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To Daniel, nights feel endless now. Now that he’s a vampire, now that he’s back in Armand’s arms. Well, not in his arms yet, and that’s why he’s not giving in to the heavy pull of sleep that the approaching dawn carries. He’s going over their plans for the next night - yet another double feature at the local cinema, followed by a hunt, followed by indulging in the one thing they can’t get enough of—each other.
Daniel loves that they hunt together now, even if Armand isn’t always actively draining someone, he’s there with him to guide him in the most constructive, kind, and irresistibly annoying way. He secretly loves it, of course, especially since he didn’t have that hands-on guidance in his first months as a fledgling, and he will bitch and snark and they’ll bicker but even that will be full of love. Daniel takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the death slumber creeping in. He opens his eyes wide in the darkness of their coffin, trying to stay awake, but it’s hard. He’s too young to resist much longer—and isn’t that a thing; him, a seventy-year-old, being considered young again—but he tries to fight it, he really does. Armand’s still up, on the phone with his—well, presumably their—lawyer, and he’s taking too long.
It’s frustration alone that keeps Daniel hanging onto any sliver of consciousness that he can; he refuses to sleep until he feels Armand’s body beside him. There have been so many nights when they weren’t together, Daniel can’t stomach yet another and so his thoughts begin to wander—Armand, all alone in the night. Walking, hands in his pockets; a vision in fitted suits wherever he may have been. Armand on a pier, overlooking the lazy waves, watching the boats come into the harbor. His curls swaying in the breeze.
Daniel smiles, then flinches when the coffin lid opens and the faintest beam of light peers in. It’s quick though, Armand slips in beside him, closing that lid quietly as he snakes his body around Daniel’s. He’s warm despite not feeding that night; his body’s just warm enough for Daniel to curl into him, settling his head around his chest and taking in his scent—home. The last thing Daniel’s aware of before sleep claims him is Armand’s lips on his forehead, and some sweet words his mind can’t decipher, but his heart does.
The woman gasps in exaggerated shock, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
“But you are—”
“I told you, belle fille, I told you from the beginning yet you did not believe me,” says the man. In his arms, a young boy hangs limply, his clothes drenched in blood. “Humans always choose to be blind to death, even when She doesn’t hide Her intentions.” He lets the body fall to the floor to a dramatic swell in the orchestral music accompanied by a scream from a woman somewhere in the front rows.
Daniel blinks once, twice, as if startled awake by the cacophony of screams, laughter, and applause. He’s in a theatre but he shouldn’t be—should he? He has no idea where he is, he’s never been here before even though the place feels familiar in a way it can’t. The more he looks around, the more he realizes he shouldn’t be here. Or rather, given what the other patrons are wearing, the make-up on the women, the smoke choking up the small hall - he shouldn’t be here now.
Because, even though he’s only seen the place in grainy black-and-white pictures, he’s fairly sure he’s inside the Theatre des Vampires. Impossible, Daniel knows, but there he is—flesh and blood and smoke-filled lungs that he clears with an ill-timed coughing fit that earns him all manner of annoyed looks because there’s a quiet moment on stage and he probably ruined the vibe or something. What surprises him, once he gets his nose out of the crook of his elbow, is to discover that he, too, seems to be wearing something that he’s never worn in his life: a suit, wool by the feel of it when Daniel curiously runs his fingers along the sleeve. A waistcoat too, and a shirt buttoned-up all the way, and a snug tie—he’s never been this well-dressed at his own weddings, he realizes.
The play continues on stage; the same woman now dancing with the blond-haired man—undoubtedly Santiago—against the projected backdrop of dancing flames. Daniel couldn’t be less interested in the actual play if he tried, instead, he’s looking around, looking for that one face he hopes he’ll see, and then—then he does. Up on the balcony, partially hidden in the shadows, stands Armand, surveying the stage and crowd alike. As if on cue, their eyes meet, and Daniel’s entire face blooms in a smile. Armand only holds his gaze for a second, then turns back to the stage.
What?
Playing coy, then. Alright; Daniel can play this game too. He forgoes the spectacle on stage, regardless of the swell in music or the reactions from the crowd, and only looks up at Armand. The man on the seat beside him follows his gaze once, curious as to what captures his attention to such a degree, but is immediately bored. Not Daniel; he stares up and wills Armand to turn—which he does, several times in fact, but he never looks at Daniel again, which only irritates him.
Screams from the stage, screams from the audience, applause. The very enthusiastic people in the front row are yelling “bravo!” while most of the crowd is getting up, shuffling towards the exit in mild bewilderment. Armand pushes away from the balcony and that’s Daniel’s cue; he shoulders his way through the crowd, trying to identify the way to the balcony but the crowd doesn’t care for his urgency; they’re taking their sweet time and Daniel seethes. Finally, just as he’s stepping into the lobby, he catches his own eyes reflected in the mirror by the coat check and freezes.
Because those are his own eyes looking back at him and even though those are definitely not his clothes, the body underneath them is his own—just not the one he has now. The man standing in front of that mirror is young, hair still black, face smooth; that’s him, but him in his—twenties, maybe? No glasses yet, no— Daniel swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He focuses on the person closest to him, tries to get inside his mind but he gets nothing. He was too caught up in the game they were playing earlier to even think of it but he can’t use his Gifts anymore. And— he can’t make his fangs descend. He’s mortal. Young and mortal.
“You certainly seem to like this view better,” comes Armand’s voice, suddenly beside him. The French accent is thick in his words, thicker than Daniel’s ever heard it but it’s still him—he smiles in that ethereal way he does, and Daniel just wants to kiss him. He doesn’t, though, because they seem to be doing some sort of roleplay and he’s also pissed at being ignored.
“Well, at least this guy actually looks at me,” he replies.
“Did the play bore you? You were more interested in the décor,” says Armand, still playing dumb.
“Not the décor.”
“Armand,” he says, like Daniel doesn’t fucking know. Offering his hand earnestly. “Artistic director. If you have any critique you’d like to offer, I’d be most interested in hearing it.”
Daniel just looks at him. A thousand thoughts go through his head at the same time, a thousand possible scenarios, but he settles on the easiest - to go with the flow.
“Well, for starters, you can’t possibly expect the audience to care about what’s happening on stage when you relegate the real art to standing on the balcony.”
It works, as flattery tends to do; Armand smiles a little bashfully, coming up to look at Daniel with a playful glint in his eye.
“American, right? If it wasn't the accent it would have been the forwardness,” he says. “What brings you to Paris? To our little home for the arts and wayward artists?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh? Anything I’ve read perhaps?”
“Doubtful. I’ve only just gotten to Paris. I haven’t had a chance to see the sights yet,” he says. “I was hoping that a local might—” He lets the sentence hang, raising his shoulders.
“Might show you the best this beautiful city has to offer? Shed some lights on its mysteries?”
Daniel shrugs again. “If you’re amenable.”
“It would be my pleasure,” says Armand. “Please allow me to congratulate the troupe first, I’ll be just a moment.”
