Your whimpered moans met his strained voice in the soft morning air. Daylight filtered in through slightly parted curtains to create a tableau worthy of the Sistine Chapel.
His body covering your own smaller one, muscles rippling and flexing as he takes you from behind.
You hadn’t intended to start the morning this way, on the contrary you’d had something else in mind- not that you were complaining. How could you with his plush tip bullying that tender spot deep within your fluttering walls. As a matter of fact, words failed you all together once his fingers joined the symphony, stroking and petting your swollen clit in an attempt to soothe the ache.
“Shhh, baby. Shit, so good, baby…” His voice is strained, abdomen muscles taught with the effort not to finish before you… it’s just that you're so tight, and those sounds you make? He still marvels that you don’t understand what a turn on your mere presence is to him.
The bed frame squeaked under the weight of your movements, headboard gently lapping at the wall like calm tides by the seashore with every roll of his hips into yours.
Large hands slid down your arms, freeing your trembling hands to link with his own. Soft praises and half curses spilled from his lips as he trailed open mouthed kisses along the nape of your neck.
“So good for me, yeah?” A groan resounded from deep in his throat as he met his own blissed out gaze in the full length mirror you’d recently purchased. He hadn’t understood the need for such a ‘monstrosity’ as he’d put it, but now?
Now he wanted to panel the entire house in mirrors.
Something about watching your face - all scrunched and flushed- riled up something practically feral in him. His chest rumbled in that entirely masculine way, his knees dug deeper into the mattress, his teeth dug into the tender skin of your neck drawing a strangled mewl from your lips. His hips began to roll more urgently, driving himself as deep within your warmth as he could manage. You responded in kind, driving yourself back onto him, begging and whining sweetly.
His heart swelled and thundered, stuttering as your release toppled him past that glorious precipice and into a delicious purple haze. You lay tangled in the sheets, dappled by morning sunlight. His heart squeezed at the feel of your fingers playing at the muscle of his bicep.
He wasn’t sure if he’d ever have words to tell you all that you meant to him. It seemed incomprehensible. How exactly did you tell someone that before them you’d been in the deepest of hells? That before you there’d been only darkness and misery. That you’d sparked something within him that he’d thought long dead. He might not be a poet, but then again, you’d never asked for a poet.
“armand,” you whined, riding him on the couch — your dress was bunched up, your underwear completely forgotten. all you could think of was the press of him beneath you, the way his hands gripped your hips, guiding you, holding you perfectly against him.
“so perfect, my beloved,” he murmured, voice low and smooth. you gasped as he held you down harder, causing you to feel him deeper. you continued to move, leaning down to kiss him as you did so.
each movement you made sent shockwaves through the both of you. with each roll of your hips, he pressed up into you, letting you feel every inch, every pulse, every heat-drenched curve of him. His hands gripped your waist tighter, thumbs brushing over the most sensitive parts of your skin, keeping you perfectly in place while letting you take the rhythm at your own pace.
“needed to feel you all day,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw and down your neck, teeth grazing lightly — like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or bite. “don’t stop. don’t you dare stop.”
armand looked at you with reverence — his eyes full of adoration. you were a masterpiece to him. it only made him hungrier for you. and armand was never gentle when he was starving.
your fingers slid into his hair and you kept moving, your dress sliding higher with each roll of your hips. you could feel how badly he wanted you — the tension in his body, the way he held you closer every time you tried to slow down.
“no,” he breathed, almost a growl — quiet, but absolutely firm. he pulled you down onto him harder, making you gasp, making you feel all of him. your breath stuttered. your thighs trembled.
“that’s it,” he whispered, eyes on your face, watching every reaction. “ride me. let me see you fall apart.” his hand slid down the front of your thigh and between your legs, fingers brushing exactly where you were already throbbing.
“you’re dripping for me,” he murmured, thumb circling lazily, wickedly. “look at you.” the sound you let out was helpless — something broken and wanting. and he smiled. that soft, devastating, “i have you” smile.
“come for me, beloved,” he said — voice calm, steady, sure — like it was already happening. like he owned the moment your body collapsed around him.
Initial request: Need me some desparate, intense and really fucking dirty post-lestat, pre-louis france Armand smut
Pairing: armand x reader
Warnings: smut
Word count: 4555
a/n: I don't know why I wanted some plot for this one, but it slowly went out of hand. I do like the result, I hope you all will do too. Let me know!
Summary: You fled from your family expectations and now you work in Paris as a dress-maker. Armand wants you to design clothes for Théâtre des Vampires, and for himself.
Disclaimer: english is not my first language
Life wasn't easy. It has never been easy for you, the disowned daughter of a prestigious family that didn't obey their orders and refused to marry someone she didn't know. A man at least twice your age.
The war only made everything worse for you.
When you fled home you took as many of your valuable possessions you could carry with you, to have something to sell that could allow you to start anew in another city. Paris was big enough for you to hide and cover your tracks, so it was the safest option.
You had managed to find a two-room apartment, way below the standards you were raised in, but you didn't mind. You would have lived in the sewers, if it had granted you the freedom you desired.
After the first few months of struggling with your new life, trying to understand how you could survive on your own once the money you had gained from selling your belongings ran out, you found a sort of balance. You got close to your neighbours and offered your skills in mending and designing clothes to start earning and create a small turnover — you had mentally thanked your family for indulging your passion for fashion, providing the education you had wished for.
It took you more than a year of small labour to finally buy a little shop two roads away from your small apartment. Your prices were low as people could not afford to buy that many clothes during the war, and repairing the ones they already had, cost them even less.
Still, despite how bleak the world had turned out to be, having something to occupy your days helped you keep your head and mind above water. Sometimes you barely left your shop, working at night providing a sense of comfort and calmness around you that quieted your inner turmoils. You often went back to your apartment when dawn was starting breaking in the sky.
It was during one of those nights that someone entered your shop way past midnight, probably attracted by the light still on reflecting on the curb outside in the street.
"I'm closed at the moment," you said at the man in front of you, your hand slowly going under your desk to get the knife you always hid there out of safety. You never had to use it before.
"Yet your door was open and you're still here. Working."
The stranger had a nice voice, smooth as velvet and way lighter on the consonants than any person you'd encountered before. He sounded melodious.
"There's no one around at night in these streets, especially not out to buy clothes."
The man was standing in the middle of the room, eyes on you with a colour so unnatural you wondered if it was simply a trick of the lights.
"And yet here I am."
You tilted your head to the side. "You want me to believe you're not here to rob me or attack me, but you're interested in my services?"
The man stepped closer to the counter, the only piece of furniture standing between you. "You don't seem very scared for someone who believes I'm here to commit a felony."
"I accepted the fact that if anyone were to come here at night was to harm me, and I couldn't really stand a chance," you replied, shrugging your shoulders slightly.
"Fascinating."
"Not really." He was still staring at you, those unblinking eyes fixed in yours. "So, are you actually here for my clothes?"
A slow blink.
"I have a theatre company down in Pigalle. Some of our stage costumes are quite old and we need replacements, would you be willing to design them for us?"
This time it was your turn to stare. A part of your brain was telling you you should be scared of the man in front of you, yet no fight or flight instinct was kicking in.
"I can do it. Have you set a budget?"
"Money is not a problem," the man said with a slow movement of his hand. So elegant. "I'll have someone deliver our necessities tomorrow night."
He turned around swiftly, moving towards the door as a way to tell the conversation was over.
"Wait," you blurted out quickly. "Can I at least know your name?"
"Armand."
In a blink he was out the door and out of sight.
---
That became your new life in the following months. Someone from the Théâtre des Vampires would come once every week with new requests or to mend a few costumes. Usually, it was Celeste or Estelle, but sometimes Santiago appeared. The girls were nice and they stayed long enough to keep you company till late in the evening. Santiago, on the other hand, always looked at you as if he wanted to eat you. And not in a nice way.
Armand never showed up again.
Estelle had told you he was their maître, so you imagined he must have been too busy with their plays to bother to come. You didn't mind, you were just curious to see him once more.
That's why it took you by surprise when you saw him enter your shop one winter night, almost six months after the first time.
"Good evening, monsieur."
"Good evening, mademoiselle."
The side of your mouth twitched into a small smile. "How do you know I'm not married?"
Armand stepped towards one of the shelves where all the new fabrics were on display, his eyes scanning them carefully. "We have made some progress in the last century, yet a married woman still wouldn't be as free as you are."
"I see," you commented, placing down the dress you were busy sewing before Armand came in. "And does this bother you?"
