Chapter Text
“Remind me again,” says Timothée low with his fangs scraping gently against the side of Armie’s elongated throat, “why we got dressed.”
“I believe that was your idea,” says Armie, congratulating himself for the assured quality of his voice. His treacherous heart is still thumping with the cadence of a rabbit’s hind legs and his fingertips have gone numb for want. “Something about not wanting complete strangers to see you naked.”
“Ah.” Timothée twists his mouth. “Well. I never said my judgment was perfect.”
“It’s not bad,” says Armie, grinning. “I mean, you picked me out of the crowd.”
Timothée draws back so he can look into Armie’s eyes, glow-glinting in their jest. Armie has noticed that Timothée does this ruinous thing where he slides his tongue out between his lips to wet them when he’s thinking, or trying to conceal his amusement, or intently watching something; he is doing it right now and Armie wonders from which of the three options this current gesture rises. When Timothée pulls his tongue back in he folds his lips one atop the other and Armie presses a thumb to the middle of his pale bloodless mouth and sighs.
“I told you not to go getting a big head, hunter,” Timothée says, and Armie grins for triumph; he can tell from the cadence of Timothée’s voice that he is amused. “The blood song made that easy for me.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” says Armie innocently, “but you think I’m hot, too.”
Timothée laughs, again pushed back on his wrong foot, exasperated. “You continue to be insufferable.”
“Part of my charm.” Armie kisses the side of his jaw, working his mouth slow over Timothée’s skin, coaxing goosebumps. “So. If I have a thing for dominance, and we’re a blood match, does that mean you have a thing for submission?”
Timothée chuckles, arches his throat for Armie to taste. “Depends what you mean by submission.”
“Well, you said you’re a slut for giving head, which, don’t take this the wrong way, you clearly are – ”
“ – watch yourself, hunter – ”
“Hey,” says Armie, licking up Timothée’s neck, hungry. He can hear the continued amusement in the dark one’s voice, has no dread of repercussion; this is the way they are with each other. “To me, that’s the hottest thing in the world. In the future I’m definitely going to jerk off to the thought of you jerking off sucking my cock.”
Timothée rolls his hips atop Armie’s, moans low in his throat when Armie seizes his sprite-narrow waist. “You do like that, don’t you.”
“I do.” Armie isn’t worried about exposing his kinks. “But I don’t know much about what you like, except that you prefer to ride, and you like dick down your throat, and apparently you have a penchant for my blood.”
Timothée is entranced; he echoes Armie’s earlier words. “Do you really talk like this?”
Armie grins, knows exactly where he learned that line, banters right back. “You said you lose your capacity to be embarrassed when you’ve been alive as long as you have. Well, I lose my capacity to be embarrassed in front of someone after they’ve swallowed my orgasm.”
“Fair point.” Timothée reaches down for the hem of Armie’s shirt, works it slowly over his head, leans back to observe. He’ll take his time during this second round, familiarize himself with scars and lines and patterns of hair, no desperate rush when they’ve established that they’ve got, at the very least, all night. “You’re not wrong, though. I do tend to prefer to be dominated rather than to dominate. Although the act of feeding itself is quite – ah – assertive.”
“Naturally.” Armie takes one of Timothée’s chill long-fingered hands, brings it to the uneven slash of scar tissue along the left side of his muscular chest. “You said you like to be on your knees.”
“I do,” says Timothée without elaborating. His eyes, Bible-black framed by that marvelous ring of polychromatic color, linger on the line of strange skin beneath his fingertips. “What happened here?”
“Lycanthrope,” says Armie casually, pleased; he understands that they will be performing a study of his flaws now, and he’s okay with it as long as Timothée keeps straddling him like this, one lean thigh on either side of his hips, slow subtle constant grind. “I was a novice hunter, didn’t know how to conceal myself properly. Got caught under a full moon studying the transformation process. Mom was there shadowing me when I was attacked, otherwise who knows what might’ve happened.”
Timothée curls his lip. “Thank God she was. You might have been made a man-wolf yourself.”
“And the smell of dog would override the blood match?”
“It very well might.” Timothée is still tracing the blemish, finding its edges and limitations, tender. “Dirty things, werewolves. Although I have heard rumors that members of my kind have mated with members of theirs in the past.”
“Love knows no bounds, as they say,” says Armie, grinning for his obvious distaste. “You don’t like them.”
“I don’t,” says Timothée. “Vampires don’t like weres, and weres don’t like us; our separate species have never seen eye to eye. Whatever multitudes fiction has gotten wrong about the supernatural world in the past, it always seem to get that little tidbit right. Weres find us arrogant; we find them disgusting. While vampires generally agree that turning humans should be avoided unless there is a very good reason, weres have the opposite viewpoint. They like to contaminate the world with as many new half-breeds as they can, whereas we see turning as a very serious matter, one that should be carefully considered on all sides, if possible. I was turned because I was near death, and my attacker took pity on me. He never meant to kill me and decided that I would find eternal life sufficient payback for how he had wronged me.”
“And do you agree with his decision?”
“I do, actually,” says Timothée, leaning down to mouth along the scar, tongue gentle against Armie’s skin. “At first, I wasn’t sure. Immortality scared me as much as thinking about my own finite life used to. But I enjoy who I am. My own limitless timeline has allowed me many freedoms that I could not enjoy as a mortal. I’ve read hundreds and hundreds of books; I’m fluent in twelve languages. I can play piano and I’ve walked the runway for some of the most renowned designers in the world. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of my existence, because I love the world, and I will always have much to learn from it. I’m grateful that I was turned.”