Daniel stays in the lobby, taking in the colorful crowds. This whole thing is a complete mindfuck; everything feels startlingly real and were it not for how everything just makes sense despite being deeply weird, he’d think he’s inside one of Armand’s conjured-up worlds that he sometimes projects them into. He has no idea how Armand does it, and Armand is even less able to explain it past it being one of his Gifts that he’s honed over centuries, but those places always have a dream-like quality to them—nothing like the crisp, coherent scenes unfolding in front of him now. Curiosity overtakes him and he turns back to the mirror, checking himself once more.
It’s been a minute since that kid stared back at him. Immortality brought him a whole new outlook on life, he’s quite at peace with living for decades, maybe even centuries in his body but there’s an undeniable appeal to youth. He really didn’t know how to appreciate it when he had it—but then again, no one really does. So he smiles at himself, realizes that the suit fits him very well, even though his messy hair is certainly not in line with the slicked-back, carefully coiffed fashion he spies all around him. Still, he allows himself one more moment of vanity, turning to check his ass—nice—as he buries his hands in his pockets. A bunch of coins and—a key, stamped with flowery letters that spell Hôtel des Deux Avenues, and a room number that he can’t decipher in time before he sees Armand’s figure walking back into the lobby. He slips the key back in his pocket and turns to greet Armand with a smile—he can’t help it.
Armand’s polite smile turns a little flirtatious at Daniel’s own. He’s put on a coat, one that’s maybe a size too large for his frame, but it suits him. It makes him look more—human. More frail, maybe.
“Thank you for waiting,” he says, then tilts his head. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“Daniel. Molloy,” he adds.
“Daniel Molloy, welcome to Paris,” says Armand, “Shall we?”
The street outside is another revelation to Daniel, who stops in his tracks when he sees the old cars going past, the sparse crowds of people in their post-war fashion, with the sweet, curling sound of French all around him. He really is here, which his brain still rejects despite, well, everything. He pretends to pat his pockets for cigarettes to mask his momentary shock and gratefully accepts the cigarette that Armand offers him, leaning in closer to light it.
“Beautiful night,” he says, because he has no idea what to say. It’s not a downright lie; the yellowing leaves spell early fall and there’s a definite bite in the air, but when he looks up there’s not a patch of night sky visible between the dark clouds.
Armand plays along though, in that undeniably charming way of his. He leads them down the cobblestone streets, among the thinning crowds, as he points out the odd building and pairs it up with a bit of history or context. Daniel listens, enthralled. It’s not the city that fascinates him, he’s seen Paris and has strong feelings about it—and, surprisingly, the city hadn’t changed that much since he was the one spewing things he’d read in guide books to a tired Alice. He can’t stop looking at Armand, how—different he looks despite nothing about him having changed, not outwardly at least. The fashion’s different, sure, and he wears his hair slicked back and styled with something that hardly lets it move, but it’s still him, still Armand, but— lighter, maybe. Not happier, just less burdened.
“What about you,” starts Armand, changing the focus suddenly. “What do you hope to find in Paris?”
“Inspiration,” says Daniel. It’s an automatic answer, with very little behind it. “Answers, I guess.”
“Oh? To anything in particular?”
“To everything and nothing. I’m just— “ a seasoned bullshitter caught off-guard, that’s what he is. “I’m trying to find inspiration to write the next great American novel.”
“...in Paris?”
“I never said I was a good writer.”
“Well.” Armand finds him amusing, at least. “Paris is a true haven for the artists; if she likes you, she’ll nourish you like she did countless other great minds.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then she’ll eat you alive.”
“Eh, there’s a certain lyricism to misery; I’m sure I can work something out if it comes down to it.”
A comfortable silence falls as their footsteps echo along the empty streets, Armand seemingly having forgotten to play guide. It’s nice, Daniel doesn’t think they do this often enough. When they’re out together, it’s to hunt or to watch movies or plays; there’s always a purpose to their outings. There’s also Daniel’s unquenchable thirst; he’s still a young fledgling, still at the mercy of his new biological imperative to feed every single night, and only now that he’s momentarily free of it does he appreciate how liberating it is to simply exist.
“You’re a very intriguing young man, Daniel,” says Armand. He looks at Daniel with a curious expression, like he can’t quite make sense of him. “I’m usually very good at— reading people, but I can’t seem to decipher you.”
“Points to me, I guess,” says Daniel. He’d gotten so used to the fact that their bond didn’t allow them to read each other’s thoughts that he forgot that Armand could do it when Daniel was mortal. Not in this body, it seems, in this—whatever it is that they’re in.
Of course, unless Armand really is playing with him. If so, Daniel would rather die than be the first one to break character. He’s really stubborn like that.
“I could say the same about you,” he says. “Artistic director at your age, shepherding a troupe of— vampires? Putting on plays to a packed house every night. That’s very impressive.”
“We have a very particular artistic vision, that’s true. And not quite packed house, I would say, certainly not every night.”
“Eh, you did pretty well for yourself. Why vampires though? Why this particular artistic vision?”
“Because of the inherent allure of vampirism. The legends. The giving interpretations of the themes it offers for exploration—mortality, morality, life, death. Humans playing vampires pretending to be humans; those who care to see beyond the surface are privy to an added depth hidden beyond the costumes and the projections and the fake blood; there are layers to the play that one can choose to peel off—or ignore entirely,” he adds pointedly, with a smile.
“Humans playing vampires—now, who’s to say they aren’t really vampires? Who’s to say you aren’t one either?”
He’s getting bold, but it certainly touched a nerve. Armand’s smile is fleeting, he gets his hands in his pockets and looks around.
“Care for a walk along the Seine?”
“Sure,” he says. “Lead the way.”
Daniel tries to get his bearings but he realizes that he’s well and truly lost—he’s not sure when he stopped recognizing landmarks, when he stopped paying attention.
“Your English is very good,” says Daniel.
“So is yours,” counters Armand with a playful smile. “There are a lot of Americans around, it’s a wise move to make our offerings available to a wider audience. Running a theater company, especially one as—niche as ours is, isn’t cheap.”
“The blood-syrup alone must run you a fortune,” he snarks, then softens up. “Yeah, life’s real tough at the moment and something tells me it will get better only to get bad again. It’s the never-ending cycle of history—of course, as vampires, you know that.”
Armand just shakes his head.
“If I was a vampire, wouldn’t it be unwise for you to be walking these deserted streets with me?”
“I like living dangerously. And hey, if you were to bite me? Worth it.”
“I really didn’t take you for a vampire aficionado. If you were, you’d think you’d have paid more attention to the play.”
“I think I already made it clear that my interests were elsewhere,” he says. He’s laying it on as thick as he can, regardless of whether it’s wise or not. He doesn’t know what this whole thing is, doesn’t even know for sure if Armand’s not in on it. He doesn’t seem to be, which means that he’s walking along deserted side streets with a vampire, and he’s new in town, alone—the perfect victim. However, instead of making him as afraid as it probably should, the realization thrills him.
Armand stops then, turns to him. He’s not even bothered to hide his eyes behind glasses so Daniel picks up on the change of color in his pupils, the way they turn brighter like they always do when he’s on the prowl. Or aroused. He takes one step closer to Daniel, then another—a dance that Daniel falls into without meaning to, he walks backward until his back hits the wall, with Armand just inches away from his face.
