Chapter 1: 1
Chapter Text
A Vengeful angel
What is so incredible about you?
What is so little about me?
Every time Armand thought he had achieved something, he would watch it slip through his fingers like grains of sand. He had always stood on the edge of happiness—only to lose everything.
When he was Andrei, he had seen his own childhood stolen; as Amadeo, he had known the peace and love of a quiet life, and a man who adored him; as Armand, he had watched his family and coven go up in flames.
Armand struggled to achieve. Every step he took felt as heavy as a boulder, and it seemed to him that others were spared that weight—as if the burden was his alone to carry.
To be loved was so difficult, and yet so essential, that to obtain it he had (and would again) betrayed and killed.
Marius was dead. Lestat would never choose him.
But there had been Louis.
Gentle Louis, merciful death with pale skin and hair the color of the night. Louis with his clever mind and those striking emerald eyes.
He didn’t love Armand the way he had loved Lestat, and perhaps it had been out of spite that he chose him, kissing him in front of the blond vampire on the night of his rebirth. Yet, in that moment, Armand had felt happy, chosen.
It was enough for him, even if deep down he knew he would never come first.
Precisely because happiness was so hard to reach, he had resolved to settle for being a useful, ever-present shadow.
But then he arrived.
That captivating boy.
The very same captivating boy now sitting in the corner of the pub, laughing loudly with a beer in hand. Daniel Molloy was surrounded by three young men who listened to him, laughed at his jokes, and hung on his every word, no matter how slurred by alcohol.
Only a week earlier, the young journalist had been locked in a room with two vampires, and mistreated by one of them (the very same one now spying on him from across the bar).
He had endured all kinds of abuse. He had accepted death… only to be saved at the last moment. His memory wiped clean.
He had woken up on a desolate street, surrounded by junkies, too high to remember what had happened.
But the truth was something else entirely, and Armand, sitting alone at a single table in that filthy, noisy pub, with an untouched pint of red beer before him, knew it all too well.
Ever since he had met the young man, an unspoken question had gnawed at his mind with desperate persistence: What makes you so fascinating?
Louis hadn’t wanted him to die. He had screamed at Armand to save him. He had even called him boring...
When Armand thought of it, he could feel his ancient blood boiling in his veins.
How could such a useless creature be considered more fascinating than him, a powerful, centuries, old vampire with over 500 years of experience?
Armand was beautiful; he had known that since his days in the brothel.
He was submissive and skilled, intelligent and charming.
But fascinating? Evidently not.
A drunken laugh from one of the young men around the journalist made him grip the handle of his mug tightly and exhale sharply through his nose in irritation.
What a silly goose, he thought bitterly, pretending to drink, only wetting his lips with a touch of foam as he observed the scene with his amber eyes.
It had been a week since he and Louis had last spoken at night, one too ashamed of his behavior to ask to spend time together and make amends, the other too consumed by the need to solve the enigma that was Daniel Molloy.
What did they all see in him?
One of the three boys dared to wrap an arm around the journalist’s shoulders, and Daniel leaned into him with half-closed eyes, exchanging a look of complicity with the stranger that made Armand’s stomach turn.
Was it because he was so easily approachable...was that what made him so fascinating?
No, certainly not. Otherwise, judging by his own life story, Armand would have been the world’s darling.
He watched the “winner” take the journalist by the hand and lead him away from the two disappointed predators. Daniel followed the young man with dragging steps, likely too drunk to fully grasp what was happening.
If Armand concentrated, he could hear his laugh, shrill, cutting into his ears.
How irritating. Now he’d have to follow him, too.
He pretended to take a few more sips of beer, discreetly pouring the rest onto the floor, then left a couple of bills on the bar and stepped outside, away from the chaos and noise that ruled the place.
The night air of the city caressed his flushed face, and he let out a relieved sigh.
It was a beautiful spring evening, neither too hot nor too cold.
Perfect for a night walk... or for a blood meal.