"Not at all," he replied, firmly, his attention still on the fabrics. "Having a common man try to tame you would have been the worst outcome for you. Your pretty head always so luminous would have dimmed in less than a year in marriage."
A quiet gasp left your lips at his words, stunning you into silence. How could he know about this?
"Why are you here tonight?" you asked, your voice surprisingly stable given how you were actually feeling.
Armand finally turned to look at you, his amber eyes like a beam in the night. They were truly unnatural, no trick of the light as you initially thought.
"In a couple of weeks we'll have the première of our new show, I would like a new suit fit for the evening. I want your impeccable taste to dress me."
His request almost surprised you more than his previous words. You weren't expecting him to come to you with a commission.
"It would be my pleasure," you said, picking a sheet of paper from one of the drawers below the desk. "You can write down your measurements. Have you chosen a fabric?"
Armand turned back towards the shelves, his hand caressing a specific piece. "I'd like to have it in this colour."
You left your spot behind the counter to reach him and see clearly his fabric of choice. You were standing less than two feet from him, his scent tickling your nose but you couldn't point out the fragrance. Tobacco and something spicy.
"That's mummy-brown. My favourite shade of this colour." You looked at him, your eyes scanning his figure. "It would go very well with your complexion."
Armand was staring you down. From up close he was even taller than you thought, you only reached his shoulders.
"I trust your judgement," he said, his attention fully on your face. "But I'd like you to take my measurements. I want the suit perfectly tailored, and previous dressmakers didn't have your eye."
You blinked quickly, taken completely off-guard. "Yes, of course. We can do it now, if you have time."
"All the time you need."
"Follow me, then."
You took him to the back of your shop, where you had mirrors and a stand for clients to step on to make the job easier for you. Armand positioned himself without requiring any instruction from you.
"Would you mind taking off your jacket? I need to see your arms and back to measure you correctly."
Armand did as you asked, placing the jacket carefully on the bench next to him. You barely followed his movements as your eyes were fixed on his upper body.
"Is something the matter?"
You head jerked automatically back towards his face at his question. "No, it's alright. I was just expecting your body to be leaner. I thought you had less muscular mass."
"Have you imagined my body often?"
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting, willing your face to keep the blush at bay. "That's not what I meant. It's my professional instinct that kicks in when I look at a person, to see what might look best on them."
"Any suggestions for me?" Armand asked, a little smirk forming on his face.
"You don't need it. From what I've seen you're very aware of your commanding presence and you dress accordingly to your status."
"You're being generous."
"I'm being honest. It's your choice to believe me or not."
Without further ado, you got into work starting from his legs, each time scribbling down the measurements on the sheet you had brought with you. The position was a bit awkward when you stopped to think about it. You were on your knees, while Armand's looming and even taller figure was towering over you. You could feel the weight of his power pressing on your shoulders but, surprisingly, that only seemed to trigger a sense of thrill in the pit of your stomach.
Once you were done with his legs, you stood back up to your feet, raising your head to look at Armand, who had been awfully quiet and still during the whole process.
"Do you mind stepping down, so I can take your place?" you asked in your best professional voice. "I need to measure your bust, arms and shoulders, and I'm going to struggle from down here."
"Of course," Armand replied immediately, following your request.
You lifted your leg on the stand as you moved to take his previous position, when you felt Armand's hand on the small of your back help you with the movement. His other followed right afterwards, resting softly on your waist to prevent your body from losing its balance.
"Thank you," you murmured awkwardly. "But I could manage on my own."
Armand's lips quirked a bit in the corner, but didn't comment anything further.
You were the same height now, and close enough for you to fully let his scent invade your senses. It was a unique fragrance, and you could not deny how affected you were by inhaling it inside you. In addition to that, his eyes were mere inches from yours in this position and you noticed for the first time, despite the peculiar colour that no human could possess, how warm they felt when they made contact with yours.
"Is there something wrong with my face?"
His voice brought you back to reality. You diverted your gaze, blinking quickly to get your focus back completely. You fidgeted with the tape measure a couple of times before continuing with the task at hand. Thankfully, Armand's stillness was helpful, your mind now set again on getting all the required measurements you would need for his suit, but you were aware his attention never strayed away from you for a second, so intense it actually felt like a touch on your skin.
"All done," you said, as you removed the tape from the front of his shoulders. You raised your head instinctively to look at him, a loud gasp leaving your mouth at his proximity.
You could feel his breath on your cheek, certain that Armand could feel yours as well.
None of you moved for a few seconds, bodies frozen in the moment as you simply stood there staring at each other. You were the first to step away, jumping down quickly from the stand so you could grab your sheet again and write down the last measurements.
"I'll have your suit ready in a week, is that okay with you?" you asked, giving Armand your back. You didn't know what had just happened, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him for the time being.
"Yes."
"Do you need anything else?"
"I'd like to invite you to the première of the show, if you're interested in coming to see it."
You stopped writing on the paper at his words, still keeping your back turned. What were you supposed to say? Would it be awkward for you to attend? Santiago tried to convince you a few times, but you always used your work as a fair way to refuse. But it was Armand asking you now, and somehow all the nerves in your body were compelling you to say yes.
You willed your body to turn back around, feeling brave enough to make eye-contact again. "I'd love to."
The words were out in the air now, and you knew Armand wouldn't allow you to take them back. Luckily for you, you had no intention to.
---
The day of the première you spent an awful amount of time in front of your wardrobe to choose an appropriate dress. When you used to go to the opera with your parents, you had always worn your most expensive gown as the occasion was also meant to show off your family's wealth.
You didn't know what kind of show you were about to see, but you had a feeling you should go with a more sober outfit, though still elegant enough to look good. You opted for a cinnamon brown A-line skirt with three red ochre buttons at the top that matched with the silk shirt you had in the same shade of colour.
You decided not to wear any tights underneath. It was a cold night, but you loathed the feeling of their texture on your skin. Your winter coat would be enough to keep your body warm.
You looked at yourself one last time in the mirror and, when you felt quite satisfied with the result, you put on your Victorian boots and left your apartment.
Your walk towards Pigalle was quicker than you thought, the cold air forcing you to speed up your steps as your heels clicked loudly on the cobbled streets. A small crowd was gathered outside the entrance, moving slowly inside the theatre.
Your assigned seat was in the fourth row right in front of the stage and, as you waited for the show to start, you looked around the place to commit it to memory.
It was smaller than the theatres you used to attend and less opulent, which you took as a good sign. It was very dim lit though, the dark walls casting a shadow on all the audience. As you studied the upper levels on your right, your gaze stopped at the figure standing against the wooden banister taking in the scenery below.
Armand.
His attention shifted towards you in a second, giving you a small nod as a welcome that you returned with a small smile. It was interesting to see him in his element, as it had been the other way around until now.
When the few lights around the stalls were switched off, you diverted your gaze. The show was about to start.
You didn't know what you were expecting to see, the poster outside not giving much away, but surely not small plays all circling around death. And all brutally executed.
You resisted the temptation to look up at Armand in judgement, as you weren't getting the reasoning behind such macabre choices, though you were sure it was clearly showing on your face.
Everything changed with the last scene. You frowned as a young girl came running on stage screaming. Normally you would say she was truly giving all of herself in the act, but deep down you knew she wasn't performing.
The girl was really frightened.
You leaned forward slightly, your eyes moving around on stage before settling on Santiago busy bewitching the audience with his monologue. That's when it happened. You saw two fangs shining in his mouth a second before they came down to bite violently on the girl's neck.
This wasn't a play. It was real. You didn't have any proof of that, but your brain had already decided that was the only possible truth.
As the girl supposedly fainted in Santiago's arms, you finally turned to look at Armand. You found his eyes already on you as if he was waiting for your reaction. It made sense now why everybody in the company had eyes so unnatural, because they were.
Because they were all vampires.
You stood up from your seat quickly, almost running out of the theatre. It wasn't out of fear that you were leaving before the play ended, that was what was scaring you the most.
The scene you had witnessed excited you. The idea that you'd been interacting with creatures that could have ended your life in a blink sent shivers of exhilaration down your spine. The fact that you had been alone with Armand, his face close enough to bite your neck if wanted to — but didn't — was awakening something deep in your core you had never had a taste of before.
You realized your body was taking you to your shop. It was closer to the theatre, and it was your shelter in a way that your apartment could never be. You needed to be in a safe territory, because you knew even without seeing him or hearing him that Armand was following you.
You entered the shop slamming the door behind you without stopping to see if it would actually close or not. You didn't turn on the lights in the main room, opting to wait in the back where you had taken Armand's measurements a fortnight before.