A standstill, tense in the deathly silence that Daniel suddenly becomes aware of. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and he doesn’t miss the way Armand’s lips part as he watches Daniel’s Adam’s apple rise and fall.
He wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss Armand and it’s not a new desire for him; in fact, it’s hard to remember a time when he didn’t want to kiss him but now, here, under the cone of yellow light cast by the streetlamp, the need burns inside him so hot it threatens to leave him in embers.
Armand doesn’t move. His eyes are set on Daniel’s lips now. A second. Two.
When he finally does move, when he leans in, it’s not to kiss Daniel, who eagerly—hopefully—comes up to meet him; he noses his way into Daniel’s neck, breathing him in. It’s somehow more intimate than kissing, and Daniel finds himself grabbing at Armand’s coat as he tips his head back, offering his neck. Fuck; it’s been so long since he felt the edge of danger inherent in Armand, the sense that he could die, all wrapped in the realization that even if he did, he’d welcome the fangs.
The bite doesn’t come, it’s just a brush of lips against his neck, a gentle nip at his earlobe that sends shivers down his spine, followed by a cool palm against his cheek when Armand draws back.
“See, if I was a vampire, that could have been very dangerous.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, unable to find words. Armand seems to have stolen them all right out of his brain. “Maybe we should—” Should what? “The Seine?” Shit, not that; what?
Silence.
A crack of thunder breaks the tension, Daniel finds himself flinching a little at the unexpected sound.
The wind blows leaves across the pavement, a quiet rustle. Then rain, sparse drops begin to fall, and then another crack of thunder.
“It’s nothing,” says Armand, briefly looking up at the clouds. “It will be over by the time we reach the banks. Come.”
By the time they reach the end of the street, it becomes obvious that Armand’s wrong—the rain doesn’t let up, it starts coming down harder, so much so that Armand takes off his coat and drapes it above their heads.
“There,” says Daniel, pointing to an awning that they both rush to.
It doesn’t keep them dry but it helps somewhat; and once they’re partially shielded, Daniel gets his hand in his pocket to take out his hotel key.
“Do you know where—” he squints, “Hôtel des Deux Avenues is?”
“Yes, it’s not far from here. Do you want to—”
Daniel just shrugs. Fuck it, why not.
They don’t run—at first—and Armand still insists to cover them with his coat which soon enough does nothing but stick to their already wet clothes. Just at the end of the street, says Armand, and Daniel starts running. The longest street in existence, and Daniel’s rigid shoes slip once or twice against the wet cobblestone, only for Armand to catch him. By the time they reach the hotel, they’re breathless, stopping in the doorway to catch their breath and laugh.
“So much for seeing the sights,” says Daniel, wiping the water from his face. “Although it feels like I have a Seine’s-worth of water in my shoes.”
“I feel like I should apologize, the city was uncharacteristically unkind to you.”
Daniel waves it away.
“This was pleasant too,” he says.
“It was.” Although completely drenched, Armand still manages to look impeccable, like he just walked out of a pretentious perfume ad. He takes a deep breath, then looks back out into the street. “Since you haven’t paid much attention to the play tonight, could I hope to see you again tomorrow? As my special guest, of course.”
“Tomorrow? There are still hours left in the night,” says Daniel. “Plus, I’d feel guilty if you went back out into that rain, even if vampires probably don’t catch colds.” He has to clarify when Armand’s eyebrows go up in poorly feigned confusion. “Would you like to come up to my room?”
“Are you sure you want to invite a vampire in?”
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
There are some people in the lobby, a group of drunkards filling the tiny tables there, busy singing and heckling the lady who brings them fresh bottles. Daniel sees an opportunity, an unopened bottle of wine forgotten on a table, and grabs it, passing it to Armand who instantly catches on and hides it under the coat draped over his arm.
Daniel’s head is spinning as they’re climbing up the stairs to the first floor. His heart is pounding as he turns the key in the lock, unsure what waits for him on the other side. What’s going to happen once they’re in.
It’s not The Twilight Zone, it’s a regular hotel room, small, with a messy bed, a desk and chair by the window, an armchair in the corner, under a lamp. It really does his head in, but he tries not to dwell on the mechanics of it—it would be hard to; now that he’s stationary, he realizes how cold he is under the sopping clothes.
“I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I’m freezing. I need to get out of these clothes.”
Armand, who’s equally drenched, dripping all over the carpet, watches him with a quiet, challenging look. Of course he’s not bothered by the cold, Daniel knows it, but he’s still bound to be uncomfortable.
“Sensible idea.”
A game. Daniel smiles back.
“I have an even better one - a hot bath, to keep the chill at bay. You’re more than welcome to join.”
“You’re very forward, Daniel.”
“One of my many qualities,” he says, then confidently walks to the door that he hopes leads to the bathroom. To his relief, it does. There is a clawfoot bathtub in there, although it hardly seems big enough for two. He starts the water, then turns to see Armand leaning against the doorway.
“Do you do this often? Charm strange men into getting naked with you in your hotel room?”
“Not as often as I’d like,” says Daniel. He unbuttons his jacket, the fabric heavy with water. He starts loosening his tie then stops, giving Armand a pointed look.
Armand echoes his motions, working his buttons with his long, elegant fingers without taking his eyes off Daniel. It’s his move now, the waistcoat comes off, followed by Armand’s. The shirt’s next; he tugs the tails from his pants and is tempted to pull it over his head once he has a couple buttons open, but he can’t set a bad example; he loves watching Armand undress. Unlike Daniel, whose motions are practical—he really wants to get out of these damn clothes—Armand is giving him a whole subtle performance with the way he doesn’t rush, he exposes his skin like it’s a gift, knowing full well the effect he has on Daniel. The pants come off next; Daniel lets them fall in a heap on the floor, while Armand continues to hang his clothes on the hook by the door.
The rain soaked them to the bone; there’s one layer left between them but the sodden fabric does nothing to hide how their little dance affects them both. Not a new sight for Daniel—the outline of Armand’s cock as it begins to strain against the cotton—but one that never fails to make his mouth water and his brain useless. He walks over, gets right in Armand’s face, flashes him a cocky smile then drops to his knees.
He keeps finding himself on his knees for this man.
Butterflies are fluttering in his stomach like on their first night together, when he was so swept by desire, by sheer lust, that he would have done anything to feel Armand’s skin. There was no gentleness, he practically ripped Armand’s clothes off, took him in his mouth and felt him grow hard against his tongue; his head swam with it all, with the need he wasn’t sure he could satiate, with the realization that he hadn’t done it in decades, and never with someone he's wanted like this. He wants to take his time now. He wants this night to be all about Armand, about giving him everything, as much as he can compress in this moment of time.
