. They'd been little more than babes in the woods, both marveling at the discoveries they made along the way with each piece of discarded clothing, each reverent caress and whispered reassurance. Did Newt know how much August worshipped him? How he always had? Did he know the way he burned for him, suffered for him, was willing to die for him? August had tried to tell him many times, but his fledgling never seemed to want to hear it. He didn't understand that August had only ever done the things he did because he was afraid of being alone and scared that he would lose him, either by accident or by choice. The world was full of dangers, and growing ever more perilous for their kind. It was exceedingly difficult to escape scrutiny and avoid discovery in today's world; thanks to the media's fascination with vampires, fictional or alleged, humans were looking for them everywhere, determined to uncover their secrets, and if - and, more importantly, when - it happened, who knew what kind of hell would break loose. It was better for August and Newt to be together. They'd weathered so many storms in the past there wasn't a disaster they couldn't face so long as they walked side by side. In a world where each moment was uncertain, nothing guaranteed, they needed each other.

When it came to August's demand, Newt uttered no protest, only let himself be eagerly guided down, whispering the fabric of the slacks away from his sire's body. The coolness of the air contrasted with the heat of Newt's fingers and mouth, encouraging goose pimples along the length of August's spine and the span of his shoulders. The dark, downy hairs on his arms stood up too, and he moaned on the next exhale, a sinful, slithering sound that could have made a whore blush, all the more so because it was achingly sincere, impossible to duplicate or fake. That mouth... oh that mouth! It was like coming home, wet and slippery and velveteen, so good it elicited a half-sob from his lips when next their eyes met. The long, glossy nails of one hand scored Newt's back, drawing thin lines of blood, while the other remained committed to his hair, holding his head in place. Tongue met flesh over and over again, lips so skilled they could have made the devil cry with the unholy things they could do branding him, marking him, claiming him. August's hips subtly rocked back and forth all the while, but every now and then slammed into Newt's face as if it wasn't enough, as if he needed more more more, now now now. He couldn't help himself, the intensity of his pleasure increasing, picking up speed, but there was absolutely nothing lacking. Everything was perfect. All was as it should be. Everything in its right place.

Newt's other hand found him, and August hissed, head tilting back until his chin was pointed at the ceiling, eyelids fluttering as he tried to keep them from closing in delirium. The features of his face were almost unrecognizable in the mirror above, but he wasn't paying attention to himself, only to Newt and the way he looked so right crouched over him. It was intoxicating to watch him move, to feel the way his mouth cleaved to him so sublimely, like a sheath to its sword. His breath came harder and heavier until he was panting like a dog, one fist pounding the floor so that the boards rattled beneath them. He would have felt sorry for the downstairs neighbors if he'd bothered to consider them, but the last thing he was thinking about was anyone but they two. "You wicked creature," he gasped. "I love you. Don't...stop..." I love you. Maybe not the thing he should have said right at that moment, because surely Newt didn't want to hear it, but it was the truth, and it was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. I love you. I've never loved anyone but you. Every night should be like this.

---

Don't... Stop... Oh, but he had to. He had to. It wasn't enough! He wanted more, needed it. He could only ride the waves of August's pleasure and languish in his sighs and moans for so long before he wanted some of his own. He felt for and listened to the steady rhythms of August's body, to his breath and sighs, the unconscious rise and fall of his hips. He didn't mind that August choked him on occasion with his need, his enthusiasm. He only bit back his own reflexes, and stole glimpses of them in the nearest mirror, feeling his own anticipation growing, strengthening. He dragged his sire trembling and crying toward the very edge of the precipice quickly, and when he thought he could see over into the pit, the dark, bottomless void of euphoria below, he abruptly drew his mouth back, having to jerk his head at an uncomfortable angle to do it since August's fist was still knotted in his hair. A string of almost crimson saliva settled to cool on his chin, garish and tawdry against luminescent, white skin. His lips closed, defiant, inches from August's flesh but refusing to push him over. Quid pro quo... He panted for loud breaths through his nose and waited for whatever might come next. He could guess, he supposed, but the wonderful thing about August was that he knew Newt, knew how to take him by surprise. Unlike a lover whom he had to guide through every motion, August had knowledge of his own, a will of his own. This could go any number of ways next, and Newt was eager for any of them, all of them. If they could all happen at once, all the better. But of course, they could not, and so he froze in the grip on his hair and smoothed his hands against the insides of August's thighs tauntingly.