You switched on the two lamps you had in the corners of the room to have a clear enough view of your surroundings. You had hoped to have enough time before his arrival, so that you could slow down your breath and heartbeat, but you weren't so lucky.
The steps were light but you managed to hear them anyway. Or better, Armand wanted you to hear them. Still you were not prepared at the effect the sight had on you, the moment he stepped out of the dark. His grim shadow projected on the walls behind him thanks to the light of the lamps.
"You know the truth."
"Yes."
Your voice was barely above a whisper, and still ragged.
"You're scared."
"No."
Armand tilted his head to the side, amber eyes blaring even brighter than usual. "Prove it."
You went to him, your body not hesitating once as you sidestepped the stand in the middle of the room to reach him. You stopped right in front of Armand, your gaze meeting his as they seemed to be compelled to do each time you were to share the same space.
"Look into my eyes, Armand. Do you see fear?"
You made it sound like a challenge. It was probably a stupid move, a move someone would do if they didn't have a single regard for their own life.
Still, Armand did as you asked. He was scanning your face for an answer, so profoundly you could almost feel him inside your head. Maybe he was.
The silence stretched, your breathing starting to pick up again in anticipation. You could feel your fingers twitch next your sides as you waited.
Armand was on you before your mind could start to process his approach. His lips crashing against yours in a rough kiss as one of his hands got tangled in your hair, while the other went to the small of your back to press your body closer to his.
You followed out of instincts rather than experience, taking a hold of his face and shoulder. His tongue slipped in your mouth the second you parted your lips to breathe. He was devouring you in a way you should have expected from a vampire, and you were struggling to match his rhythm.
Armand broke the contact first. His eyes searching for yours while he pushed your body backwards, placing his hands on your hips to direct you. You back met the table you had against the wall before he lifted you to sit on it with frightening ease.
"You never say or act the way I expect you to. It's maddening how you can disrupt my balance by simply existing."
You were so disoriented by the whole situation you weren't sure if he was giving you a compliment or insulting you.
"Are you going to kill me?"
Armand let out a breathy laugh, the air touching the skin of your face softly. "Do you think I would be standing here between your legs if I wanted to kill you?"
"I don't know. It seems fitting for your kind to seduce your preys before you eat them, makes the hunt more palatable."
"Such a brilliant mind you have."
You gasped the moment you felt Armand's hand touch your leg, caressing the skin behind your knee before moving higher toward your thigh, your skirt rising to welcome him. You knew where he was going and yet you didn't how to prepare yourself at the contact.
Your legs opened wider on their own accord, showing Armand how willing your body was to have him touch you. When Armand reached your centre, he simply let his palm rest against it, his hand covering all of your core.
You were wet. He could feel it through the fabric of your underwear, still you kept still. You let your back relax against the wall behind as you waited for his next move.
Armand moved your underwear to the side, two of his fingers coming up to your clit applying pressure with fast and firm circles. You moaned loudly at the action, more intense than the way it felt when you touched yourself alone in your bed deep into the night.
His rhythm never faltered, each precise flick on your clit eliciting a reaction out of you. A light jolt of your legs, a sweet whimper from your lips.
Without warning, Armand entered you with one of his fingers, the sensation so overwhelming in its suddenness that your back bowed into an arch as if on command.
You could feel your muscles stretch as Armand pressed it to the hilt, his palm making contact with your clit again. He stayed there, giving no sign he had any intention to start moving.
You opened your eyes that you didn't even realise you had closed, and looked at him. As expected, Armand was already staring at you, expression unreadable.
"You've never lain with a man."
It wasn't a question. He knew based on a single finger inside you.
"That's true."
"If you feel pain, you stop me. I'm not interested in hurting you."
You took a deep breath. "And in what are you interested in?"
Armand's eyes darkened as his finger started moving slowly inside you. "Seeing you cry in pleasure."
The tip of his finger curled against a specific spot inside you, the sudden sensation making you open your legs even more. Armand kept attacking the same spot over and over again, as your whimpers started to grow in volume filling the small room.
A second finger joined the first, your walls immediately welcoming the intrusion without any resistance. You could feel your wetness dripping down your skin and on the table below you.
Armand never stopped the sweet torture, only increasing the pace every few seconds. Your breathing was getting more ragged and you couldn't keep your eyes open any longer. The second his thumb started pressing down on clit, giving it quick flicks that matched the pressure of his fingers inside you, you were done for.
Your climax hit like a tidal wave, your whole body trembling in response as your legs locked against Armand's waist. You wanted the feeling to last forever but you wanted to run away from it at the same time. You had fully lost control of your body and mind.
When the intensity slowly decreased, you managed to open your eyes. Armand's gaze already there to provide you comfort, his pupils so large that they were engulfing completely the amber of his irises.
"No tears in your eyes," Armand commented. "Let me rectify that."
You had no time to react — not that your current situation would have allowed you to — as Armand pushed your legs back against your shoulders, your skirt dropping down on your waist exposing your centre fully to the room and to Armand's focused gaze.
"I'll try to be gentle, ma chérie, but my control is hanging by a thin thread," Armand said, voice showing his effort in restraining himself.
"I don't care," you managed to utter. "I want you, Armand."
That was all the permission he needed. In a single, smooth movement of his hips Armand pushed forward. You didn't know when he had pulled his pants down to his thighs, but considering how out of your mind you were during your orgasm, you weren't really surprised you hadn't noticed.
"Armand, fu—"
You didn't get to finish your sentence. The feeling of Armand's length entering you taking all your breath away. You were expecting pain, like in the stories you had heard when you were old enough to understand, but nothing came. Only a crushing feeling of pleasure.
Armand set a brutal pace from the beginning as he saw you get lost in the throes of bliss after the first thrusts.
The table you were sitting on kept bumping against the wall at every snap of Armand's hips against the skin of your thighs. Those were the only sounds in the room, other than your erratic panting and the occasional moan slipping through Armand's lips.
You weren't going to last. Your hands coming up to hold Armand's wrists, while his hands were still gripping the back of your knees keeping you in the same folded position against the table and wall.
The orgasm hit you both at the same time out of nowhere. You let out a scream so loud and raw you struggled to recognise as your own. Armand sinked his nails in your flesh, breaking the skin, a low groan resonating in his chest.
You stayed in the same position for a few minutes, not that you could do much with your body positively drained. Your sight was blurred, wet tears staining your lashes and your cheeks.
"Are you still with me?" Armand asked, lowering delicately your legs back on the table.
You nodded not knowing if you were able to utter a complete sentence.
Armand's hands were moving softly on your skin, trying to stop the tremors in your muscles. "Now that I found you, I think I'm going to keep you."
You blinked slowly up at him, not really registering his words, as you felt your body gradually drifting off.
What an astute observation, you think to yourself snarkliy, and you're sure he hears the thought.
It's true. Over the past 72 hours, you've maybe gotten a combined 4 hours of sleep. When you signed up for interviewing vampires, you knew it would be atypical hours. And honestly, you were pretty nocturnal yourself. But this was…different.
This was insomnia. Plain and simple. You couldn't fall asleep. Once you fell asleep, it wasn't an issue really. You'd toss and turn but you'd get some rest. Better than none.
It was the falling asleep itself that was the problem. You were still exhausted, ready for sleep, begging for it, but it would not come.
"Give the man a prize. Observant as ever, Armand." Your eyes are lidded in both fatigue and annoyance. The living room is pretty dark, save for the small lamp on the table beside you and the glow of the tv. It's some nature documentary about deep ocean creatures; you'd thought the relaxing visuals and the ambient water noise would coax you towards sleep. Nope.
None of your usual tricks were working. Not tea, not a hot bath with lavender, not weed, not doubling up your anti anxiety meds (don't try that at home kids), nothing was working. And it was starting to affect your job. Louis had asked you were alright a few times now, even Daniel had checked in on you. It was awkward, the pity felt weird. Or maybe it wasn't pity and it was simply concern, you know, a thing that people can feel towards you. The fatigue was making you depressed, sad.
"It's hard to miss, I haven't been attacked during our sessions in three days."
"Consider yourself lucky, it's only a brief respite." Your head rests on a pillow, your body splayed out on the enormous couch.
"I'll be counting the seconds until you've recovered." The fondness in his voice still catches you off guard.
It's been a bit since your first solo session, and since then…progress has certainly been made. He's been more amiable towards you. An undercurrent of tension playing just beneath the surface. But it hasn't…worsened things, or made things awkward. It's almost as if you're both playing a game, and it's one you both enjoy immensely. You still want to win, of course, but that's the fun in it: the other person is trying to win just as hard.