Hands on Armand’s slender hips, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of his briefs but doesn’t pull them down just yet; he leans in to nuzzle at the junction of his thighs, breathing him in, and— fuck, he misses his vampire senses. Right now, he can only pick up the smell of the wet wool, a faint hint of the smoke that permeated the theater, and not much else. A real damn shame though, but at least he can delight in the sharp intake of breath that Armand takes when Daniel turns his head to mouth at the outline of his cock through the wet fabric. He’s just teasing now, running his tongue up the hardening flesh until he can feel the ridge of his cockhead, then down, until a stray wiry hair pokes through the cotton and he playfully tugs it with his teeth. It would be fucking weird if Armand wasn’t so into it, starting to squirm, to push against Daniel’s face. One more languid lick up, slowed down by the sodden fabric, then he finally pulls the underwear down and catches his cock in his mouth.
And here’s the thing that fascinates him most, what kept him playing with Armand’s cock for hours—the fact that he’s uncut. The filthy moan that Armand makes when Daniel keeps his mouth around his head and pulls the foreskin down, rolling his tongue under the freshly exposed ridge of his crown, then pulling it back up to mouth at the thin softness of it between his lips. Armand’s unsure of what to do with his hands, cupping Daniel's head for a second, then moving to his shoulders the next, then taking his hands off entirely, and that’s new—Armand’s never tentative with him, their first time was a whirlwind of violent lust, and every other time since they both knew what they wanted and either took it, or guided the other through it. Now, Armand seems— uncertain?
The only feedback he gets is in the form of soft moans, little noises, breathy ah— ah— sounds in time with the gentle bob of Daniel’s head like he’s shy, like he’s keeping himself back, so Daniel redoubles his efforts, takes him deeper, holds him there until he remembers that this body needs to breathe, then pulls off. His knees begin to ache but he ignores the pain, takes his cock back into his mouth and rubs his tongue the way he knows Armand loves, and is finally rewarded with fingers that card through his hair. They don’t pull, don’t scratch, they pet gently, and Daniel’s annoyed, he needs that edge of desperation in Armand, the one that makes him wrench Daniel off the floor and throw him in a bed or against the nearest sturdy surface. This just won’t do.
See, if Armand really doesn’t know him, then Daniel has the upper hand. He knows what Armand likes, what turns him into putty, what renders him pliant and incoherent—right now, he settles on cupping his balls in a gentle hand while he sucks around his cockhead, then he hums and squeezes. Armand bucks in his mouth, fingers finally knotted in Daniel’s hair, his thighs begin to tremble. So, naturally, Daniel does it again. He can’t hurt him, and it’s not about the pain anyway; it’s about control, about trust, about allowing oneself to be vulnerable. Yet the second he feels the faint coppery taste of precum on his tongue, the promise that he’s on the right path, Daniel takes him out of his mouth. He catches Armand’s look, his hazy, fiery eyes, and holds his gaze as he pokes his tongue out and jerks Armand’s cock just the way he likes it, fast and with a clear purpose, then stops just as he feels him start to feel even harder, when his thighs clench and his breath catches in his throat.
“What— “ Armand pulls his hair, thrusts his hips but Daniel just smirks.
“I think the tub’s full enough,” he declares, letting go of Armand’s cock and getting up. His knees protest—something he did not remember about his twenties—but he stretches wide, then pulls his own underwear off and throws them in the messy pile beside him. “Yep,” he says, padding to the tub and stopping the water.
“Fiend,” says Armand, still a little bewildered. He comes up behind Daniel to wrap him in an embrace, then urges him to turn over. “You are—”
“Freezing,” says Daniel. That’s when it hits him, when he’s wrapped up in Armand’s cool embrace, looking at his lips— “I can't believe I sucked your dick but I didn't even kiss you yet.”
So he does. A second first kiss, less rushed, more intentional. He can taste Armand’s moans, feels them vibrating through his chest; almost loses his balance when Armand cups his face between his palms, tilting it back for better access.
It’s getting hotter, quick—and Daniel doesn’t want quick. One last brush of lips, a teasing swipe with the tip of his tongue before he breaks out of Armand’s arms and steps inside the tub.
The water’s just this side of too hot but he lowers himself in regardless, his initial hiss turning into a deep sigh as he spreads his legs in front of him. He really has the best ideas, he thinks to himself, letting his head fall back against the cool enamel.
Armand hovers just outside, getting ready to get in as well, but Daniel dramatically raises a finger in the air, stopping him just as he lifts his foot.
“The wine,” he declares, and Armand needs only a moment to understand what he means. Yeah, Daniel’s staring at his ass as he walks out, then shamelessly at his softening dick once he’s back. He doesn’t comment on the fact that the bottle is miraculously open, not when Armand bends over again to set it by the tub and he gets another lovely view of his ass. He has plans for that ass.
Of course Armand notices his staring, he’s got one of his complicit smiles on as he steps inside the tub, then lowers himself in the water in front of Daniel, facing him. It’s the stupidest possible way to do this, and he manages to poke Daniel’s side in the most ticklish spot as he tries to fit his long legs around Daniel’s.
“I thought you were gonna— you know,” Daniel gestures vaguely that he should turn around, much to Armand's confusion. “So I could hold you? I mean, I can work with this,” he says when Armand seems to get up to reposition himself.
“You didn't specify—”
“No, it's fine. Better, actually; you know I enjoy this view.”
Armand turns to look at the wall behind him, shrugs, then turns back to Daniel.
“I suppose my current view is marginally more interesting than the alternative.”
“Dick,” says Daniel, swiping his hand through the water, sending a wave right into Armand’s unsuspecting face.
It immediately devolves into a splash fight because Armand’s not one to back down; he takes it as a personal affront and he’s efficient and quick, barely leaving Daniel any room to fight back since he’s too busy choking on bathwater.
“You— “ Daniel says, hands futilely trying to shield his face. “Stop! Truce!”
Armand stops, hands up in the air as if he’s giving up as Daniel sputters and wipes water off his face. And then, barely a second later, he cups both hands under the water and sends a splash right into Daniel’s eyes.
“Oh, this is war!” Daniel gets on his knees and launches himself at Armand, landing awkwardly on his lap and only narrowly managing to not knee him in the balls. He’s got no room to maneuver, to dunk him in the water like he envisioned in his split-second of ire, so he stares him down instead, with all the mock fury his water-logged self can muster. The only thing he can do—the only thing he does—is to cup some water in his hands and let it fall on top of Armand’s head.
“Oh no,” deadpans Armand. “Please stop,” he adds, as unconvincingly as he can.
“Brat.”
“We can start negotiations—”
“The will be no negotiations,” says Daniel, sliding his hand under water to cup Armand’s dick. “Surrender.”
“Or else?”
Daniel starts stroking him, getting his idea across just fine because Armand instantly relaxes into the touch.
“Good point well made,” he concedes.
“Oh the wine,” says Daniel, cruelly letting go of Armand’s dick, much to his obvious displeasure. “I hope we didn’t do a reverse Jesus and turn it into water with all the splashing.” He reaches over the side of the tub to get the bottle, then takes a swig. Fucking amazing, he hasn’t been able to enjoy regular food or drinks in years so the taste alone, as it blooms against his tongue and flows down his throat, sends an actual shiver down his spine. “Oh, this is the good stuff. Want some?”