The nail scores on his upper back began to smart now, kissed tenderly by the cooling night air of a poorly heated apartment. He kept it colder than any human might, because it meant his house guests could stay longer before they had to be discarded as if they were no more than disposable food containers on trash night. He had not exactly been a necrophile for a lot of his life and un-life. It had been a trait he had cultivated, nurtured. It had been difficult for Newt to adapt t life as a vampire The first few times he had killed someone, he'd openly wept like a child right in front of August, and wished and lamented that it didn't have to be this way. He wore his guilt like a mantle, pulling him down, and the only way he'd ever found to really alleviate some of it was to make more use of the lovely creatures he killed than just a meal. Recycle! Go green! It's the new fucking millennium, Bela Lugosi! So he kept them, for as long as he could. He admired them in his own ways, interfered with them, and for a time he enjoyed their silent company if only because it made him feel less fucking awful about having to kill them. They were not just mindless cattle, grazing in a field. Many of them had lives to be excited and happy about, family who would miss them. Not like Newt. He'd been born with no-one and nothing, and that was precisely what he had now too, despite the numerous pleas and offers from August. Who was newt to really say that they should die tonight? What right did he have?

In the throes of anticipation and lust though, he couldn't think about all of that. There was a living, animated body controlling him, and it was all he wanted. This body knew his every whim, his darkest and most filthy secrets. He felt no shame, head bowed and back bent. He felt only the thrill, the need, the want. Goosebumps lit on the lily slope of his back, the scratched beading crimson, raised in welts at their edges. He closed his eyes and imagined August's hot and hungry mouth burning against the marks, moaned in the back of his throat unconsciously. Do whatever you want with me. I want it to. Delicate fingertips lightly bit into August's thighs where he gripped him tighter, let his imagination run wild. What would happen next? Would he be kissed passionately, or sent sprawling and stripped? Both options appealed to him greatly, and he could no longer help the desperate rise and fall of his rib cage as anticipation threatened to burn through his veins like acid, right into the flesh, dripping to the floorboards below like other, less savoury fluids that were on his mind. "Mmmmm.... I missed youuu...." He moaned, a helplessly needy sound. But it was probably just the lust talking...

---

August laughed bitterly when Newt stopped. He'd done it on purpose, of course, waiting until August was just about to crest the hill and tumble back down, body flushed and spent, snatching him back from the ledge just as he was about to soar off the cliff with wings outspread. When had it ever been that easy for them though? They didn't take delight in quick, passionless trysts, rutting and grunting like animals in a field; they savored the long, slow build-up to ecstasy, drawing out every moment until seconds felt like hours and minutes, days. That was the way it should be. But even as August knew that, he was still vaguely disappointed, and it showed in the flexing of his displeased mouth. "That was very stupid," he uttered lowly, darkly, and before Newt could react, sent a hand flying toward his face, cracking against his cheek with a sound that could have split the sky in half. Laughter gushed out of him again, and it had a lilting, musical quality to it this time, but underneath that, the painful tinkle of broken glass.

"I missed you too." That as he pushed Newt away from him, the heels of his hands ramming against the other vampire's bare shoulders, seeking to spill him to the ground. Missed him... Was it true? Or was it just the adrenaline talking? A man would say anything to get what he wanted in moments like these, and it briefly occurred to August that that was Newt's sole motivation for expressing the sentiment. It didn't seem contrived though. The words slurred from his mouth like a man on a drunk, intoxicated by the taste in his mouth and the electricity sizzling through his veins. They'd always shared a special sort of chemistry, he and Newt, and August liked to think that it was more than just the requisite bond between maker and fledgling. Then again, he was an expert at deceiving himself, exceptionally skilled in seeing what wasn't there, in finding meaning where there was none. Newt had told him that he loved him before, but he wouldn't have left him if he had. It made it hard for August to trust anything that came out of his mouth now, but tonight, he wanted so badly to believe it that, for better or worse, he did.

Rolling to his feet in one, smooth fluid motion, sleek and graceful as a panther slithering through dense, verdant undergrowth, August brushed his hair away from his face and pinned Newt with a steely, haughty gaze, but it simmered all the same, pent-up frustration and desire beyond measure pooling there like oil. When they played their games, he sometimes pretended to be unaffected, but out of everything he felt in their time together, indifference wasn't one of them. It was only an affectation meant to make their roleplay all the more exciting. He didn't think he could feign it tonight; instead, he'd play the part of the cruel master, the fierce disciplinarian, and a long time ago Newt might have thought he was exactly that instead of what he really was at heart, a desperate romantic who was so smothering in his love to make up for the way his formative years had lacked it. Either way, the role wasn't a stretch for him. He wanted to punish Newt for running, for deserting him, for telling him he loved him only to abandon him. Mouth set into a thin, grim line, he pointed at Newt's chest, broadening his stance. "Don't move. You're going watch me undress before I decide what to do with you. I'm still upset with you, you know, and I'm looking forward to making you suffer for it."