Not to mention the night you stumbled home drunk just before sunrise…
He watches you momentarily, from the edge of the living room - he loves to perch, you've noticed - before walking over to the couch. With a touch of his hand to your calves, you shift them off so he can sit. What catches you completely off guard is his grip around your ankle. He sits, gets comfortable, and places your legs on his lap, hand resting on your lower calf in a way that can only be described as possessive. Perhaps protective, if you're looking at it kindly. Your skin prickles and your ears get hot. He's never been so casual with touch before. Your nerve endings are screaming in satisfaction and agony simultaneously; satisfaction because any touch is like heaven to you, and agony because it is not enough. Thank god you've gotten a little better at shielding your thoughts.
"I'm sure we could have the good doctor prescribe you some sleeping medicine?" He offers, gazing half-heartedly at the TV as images of an angler fish flash on the screen.
A noise of frustration escapes your throat, "They don't work on me, unless it's a full blown sedative. Normal shit like Valium has no effect on me. My physiology is odd." Lots of things don't work on you; sleeping medicine, lots of allergy medicine, local anesthetic, caffeine. Who knows why. Maybe god decided to play a practical joke on you.
Armand seems surprised by that, "Really?"
"Really. Why do you think I reeked of weed last night? Usually I can smoke a little and conk out. But this time…it's different." He tenseness underneath your legs and a stab of regret runs through you.
"Not because of anything in particular, relax. Nothing about our recent sessions or anything that's happened here is causing it. Sometimes I just…can't sleep." You do your best to assuage his anxieties. It's funny. You know you're not his favorite person, but he seems to want to…protect you from certain things. Ugly truths or unsavory scenes, violence, cruelty, etc. He's an interesting creature.
"Yes, the scent was quite overpowering."
"Sorry."
"Don't be." His thumb has pressed into the meat of your calf absent-mindedly, pressing and rubbing in small little circles. It's…nice.
The screen goes red, as the image of Vampyroteuthis Infernalis, or 'The Vampire Squid From Hell' appears on screen.
"Why are you watching this? Will it not give you nightmares, seeing such fearsome creatures before bed?"
"I'm currently living with two fearsome creatures who I see before bed every night, so no." You smile gently, and even though you don't turn to look at him, you can feel the smirk settle on his face. His thumb nail digs into your skin playfully, a warning far too teasing to be sincere.
"Funny."
Silence lapses momentarily as you stare at the undulating form of the squid.
"Is it odd to hear about creatures named after you? Or…be confronted with vampires in pop culture?" It's a question you've been meaning to ask. He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts - he always does this when you ask him these kinds of questions. Like he's taking the time to actually give you a meaningful answer. You shift, no longer laying on your side but on your back, leaning against the pillow you've stuffed against the arm of the couch. You can see his face now, painted in the colorful glow of the TV.
"I can see why humans named it such, the Vampire Squid From Hell. It is quite fearsome." His hand has shifted to your shin, letting the tips of his nails drag back and forth over your skin, featherlight. It's strangly comforting.
"As for pop culture…it's interesting, more than anything, to see what humans come up with in terms of story. The lore isn't always accurate but it's…nice to see us represented in different lights than just 'monsters'."
"Mm. Have a favorite?"
"I'm partial to A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, despite how new it is. The original Nosferatu is interesting enough, though I'm not a fan of German expressionism-"
"No you like the romantic era of art. Classical." You interrupt him, not unkindly.
"I do. Though I seem to remember you do as well." He's picked up on your avoidance of talking about yourself sometimes and seems to have made it a part of his life's mission to turn your own questions back on you as often as he can.
A sigh escapes your lips, "Yes, you remember correctly. Bram Stokers Dracula was a formative film for me. Still tear up a little bit."
"That explains quite a lot. I believe you would say 'that tracks'." The smile is audible in his voice. You sit up slightly, and narrow your eyes at him, mouth agape. He turns to you eyebrows raised and smiling, the picture of amusement.
"I can't believe you just used modern slang. Who are you and what have you done with the Vampire Armand?" You playfully admonish.
"One can only hear something for so long until it bleeds into their own vernacular." He counters.
"I could kick you right now."
"You won't." And he's right. This is too nice. You slump back down, arms crossed indignantly, glancing back at the TV briefly. It strikes you, how so many people might call these creatures monsters, and how beautiful you think they are. That seems to be a running theme for you. Finding beauty in the monstrous.
"A lot of humans often use vampirism as a metaphor. Queerness, otherness, love and consumption, sexuality. Not for nothing, I think vampiric media is some of our best. It certainly resonates with a lot of people. I don't know if that's comforting or not, but there are swathes of people who are more than sympathetic to you." Your eyes droop a little, but you're no less tired.
A deep breath has his chest rise and fall, though he does not require it.
"It's not comforting but it's not…discomforting. It baffles me, that humans could sympathize with things meant to kill them."
"Humans will sympathize with anything. We pack bond. We stare at monsters and ask if we can pet them, stare at wild animals and ask for cuddles. Why should that instinct stop at vampires?" You should be writing this down. You should be recording this. It's good stuff, but you wouldn't dare move. Wouldn't dare break this moment of peace with him.
He eyes you again. "Speaking from experience, are you?"
"Of course." It's your lack of hesitation that has him thrown. Your complete unabashed confirmation.
He's not looking at you now, eyebrows furrowed and staring ahead at nothing.
"It's a part of who we are, as predators. Everything about us is disarming to our prey. It is how we are made. Any sympathy might just be the result of evolutionary manipulation on our part." His tone is melancholy. It doesn't suit him, though you know from the interviews that he seems to be melancholy quite often.
"You underestimate humans ability to connect. Maybe it's because you've been so far removed from them." It's not a judgement. Just an observation. He knows it too, turning to you. Just looking at you, maybe looking for something.
"Not all of them are as kind in their assessment as you." His hand has stilled, just holding your ankle softly. It's a welcome feeling.
"Then seek out the kind ones." You know it's advice that you should be taking yourself. Your loneliness, your anxiety, they are so massive within you that they threaten to swallow you whole. You should be seeking out the kindness. Instead, you retract into yourself, fearful of possibility, fearful of change and of future, of rejection and fearful of what could go wrong. Your thoughts must be loud or you must have not been concentrating because Armand is rubbing you calf again, giving you a concerning look.
"Your sleep deprivation is worsening your mental state." It's not a judgement, just an observation.
"I know, I'm aware, but that doesn't make it go away." Your response is sad, full of understanding, and hopeless in a way. It's moments like these where you feel as if there is nothing you can do but soldier through, as unhealthy as that is. But it's how you've lived your life.
You're both silent for a few minutes, just existing in each others space. It's nice. The fish swim by on the screen, a nautilus, bioluminescent sea cucumber, copypods that shoot glowing goo out into the open dark water.
"I might be able to help you sleep, if you're amenable to that." Armand breaks the silence. His voice is tentative, small, a drop in a bucket.
What? Your eyes shift to his in question, "Help me sleep?"
"Yes. It wouldn't be hard. Or uncomfortable for you." He seems to be genuine, though he hasn't looked at you since he's said it.
You're not quite sure how you feel about having a vampire jn your head. It's happened before, and you can't make up your mind on how to feel. On one hand, it's miraculous. Being able to hear his thought that he shares with you, the sheer power he has, it's awesome in the literal sense of the word. On the other, it's terrifying. The being perceived of it all, the fact that he's in there and could do anything. Dangerous.
And yet.
"You want to help me sleep. Why?"
He sighs, "For one, your depressing thoughts are loud. Don't, say you're sorry. You have no reason to be." He silences you before you can apologize, your mouth snapping shut.
"Additionally, it doesn't feel right to spar with you when you're like this. Feels unfair. Like you better at full health." He's smiling again, and it's a pretty thing.
"Only if you're comfortable, of course." Ever the gentleman. Turning it over in your head, you sit up, eyeing him. He eyes you back.
At this point, you'll try anything.
"Alright. But not out here. I'll wake up with the worst crick in my neck if I sleep on this couch." Slowly, and with great effort, you swing your legs up off of him and off the couch, loving to a sitting position. Absentmindedly, you click off the TV and just sit there for a moment.
"Am I standing yet?"
A laugh, "I'm afraid not"
"Goddamnit." And you're standing. Your whole body aches, protesting leaving the warmth of the blanket snd the couch, protesting the movement.
"Ok." You sigh, and turn to walk to your room. Armand follows behind you, not too close, not hovering.