The couple ahead of him strolled arm in arm at a slow pace, and he followed at a safe distance, a cigarette between his lips, keeping time with their unsteady steps.
Focusing, he could see the idiot grin on the stranger’s face, proud to have caught “prey.” He could read his filthy thoughts about how he wanted to spend the night.
They passed through a park. Armand, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat, kept his gaze fixed on the back of the journalist’s head—completely unaware he was being followed.
He listened to Daniel’s thoughts as they walked, and was surprised to discover that the young man didn’t expect the night to take a sexual turn.
In fact, the journalist’s mind was busy forming a series of long, intricate questions, despite the alcohol. That fact left Armand puzzled and intrigued.
So, there was no desire to flirt in the boy. And yet, it had seemed so blatantly obvious to everyone around him.
Maybe it was that very energy, his vitality, that made him so fascinating?
He sharpened his hearing, tuning out all other sounds to better listen to their conversation.
Daniel chuckled, letting his light eyes wander across the dimly lit city sky.
“So I woke up in a dump with a blanket over me, a bruise on my eyebrow, and a panic-level headache. But my wallet was weirdly untouched madness. Not a single cent taken!”
He and the stranger laughed in sync.
“But it’s a good story,” the other man replied. “Pretty strange that you don’t remember anything from those last few days.”
Daniel’s smile faltered, as did his step, and Armand stopped in turn at a safe distance, eyes wide. He didn’t know why, but a shiver of excitement ran through him when he sensed the journalist’s mind darkening.
“I... I have vague memories,” Daniel admitted, squinting his eyes and running a hand through his messy hair, trying to focus.
“I remember being scared. I remember the smell of iron. My broken nose. I remember a lot of pain.”
“Damn, that’s terrifying!” the other man said, turning toward Daniel. And finally, from that angle, Armand could make out the face of the man who had, in just one hour, managed to charm the captivating Daniel Molloy.
He was older, with light hair and a neatly trimmed reddish beard, clear eyes, and a dopey expression plastered on his face. His body was well-built, no doubt about it—but to Armand, bodies were only flesh hiding pulsing veins and living blood beneath.
With elegant steps, the vampire melted into the shadow of a tree, waiting for the pair to continue their walk. He was stunned: it wasn’t possible that his mental tampering could be so fleeting in the mind of a mortal.
Something strong must have allowed those memories to return—even if just in fragments.
The young man’s pale eyes darted across the deserted street, scanning for more clues.
He seemed to forget the presence of the other entirely and took a step back, breathing heavily and stammering.
“I... I remember there was a man. Not just any man. he was evil, but also good. He had big green eyes and teeth sharp as razors.”
The other young man looked just as lost as Armand was in that moment, and for a second, the vampire thought of leaping from his hiding spot to strike.
Daniel remembered Louis.
Was that why his memories hadn’t faded? Because of HIS Louis?
He gritted his teeth and held his breath, fists clenched so tightly that his palms bled.
In that moment, he wanted desperately to drain him dry.
If only he hadn’t promised Louis not to hurt him.
Bitter tears welled up in his eyes as he watched the other boy rush to comfort the journalist with soft words and a reassuring touch.
Daniel remembered Louis.
Louis had asked Armand not to harm him.
Armand cleaned up Louis’s mess, and now, out of corrosive jealousy, was following this idiot around just to understand how he could be better and more loved than him.
Disgusting.
He angrily wiped away the traces of blood-tears from his cheeks, sulking as he watched the man pull Daniel into an embrace with a laugh, teasing him for suddenly turning so gloomy.
Daniel gave in to it and laughed again, his mind clearing of dark clouds and fear.
He allowed himself to be led once more, even stopping to face the other boy, so close their chests almost touched.
“You know,” Daniel whispered, just loud enough for the other boy to hear, and for Armand, standing not far away. “I think those memories are fake. At some point, it even felt like I was talking to an angel.”
The other laughed, but Armand’s heart skipped one beat too many.
