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Going out for a hunt with Armand feels fucking amazing.
Daniel doesn’t know if it’s their maker-and-fledgling bond being sated, or if it’s a pack predator thing, or maybe just their very own Daniel-and-Armand bond living its best life, but whatever it is, it makes his blood sing, makes his own veins feel sweet and bright like honey. And he can’t link with Armand’s mind, but whatever that bond is it’s real, because he can feel Armand’s own pleased thrill, his own sugary-sparkly, primal joy. Like a mouthful of popping candy. Or a veinful of H.
Those early days after Daniel was turned were… rough. Not technique-wise, he was doing pretty okay there — he’d listened carefully during the interviews. No, what was hard was… an absence. The bond he was supposed to have with Armand was severed, and it felt like a goddamn nerve ending scraped raw and bleeding.
But Armand is back now. They’re working on things. It goes up and down, but their bond? Oh, that’s all the way up, and the shared hunts are fucking exhilarating.
They’re getting ready for one right now. Daniel puts on his leather jacket, because he’s that kind of asshole. He also puts on his black motorcycle jeans with leather patches over the knees — a gift from Armand to them both; Daniel loves wearing them, and Armand loves taking them off him. The sunglasses at night complete the dickhead look.
They take the subway to tonight’s hunting grounds, which has its downsides. Daniel is still working on tuning out people’s thoughts and sounds and smells, and the subway is full of that, with the occasional hint of rat urine.
“I said we could take a taxi,” Armand reminds him, toeing the I-told-you-so line.
“And I said nope.”
Yeah, Daniel’s not gonna take a fucking cab to a murder spree. That’s too weird, even for him.
Armand steps closer, pressing gently against Daniel’s side.
“Remember, beloved. Choose something to focus on. One thing. Let it anchor you.”
And well, that’s easy. Daniel chooses Armand (there are at least four metaphors in there, piled on top of each other).
He starts with what Armand is wearing, because he looks extremely hot; in his quest to find out who he is, he’s been trying out different fashion styles (his TikTok feed is all Minecraft and micro-aesthetics), and he’s currently exiting a glam, slightly David Bowie phase, which Daniel is very much into.
Tonight, he’s wearing a tiny jacket in a shade of burgundy so deep it looks almost black, with ornate metal buttons Daniel can only describe as pirate-y (he’s a writer, ladies and gentlemen). He’s paired that with a black t-shirt with a neckline so stretched out it droops well past his collarbones, plus black skinny jeans and heavy combat boots that make his legs look even longer and thinner. He’s also taken up wearing jewellery; tonight it’s a long necklace with a single, large amber the exact colour of his eyes.
Already the onslaught of human thoughts has receded, like an ebb tide.
Daniel wraps an arm around Armand’s waist, slips a thumb under the loose t-shirt, rubs back and forth over obscenely smooth skin. Armand, without moving an inch, somehow becomes moulded perfectly into Daniel’s side.
Hot, but no way.
Daniel blinks, locating the source of the thought; some gym rat is eyeing them, and the gist of his appraisal is that Daniel is pretty hot, but there’s no way he pulled Armand.
He’s probably loaded, is the verdict, and Daniel gives him half a gold star there, because one of them is indeed extremely loaded and much older than the other, but it’s not the one people think.
I wonder how much he’s paying, the twink is seriously hot.
“Yeah, can we eat him?”
Armand hums. “I share your sentiment, beloved, but no. He uses steroids — his blood has much less nutritional value, on top of which he will taste quite unpleasant, very sour and bitter. Take a controlled breath, focus on the scent notes. Look for the undercurrent, catch it on the back of your palate. Can you find it?”
Daniel focuses, follows his instructions, and he sort of picks up a hint of what Armand’s described.
“I guess? And that’s steroids?”
“Mhm.”
Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you. The gym rat adjusts his headphones and scrolls Tinder, swiping right on everything.
“We could still kill him,” Armand suggests lightly, like he’s proposing packing an umbrella, just in case.
“Jesus.” There’s a pause, Armand looking at him expectantly. “No, babe, that was a no. Not gonna kill a guy just because he thinks you’re out of my league.”
“Oh, that’s where you draw the line?”
“I mean, I gotta draw it somewhere.”
Armand shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
“Armand. Honey. Baby. Plight of my life. Look at me. Do not kill him. Okay?”
“Fine, have it your way, although I greatly enjoy your fits of moral gymnastics, and moreover, did you say plight?”