Your room is an extension of you. A bit messy, a little unorganized, but so very you. It reminds you of your college dorm, in a very fond way. It feels familiar, even though you've only been here for a little while. Walking in, you sit on the edge of your bed, fish out a pill from the little orange bottle on your nightstand and swallow it with a swig of your water bottle.
Armand is stuck in the doorway, watching you, looking at the room.
"Sorry it's a little messy."
"Don't be sorry, it's very you."
Warmth spreads through your chest. To be known, and all that…
He stays there a little longer, and your brows furrow. Armand hasn't been in your room before.
"Don't tell me you need an invitation." There's a lilt to your voice, and he's rolling his eyes at it.
"I don't need one, no. But I wanted to give you the chance to. This is your space. You haven't entered my bedroom." He shrugs to seem nonchalant but you can tell, he's incredibly chalant, old fashioned thing that he is. 500 years old..god, you forget sometimes, how different of a time he is from.
"Thank you. You're welcome to come in Armand." You say as you pull back the covers, sliding yourself under them, rubbing your legs together like a cricket.
He enters the room and you suddenly understand why he was giving you the benefit of inviting him in. Armand in your room is…well it sure is something. You pray to god you haven't left out anything embarrassing for him to pick up on, but that's the least of your worries.
A vampire. In your space. That you allowed in. There is something that started buzzing in the atmosphere somewhere as soon as he stepped in. Jesus, how will you sleep now. His fingers catch on the edges of the balled up bedsheet you threw onto your dresser.
"No sheet?"
"No, it makes me too hot and gets tangled up in my legs." He nods, like it makes perfect sense. You sleep on the left side of the bed - it's at least a queen - farther from the door. He walks over to the opposite side, and sits on the edge.
"It would be better if you got comfortable first."
"Right." You crawl down further under the covers, arrange your pillows how you like them, and move to lay on your right side, so you're facing him. He's brought himself fully onto the bed, leaning against the headboard casually, one leg stretched out and one bent, his elbow resting on it.
"Ok…you're not just gonna…snap and I'm out right? That would be…jarring." You blurt out, suddenly nervous.
He chuckles, low and warm. "No. Close your eyes." You oblige.
You feel the bed shift as he leans over to shut off the light, plunging the room into darkness. A fan whirs somewhere, the white noise a necessity for you to fall asleep, vampire compulsion aside.
There's a vampire in your bed, and you're line with him in the dark. Terror should be seizing you. You should be running, screaming. But it does not, and you don't. In fact, you feel safer than you've ever felt before. And in this moment, you don't care about how that might make you ducked up or insane. Right now, you're just excited to sleep.
Featherlight at first, his fingers brush over your forehead, your brow, smoothing away any tension. They eventually find your hair, skimming over it gently.
"I've been waiting for you for a long time." He starts, voice syrupy and dreamy and like a velvet robe. You knew what compulsion sounded like, knew what it felt like.but instead of fighting it like you had before, you slowly, very slowly, welcomed it as he continued.
"You have been searching for me, all your life, especially recently." His hand moving lazily over and through your hair, playing with it. The repetitive motions lull you further into relaxation along with his voice.
"With every sunrise seen by tired eyes, every cup of coffee that fails to rouse you from your fatigue, and every aid that has failed you, I have been waiting." His words weave a web around you, the beginning of one, but you don't feel fear. You're still aware of things, still present in your own mind, but things have…filled. Rough edges have been smoothed out as his words wash over you.
"I know you seek me. The warmth of a blanket, the softness of hands on your skin, the gentle drift from conscious to unconscious. I am here now, and you can cease your search." Tension in your body is melting away, limb by limb, everywhere. Your breathing begins to even, and your eyelids are so heavy you could not have opened them even if you wanted to.
"And who can blame you? You have been unfairly kept from me. But it isn't your fault. Not at all, not even close. Sometimes these things happen. But it's been long enough, hasn't it?" It has, you think to yourself, and a part of you aches. To be spoken to kindly, sweetly, gently…it's beyond words, how nice it feels. Nice isn't even the correct word, but you don't think there's a word out there that properly describes what you're feeling.
"Yes, it has. But you don't have to worry anymore. I'm here now. Nothing will harm you, there is only you, and me, in this space. Nothing waiting to swallow you up, in fact, it doesn't exist here. You are free of it. Let it go." And you do. You have so much worry. Bundled up in your chest, knotted up in your blood vessels and arteries like a cats cradle. You're protective of it, strangely; it's been with you all your life. But you let him pick apart the tangles and loops, let him comb through them with deft hands.
"You don't have to fight. You don't have to be strong now. Let it take you, let yourself be. Let yourself rest. You deserve it. It is as easy as breathing for you." And it is. It's all falling away with every exhale, every pass of his fingers through your hair, on your scalp.
"Like coming home after a long drive, like sitting down after hours standing, like coming home to the person you love…" his voice has both quieted and intensified. Like it's a gentle whisper coming from inside your head.
"Let go. You are holding on so tightly. Let go, and slip into dreams. Into watch. I'm here now. Rest." And with no hurrah, no warning or sign, you gently slip into unconsciousness, the last thing you feel being his hand in your hair.
He stays for far longer than you'll realize, long after your breathing has evened and your mind has slowed to that of sleep. Staring at you, as if you were some mysterious work of art.
Sympathetic to vampires…finding beauty in monstrosity. You perplexed him.
With the grace and agility that could only be attributed to his vampiric nature, he rises. Barely making a sound. He stares at you a moment longer and before he can stop himself, he reaches out and smooths the hair away from your face on last time, hand lingering on your delicate cheek.
"Rest well." He whispers your name like a prayer, guilty and reverential, before slipping away, further into the penthouse. But not before feeling the waves of peace, and safety, and affection rolling off of you.
He feels it, bottles it, and stores it deep in his chest cavity, and it's almost enough to warm his whole body.
the vampire armand distracting his newfound human “companion” after each beg of the passing of the dark gift with a kiss, sliding his hand down to their beautiful throat, unmarked, sliding his thumb over their pulse point and the slight jump of his fingers that come with it. he tells them about the perils of immortality and how companionship is poisoned once you become each other’s forever. tells them how the now is much more valuable when it’s temporary.
he does think of it. watching over you as you sleep, how easy it would be to drain you of your succulent blood, feast on you as you turn cold before he finally grants it to you and ends the ritual with his torn wrist to your gasping lips. make you his forever. but he just as easily passes the thought when he hears your heartbeat slow as you fall deeper into your slumber, your jumbled thoughts becoming dreams harmonizing with each breath that passes through your warm body.
and he does contemplate it in the moment. you sit on his thighs, arms hooked under his as he cages you, scratching your nails against his shoulders and whimpering and panting as he rolls his hips up to meet your weakening rhythm of grinds — whining when he pulls your hair from your neck and buries himself in it, dragging his tongue against your pulse and scraping his teeth at your soft skin. he bites, fangs not bared and not deep enough to puncture in any way but he truly considers it for a moment and he pulls back, slips his hands downwards to press at the bottom of your spine and deepen the arch in your back and reach further inside you, slowing his pace to test you and allow himself to clear his head. he wouldn’t turn you out of lust, wouldn’t bring unto you what was done to him, even as he reads the disappointment in your mind.
perhaps he should plan it, were it ever to happen, which it won’t, armand’s not impulsive. but he doesn’t always.. make the correct decision. and when it comes to sentimentality, he is weak.
˚｡⋆ louis de pointe du lac x black fem!journalist!reader x armand
˚｡⋆ lestat de lioncourt x black fem!journalist!reader
in which you find yourself on the radar of am up and coming rock star who, p.s, was semi-married to your current lover and ran circles on your second.
random thoughts of journalist!reader and lestat i have so many thoughts after watching trailers and recent clips for season 3 and they are STRICTLY platonic (for now).
journalist series: part 1, part 2, part 3
It was a quiet evening, the last months have been so. The two immortals and their mortal companion them allow the domesticity to be a blanket over the interview that were held just a few months prior. For a moment, their little journalist plays the role of the loving...girlfriend? Lover? For a moment, it feels as though whatever blanket slowly pulls from her mind as she slowly forces her eyes to open.
What are we, what am I? You wear their bites on the wrist of your arm. Surely that is enough to symbolize something between the three of you. Armand provides poetic prose, something about being destined for centuries. Louis, while similarly evasive, is slightly more honest. There is no word to place for his kind, you simply, are.
And now that sits in the back of your mind now like an itch you can't quite scratch, the sunset bathing you in its warm afternoon glow offers very little relief. A discarded book sits on your lap, its spine cracked, penned in thoughts along the edges. Perhaps you are just restless, and so you shelve the spiraling notes in the back shelf of your mind to pick apart later.