“Yes,” Daniel nodded with more certainty. “I remember a beautiful young man, with amazing eyes and a warm, peaceful voice. I remember he wanted to hurt me—maybe he did—but when I looked at him, I felt so calm I thought I was in heaven. He was like an angry, vengeful angel… but I felt like his anger wasn’t all for me. Not all of it, at least. And can I tell you something? He was really something to look at.”
“A vengeful angel? Sweetheart, if you want me to play a role, all you have to do is ask,” the man joked, clearly fed up with what he assumed were Daniel’s drunken ramblings. He pulled him closer, closing the gap between them entirely.
He wrapped his arms around him, catching Daniel off guard, and his tongue forced its way into his mouth without subtlety. Daniel, still lost in his memories, was too stunned to react—only then realizing that this man hadn’t come along for a quiet chat or a boring interview.
But just a few meters away, Armand had heard it all.
Blushing and breathless, he stood frozen as he watched the animalistic kiss unfold while the journalist’s words echoed in his mind like a chant.
A vengeful angel.
It felt like all the bloodlust inside him had evaporated; like his rage had vanished in an instant. For a fleeting moment, he felt again like young Amadeo, blushing as Marius painted him, awkward in his movements and overwhelmed.
Daniel didn’t have those memories because of Louis.
He had them because of him.
That realization made him jolt and perhaps by coincidence, or a cruel joke of fate, Daniel’s wide, pale eyes locked with his own in that exact moment.
He had been seen.
Copper pupils locked with those blue-green irises, curious yet dazed mid-kiss.
In those eyes—too intelligent for their own good Armand saw something flicker: recognition.
No.
It couldn’t be.
With a sharp pivot of his heel, Armand vanished into the shadows.
Daniel flinched as the other man pulled away from the sloppy, alcohol-flavored kiss he hadn’t enjoyed in the least.
Still staring toward the tree, he barely reacted as the man stroked his cheek suggestively.
“So, sweetheart,” the man said with a smug grin, “shall we head back to mine?”
Daniel’s gaze remained locked on the bark of that tree.
Right there, just moments ago, his mind had played a cruel trick.
A memory? A hallucination?
A dark angel, beautiful, with eyes like molten fire.
He swallowed hard, the taste of beer thick in his throat and those flames still dancing in his chest.
He had only wanted to do an interview that night.
But now his thoughts were a storm, murky, chaotic, dangerous. And he couldn’t afford to drown in them again.
With a false smile, he turned to the man in front of him.
And found him dull.
“Sure,” he agreed.
For a moment, at least, he could pretend the hands touching him were paler, and the eyes looking into his were burning orange.
A vengeful angel of his dreams and delirium. Someone he was desperately drawn to… and feared more than anything.
A few meters away, Armand watched the young couple disappear.
He severed the mental connection with the journalist, and once the silence settled, he sank to the ground on the asphalt—unbothered by how odd a man sitting on the side of the road might seem at this hour.
He lit a cigarette, his heart in turmoil, his mind and ears still ringing with the shock.
He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know what to believe.
The man who was so captivating and unreachable… seemed to find him captivating.
Sweetheart?
Armand flinched.
Louis’s voice reached him telepathically uncertain, hesitant, almost apologetic for reaching out.
It had been a full week since they last communicated like this.
Ever since...
His amber eyes scanned the street for the journalist’s silhouette. He didn’t find him.
Yes? he replied, clearing his throat, suddenly embarrassed with himself.
Where are you? It’s late.
Out hunting. I was hungry.
He swallowed. That lie tasted bitter on his tongue.
He could never tell Louis the truth about what he’d been doing all week.
There was silence. Then a sigh exhausted, resigned.
Will you come home when you're done? I’d like to fall asleep in our coffin tonight.
Armand’s heart skipped a beat at those words.
He stood up immediately, tossing the cigarette aside.
He sent a quick message back: On my way.
Then, hands in his coat pockets, he moved quickly through the night like a shadow.
Before returning, he’d amuse himself with the first vagrant he found—draining them dry to make his lie more believable, to bring some color back to his face.