To his surprise, Armand takes the offered bottle and takes a sip too. It tastes off to him, that much Daniel knows, but he doesn’t let it show. He passes the bottle back and settles to cup Daniel’s ass instead.
He takes lazy swigs from the bottle, coming down to kiss Armand when he starts properly feeling him up, kneading his ass. It’s pleasant, just enjoying each other, and Daniel gets lovestruck the more he looks into Armand’s eyes. Seeing him this relaxed, this carefree— yeah, they’re having a whole renaissance at the moment—in real life, wherever that may be—but the Armand he has now feels subtly different to the one he knows. The one he loves. Has this version been inside him all this time?
Not that Daniel’s one to talk, he also seems to have devolved in the time he’s been here, back to his young and carefree self. Fewer decades’ worth of wear on the body, a whole lot less venom and spite so readily available. They’re a good fit, he thinks, matching each other whenever they might meet.
Voices suddenly spill into the street outside, it sounds like fighting at first but it’s interspersed with laughter, and then a man bursts into song, only to be joined in by others. Probably the drunkards in the lobby, thrown out but not happy to let the fun end. Daniel looks at Armand underneath him, as he soaks in the water without a care in the world.
“What do you do? When you’re not going to strange men’s hotel rooms to get naked with them,” Daniel asks.
“What do you mean?”
“For fun, what do you do?”
“I— I spend most evenings with the theater family. We go out, we dine together, we— spend a lot of time together. We have fun,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself as well as Daniel. He takes the bottle that Daniel’s been hogging to take the tiniest sip.
“And when you’re not with them?”
“I go out on my own as well,” he says. “But running a theater company requires a lot of working—off the clock?”
“All work and no play makes Armand a dull boy,” says Daniel.
“I suppose that means I’ll have to make the most of this night then.” He bends over the side of the tub to set the bottle down, then refocuses his attention on Daniel’s ass.
There’s a small glass bottle on the little shelf by the tub, it says shampooing which even Daniel, with his very limited French, can understand. He holds it up to Armand with a questioning look on his face, and gets a nod in return. It smells nice when he uncaps it, a mix of unidentifiable herbs. From there, Daniel takes the reins. He gets Armand’s hair properly wet, then gets to massaging the shampoo in his hair. It’s a tangled mess at first, until whatever product Armand was using gives up on its devilish hold, but seeing Armand luxuriate under his fingers is worth it. They’ve done it before—sharing a bath, washing the blood off each other, just taking care of one another in quiet, intimate moments like this one; it’s just that Daniel never imagined he’d get another crack at a first time.
“What about you? What do you do for fun?” Armand keeps his eyes closed, head tipped back as Daniel massages his scalp.
Daniel shrugs. “I write.”
“For fun.”
“Yeah I write for fun. I read; can’t be a good writer if you don’t read. I also go out, catch a— play or something. Hang out with friends. The usual.”
Armand hums. “And is it just friends you’re hanging out with?”
“Are you asking if I'm single? Now?”
“I’m asking if there’s someone back in America waiting for you.”
“It's complicated,” says Daniel, because it is.
“So there is. What would they say if they knew you got on your knees in your hotel room for a man you've only met hours ago?”
“Honestly? He'd probably want to know all about it. He'd get all hot and bothered while I told him how your cock tasted.”
“Really? And people say Americans are puritanical,” says Armand.
Daniel laughs, a short puff of air that sends some suds flying.
“What about you?”
“Hm? Oh,” says Armand, opening his big, golden eyes. “No. Not for a while now.”
“How so? You're— you're really fucking hot, pal. No one?”
“Not someone to share my heart with. My body? Sure, but that's always ephemeral and purely carnal.”
“Because of the whole vampire thing, right? Because vampires prefer being with their own kind? I mean, I’m assuming - can’t imagine loving someone only to see them age and die, then having to live the rest of your immortal life with only the memory of them.”
“Do you think so? Strange you didn't consider the point of view of the mortal—would they even want to be with a monster?”
“I can tell you with absolute certainty that humans have no qualms loving monsters. Maybe not monsters like— vampires or werewolves but, without a doubt, we have a history of ignoring the worst when the heart takes over. Like, say, the young woman in your play.”
“So you were paying attention,” says Armand.
“Eh, I got the general idea. Your playwright's not one for subtlety or complex metaphors, is he?” Hilarious thing to say given Sam's later work, but he can't really give spoilers, can he?
“I’ll make sure to pass that along,” says Armand. “Can I wash your hair now?”
Instead of an answer, Daniel slips out from Armand’s arms and dips back, submerging himself in the water. He aims for graceful but only narrowly manages not to drown himself, arms flailing at the edge of the tub only to have Armand fish him out with a steady hand and an amused look on his face.
“What are you—”
Daniel kisses him, quickly breaks the kiss and turns to cough residual water from his lungs, then can’t seem to fight an unexpected giggle fit. He’s a fucking idiot; he’s always known that, recently discovered that he’s even more of an idiot around Armand but this level is new, even for him. So he tries to kiss him again, even though he can’t stop smiling which proves to be mildly incompatible with the kind of kissing he had in mind. He settles eventually, they both settle, an uncomfortable tangle of limbs in that stupid tub as they soap and rinse each other, innocent, functional touches slowly turning intentional and exploratory.
When he’s got Armand pinned against the side of the tub, two fingers inside him and tongue in his mouth, swallowing his moans, it becomes clear that they should probably take this whole thing to the bed. The water’s getting colder—as much of it as it was left in the tub, anyway.
A charged silence hangs between them as they towel themselves dry. Daniel catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, flushed, curls weighed down by the water, and it feels like himself, in a way it didn’t back in the theater lobby. Like this is him, he’s this guy, and suddenly his insides feel like they match his outside. What a novel concept.
Armand’s carefully squeezing his hair with a towel in a way that Daniel’s seen countless times, then smiles when he realizes that he’s being watched.
“What?”
“Nothing. You’re just real fucking pretty,” says Daniel. “Stunning, actually, I mean; look at you.” He comes up to hug him from behind, turning him to face the mirror. “But that’s not all you are, is it? That’s just what everyone sees. What you so carefully curate and allow them to see. There’s a whole lot more underneath this, isn’t there?” He lets a hand slide down Armand’s chest, settling above his heart. “In here, for example. A whole storm, countless wars you’ve fought with yourself and maybe you’ve lost more than you’ve won, right? There’s scars, pain, violence, devotion, hunger— I see you, Armand. You.”
“Then you should run away. Save yourself.”
“Nah,” says Daniel. “This is exactly where I want to be.”
The bed creaks pitifully when Armand tosses Daniel atop the mattress and climbs on, crawls on top of him like a wild fucking thing; no coyness, no pretenses, they’re going to fuck and Daniel quickly understands he’s lost whatever upper hand he thought he had but he doesn’t care. He’s given no respite, Armand steals his breath with filthy kisses that he only breaks to trail downwards, to take him into his mouth and work him like he’s done countless of times before. Not before though, is it; not in this timeline, this place, this— whatever it is. It’s rushed, frenzied, Armand’s intent turns out to be getting him wet, not getting him off; getting him just wet enough for it to be this side of uncomfortable for the both of them when he straddles Daniel and impales himself on his cock.
