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Sex has never been a particular concern in Isaac's life. When he was mortal, with a beating heart and blood and all the urges that came with such things, he had experimented and found it to be a useful — if personally underwhelming — tool. Now that he has even greater control over himself, sex is both a return already greatly diminished and a risk not worth the reward.
His desires have taken a different form, these nights. Something a little more distanced than many Kindred might prefer. Here, above and away from the rest of his territory, the third floor of his home, he can indulge.
His bedroom is a careful clutter of his things, trinkets and half-finished pieces and materials scattered according to a convoluted logic, with Angela and Michael at the center of it. Dark sheets, scarce light, a shadowy composition which might be best captured in oil paints. He would try, if he weren't busy committing it all to undying memory.
They're kissing, Angela straddling Michael's lap, hands roving bodies in slow motion caresses. Both fully clothed, still, so that it's skin on dark cloth. Michael's slim fingers, irregular with callouses from old work, are equally occupied by tangling in Angela's hair and by tracing small motions near her hip. Angela's left hand cups Michael's face, the other hidden by necessities of angle.
Everything is soft and unbothered by time. The way Michael shifts his legs to be more comfortable, the way Angela pulls back for a breath before kissing him once more. Even the sounds of the city outside feel muffled by more than the heavy curtains drawn over the windows, as if the night has parted around them to form a bubble of privacy.
Isaac is settled into his chair, eyes fixed and the rest of him still as the grave. He sees no need for things to move any faster; they have several hours of night left, and he would be content to study every facet of them both for the entirety of it. It wouldn't be the first such occurrence.
Neither of his friends look at him as they touch. The first time, freshly bound together in undying blood and Beast-driven to possess, he hadn't set that boundary. They had tried to perform, playing to what they thought he wanted to see. Showy, unnatural, clumsy. If he'd been searching for that, the internet is hardly lacking. What he wanted — what he still wants — is far more intimate.
There's something intensely fascinating about the way living bodies move together, flesh against and around and within flesh, and that alone is an interesting study. More than that, however, is the simple fact that Michael and Angela are his. He wants to know every facet of them, deeper and more thoroughly than mortal friendship allowed. He wants them to be observed and free, acting within his will but of their own accord. He wants them to want this.
These nights, he gets what he wants.
Michael eases Angela's jacket off her shoulders, letting it fall beside the bed in a heap. Her shirt soon follows, charcoal gray fabric pulled up and off in a practiced motion. There's a smattering of scars across her skin, and even without looking, Isaac would know each one's location and story. A clumsy, jagged slash across her ribs from an idiot with a broken bottle, healed but not yet faded. One along her forearm where a knife's more vicious trajectory had been blocked. More, the shine of scar tissue dulled by time or by vitae. Unfortunate necessities of their work.
There's contrast between the two of them that Isaac always delights in noting. Angela is lean and toned where Michael is softer, though he's always been able to hold his own. Her long, dark curls spilling lazily down, where his hair is kept short. The uneven line where Michael's nose healed imperfectly. The infinite variety and complexity of bodies, shown in a microcosm that Isaac can keep and hold and watch.
They're kissing again, deeper, more demanding. Fingers tangle in hair, tendons flexing visibly as Angela tightens her grip to pull Michael closer. Their hunger hangs in the air, heavy and alive. Michael pulls away to mouth at Angela's throat, leaving the imprints of teeth on places Isaac knows better than to drink from — too risky, too much temptation to do something… impolite.
Somewhere along the way, Michael's hands leave their roaming to undo the clasps of her bra, and that, too, is tossed aside. She finally returns the favor with his shirt, half rucked up around his waist as it had been. A stripe of light from the hallway falls flattering across both of them, highlighting the curvature of muscle, fat, and bone.
Isaac never took so much notice before he had the capacity to alter such things. His experiments have been solely personal, but he knows they would let him if he so desired. He does, to some degree. Half fascination, half curiosity, and some third part possessive need to make it imminently, undeniably clear that they are his. A permanent signature scrawled in the maze of capillaries beneath their skins, perhaps.
He doesn't, might never, indulge that urge. What truly matters is that he knows, and that they know. Everything and everyone else is extraneous. His Beast would be contented, but his Beast can be illogical. Better to sate it with this, the knowledge and observation, than attempt alterations he's not yet prepared to perform.
There are nights where it's Angela beneath and Michael all but worshipful as he fucks her. There are nights where Michael is at her mercy, whatever shape that takes. There are nights where they never bother with more than hands inside of pants, or mouths, or toys. Tonight, it seems, is a night where neither is inclined to move too far.
In the near-darkness, less keen eyes might mistake their silhouette for a singular being, many-limbed and writhing. Truthfully, the motion is the slightly awkward requirement of trying to remove the rest of their clothing without rearranging. It's artless and inelegant — knees jostling, hands brushing, legs at odd angles — and Isaac could watch it for hours.
When they've succeeded, more clothing joining the rest on the floor, Michael slides a hand down between Angela's legs. She moans, hips rolling down to meet him, and then her voice is muffled in another kiss.
They try to keep quiet, these crowded nights, and more often than not, words aren't needed. But the rest of the coterie is elsewhere — Serif never stays long unless she's painting, Fuego and Rey are off wherever they go when they're alone — and the house is empty.
Angela tucks her head into Michael's shoulder as he pulls his fingers out, and she must bite down when he sinks in properly, because Isaac smells blood. It's easier to hurt each other knowing it won't last long, and they've always been a little rough around the edges. Too much for anyone else, just right for their little family of three.
This is always the most interesting part; the frantic, sweaty movements, the half-voiced sounds torn from their throats. The way everything descends into beautiful, perfect chaos.
Control was the first lesson Isaac learned upon waking up to the darkness, and it was one he took to heart. But there is value in its absence, on occasion. There is artistry in Angela's hold on Michael's hair, in her thighs trembling from holding herself just-so, in his hand tight on her hip. He'd build a museum just for this if he could, and then never let anyone else step foot inside.
Angela comes first; she often does, and Isaac knows Michael's other hand is busy on her clit. She shudders, gasps, and slumps forward, her head falling to the same shoulder she bit. Michael follows soon after, moaning her name.
They stay like that, leaning against each other, for long enough that the smell of blood fades. Finally, Angela kisses him again, then slides off the bed. The door to the adjourning bathroom creaks when she pushes it open, light spilling at angles into the room.
When she returns, Michael takes his turn to clean up. Isaac waits until they're both dressed, watching as they piece back together. They're still vulnerable in ways only he gets to witness, but more composed.
That, too, is part of the appeal of these nights. He need not bother with a mask of his own, and while he may not slice them open in the flesh, he doesn't need to. He knows them better than anyone else — a form of ownership more abstract yet binding than any signature.
Finally, he rises from his chair, stretching out stiff joints. Both of them look over immediately. Once he stands, he exists again.
"Thank you," Isaac says. Softly; the feeling of existing beyond the world still lingers, and he finds himself hesitant to shoo it away. "Go get some sleep. I suspect we'll have a long night tomorrow."
The bubble bursts. Somewhere outside, the squeal of tires heralds the blaring horns of at least two cars. Reality seeps back into his domain, inescapable as ever.
But his Beast is content, and his dearest possessions are safe and sound, and Isaac is hard-pressed to be anything but satisfied.