But he feared, for the first time, that his mind wouldn’t be focused on pleasing Louis, or fulfilling his needs, as he had always promised to do.
Armand had always been the second choice.
Louis had chosen him over Lestat, yes but had ordered him to spare Daniel.
Armand had always been obedient: to Louis, to Lestat, to Marius.
Perhaps he really wasn’t that fascinating.
And he had tried, desperately, to understand what made that insipid human, Daniel Molloy, so special.
But after that last revelation…
He couldn’t wait to see him again the next day.
Maybe that, he thought, was what made him so fascinating.
Chapter 2: 2
Summary:
"Armand is unable to resist the pull to follow him."
Content Warning: This summary includes references to emotional manipulation, psychological submission, and implied sexual scenes.
Chapter Text
Armand was born to serve.
That was an unspoken truth.
When he was Andrei, he served God through painted icons; when he was Amadeo, he felt he had been born for Marius de Romanus and his whims.
As Armand, he wielded the reins of a false dominion until Louis appeared, reminding him of his true place in servitude.
For years, Armand lived in the shadow of the great Lestat—an omnipotent figure akin to the Christian God, created by Magnus. Lestat, who had encountered Akasha and Enkil, drank from them, witnessed the Veil of Veronica, and took Marius as his counselor.
Despite being the older vampire of the two, Armand never felt even a shred of that arrogant, boastful blond man whom Louis constantly spoke of and admired. Louis’s words were always tinged with hatred and regret, but deep inside, Armand knew he was nothing more than a patch over a wound that needed healing—even if only for show.
Louis both despised and loved him; he treated him like a servant, only to later tend his wounds, punishing him and then praising him for enduring the blows so well.
Louis was a potent, seductive poison into which Armand could sink, losing all sense of his thoughts and memories.
But it was never enough; for Louis, Armand would never be enough—and this tormented him deeply.
Yet that human—Daniel Molloy—seemed to have seen and found fascinating a tormentor so ignored by the rest of the world, despite being mistreated and humiliated—
So much so that he penetrated the mental barrier and still remembered him.
With that thought fixed in his mind and the human’s words echoing in his memory, the elder vampire entered the house he shared with Louis. Louis awaited him on the sofa, legs crossed and stretched out, dressed in a sleek black tweed suit. He held a dark, leather-bound book open in his hands—its title hidden. His caramel skin shimmered under the artificial nighttime light, and his intense emerald eyes followed Armand’s movements the moment he crossed the threshold.
"Where have you been?" he asked calmly, curiosity about his servant’s absence—a reversal of their usual power divide.
With the taste of lies on his tongue, Armand hung his coat on the rack beside the front door.
"As I told you—feeding."
"Are you lying to me?" Panic lifted his voice. Before he turned fully around, Armand sensed him there—silent like a predator, nourished daily by ancient blood.
His blood, Armand thought, smirking sadly.
Pretending held no use under Louis’s sad, probing gaze—his beautiful, merciful death that harms no one but himself. Those emerald eyes implore him, knit with need (not for him), begging not to abandon them.
"I took a walk in the park," Armand began, shrugging, gauging his increasingly perplexed partner’s reaction.
"I saw your mortal friend—the journalist—and I decided to follow him," he admitted, bracing for the inevitable storm he knew would crash over them.
Louis’s thoughts tangibly shifted—confusion carved into his features, emotions swirling in unspoken turmoil. Armand sensed his fear of asking about the boy’s life after their last fight.
He feared the answer, and the realization that this was the only thing Louis cared about twisted Armand’s lips into a bitter smile.
Again—always second in the mind of the one he loved.
"He’s not dead. I didn’t hurt him," Armand added, raising his hands in surrender. Louis studied him in silence, eyes measuring him like a strange, exotic creature. Armand opened his mind fully, revealing his intentions—but didn’t tell him he had been following the man for some time, nor what the human had said about him—his eyes, his appearance.
That offhand comment that had stolen his breath for a heartbeat.