“You don’t come until I tell you,” warns Armand as soon as he’s fully seated, in the brief moment when Daniel can breathe again, can think for a bit. “Yes?”
“Ah—” gasps Daniel. “And, uh. If I do?”
“You won’t.”
“But—” Daniel’s not sure where he’s going with it, not that thinking is feasible when his dick is squeezed the way it is by the unnatural warmth of Armand’s ass, his breath caught under Armand’s arms pressing on his chest as he’s lifting himself up, only to sink back down, slow like a punishment. As if the molten amber of Armand’s eyes weren’t boring into his very soul.
“You won’t,” emphasizes Armand with a skillful roll of his hips, and Daniel believes him.
He just nods then throws his head back, digs his fingers in Armand’s thighs because he’s riding him properly now, not for show, not to make a point but to get himself off. Daniel can’t remember his own name, can’t—
“But after you do, I want to take you. I want you hard and weeping and begging.”
“Please,” starts Daniel, not even sure what he wants to say. He doesn’t understand how Armand can follow a line of thinking, let alone talk, but there he is.
“Not now, sweet boy,” says Armand, coming down for a kiss. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll take such good care of you. You trust me, right?” Daniel nods, out of instinct more than actual thought, even though he’s starting to feel, for the first time that night, the metallic taste of fear spreading on his tongue. “You really shouldn’t, but here you are. But I’ll take care of you.”
Armand does; he may be fucking himself, using Daniel to get himself off, but Daniel’s far from an afterthought. Yes, he’s being used, being useful, but Armand is watching him, reading every emotion on his face, every sound that escapes his lips; he slows down to a firm, dirty grind when Daniel’s breath gets too shallow, when he gets too close, then picks up again when the urge to come subsides. And all throughout, he keeps touching Daniel - his chest, his shins when he leans back and changes the angle to something that makes Daniel bite down on a scream, he reaches behind himself to fondle Daniel’s balls, giving him a gentle squeeze, a warning to breathe through it, to not come just yet.
“You’re—” A sigh. Words don’t flow as easily from Armand, which emboldens Daniel, making him thrust his hips up to meet Armand’s motions.
“What?” Wha—” Daniel’s words wrap around the fingers that Armand slips in his mouth.
“Shhh. So good,” he whispers, coming down to bury his head in the crook of Daniel’s neck, panting softly.
Daniel takes advantage of the moment, he plants his feet on the mattress for leverage, wraps his hands around Armand’s shoulders and starts fucking him like he needs to, deep, pushing moans out of him with every thrust. The illusion of control dies the second he feels Armand’s lips on his neck but he can’t stop now; he doesn’t, he squeezes his eyes and waits for the fangs, for the pain, he welcomes it, needs it—fears it. Arousal fucks with his brain; lack of blood an horniness makes him think, if Armand bites me, if he drains me, if he kills me now—
But the pain doesn’t come; the kiss morphs into suction, an innocent hickey that gets to him like he’s a horny teenager being touched for the first time. It’s impossibly sexy, wires crossing in his brain, he can only think of blood, blood being pulled to the surface of his skin, blood that he’s so used to craving by now, blood he so freely gives to Armand, blood that he wants Armand to take, but— he doesn’t, and Daniel doesn’t know if he should be relieved or crushed.
There’s hardly any color left in Armand’s eyes when he pulls himself up; it’s all giant pools of black, staring at him, through him, and his face scrunches in what seems like pain for a fleeting second before it settles firmly into pleasure. Armand’s back in charge, elegant and commanding and taking, managing a cruel little smile as Daniel realizes he can’t thrust up anymore.
Daniel whines, a moan strangled by the hellfire clenching around his cock, the waves that build and build inside his gut like wildfire. There’s nothing he can do other than hold on, staring up at Armand; beautiful. Terrifying. He’s gonna die before the sun is up, Daniel’s certain of it and the more he becomes aware of it, the more he embraces it. Armand’s killed him before; he didn’t ask for it then, didn’t want it, but this time? This time he’s parched for it.
It takes more strength than this human body can muster but Daniel tries, he tries to push himself up, to take control again but Armand pushes him back down, kills every remaining thought in his brain with lips and teeth and tongue, and that’s it, he’s gonna come, he’s gonna—
“Not yet,” says Armand, who even though can’t read his thoughts can still read his body; has figured out how close he is and lifts himself up, towers above Daniel who tries, he really fucking tries to hold back but his body is just a body, it’s flesh and hormones and lust and the way Armand moans, the way he moves, the way he takes hold of his own cock and jerks himself off with an urgency that Daniel feels in his own bones, it's the hottest fucking thing Daniel’s ever seen, the one thing he can’t resist, he can’t—
He only gets to see a flash on Armand’s face, his eyebrows gathering, his lips forming a perfect little oh, the flash of fangs—fangs—before Armand’s other palm lands over Daniel's eyes, and then he hears it—
“Now,” says Armand. “Come; now,” he says, and Daniel does. His body does, a minute disconnect where, in the dark, he wonders if he’ll die but it doesn’t really matter, does it, because he’s coming; his hands scramble to rip Armand’s palm off his eyes so he can see him too but he can’t, all he can do is grit his teeth through the pleasure that overtakes him, amplified by the sounds Armand makes as he comes too, the heat, the squeeze of his body, the wetness on his chest.
He doesn’t die. He’s pretty sure he’s not dead, just that his ears are ringing, body tingling all over with errant sparks and then something rough and dry touches his chest, making him jump, but it’s just— Armand must be wiping him clean, and yeah; that makes sense. It makes sense and it doesn’t and this is the best, most terrifying sex he’s had in his seven decades on this earth and he’s not even sure if any of it is real.
By the time Armand’s palm lifts and he can see again, Daniel’s got his breath back and the use of maybe two neurons which allow him to reach out for Armand as he pushes himself up and off of him, lazy and content. He wants to say something but finds that there’s nothing in his head. Silence.
Armand gets up and heads to the bathroom and Daniel just—basks. It’s probably post-coital hormones mostly, but they’re working on a solid basis, Daniel is sure, because his heart is fucking aching, that good, mollifying sort of ache of stupid, sincere love, the one that makes him smile like a damn idiot when Armand walks back out. Yeah, he’s in love. And maybe— Maybe the fact that here, in this now, where he’s human and Armand doesn’t know him and they haven’t exchanged blood and there’s no bond between them, he's just as in love is proof that it’s all real. It’s not some magic, blood-bound thing. Maker and fledgling, a forged thing, no—it’s all real. He loves Armand, and while he never doubted it, this knowledge only serves to make it all the stronger.
“Cigarette?” Armand offers his pack as he sits down on the bed, then promptly gets up to get the ashtray from the desk beside them. He places it between them on the bed, holds the lighter as Daniel leans in and lights his own. “I can’t seem to— read you,” says Armand. “To make sense of you. It's strange.”
“Is that really such a bad thing?” They’re equally in the dark for a change. “Plus, what’s there to make sense of? I’m just— a shitty little kid from Modesto,” he says with a smile.