But fate is a cruel woman, because just before your eyes can fully shut a hearty laugh jolts you out of your incoming nap.
You grumble, now you definitely can not sleep.
The remnants of sleep disappear as you force yourself upward out of your cocoon when the laugh echoes off the walls again, heartier this time. At first you stomp to chide at whoever decided to disturb your sleep. You push the book into the pile of markers and pens on the cushion, and forgo your slippers to follow the boisterous laughter.
It's not from your room, not from the dinning room, not from the shared bedroom.
And then you hear it, a whisper in the tree room followed by another laugh, your petty anger fizzles out and turns into suspicion. Who is Louis laughing with like that? And a second voice, french accented echoing off the walls. Everything in her bones tells her to ignore it, they give her privacy therefore she ought to return the favor.
But a stubbornness in her causes her feet to slowly inch towards the wall where she presses her back to it. She can remain elusive for only so long till whichever one of her lovers realizes her heart is beating closer.
He sounds coy, but not in the way he is with her. His tone reminds her of how her mother and father quipped, petty, but beneath playful jabs and petty slights lies a gentle old love that echoes clearly between them. Something forged on years spent with one another. A love language between seasoned lovers. And that makes her heart thump, in...anxiety? No. She takes a few deep breaths, because if it beats any faster he'll know she's listening.
He's allowed to speak with whomever he wishes, after all this is his home, not yours.
But who is he laughing with like that if not you or Armand?
We can't be jealous.
He murmurs some more, in broken french that makes her heart flutter even in the midst of the inner debate she halts. Right now it tries to decipher who this mystery person is. So she clears her throat, loud enough for him to be alerted that she is near and awake.
This plan could go smoothly, or ass up. Either way, we're finding out.
We could just ask-
Hell no.
She drapes the blanket more around her shoulders, pattering purposely into the room at a slow, sleepy pace. The knuckle of her pointer finger rubs beneath her eyes in faux sleepiness, and Louis falls for it in an instant. He rushes the mystery caller off the tablet soon as she makes her way to the steps, taking them slowly one at the time into his awaiting arms that encircle her waist beneath her blanket cocoon His hands settle on the skin of her back, exposed by the loose sleep shirt.
"Did I wake you my love?"
She grumbles, "no, I was looking for you."
He huffs now pulling her fully atop his lap.
"This you askin' or telling me to join you for your nap?"
"Neither, but..." she trails off slowly rubbing where his heart should be, tracing absent-minded patterns atop the v-necked sweater he wears.
"You want your tea?" He fills in the gap easily. She smiles, sleepily pecking his lips once.
"And my book? Thought we could finish it together?"
He tilts his head in faux thought, "hmm gonna need a much better kiss."
She can't fight the genuine smile that as she leans forward, slowly and languidly gracing those lips with a proper kis. Louis takes his time, allow his eyes to flutter shut and his hand to cup her jaw and pull her deeper.
"Be a moment cher," he whispers against her lips. And when she opens her eyes she sits where he once did. She works fast. The password? Her date of birth and in an instant she finds the video calling app where the recent number sits, no name, but the number she quickly makes work of typing into her phone.
Just when the final number is entered she hears his feet, and she quickly closes the tablet pushing it away to its previous spot. She almost feels guilty when he carefully walks toward her, the wooden tray holding a pot of the freshly brewed hibiscus blend Armand gifted her alongside her book and pens which he arranges in front of her.
But even as he reads by her side, allowing her head to settle atop his shoulder, she hears the laughter echoing in the back of her head and one mission sits front and center: find the one who could make him feel that much joy.
Having worked with Daniel for so long, she finds herself to have picked up on his silent philosophy of hearing all sides of the story. Hence why during the suns peak, she goes to work.
She makes sure to go to a cafe, far from the penthouse without the use of the driver assigned by her lovers. When she trusts that she is a comfortable enough distance she makes the call, and a french droll enters her ear.
"Louis?," it inquires. She should hang up. but curiosity is why she chose the career she is in. The voice coos his name once more. So she straightens her spine.
"No, and shouldn't you be sleep right about now?"
"Who is this?" Any playfulness or kindness dropped in an instant replaced with a razor sharp tone.
"A..reporter," he huffs.
"Hm, and how exactly, little mouse, did you get this number? You do know I could report you to the proper authorities for harassment?"
"No! Please I just...I worked, work for Daniel Molloy and I just have a question, a few in regards to a previous project."
The voice pauses. "Ahhh, you are the little reporter Louis mentioned."
This gets her attention and she leans both her elbows forward on the table. "He mentioned me?"
"Mhm, he speaks highly of you, apart from his darling little bottomless pit, I can stomach to hear him speak of you. He tells me of your...project. You have my congratulations."
"I'm..flattered?'
"You're welcome. Now I am sure you did not call with the intention of a simple conversation, mouse." it's clear in his tone he is not asking and she immediately straightens up.
"No, as I said before: I have some questions. Some things I would like to clear up away from...certain ears." Her drink arrives, a treat beside and the worker giving her a polite smile before walking away. She nervously taps her keyboard. "I heard you, on the phone with him. I was there during the interview. And, I think your commentary and memories would be a needed addition for my project."
Silence.
Had she pushed to far? Her hands nervously reach to fiddle with the straw in her drink. Then his voice breaks her mental spiral.
"Very well, mouse, but there are a few terms of my own I have if we are to do this. Hopefully Louis has not been teaching you any french these days, you'll find a better tutor in Armand, do not tell him of this call, poppet."
𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: This font is hard to read so it will not be written in it. Anyways, shoutout to 1790s Armand for living in my brain rent free. Also this is only inspired LIGHTLY by the phantom of the opera, this will depart somewhat from the canon of both iwtv and phantom of the opera. Also, Armand doesn't have a facial deformity in this, the mask represents him attempting to "mask" his identity. Please ignore any grammatical errors, I am not a grammarian. Also fuck generative AI.
𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.2K
"You are invited..." The words you had read only two weeks ago, an invitation to yet another gathering of socialites in yet another ostentatious setting. Your mother was most insistent on you going, you were her eldest child, and she has been desperate for you to get married. You had tried to reason with her.
"A masquerade is the worst kind of ball to try finding a husband! Mother please!"
And the words only slithered in one ear and out the other as she was already picking out your dress robes for the party. Your mask selected the next day when she had dragged you out to the shops in Paris.
And with a corset laced so tight you could barely breathe, you had been ushered from carriage to steps to ballroom...
You usually spent these events talking with other ladies at your reserved table, but they slowly are taken from the table. Slipping away as they are offered the hands of gentlemen asking for dances. Alone, you watch ladies dance, hearing the orchestra's music ring out into the space surrounding the sea of masked couples waltzing. If you listen closely enough you could hear their steps, in sync with one another. Past the waltzing sea, you thought you could see a lone man, standing across at the other side of the room, but the sight of him was quickly lost...It was at this point in the evening that the feeling of being watched would fail to leave you as the night continued.
You could feel his eyes on you from all the distances he had been in the room. He lingers, everywhere and nowhere all at once, for the moment you turn to try and see him... he disappears. For most of the evening, you could only capture glimpses. Brief. Fleeting. You stand, desperate for air, walking to the nearest balcony, opening the double doors, and looking out into the view of the night.
The cold of the night air embraced you, allowing you a respite from the heat of the room. The bodies all in one space... you hadn't realized it had been getting to you. All you felt was a rush, having spent the night circled like prey, watched by a man unknown to you. And the feeling, hadn't left. He was right behind you, staring at your figure on the balcony, your eyes unaware as you look up at the night sky. Steps across the floor, traveling to the double doors, as they open you could once more hear the distant symphonies of the orchestra. The doors close, you refuse to look back at your company despite your curiosity's screams. His steps hesitant, but halting nonetheless when he closes the distance, standing next to you.
"Vous êtes seul, pourquoi?" You are alone, why? His first words to you, his voice, soft and kind. You turn your head, looking at him. He had on a black mask, it covered down to his nose... and despite your restricted view of his face, a yearning filled your veins. Blood rushing through you as your heart's beats surpass its normal pace... His hair was tied back, a black bow securing it into place. The silk of the bow paralleled the look of his hair, you could tell it was soft just by looking... but you still wonder what it would feel like against your finger tips. You turn your head to look down at the city, hearing the clops of horse hooves as carriages are pulled along the cobblestones.
"J'ai été invitée, ma mère m'a obligée à venir ici." I was invited, my mother she made me come here. You could hear a soft hum from him in response. A shiver trails up your spine, you could feel it through the layers of your clothes. "Monsieur, pourquoi m'avez-vous suivi ?" Sir, why have you followed me?