As Armand’s vulnerability exposed itself, Louis’s shoulders relaxed. He sighed in relief, finally recognizing his innocence.
Armand shuddered as he felt Louis grasp his arms and pull him down—settling him against his broad chest.
"Let’s not think about it anymore, please," Louis whispered, his words trembling with plea.
Armand returned the embrace, but said nothing.
Armand loves pleasure, but even more, what satisfies him is pain.
It’s a strange compulsion: the need to be whipped and subdued, insulted and punished as if he were dirty and deserving of suffering.
He craves being tamed, being recognized as an inferior. And when Louis hits him so harshly, he can think of nothing else. His lips tremble with pleading words; his body quivers with urgent sobs.
He likes bruises and tears—because in them he feels seen.
And he is the one who gets hit so hard—not Lestat. It is he whom Louis strikes fiercely in rage and rebukes for what he did that night. In those moments, Louis’s mind holds only him—only Armand.
Even when Louis appears furious, his rage is rooted in desperation. Desperation for his human, and for the fate he might have faced, unaware of Armand’s true intentions.
Armand pretends not to watch and takes the blows excellently—knowing that’s the only way to become the singular focus of the one he loves.
When they finish sex, Armand rolls between the dirty sheets onto his back—the body empty, the mind hollow. Louis smokes a cigarette beside him. Armand lets his dark hair be caressed with closed eyes, nearly crying for the sweet touch he so desperately needs.
"Please," Louis begs, "don’t look for him again."
Armand’s heart breaks again—knowing he is second in everything. Yet he nods, lingering in the warmth of that caress.
Armand rarely dreams.
Sleep is, after all, a privilege of the living.
Ancient vampires have no reason to dream or remember eras that no longer exist.
But that night—Armand dreams.
Blue eyes lost within his own. A body above his—warm, inviting. Human, trembling. He feels the throbbing vein at the neck of pale skin and the frantic pulse of the heart.
Armand recognizes that scent—the sweet, spicy tang of sweat he’s smelled for a week, igniting his hunger.
It is Daniel Molloy above him—but not quite him. A body that resembles him: hazel eyes, paler skin than his, more masculine. It smells of alcohol and cocaine just like the young journalist.
The other devours his mouth like a beast. Then enters him brutally and begins wild, animalistic movement.
And Armand realizes—he is in the journalist’s body. Living what the other is living, seeing what he sees.
He feels confusion, disappointment, dissatisfaction—one looping thought:
It’s not him.
It’s not him.
But who then?
Armand awakens with a start under the first clear hints of moonlight. Louis sleeps unaware beside him.
Trembling, Armand brings his blood-sweat-stained hands to his face. His eyes flick between the world beyond the window and the body of his lover—still asleep. He doesn’t dwell long before slipping out in search of the obsessed young journalist—and the one who’s obsessing over him in return.
Armand easily slips from the room, lifts off and soars beyond the window, embraced by the nighttime canopy. What’s difficult for him isn’t flying—but ignoring the sharp ache at the chest where his heart once resided—the guilt that knots him for loving Louis, who lies sleeping blissfully under tangled sheets.
He knows Louis won’t wake for hours yet—being a younger vampire.
He knows he shouldn’t go after him—that honoring his promise would be the right thing to do.
But that voice of reason is immediately silenced.
With eyes closed and arms outstretched—as if to embrace the sky—Armand exhales and inhales, sensing myriad people and their thoughts slipping into his mind—colors and lights beyond his eyelids.
He seeks among the many voices, sounds, and hues. Searches for the warmth of that skin—the insane obsession born from not forgetting him. He murmurs his name again and again, a slow litany: Daniel, Daniel…
And finally…he finds him.
And he sees him.
Daniel awakens from his erotic dream, drenched in sweat—brown hair plastered to his forehead, eyes haunted. His penis beneath the sheets is swollen, hard, painful and cautious. Daniel turns toward the boy sleeping beside him, clutching a pillow, sighing in sadness. Last night’s sex failed to ease his torment and desire.