He spoke casually as he undid the first button of his shirt, fingers moving nimbly from one to the next, a pale spider crawling down his chest until the fabric gaped open. His slacks were still hanging on his hips, but loosely, some miracle of gravity holding them up. Not for long. The fabric piled at his feet as he toed his shoes off, rolling his shoulders back so that the shirt slid down his arms in the same practiced motion. Any other man would have felt foolish, standing naked with his arms crossed over his chest and head tilted to the side in silent consideration of the sprawled form at his feet, but August wasn't just any man. He wasn't even a man. And he had a decision to make.

---

In this moment, as August stood before newt as resplendent as an emperor, the blue eyed 'boy' was probably horribly, terribly wrong about thinking he didn't love him. Yes, yes, it may have just been the lust talking again, but he couldn't help but feel his heart leap as he was shoved back and made to watch -but not touch. August could have been stark naked, or draped in silk and furs, dripping with diamonds and rubies. It wouldn't have mattered. His pale, upturned eyes were luminous, as bottomless as the first time he'd ever laid them on August's bare flesh. In that moment -if only then- he loved this delicious creature and could not tear his eyes from it. Even the mirrors around them seemed to fade out of existence, shattered into a thousand pieces to dot the night-time skies beyond the window with artificial, irregular stars.

His cheek burned fiercely, his ears still ringing from the blow, and he found his breath had hitched, stopping dead in his chest as he stared. The floorboards beneath him did not so much cradle his bones as assault them, biting into each barely sheathed knob. The cheek flushed a deep, dusky pink, and this time he knew he tasted blood, and knew it was his own. When he could tear his eyes from the oil slick of August's own, he raked them down over the familiar, sculpted contours of his shoulders, his arms, his chest. He saw the blood from their mouths still clinging to the other vampire, shimmering in the low overhead light. it was almost impossible to look away from once he'd fixated. It was like a splash of red front door paint on a page of black and white drawings. The light from above only seemed to make it glow all the more, like a beacon, a singular fixed point of his own lust. His mouth opened just enough to roll his tongue over his bloodied teeth, slick his own lips with his blood again. There was the impulse to say something, to break this stalemate, but when he tried to think of words, nothing seemed to come to him.

So he lay, sprawled on the dusty floor, propped up only on his elbows so that he could see this man looming before him. There was nothing lewd or unsavoury about August's nudity, not to Newt. If the lack of clothes was supposed to make the dark haired vampire look ridiculous with that demanding pose set into his muscles, then Newt missed it entirely. All he saw was delicious dominance and intimidating confidence. He did not doubt that August was genuinely pissed off with him, but he couldn't seem to care whether that was real or not. He only knew he wanted to find out how pissed off, in every possible way he could. Inside and out. When the silence stretched and August stood there, watching him, Newt watched him right back until he could stand the silence no more. He shattered it like those mirrors with a low, mewling moan of a sound, ragged pieces of emotion stitched together clumsily. Shreds of need and lust, of pleading and invitation. Like pieces of his own skin, flayed from him and reassembled to present to the master of the house, his sire. He flopped back off of his elbows and let his head hit the floor with a hollow smack, squirming against the boards, inside of his ratted, dark jeans. His need and lust was very apparent, pressed against inky seams, and he longed to be released from that prison. But not enough to do it himself. He liked to draw it out, savour it, make it last forever, like the very last splash of red wine left in the last bottle.

---

Newt's eyes on him made him feel a lot of things, but the sensation he felt least often these days was power. For all his many years, for all his strength and speed and skill, August spent most of his time being invisible, unimportant, to the world at large. He left no trace when he hunted and killed. He was not part of London's network of influence, having never been interested in politics, though he knew that there was one. His voice was never heard and he was as good as nonexistent, except for when his prey saw him for what he was right before they died. He didn't mind; there was one person he'd only ever wanted to matter to, and that was Newt. Most of the time he hadn't even been rewarded with that small mercy, and when he was, it was when they were like this. August only had true authority over Newt when he had him naked and at his mercy. It was a rush to wield that power, to gaze into the other's upturned eyes and see them staring at him and not at the mirrors for once. It wasn't as if the mirrors bothered August, because he liked them too, in his own way, but nothing came close to the unparalleled intimacy of sustained eye contact. It warmed his blood - and his heart - to know there was nowhere else Newt would rather be looking, that after all these years he still found him enticing and was willing to let him do anything. Before coming tonight, August had feared that Newt wouldn't want him at all, that time had taken a toll on his desire, melting it away like ice in the heat. It was a profound, unspeakable relief to see that that wasn't so, and it only made August love and want him all the more.