“Who crossed an ocean to write the next Great American Novel,” says Armand. He takes a deep breath then releases it, chased a moment later by whorls of smoke. There’s the sound of footsteps outside, against the cobblestone, and Armand gets momentarily distracted until the sound gets fainter and fainter. “How is it that I feel like you can see right inside me, like I’m just made of glass?”
“Maybe it’s not glass, maybe it’s a mirror. No real friends, obsessed with your craft, no life outside of it? Yeah, sounds familiar.”
“You said you had someone waiting for you back in America.”
“I do now, but I didn't, for the longest time before I met him. Well, met him again.” Daniel shuffles on the bed, there’s a restlessness inside him that decades had mellowed out, but this body seems to remember. “Tell you a secret? I loathed him at first, when we first met. Was afraid of him too, I guess. And he lied, the fucker lied so much and—” he stops, rubs his eyes. “And it's not like— like love fixed me, there's still a whole lot about me that's just. Not right. Can't ever be made right; if anything, in some aspects I’m worse. But with him— He has such a capacity for love, such a thirst for it, he loves with abandon and desperation and I think it scared us both at first. But with him I'm myself and for the first time I don't hate it.” God, he sounds twenty, not seventy, and it truly does his head in.
“And yet you're here with me,” points out Armand, with a bittersweet smile.
“Trust me, he won't mind.”
Armand watches him for a minute, as if trying to piece him together. That grain of sadness that he knows in Armand sticks out even through this lighter side of him.
“I suppose I'm envious of what you have. You roaming freely across the ocean, so secure in your love that you're bringing new men in your bed without worries.”
“That can't be a new concept for you, sharing your body with more, your heart with only one.”
“Yes, but it's— it’s different for me.”
“Because you're French, right? Sorry, I mean a vampire, of course,” Daniel snorts. He shifts again, and finally recognizes the source of his restlessness. He snuffs his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray with uncoordinated fingers. His throat is dry. “I’m just gonna— “ He gestures towards the bathroom, stumbles out of bed, his foot getting momentarily tangled in the messy sheet.
He drinks water straight from the tap, washes his face, stands in front of the toilet for the longest minutes on his life until his dick remembers its other function and he manages to piss. A heartfelt sigh.
What the fuck is he doing.
For one, he doesn’t want the night to end, especially since he’s not sure he’ll get more than this; if this— whatever it is won’t dissipate in the morning and he’ll wake up in his coffin, next to his Armand. But this one; this one he just wants to spend more time with. Wants to know him. To love him, even.
But the issue, the real, thorny issue, is that this Armand isn’t his Armand; the Armand of the Theatre des Vampires is still bound by the Great Laws, by the responsibility he has as coven leader; this Armand would never take a mortal lover and, what’s more, he would easily recognize that a lonely American tourist would make for the perfect victim to drain and disappear.
Maybe Armand was right, maybe he should run away—but he doesn’t want to.
Armand’s cleaned the bed when Daniel steps back into the room. The sheet is conspicuously gone, the ashtray is back on the table, and Armand is sitting his bare, scrawny ass on the narrow windowsill, looking out into the street.
“In a way I’m jealous you get to experience Paris for the first time,” he says when he notices Daniel. “I suppose she's not at her finest right now, but she's slowly rising from her ashes. Rebirth, reinvention take time.” He gives Daniel an easy smile. “I do hope she treats you better. How long are you planning on staying?”
“No plans,” says Daniel. He joins Armand at the window. The city’s truly asleep now, quiet and deserted. Oddly familiar from his time spent there with Alice, but, just like the vampire beside him, oddly different too.
“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a cage camouflaged in potential and hope.”
“I guess we’ll see,” shrugs Daniel. “What about you? Any plans? You still owe me that tour of the city.”
“Just— theater business. Sam’s workshopping a new play, there’s infighting between the violinists in the orchestra, Santiago—our leading man—needs his ego stroked regularly, like winding a clock, or he poisons the entire ensemble.” He sighs. Smiles. “But after the show tomorrow, weather permitting, I’d be honored to be beside you while the city finally reveals her mysteries.”
“The theater, it really seems like a full-time job, huh? Quite the handful. Do you at least— like them?”
“I love them; each in their own way. But like them?”
Daniel snickers. “Loads of big egos, I imagine.”
“Too big for such a modest establishment.”
The cold seeps in through the thin window pane; Daniel hugs his arms around himself and rubs at his cool skin despite himself. Armand notices and gets off of the sill, coming to wrap his arms around Daniel, pulling him close.
“Let me warm you up,” he says, taking Daniel’s hand and leading him back to the bed.
Daniel shivers, and it’s not cold this time; it’s the wet, slippery slide of Armand’s tongue between his legs, behind his balls; it pokes at the wink of his asshole, one palm spread out underneath him, cradling his cock, giving him something to rut into. He’s reduced to moans, mindless and wound so tight he’s sure he’s going to come at any second, and the filthy sounds that Armand makes, the unmistakable sound of him jerking himself off too make him whine into the pillow. He’s trapped between Armand’s tongue and his hand, sliding forward to get some friction against his cock, then pulling back against the wet, probing tongue.
“Please,” he whispers, then keens in frustration a second later when the wetness leaves him.
“I told you you’d be begging,” says Armand, sliding a wet finger where his tongue was, then bites—no fangs, just to tease, not to break skin—into the plump meat of Daniel’s ass.
“Yeah, you’re— “ A gasp. Armand’s finger curls and finds its target, and Daniel immediately loses his ability to think. He rolls his hips with the motion inside him, rubs his forehead into the pillow. He’s shameless, spreading his thighs, ass up in the air.
“What do you want?”
In lieu of an answer, Daniel pushes his hips back. His thighs ache, pleasure pooling in his gut in waves. He’s dripping constantly, easing his messy slide against Armand’s palm, and the pressure against his prostate makes him feel like a livewire.
“What,” says Armand, pulling his finger out to return with another, slipping them in effortlessly, “do you want?”
“Fucking— “ Daniel manages to lift his head, blinking against the harshness of the light. “World peace, what do you think? Fucking fuck me, or I’ll— “ The words stop in his throat when yet another finger joins the ones inside him; they pump and twist and he moans, forehead dropping back down.
“Or you’ll what?” Armand sounds amused, challenging. “What will you do?”
Come, thinks Daniel, but he won’t give Armand the satisfaction of saying it. He just hangs on, knuckles white in the bunched-up sheet, entirely at Armand’s mercy.
Armand slides his palm out from underneath him and Daniel makes a pathetic noise at the loss; he drops his hips lower and the sheet feels too scratchy against the sensitive skin of his cock, too dry—not that it stops him from rutting against it. He’s in his own little world that’s made entirely of pleasure until the fingers in his ass slide out and he feels empty, cold. He’d protest but there’s no willpower in him, he’s just breathing, dizzy, a mess of flesh alight, desire packed in a sweaty, trembling body. And then there’s something blunt pressing against his asshole and he instinctively pushes into it, whoreish, wanton; he impales himself and immediately stops and gasps at the blinding pain that slices through him.