It had been a pleasant evening—until he fell asleep.
Now he stares at the sheets at hip level, indecisive about “what to do with that ‘problem’.”
Finally, he chooses to ignore it. With a huff, he rises from the bed, angrily tossing the sheets aside.
He is completely naked, observing the vampire with a faint blush across his cheeks. He feels dirty—not for watching some pawn purely for the pleasure of devouring its blood—but nonetheless, he can’t stop his closed eyes from lingering too long on the firm, pale, freckled buttocks.
Daniel dresses carefully—not to wake the person he slept next to. He finds his clothes on the floor and smoothes them out with his hands, trying to make them more decent.
He attempts to leave, but he changes his mind. He glances around until finding—on the bedside table—a crumpled pad of Post‑its and a faulty pen. He scribbles several quick apologies for his disappearance.
A kind gesture—not necessary, but considerate.
Once he steps out and closes the front door behind him, Armand lets his body guide him toward the desired destination—following the young man with his mind.
Chapter 3
Summary:
Armand tries to resist, but he fails against Daniel’s irresistible and captivating instinct.
In the midst of desire and danger, their connection challenges the vampire’s control over his own nature.
Chapter Text
The scent of his blood had been so deeply imprinted in his mind that Armand could have recognized its essence from kilometers away. That spicy, woody trace typical of his skin was unmistakably his.
It was a unique personal aroma, just like every person has their own fingerprint. And no matter how much Daniel tried to cover his scent with drugs, coffee, and tobacco, it was always there—faint, but never imperceptible—and that made him the perfect prey for a vampire over 500 years old who was hunting him.
It hadn’t been hard for Armand to find him in the run-down nightclub where he had holed up, probably looking for inspiration for one of his stories—where, more often than not, he would end up in bed with the person he was interviewing.
What was embarrassing for Armand was coming face to face with the bouncer—a large, tattooed man with a face like a boxer, staring at him grotesquely.
"You're too small," he barked, spitting on him, and for a moment, Armand was tempted to laugh in his face.
"Small? I’ve walked the lands of the living long before you were ever born," he would have liked to reply.
If he had probed his mind, he would have seen what a terrible person he truly was: a cruel, insecure man who beat his wife in front of their young children, too frustrated by his own existence—and Armand would have gladly drunk his blood, slowly, draining him in a sweet, soporific death.
But seeing the journalist came first.
That boy had influenced his life—and Louis’s—for far too long, and it was time Armand got an answer.
If he found nothing relevant or captivating in Daniel Molloy that very night, then he would kill him.
No more senseless dreams, no more obsessive thoughts.
He would drink from him, feed with tenderness and love—but then, he would forget him forever.
With a mere flutter of his eyelashes, the man was hypnotized. Armand drew him closer, rising onto the tips of his toes and wrapping an arm around his neck, forcing the massive man to bend down.
"You will remain standing until I decide otherwise," he whispered. "And when I give the command, you may collapse to the floor."
A quick flash of teeth behind slightly parted lips, and the man's jugular was touched by sharp fangs—a slow bite, designed not to draw a rush of blood, but just enough that, after a few more hours of standing guard, exhaustion would take over and send him into unconsciousness.
If he was lucky, someone would notice his pallor and the dark circles under his eyes before it was too late.
Armand licked his lips before stepping into the dark club, satisfied by the rich blood that still coated his tongue and palate.
Inside, he was greeted by darkness and deafening music—intermittent colored lights that made vision difficult and fragmented.
If he hadn’t been a vampire, he would have seen, like any human, a sea of bodies, first white, then black, flickering with every pulse of light.
He would have smelled the sharp mix of weed and alcohol, would have felt dizzy and disoriented, overtaken by the pounding music that dulled every human sense.
Instead, before him, he sensed blood pumping and frantic hearts beating; he could see the thick veins in their necks throbbing faster and faster.
The hunger of the moment was so tempting that he could have stopped to drink from each one of them—soak in their drunkenness as he once used to, then surrender to it all until the following night.