August's hand stung where he'd delivered the blow to Newt's cheek, the flesh red-hot and tingling to do it again, but he let him be for now. Smirking, those burning fingers traveled along the marble column of his torso until he held himself firmly in hand, carrying out long, deliberate strokes that made the skin pull tight against the veins and tissue surging beneath. He kept his eyes trained on Newt's face, watching him watching him, blood and salt and saliva slicking his palm and easing his passage. After an agonizing moment of this, he brought said palm to his face, dragging his tongue along it, tasting hints of them both in the faint lines and creases there: blood, the salt of his own skin, and the heat of Newt's mouth. A guttural, half-human groan of hunger, indulgence, and overwhelming need tickled the back of his throat, and he dropped down on all fours then, crawling forward with painstaking precision until he was crouched over Newt, one knee on either side of his hips. "Nectar of the gods," he murmured, still rolling his tongue around the flavors in his mouth.

His mouth came down to cover Newt's, kissing him feverishly while he slipped a hand between their bodies, covering the evidence of desire that strained against the seams of his jeans. He pressed down hard, rolling his hand back and forth before tearing the barrier away in a scramble of able fingers, popping the button and peeling the zipper down. August scrambled away from Newt long enough to ease the denim over his hips and down his legs, then leaned back on his heels to savor the sight of him, like water to a man dying of thirst. He was naked, vulnerable, beautiful, not of this world, and August breathed out like he'd been punched, a sigh of tortured, heart-rending emotion, before turning back to the task at hand. His blood-kissed mouth descended to nip at his hipbones, fingers coasting up his slim thighs, coming perilously close to the seat of his need but snatching back at the last second. Writing his way up Newt's torso for a second time, he eased his elbows to the floor and pressed the length of their bodies together, rocking his hips against his fledgling's and nailing his tender backside to the boards beneath, one hand blindly fumbling in the darkness for the belt that had been discarded earlier.

---

If- as the books around August's crumbling house had suggested there was an Elysium, a home of the gods, then surely, Newt thought, it was no tangible place at all. It was here with them now, in this very room of mirrors. It was in the heat of August's body against his own, the quicksilver tang of blood on his palette. It existed between two lovers -or more- wherever they might be. Elysium, euphoria. It made Newt's skin crawl with the need to bite and claw and scream for what he wanted like a starving babe at its mother's bosom. Not that he knew anything about that. He had been unwanted, an unknown, tossed aside and discarded along with the viscera he'd been pushed out in on the slick cobbles of one of Whitechapel's dampest and most vile alleyways. It was a wound delivered to him at birth that might never fully leave him. Perhaps it was tangled even now in the psyche of this lithe and pale creature trapped beneath his sire, writhing and mewling for more than he was getting.

The artful pressure of August's hand against him was pure madness, the fathomless eyes of those fabled Elder Gods made corporeal and tangible. His hips lifted and bucked against the hand without his needing to tell them to do so, and he felt the muscles of his back depart from the floorboards afterwards, arching and stretching beneath a complexion that was pure, untainted, pale as fresh cream. Here and there, he bore a scar, a reminder that he too had once been a man, a human creature of warmth and what might pass as normalcy to him now. The edge of a belt, the blow of a fist, the indent of a boot. All these from before he had met August the first time, a starving and skeletal weakling who'd run from the workhouse with every breath of rebellion left in his young and fragile body. He had filled out since that night, but not by all that much, and now, here, the flesh was preserved for all eternity, aching and willing against the hands of the demon who had crafted him.