“You heard me.”
The gym rat gets to live, and they pick up somebody else. Also a man. Men are easier, because women are careful, and men are dumb. Socially conditioned Darwinism, right there. Daniel kinda wants to write an essay about it.
Today’s dinner is also a dick; Daniel scans his thoughts, learns that he’s a nepo baby influencer with social media accounts about house flipping and eye-shatteringly terrible renovations. Gentrification to the max. Daniel picks him out and looks to Armand, who gives a small, easy nod.
Armand always lets him pick, and only steps in with the occasional veto, like the steroids guy or that time Daniel picked out a woman routinely harassing queer teenagers in McDonald’s but failed to notice she was headed into a strategically suboptimal area.
With Armand’s stamp of approval, the hunt is on.
They follow the guy in lockstep, the map of his route lifted from his head and laid out like a trail; a few moments later they split up, and Armand basically vanishes. He’s somehow melted into the shadows or turns everyone’s minds away from him, including Daniel’s own, somehow, and Daniel’s blood drums faster in his veins, because that’s hot as fuck. He also really, really wants to learn how to do this too.
One street, then a block, then an alley — a shortcut the guy is planning to take.
At the end of the alley, Armand suddenly reappears, ahead of the guy, stumbling like a ditzy, drunk twink; the guy glances at him, and that’s when Daniel grabs him.
It takes less than a second. Smooth, elegant, yet brutal in execution.
There’s a sketchy park nearby, and they eat there, a fucked-up gothic picnic. Well. It’s mostly Daniel who feeds; Armand usually only takes a few sips, what with him being an ancient daywalker and Daniel being a ravenous baby vamp.
“So,” Armand says, watching idly as Daniel finishes feeding and sits back, wiping his mouth. “Tell me, beloved, what grave social crimes did this one commit?”
“Fucking house flipper who destroys historical neighbourhoods and rage-baits people with grey paint.”
“Hmm.”
“Gentrification is a real thing, Armand. Greedy assholes make the property market absolutely unhinged.”
“So you ate him.”
“Yeah.”
“My sweet First World anarchist,” drawls Armand patronisingly.
“Okay, where did you learn that term?”
“The internet.”
“Yeah, that checks out.”
“I am also familiar with sweet summer child, but that didn’t feel applicable.”
Daniel laughs, because he’s still tipsy from feeding, and Armand being unintentionally funny is one of his favourite things, even when high.
Then he kisses Armand, because, well, look at him.
It turns sloppy, as it always does after they’ve just fed; they lick and suck, chasing the remnants of blood in each other’s mouths, and this is always the best dessert Daniel’s ever had. Sometimes, they seamlessly progress to feeding on each other, and Daniel is currently trying to go for that, leaving a trail of kisses down the diamond-cutter line of Armand’s jaw. He nuzzles his throat, licks the pulse line, sighs into an open-mouthed kiss there.
“Daniel.”
“Yeah.” He scrapes his teeth over kill-warm flesh, just a little, and Armand’s breath hitches so perfectly.
“Daniel, the body.”
“C’mon, he’s not going anywhere.”
Armand laughs, breathy because his head is tilted back to give Daniel better access, hand slipping under Daniel’s shirt.
They make out some more, neck like teenagers in a car. It’s awesome.
Armand does let him feed off him; they’re incapable of telling each other ‘no’, and that’s definitely something that will come back to bite them (pun intended, because Daniel is fucking hilarious when he’s high). For now though, it’s just horny bliss. Armand’s blood in Daniel’s mouth, sweet like pişmaniye and fresh like sun-ripe watermelons; then Armand’s fangs in Daniel’s neck, and the swoon and harmony taste like fucking starlight.
When they come down, tangled in each other in the damp park grass, the dead body next to them isn’t even a mood killer.
“I remember,” says Daniel dreamily, mouth still sticky with blood. “I remember back in Dubai, when you went out for lunch. You came swanning back in, wearing the guy’s sunglasses.”
Armand hums, amused.
“I mean, I was really pissed off at you about the whole San Francisco thing at the time, but. Fuck you, that was so insufferable, and so hot. You ate a guy and stole his fucking sunglasses. And you should have looked ridiculous in them, by the way, and I’m still pissed off that you didn’t.”
Armand laughs, head tipped back, throat perfect like sex, teeth white and bloodied. Daniel kisses him again, straddles his lap. Armand’s hand in his hair feels like fulfilment.