But no. He couldn't allow such distractions to slow him down—no matter how inviting they were.
With half-closed eyes, he sniffed the air, searching for Daniel’s scent amid the others.
And there it was—at the far end, beyond the dance floor littered with sweaty, enticing bodies.
It didn’t take long before, weaving through the crowd in search of a path, Armand was deliberately stopped by a young man who grabbed his arm.
He was handsome, roughly Armand’s human age, with a mop of wheat-blond hair, a scruffy beard that teased the vampire’s imagination, and eyes dulled by too much drinking.
No supernatural power was needed to detect the stench of alcohol mixed with cheap cologne, and Armand wrinkled his nose in distaste.
He definitely stood out—his elegant, understated look, with a light turtleneck and fitted jeans, was anything but typical for a club like this. And beyond that, Armand—like all vampires—was unnaturally beautiful. Even in the most chaotic environments, humans were helplessly drawn to someone like him.
"Are you alone?" the boy shouted over the music, pushing through the crowd until he stood directly in front of Armand.
He wore a silver earring in his right earlobe and had several tattoos, some of which peeked out from the deep V-neck of his shirt.
In another situation, Armand might have been intrigued. But not tonight.
He tried to pull his arm away, but the other tightened his grip.
"I'm Mario," the blond continued, pressing closer until their stomachs touched—disgusting Armand and awakening in him a deep discomfort he barely remembered from his human days.
"Let go of me."
Another pull. A stronger grip. It hurt—enough to make him wince.
The golden-haired boy wasn’t smiling anymore.
“What the fuck—who the hell do you think you are?”
Armand bared his fangs in irritation, ready to strike—when a familiar voice froze them both in place.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Turning slowly, Armand found himself face to face with Daniel Molloy. Dressed in a dark floral shirt and black pants, he stared daggers at the blond with his pale, piercing eyes.
He was wearing makeup, Armand noted with a certain interest—smoky black eyeliner framed his upper and lower lids, making his irises stand out and giving his gaze a sharper, more captivating quality.
They had spent a lot of time together when Armand had kept him confined, and yet only now did he realize how much taller the other man was—how well-kept his body was.
He swallowed, feeling his mouth go dry.
How had he not noticed it before?
The blond boy instantly let go, raising his hands in apology.
Armand smelled fear on him and was surprised—so Daniel wasn’t as calm and timid as he had seemed.
“My bad. Didn’t know he was taken,” the blond muttered.
Instinctively, Daniel slid an arm around Armand’s shoulders and pulled him close, pressing him against his chest. The vampire was caught off guard, too stunned to speak, and simply watched as Daniel exchanged a few more sharp words with the other man.
It was almost funny—if only Daniel knew what Armand was truly capable of, how it was the other man who should be afraid of him, maybe then he’d stop trying to protect him.
But what struck Armand most in that moment wasn’t the warmth of Daniel’s arm casually wrapped around him, or how natural he felt in that improvised embrace—it was the memory of the last time he had felt so protected, so… vulnerable.
Sure, Louis sometimes treated him like a fragile thing, like a stray, but they both knew that if Armand wanted to, with a single blink of his eyes, he could assert his dominance. After all, he was now one of the oldest vampires still walking the Earth.
His mind drifted—fragments of a lost life resurfaced: golden strands of hair clouding his vision, the laughter of other boys every time he threw himself into his master’s arms, the scent of oil paints, and the warmth that lingered in that once-paradisiacal place.
Daniel leaned back just enough to look at him and spoke gently.
"You okay? You're crying. Did he scare you?"
Startled, Armand touched his cheeks—and felt the wet trails of blood.
He was crying.
Thankfully, the dim lights prevented Daniel from noticing the unnatural color of his tears. He wiped them quickly with the back of his hand, hoping no traces were left behind.
“Sorry, I... I don’t know why that happened,” he said, embarrassed.
“No worries, it happens. That guy’s a real asshole—you have no idea what you just avoided, man.
And hey, I hope I didn’t overstep. You looked like you needed help.”