He shuddered against the trespass of night on his flesh, against the taunting of August's ghostly fingers. More, please, his mouth wanted to say, but all that came out was a strangled moan, full of pleading. He felt their bodies slide and lock into place as August pinned him, timeless as the earth, great and ancient rocks nestled together on some far, unreachable mountainside. And just as secret, just as divine. A moment untouched by man, in a way. His heart surged in his chest, and he felt the warmth and pressure of August's need close by his own, insistent. The whisper of leather across the floorboards only made his skin crawl deeper, faster, and when he flicked his eyes to the nearest reflective surface, he saw it all at once. August's hand around the dark snake of that belt, polished by wear more than diligent maintenance. Their legs splayed and tangled, Newt's own unable to keep perfectly still for more than a moment at a time. he saw his own face reflected back, the garish smear of red painting him like a cheap Whitechapel whore. His eyes snapped shut, making mental catalogue, photographing this moment in his mind to save for all time. He wanted to speak, wanted to ask what August was going to do with that belt, with him, but then decided that he honestly did not want to know. The surprise was half the thrill.

Instead, he seemed to be struck dumb, which was one of the more blissful side effects of working Newt up this much. He didn't seem to be able to spew his vulgar nonsense when his throat was too full of desperation. All he could manage was breaths and moans, wordless sounds of maddened pleading. Some language lurked behind his eyes, but it had all been turned to utter gibberish, mindless exclamations. None of it could escape just yet, and so his sounds and his gaze had to do the talking for him. Blue eyes were like vortices, threatening to suck August in and drown him in their frenzy if he didn't break soon, didn't give in to his silent requests. The vampiric blood pounding madly through his veins gave them a light that was almost canine. The starved wolf, staring across a clearing at the lone deer, not yet moving but promising that death would soon rain down. But of course, for August, it would not. The boy slowly decomposing in his closet had not been so lucky.

---

August and Newt were truly an odd pairing, unable to be any different from one another than they already were. One had been born into plenty; the other, poverty. One had been born with a family; the other with none. Most importantly, perhaps, one believed in love and the other didn't... not that August's idea of love was particularly stable or sane, but as it was all that kept him going most nights he thought it pretty important to his overall philosophy. He had always known that he would care Newt more for than Newt would ever care for him. One person had to be the leaver, and the other, the one left behind. August was the latter, but it wasn't as if he hadn't known it going in. Every move had been carefully premeditated to avoid Newt slipping away from him, as he'd known he would one day want to do. The boy had not been worldly in any fashion when he'd first found him, but he'd realized that, some time in the not-so-distant future, he would want to be. He wouldn't be content staying cooped up in August's home forever... and he hadn't been.

None of that seemed to matter now. The flat could have been burning down all around them and August would have been happy to perish in the flames if it meant his last breath was spent in devotion to this willing body so beautifully contorted under his own. The past and the future were no longer uncertain burdens on his conscience, his mind blissfully devoid of worry or fear. There was only the whisper of the leather belt as his hand coiled around it, dragging it across the floorboards toward them, and the thin mewling sounds Newt made in sharp contrasts to August's heavy, determined breaths. This was home, paradise, a place where he could be himself, every demanding, possessive inch. Nowhere else I'd rather be. And it was the same for Newt. He knew it deep down in his bones, his blood, even if the other would rather continue to deny and avoid the truth. He was hardly of a mind to deny it now though, wasn't he? Could he honestly say he'd rather be anywhere else, with anyone else? August sincerely doubted it. Before he'd arrived on the scene, Newt's big plan had been Chinese food and the cold company of a corpse, and what was that compared to the shape of the evening now? More than anything else, this was what Newt needed, what they both needed.

August let Newt arch and stretch beneath him a little longer, just until he felt he'd endured long enough to deserve something different, something more than what he was getting. Freeing the hand trapped between their bodies, August gracefully rolled off of Newt and ducked into a low crouch by his side, a predator eyeing its prey through long grass. The belt snapped to between widespread hands, its gleaming, weathered length a silent promise of things to come. He didn't have long to wait. "Turn over, on your hands and knees," the older vampire intoned, his voice deceptively silky for what he was planning to do, which wouldn't nearly as easy on Newt's flesh. But that was what he wanted. A visceral hungered burned raw in August's belly, eating at him from the inside out, and the smooth marble surface of Newt's back, once it was presented to him, simultaneously encouraged and calmed the blaze, sharpening his focus down to a razor's edge. With a precise flick of his wrist, the belt flew through the air and snapped down Newt's spine. The next blow struck widthwise across his back, giving rise to violent red stripes that threatened to break and bleed. August hummed a low sound of contentment, pausing to admire his work and give Newt a moment to recover, though he surely didn't need it. The delay was just a tease. Finding Newt's eyes in the mirror, he grinned, and there was nothing sweet about it.