"Vous me fascinez, mademoiselle." You mesmorize me, miss. He steps closer to you, the fabric of his clothes brushes against you. "Ton esprit, il tend la main vers moi." Your mind, it reaches for me.
"Qu'est-ce que tu dis?" What are you saying? You look at him, your head tilting up... you fixated on his eyes. They're ethereal... such a unique shade, one you'd never seen before. Even the mask couldn't hide their beauty.
"Votre main, mademoiselle. Puis-je danser avec vous ?" Your hand, please, miss. May I dance with you? The question makes your breath hitch. You glance at the door.
"S'il te plaît?" Please? You step hesitantly back towards the double doors. He walks over to them, opening them for you, offering you his hand. His hand was cold... gentle as he pulls you with him to the ballroom's dance floor. His other hand delicately places itself along your waist. The hand in yours simply repositioning to hold yours, he intertwines his fingers with yours. Intimate.
He leads you effortlessly through the dance. His eyes trailing over you. You could feel a rush through your body at every step and turn. You could feel yourself get closer and closer to him as the music progresses, carrying your movements along with him. His hand slips from your waist, over to your back, pushing you closer to him as his fingers spread along the fabric of your dress. The act makes you gasp softly. Your hand previously on his shoulder slowly slips down to his chest. And when the song ends, he halts, eyes connected to yours as they have been for every measure, every note, of the music carrying the two of you. Your chest rises and falls, his remains still, not even breaking a sweat from any of it. In the absense of the music, there was nothing. Silence. Empty, intimate space where the world around you was nonexistent.
"Je dois y aller, mademoiselle." I must go, miss.
"S'il vous plaît, ne le faites pas." Please don't
"Je dois le faire avant de faire quelque chose d'irréparable." I must before I do something I cannot take back.
"Dites-moi votre nom, Monsieur." Tell me your name, Sir. You squeeze his hand, holding it with both of yours. "S'il vous plaît... avant de partir, je dois savoir." Please… before you leave, I must know.
"Armand."
"Armand." you echo, one of your hands moving to his chest without realizing. "Je penserai à toi, Armand." I will think of you.
"Au revoir." Goodbye. He slips from your hands and the air feels as though it has been knocked from your chest, hollowing your lungs. You quickly left after that, hoping with a desperation that you'd see him once you went outside... but all you could see was your carriage at the bottom of the steps, waiting for you.
He plagued your mind like a fever. Your etiquette lessons fell on deaf ears. You could focus on nothing... spending most of your time in your room, writing by candlelight in your journal. And nearly every sentence was simply a plea, a thought, a yearning for him. A man whose face you never got to see, but his eyes... his touch-- it stuck with you. It was sealed into your skin like cold sweats. He haunted your nights, slipping into your dreams, touch so vivid it felt as though he was really there... but every time you woke from your slumber, hoping to find him, he wasn't there.
Unexplainable, following an abrupt waking, you find yourself slipping out of bed and traveling down the stairs to leave your home. Yet another dream had tormented you, and a prayer echoed in your mind that air would sober you. Your bare feet bring you past the yard of your family’s estate. Outside, guided by nothing but the moonlight, your only light source as you stumble onto the nearby cobblestone street.
Dew from the night air laid among the cobblestones under the flesh of your feet. A light, patchy fog lingered across the expanse of the path. You walk, unsure of where to, absent in mind as you walk forward. Nightgown clinging to you, the long skirt of it went to your ankles, it lightly swaying in the night’s wind.
Footsteps along cobblestones begin to linger behind you, the steps much louder than your own as the owner clearly had shoes on… Your body shivers, trembles wracking you in waves. You take one step back, turning to look behind. The silhouette of a man in the dark, eerily it was familiar to you. Your eyes were failing you, not even the moonlight could bring your eyes any closer to clear recognition. He continues to walk towards you, you take hesitant, fearful steps back. Until... you can't. He brought you to a moment, where all could only disappear into silence. Caught in a glamour the closer the silhouette gets. You stand, debilitated by the eyes that you now recognize, his steps pause. He was still in the mask... robbing you of the sight of the entirety of his face you had an abundant alacrity to know.
You wanted to memorize every pore...
He steps to his right with slow deliberate steps... circling you, his eyes scanning every detail of you.
"Il fait terriblement froid dehors comme ça..." Awfully cold to be out like this… "Mademoiselle" the title came in the form of a whisper, a breath of him, brushing over your ear even despite the distance between you he was failing to close despite your mind's wishes for it... "Mauvais rêve ?" Bad dream?
"Non." You could say nothing else... you didn't trust yourself to.
His steps come closer, figure behind you... His hands hesitantly slip over your arms, sliding down slowly as he whispers to you.
"J'entends votre cœur. Je me demande… qu'est-ce qui peut bien faire battre votre cœur à tout rompre, ou… qui ?" I can hear your heart. I wonder... what could possibly be making your blood race, or... who? His lips brush the back of your ear, breath like smoke rippling over your skin... your body, from where he was touching you outward feels goosebumps spread. You stay quiet. "Quoi… ou qui ?" What... or who?
"Toi." You. A confession whispered through your shakiness...
"Mm." A hum. Simple, but frustrating in response to your vulnerabilities so blatantly on display for him. "Tu m'as attendu ?" You've waited for me?
"Je le suis toujours." I still am.
"Vous devez être patient" You must be patient.
"Je ne veux pas l'être. J'avais envie de te voir." I do not want to be. I've wanted to see you.
He turns your face to the direction of your home. "Votre balcon." Your balcony. "Chaque nuit." Every night. His hand caresses your cheek, resting his head against yours, his other hand slipping from your arm to your shoulder, his body pressing against you from behind. "À distance, jusqu'au moment venu." From a distance until the time comes.
Your eyes close briefly... but in a panic when you feel every part of him leave you, your eyes open. Looking around you... it was like he was never there. You ran back to your home. The high was lost; you were sober now.
Like a fool when you step into your bedroom, you found yourself rushing to your balcony. You wait there an hour, before dragging yourself back to your bed. He wasn’t there.
But in your dreams he was... and when the sun rose and set, you went to your balcony…
He stood, still in his mask, looking up at you. You rest your arms on the railing.
“Mon ange” The words came from him, but his lips did not move…perhaps they did… maybe you were simply fatigued. You’d been rather tired. Restless from your dreams, waking up feeling as though hands had traveled across your skin only to see no one there.
Seeing him did nothing to quell your wishes to see him. The longing had grown, an avarice welling within your heart. You need him to be near. He was too far for your liking.
“Monsieur.” You call to him, motioning for him to come up to the balcony. He glances at the door, looking back up at you before taking hesitant steps. You rush down to let him in, practically running down the stairs, opening the door for him. He walks into the room, you wordlessly lead him to your bedroom and to the balcony. You sit, and he sits with you, immediately. The air shifts, a feeling you’ve never felt before, at least not with him. Less need for a guard.
“You’re here,” you say, glancing at him.
He nods, “I am. I said I would be.”
“Will you be here tomorrow?” You adjust, resting your back against the balcony to face him.
“And the next night, and the one after that.”
“Are you an angel?” You smile softly, head tilting.
His head tilts, mimicking the movement of yours, mirroring you. “An angel?”
“Oui.” You nod, “an angel.”
He shakes his head, “Non.”
“Hm.” You nod, you crawl closer, sitting on your knees in front of him. “How long have you come here?”
“Since that night,” he confesses, his eyes trailing down your face, landing on your neck. You look over the details of his face that are visible to you. The mask… your hand reaches, hovers near his face. He glances at the fingertips. Your hand smooths over his jaw up to the edge of the mask. His breath hitches when he feels your hand, soaking in the physical touch, his eyelashes fluttering as he closes his eyes. His lips were slightly parted, he was beautiful… your hand inches closer to the edge of the mask. You try to lift it to take it off, but his hand rushes to grasp your wrist. Eyes piercing yours, irises burning fierce, pupils aiming directly for yours.
“Don’t, Mademoiselle.” The words were soft, harsh, low. You nod, fingertips forming a loose fist so he knew you wouldn’t reach for the mask again. His hand releases your wrist with care. “Très bien,” his praise has an embarrassing effect fluttering within you. Your chest feeling a pressure from restraint. You rest your hand on your lap, running, holding your own wrist he'd held... tracing where his fingers had been.
"How long do you stay?"
"Most of the night."
Your eyes meet his, "You don't sleep?"