Daniel let him go, and for a brief second, Armand regretted losing the feeling of his arms around him.
He shook his head, silently. When Daniel smiled and took his hand, leading him away from the dance floor, Armand followed without resistance—like a child being led out of the chaos.
They reached a small, secluded table where the journalist had apparently been sitting alone, a half-empty beer glass in front of him.
They sat facing each other, studying one another.
The music was still deafening, but somehow, communication felt easier now.
“How do you know him?” Armand asked.
Daniel laughed awkwardly and shrugged.
“Well… let’s just say I slept with him once.
An experience I never want to repeat, and wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
The vampire nodded, glancing around with a trace of nervousness.
Daniel’s eyes were locked onto him, studying him, almost spellbound—a gaze that made Armand uneasy.
“So...” Daniel leaned in slightly. “Are you here alone?
The vampire nodded. “I just wanted to dance.”
The journalist grinned, then took a long swig from his beer, emptying the glass before placing it back on the table with a loud thud. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Right! So what are we waiting for?”
“Us?” Armand turned to him abruptly, looking at him as if he were insane.
His expression was so comically bewildered that it made Daniel burst into genuine laughter before standing up and grabbing his hand again, their fingers intertwining.
“Yeah, come on! Trust me, it’ll be fun! I swear I won’t touch you in any inappropriate way!”
In that very instant, Armand’s mind went blank.
There was nothing left but their hands clasped together, the gentleness of that grip, and Daniel’s expressive, joyful pale eyes.
The crowd around them seemed to vanish as Daniel pulled him toward the center of the dance floor, among the sweating, swaying bodies.
One arm wrapped protectively around Armand’s waist to shield him from the shoves of strangers, while his hips moved to the rhythm of a soft disco beat—causing even Armand to sway in confused, awkward steps.
Daniel laughed at the sight.
“You sure you came here to dance?”
“More or less,” the vampire replied, chuckling as well, feeling oddly at ease in the other man’s arms.
Daniel’s scent was intoxicating in his nostrils, his sweat a dizzying elixir in his mind.
Nothing else existed beyond his blue eyes and his smile.
What would his blood taste like in that moment?
It was a thought Armand didn’t intend to let slip away.
“You know...” Daniel said, “I feel like I’ve met you before.”
Their movements had slowed; their hips were now gently brushing.
Armand’s arms had slid around Daniel’s waist, and the other man had brought his face closer.
Their eyes were locked, their breaths mingling—almost becoming one single presence.
Armand smiled—and stopped.
So did Daniel.
The veins in his neck pulsed vividly, irresistibly...
The vampire rose slightly onto his toes, letting his fangs slide free.
This would be the moment he’d sink his teeth into that soft skin—tear it open and let the blood gush warm into his mouth like nectar.
And then, finally, Daniel would be nothing more than a memory, his voice silenced for eternity.
He would return to his life of torment and reflection—
Of Louis, and comparisons to Lestat.
But it would be a routine. A daily torment he knew how to handle.
Yet just as his fangs extended, Daniel’s lips met his in a chaste kiss that stopped him completely.
Daniel’s lips were soft, warm—warmer than anything he could remember.
When was the last time he had been kissed?
Louis bit him during sex—brief, ravenous contact.
Marius mocked him with tenderness when he dared seek it.
But this kiss... this was so human, it awakened in him something long buried.
And before he knew it, his arms wrapped around Daniel’s neck, pulling him closer.
Then came Louis’s voice in his mind—urgent, worried:
“Armand, where are you??”
But for the first time in centuries, he ignored it.
He closed his eyes and held the human even tighter.
What was it about him that was so fascinating?
Though he still didn’t have the answer, Armand could feel it:
He was falling for him.
antrix on Chapter 1 Wed 07 May 2025 01:24AM UTC
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Astharte on Chapter 1 Wed 07 May 2025 05:51AM UTC
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into_new_realms on Chapter 3 Mon 18 Aug 2025 10:06PM UTC
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