“Relax,” says Armand. His hand comes up to caress his flank, gentle like his words.
Deep breath. Daniel tries to relax; he’s taken Armand’s cock so many times, more than once with less prep than this, but not in this body, this body doesn’t know Armand, it needs a minute to accept him. But he wants it, he wants it enough to cant his hips back, to try and push through the pain because he knows it’s fleeting.
“You’re so tight,” says Armand, a little out of breath himself, and Daniel can’t help but laugh a stupid puff of sound against the sheet.
Spit as lube; that’s something that this body surely knows, and Daniel gradually relaxes, sighing deeply the more Armand’s cock inches inside him. But that’s not spit, he realizes quickly enough, it’s decidedly not spit and the more Armand slides inside him, the more he realizes what it is, because his entire body feels electric with it—it’s blood. It’s blood and yeah, they’ve done it before but it’s not the same to a human body because his head’s getting fuzzy, brain itching before his mind’s getting dope-hazy. He groans, hips moving back of their own accord and he realizes he’s no longer in charge of his movements, it’s pure hunger that’s driving him.
“There you go,” whispers Armand once he’s inside him to the hilt, hips flush with Daniel’s ass.
Daniel just makes an incoherent noise in the pillow. He’s drooling a little bit but he doesn’t have the ability to care or feel shame, not when Armand starts pulling back slightly, then sliding back in, and Daniel just gives in. They’re hardly fucking and he’s a limp mess already, an exposed nerve poked over and over and all he can do is breathe and marvel. He allows himself to be moved, rolled onto his side, it takes him a moment to realize that Armand’s kissing him and he tries to reciprocate messily, more moans and spit than anything.
The sound of their skin, the restrained little ah’s that Armand paints against his back, it all coils around Daniel’s spine, making him push his hips into Armand’s thrusts, trying to keep with the rhythm but he’s uncoordinated, limbs heavy. He’s had sex high off his tits too many times for it to be funny so he recognizes the feeling, though this is a whole new flavor, a new mix. Armand’s fingers, wrapped around his hip, leave an icy trail in their wake as they slide down the back of his thigh, urging his knee up and it pushes Armand’s cock deeper, it drags a choked-off moan out of Daniel’s lips. He’s moved, repositioned, ends up on his front, cock once more trapped against the sheet.
Slickness, the slide of heated, oversensitized skin over the precome-slick cotton, the stretch of Armand's cock, the snap of his hips against his ass; Daniel feels around until he finds Armand’s hand where it digs into the mattress, and wraps his fingers around his wrist. He needs to—ground himself for a minute. Odd then, how he instinctively goes to Armand now.
Armand, single-minded, fucks him, reading every cue his body gives to torture him harder, finding the right spot and pounding it until Daniel’s muscles coil, when he slows down, changes angles, molding himself to Daniel’s back. Cool everywhere they touch but on his breath, as if there was still some fire within him, maybe in his lungs. Maybe his heart. But his breath is warm, a tingle on the side of Daniel's neck that turns into the feather-light fall of lips, and Daniel tenses up, muscles kneading tight.
“Do you want to come?”
Daniel shakes his head, gathers enough air in his lungs. It's hard to focus on things that aren't Armand. “Not yet,” he breathes out. Then, “I want to see you.”
One of the best ideas he's had in a while. Armand’s a vision with messy hair, watching Daniel as he achieves the herculean task of turning on his back.
“Are you okay?” He’s not worried, he’s amused. His smile lights up his whole face and he looks impossibly young, utterly human, and Daniel finds out that he can fall in love with him some more.
“You’re— very good,” he says, lifting his hips so Armand can slide a pillow underneath. His eyes roll back in his head as Armand slides back in, slowly, holding his knees open.
“This is going to be even better.”
“I bet,” says Daniel. There are smudges of blood on Armand’s hand but Daniel pretends he doesn’t see it and soon forgets about it anyway, because Armand’s cock slides in just right, brushing against that electric little spot inside him and he’s aware of very little else. He can see the way Armand looks at him, a mix of fascination and hunger and determination, and becomes suddenly aware of how exposed he is, presented for Armand’s gaze and enjoyment, spread out and impaled on his cock, taking it. He’s close, he’s real fucking close.
“Armand,” he says, one word that, in his heart, encapsulates all that he feels, all that he wants to say. He wants to feel his heart—so used to hearing it, he misses it now—and it's right under his palm, in the rise and fall of Armand's chest.
“Shhh,” whispers Armand, taking the hand splayed on his chest and pressing a kiss to the palm. It’s sweet, a burst of warmth that spreads inside Daniel at the tingling ghost of the kiss and dies the instant he looks at Armand's face and recognizes the unmistakable motion in his jaw—his fangs descending.
A flash later, Armand’s on him, heavy and solid and terrifying.
“Don’t,” Daniel whispers, futilely trying to push Armand away, but it’s too late; fangs puncture skin and it hurts, he bats at Armand’s body weakly. “I know you have to— “ he groans, fighting against the powerful pull of the swoon. “The coven, laws— ”
Armand unlatches from his neck but doesn’t release him. Daniel couldn’t flee if he tried.
“What did you say?”
“The Great Laws,” he manages. The pain in his neck is dull but present. He’s pretty sure he’s still bleeding. “I know you have to kill me but— don't. I don't know what happens if you do.”
Daniel’s vision stars bubbling white around the edges. He can still see Armand and tries to keep him in focus even as more and more, the world is turning dim.
“I love you,” he says, though his ears don’t work anymore and he can’t hear it. He knows he said it out loud because the last thing he sees before everything stops, is the way Armand reacts to the words.
Light. Not the kind that kills him, but sudden and harsh enough that Daniel is pulled through the nothingness with a gasp. He's in his coffin, crowded between the padded wall and Armand sitting up beside him, an ominous shadow.
“I’m sorry, beloved,” he says when he senses Daniel’s jolt. He turns. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Daniel groans a non-answer. He’s disoriented, still under the pull of the—
“I had this dream,” says Armand. “So vivid.” He lays back in the coffin, gathering Daniel in his arms. “I didn’t recognize you. How could I not— But you did, I am certain you did.“
“Wait.” Daniel turns to see his face. “This dream. When, uh. What was the exact set-up? Because I also had a very interesting dream.”
“During my Theatre days, in Paris.”
Daniel blinks owlishly, shakes his head. The veil of the dream still lingers, real and not real at the same time. He touches his neck. The skin's unbroken, the pain only a shadow in his mind.
“Was there rain, a bathtub? The version of me you fucked-up in San Francisco?” Armand nods softly, curious. “Is this— a thing that happens? Sharing dreams?”
“It’s never happened before, but one’s Gifts do expand with time. Maybe it’s our closeness, our bond.”
“Were you really going to drain me?”
“No,” says Armand, but it takes him a second too long. “Maybe,” he adds. “I don’t know. All I could think of was how, if I didn’t, I’d be tempted to come back to you again and again.”
“Yeah, you do seem to keep doing that,” says Daniel. “Can’t keep away. Following me even in my dreams.”
“You never seem to mind.”
“I really don’t.”