"Not when you do, mon ange." He looks at you, "You haven't been sleeping well, have you?"
You look down, "I've slept fine."
He shakes his head, "Come." He stands, offering you his hand. You take it and he lifts you in his arms, walking you to your bed. Tucking you in gently, carefully, with a soft touch as he sweeps hair out of your eyes. He sits on the edge of the bed. "Rest, mon ange." His whispers wash over you with a tenderness. A drowsy feeling settling into you, your body becoming weightless. The usual persistent dreams accompany you with the feeling of his hands...
He visits you each night, asking about your day. He only allows you to stay up and talk to him if he's sure you aren't too tired to do so. On the nights he makes you go to sleep early, you usually wake to a flower on your bedside table... an apology for not being able enjoy his company for as long as desired.
One night... he wasn't there. An odd occurrence since it had been over a month of him visiting you on your balcony. It worried you. And when you woke after that night of worrying, tossing and turning in your bed... a flower and a letter sat on your bedside table.
"Mon Ange,
Sincerest apologies for my absence, I had a prior engagement. You must meet me at eight o'clock. Same place we met, don't keep me waiting. I'll send a carriage.
Yours,
Armand."
The carriage pulls to a halt, horse hooves clicking lightly against the cobblestones as they come to a stop. The coachman opens your door for you. You bow your head slightly as you step out, thanking him.
Walking up the stairs, your heart rushes the closer you get. Your shoes echo with your steps as you travel inside the building. It was dim, empty, not as many candles lighting the room as there were that night. The air was heavy... or maybe that was just your corset. Either way, your breaths weren't coming to you as easy as they normally would.
“Très bien,” a praise echoes behind you, the soft words followed by steps, his steps. "You're early."
"You wanted to see me."
"Very much, mon ange." He circles you, pausing in front of you before stepping closer. His face, still adorned in the mask, only lit faintly by candlelight. You step closer to him, closing distance. Your hand lifts, caressing his jaw, head tilting as you watch him lean into your touch-- as he always does. Your thumb caresses the skin above his jawline. His eyes close, taking a soft breath. He was consistent with this. He craves physical touch, his body language conveys it to you anytime he is near you.
"Please," you plea softly. You wanted to remove the mask...to see him. Bare witness to all of him.
"Please?" He echoes, eyes still closed.
Your hand lifts the bottom edge of his mask. His eyes open, one of his hands grabbing your wrist, but it was too late. You drop his mask. His eyes glare as they observe every inch, every muscle, every pore-- focused entirely on your expression. His lips parted and you could see the fangs he had, you hadn't seen them before.
"Now I see you," you whisper.
"And do you still like what you see?" He asks, the words soft, harsh, low. Restraining his anger as the fire in his eyes grows, his grip on your wrist tighter.
"You thought I would not?" Your other hand goes to touch his face, allowing the opposite to remain in his grip. Your fingertips do not get the chance to caress his skin, his other hand grabs the one reaching for him. He pulls your hands down to your sides before pulling your body against his, kissing you. He steals your breath, one hand planted on your back, keeping you pressed against his chest as the other rests flat on the fabric of your dress robe. His hand slides up the fabric until the fabric ends, fingers meeting your bare skin as the hand travels over your chest. Your breath hitches against his lip, he doesn't stop. No pressure applied as his hand lightly wanders.
His lips parting from you doesn't last. He leans down, your head tilting back when you feel the position of his. His nose slid across the skin over the side of your neck, lips softly pressing to the skin. His tongue trails up ever so slightly as he kisses the skin. The hand once on your chest moving down to join the other on your back. You were scared to breathe.
"I can feel your pulse on my tongue," he says the words against your skin. "Am I making your heart race?"
"Yes."
“Très bien."
You can feel your skirts lifting, his hands bunch the fabric of them, lifting your body without warning and plopping you down onto the nearest table. Your eyes widen, feeling one of his hands push you down by a hand on your chest before sliding down your dress journeying over bust and corset to your lifted skirts. His hands position in the bends of your knees, pushing your legs up and out. You look at the ornate ceiling above, chest frantically rising and falling as you feel the tip of his nose brush over the back of your inner thigh. Breath from his lips passing over the skin before you feel the distance between mouth and thigh close. His fangs graze over you, and then you can feel his mouth open wider before his teeth sink into you. You let out a pathetic whimper, feeling your blood travel from your body to his. A groan is muffled, pressed into your thigh as he continues to sip at the wine of your flesh, drinking from your vein. Shamefully, every bit of it stirred something in you. You could feel it drip from between your legs, ache collecting in the depths of you. A tender kiss and his tongue sliding over punctures tells you he had finished that part of his indulgence, the punctures tingle before you stop feeling them-- as if they were never there.
You could feel the silk of his hair brushing against both your spread thighs, his mouth was hovering over your cunt. His tongue slides from your perineum, catching everything that could drip down, seeking your taste as his tongue travels up ever so torturous, teasingly slow. Circling your clitoris before his tongue slips down inside you, sucking vulgarly as your legs shake and your mouth opens to cry. You could only grip at your skirts, doing your best to stay still even as muscles twitched in your body, but you willed yourself not to even think of squirming under him. Your body was his altar, and this was his worship. On his knees for you as he drinks your offerings with the desperation of a dehydrated man stranded in a dessert finding his oasis, blessed. No intentions of stopping until you fall from the precipice, his hands gently grip at the back of your thighs he held apart steadily. His claws slightly dig into the skin. You could only gasp as your eyes close, vision straying as the muscles in your abdomen twitch. The little death. He took everything you gave him, and even when there was nothing else to give he didn't stop until you whined from physical pain, overwhelmed and overstimulated, nerves shot between your tense, shaky legs.
He stands, "Keep your legs apart." it was a demand, one that you physically could not defy. You could hear the fabric of his pants rustling, before you felt him once more.
"Is this what you want?" He asks, pulling your body closer to him harshly, palms flattening by your sides on the table.
"Yes, monsieur," you whisper, looking into his eyes, your chest rising and falling, the action briefly calling his attention.
"You won't be able to marry."
You say nothing.
"You won't have children." One of his hands reaches down. "You won't see your little sisters, or your overbearing mother." He lets out a gasp, stroking himself, looking down at himself briefly.
"You're going to die."
The words make you freeze, he looks up at you.
"And you will be reborn." He leans further over you, his bare thighs pressed to the backs of yours, legs still spread for him. "Say please."
"Please," you beg.
You gasp when you feel him push into you, inch by inch slipping inside you, a stretch with a slight sting and pleasant pressure filling you before he stops, a heavy breath escaping him.
"Decades roaming this Earth and it has taken me this long to find you." He whispers, leaning down to kiss you, his hips rolling into you as soft moans slip between you. When he parts from you, "I'll pass my sickness, infect you as mine," he whispers with labored breath as he fucks into you, pressing his lips to yours as though he needed your kiss to live.
His hands slip up, grasping your waist as he continues thrusting inside you, groaning against your lips. The table beneath you creaks, the furniture scraping the floor, but neither of you cared, way too lost in each other. He parts from you, nose brushing against yours briefly before his hips roll further into you, harsher, faster. He revels in your whimpers, ravaging you with a muted violence, a territorial claim of his hunted prey.
"Do you want it?" He asks, teeth slightly gritting as he restrains. "A trade. Passing of your current life, to one with me."
"You accept," the words echo in your head. You nod through your shakiness, through your quiet moans.
"Words, mon amour," he commands.
"Yes."
A hand slips into your hair, harshly gripping as your neck is bared to him, head lifted by force. Fangs abrupt, penetrating the skin, drinking from your neck. His hips remain in constant motion, thrusting over and over, his cock twitching inside you as he gets his fill of the blood he steals from your veins. You can feel your body becoming weaker, even as the pleasure wracks you in waves. His mouth parts from your neck, his thrusts slowing as he takes his wrist, ripping some of the skin open with his teeth. He presses it to your lips, your hands grip the offering. Your weak body gaining more energy the moment the blood begins to slide down your throat. Eagerly you consume it, feeling your slowed heart pump faster, faster, dancing with his as you drink the renaissance he offered you from his vein. His hips speed up, grunting as his hair slips from where it had been tied back, the silk falling around his face. You moan against his skin, gulping as your cunt kegels around his dick, you fall from the precipice, cumming around him. He forces his wrist from you. His hips halt as he grunts, feeling your cunt squeeze him as he spills inside of you, whimpering. He rests his body on top of you.
"There will be pain," he breathes the words against your ear, "Sweet pain, mon ange" he whispers.
"And then you will be mine, past the point of no return."