“So beautiful,” Armand whispers after a moment, looking at Daniel’s face in a daze; Daniel feels the stolen blood rush to his cheeks. “My Daniel.”
He always gets extra adoring and clingy-possessive after a hunt; Daniel is very much here for it.
“Yeah,” he says, because Armand is the only person in the world who doesn’t hate him when he says that.
Armand smiles, showing the tips of his fangs. “Yeah.”
They dust off and pick up the body, Armand grabbing the shoulders and Daniel the legs; one of them could easily carry the whole thing, but Armand insists on doing this together for a while. There’s apparently some kind of lesson in that, and Daniel has promised to be a good little grasshopper in exchange for Armand talking instead of fleeing when he has issues, so here he is, following Armand across a darkened park, holding the legs of a corpse. Frankly, post-hunt Daniel is up for anything, as long as Armand is involved. Louis isn’t the only one who gets stupid in love.
They go on in easy silence for a while, Daniel’s brain sloshing happily, but then a figure rounds a corner, bulky in tactical gear and a bullet-proof vest, and shit!
Shit, it’s a cop!
All of Daniel’s druggie instincts come rushing back, flooding his entire nervous system, and he panics, heart skyrocketing, and his hands sting and would probably sweat if it was still possible, and oh, shit, he’s going to jail!
The cop looks up from his phone and clocks them, pace slowing down, and then he looks like he’s about to approach them and—
“No,” Armand drawls at him, blasé and bored, causing him to go back to his phone and walk on like a zombie, and Daniel giggles so hard he trips and drops his end of the body.
Armand stops, waiting for Daniel to pick up the corpse and himself, looking at him with indulgence and fondness; Daniel still gets pretty tipsy when he feeds, still goes at it a bit too fast and gets a headrush. Armand apparently finds that adorable.
“We’re working on your mind manipulation skills next,” Armand tells him.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
They drop the body off — sewers, one of the disused sections, where the warring colonies of rats will do the job. Gotta love New York. London sewers are apparently the best, says Armand, sewer connoisseur: they’re vast, sprawling, and built over so many generations that none were able to keep track, and there isn’t a single person in existence today who knows the entire layout, not a single map that compiles them all. Except the one in Armand’s head, probably.
Maybe they’ll move to London for a while, after Daniel decides to officially die. Soho. He’s in the mood for something bohemian. Maybe he’ll write a pretentious book there. Publish under a pseudonym.
Wherever they go, they’ll go together. They’re done running from each other.
Up on the surface again, Armand stops, wipes a bit of blood from the corner of Daniel’s mouth, licks it off his thumb; he kisses him, and there’s pride in that, which is fucked up and tastes so good.
“You’re exceptional,” Armand says, pulling back to look at him, eyes bright. “My Daniel.”
And Daniel’s entire body sings, because yes, his. Armand’s only fledgling. First ever and already last. Precious and special — and Daniel Molloy, two-time Pulitzer prize winner, loves being told he’s precious and special.
They prowl the city for a while, high on blood and their bond, making out and occasionally skirting public indecency laws, then head home just before daybreak, when the city is at its quietest, holding its breath between night and day.
For an ancient daywalker, Armand has a pretty elaborate bedtime routine, and Daniel uses that alone time in bed to write down a few notes about the hunt before he passes out at sunrise like the fledgling he still is. His hands no longer shake, and fuck, he’s forgotten how much he loves writing by hand, in a Moleskine, because he’s a pretentious dick and he’s always had a bit of a thing for Bruce Chatwin.
Armand sets his laptop down on his nightstand (he’ll probably be gaming again all day; one time, Daniel watched him flawlessly blow through the entirety of Super Mario All Stars in exactly fifteen minutes and eleven seconds on an online emulator) and slips under the covers, nudging Daniel’s hand very obviously on purpose.
“Hey, come on, man.”
“Are you writing about our hunt?” Armand asks, baby Jesus levels of innocence in his eyes.
“Yeah. Well, hunts in general. Publisher’s begging me for that sequel.”
And yeah, Daniel’s feeling cocky — fuck a bunch of other vamps being upset, Daniel is an ancient, powerful devil’s precious little thing. Let them try.
Said ancient, powerful devil hums, then tucks himself under Daniel’s arm. It’s a little harder to write like this, but Daniel makes do.
When the sun begins to spill across the city and he begins nodding off, careful hands take the pen and notebook from him and place them neatly on his nightstand, before slender arms wrap around him as he drifts off to sleep.