He parts his lips over Armie’s skin, drags his teeth over his heart, the blood song crooning between them, and smiles.
“I’m glad you’re not a were. You had qualms about getting with me because of who you are. It would have been that bad, or possibly worse, for me if you were one of them.”
Armie rucks Timothée’s curls, pulls him down, runs his tongue over the upper line of his teeth so he can feel his fangs.
“Not so hard to understand from that perspective, then.”
“No, indeed. But I had to try. You were far too interesting to be left sitting alone at that bar all night.” Timothée’s fingers move on, circle each of Armie’s nipples, raised red pencil erasers under his stimulation. “Are you glad I did?"
“Mm. Very.” Armie kisses him, luxuriant, sensual. “And for the record, I’m glad you were turned, too. Otherwise I’d never have known you.”
“Funny to think of, isn’t it? That blood matches as rare as ours can exist in different timelines?"
“Pity, really,” says Armie, hands canvassing Timothée’s sides, “although you got to me in time. I’m not so much older than you were, when you were turned.”
Timothée looks at him, obvious fond in his fascinating eyes. “Am I allowed to ask how old?”
“Eh. Maybe. If you behave,” says Armie, and his tone is casual but his eyes are not. Around them the candles jump and twirl, volatile gyrations in the darkness of the room. “Am I allowed to ask how you like to be fucked?”
“You are allowed,” says Timothée, and there is something primal in his eyes. “My answer depends upon the situation. If it’s during a feed, I like to ride or be fucked against a wall, so I can get my teeth in properly. If it’s just sex, no feed, I still enjoy those positions, but I am a big advocate of – as they say – doggy style. That, and being on my back, ankles on shoulders. That’s always enjoyable, especially if I’m with someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Armie is aware that his cock is twitching involuntarily for Timothée’s admission; he can decorate the air with vivid pictures from verbal description alone, and Armie can tell from the dark one’s face that he’s wholly aware of his effect. “So I’m going to assume, then, and correct me if I’m wrong, that you prefer to be with men?”
“I tend towards men, yes,” says Timothée lightly, “although women are not without their charms. And you?”
“I usually prefer women, actually,” says Armie, “but when I’ve been attracted to men in the past, those attractions have been some of the most intense of my life, so I really couldn’t say for sure. It seems to be very circumstantial.”
“And what about me?” Timothée’s breath is cool on Armie’s skin. “Is it intense with me?”
“It’s earthshattering with you,” replies Armie, bluntly. “But I think you already know that.”
Timothée stares down at him from those sexual lidded eyes, brings Armie’s hands to his waist, and without half a thought Armie pulls his shirt over his crowfeather head, expels it to the floor. His hands are so huge that he can touch the waistband of Timothée’s jeans with the bottom of his palm at the same time the tip of his middle finger presses his upper abdomen, and Timothée thrills for it, how large he is, the power of him. He rocks his hips down against Armie’s cock so the golden man groans and twists beneath him and then he whispers in Armie’s ear:
“You have no idea how earthshattering it can be with me.”
Armie sits up like he’s been shocked through with voltage, scrambles to the edge of the bed with Timothée mmming swathed around him, stands up and walks them over to the door. He presses Timothée barebacked against the bumpy surface, kisses deep into his mouth.
“I have this strange feeling that you’re going to show me, vamp.”
“Hunter, I’ll show you a hundred different galaxies, if you let me,” breathes Timothée, all luscious mouth and moony eyes, and Armie wants to pound him through the floor, silent watchers be damned. He says low,
“What if I fucked you against a wall of bones? Would that bother you?”
Timothée’s eyes flash pitch. “Are you proposing that we try?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Armie hitches Timothée further up on his hips, thrills for the way the dark one secures those lissome thighs around Armie’s tapered waist. “I like hypotheticals, Timothée; I like to know my options. Surely you’ve noticed this about me by now.”
“It might scare you to know how much I’ve noticed about you by now,” says Timothée, voice a wreck, and Armie slides his tongue up under Timothée’s top lip again, searches out his fangs, long and sword-sharp. Poised for a feed.
“Try me.”
Timothée chuckles.
“Your most prominent vein is on the left side of your neck. You have one on your inner right thigh, too, but the one I’d choose is on your throat, because I want to be able to hear that sharp gasp in my ear when I take from you for the first time. You have another scar on your lower right abdomen, but it’s too surgical to be the product of an attack, so I’d guess that you had your appendix out a few years ago. You were hesitant to let me speak with you because of what I am, but you’re contrary, because you’re also obsessed with the things that make me what I am. Like my fangs, and how they extend when I’m aroused.” Timothée is hypnotic, silvertongued, Armie can’t look away. “Shall I go on?”
“By all means,” says Armie, entertained; he’d done the same analytical thing when he and Timothée had first spoken at the bar, and he respects people who can pinpoint him simply because he’s very aware of the fact that he’s tremendously difficult to pinpoint.
“I think as much as you might fight yourself on it,” says Timothée, with no shortage of confidence, “you want to know what it would be like. I know you’re curious about the bond feed. Maybe it’s just me getting my hopes up, but I think that curiosity will end up getting the better of you. Armie.”
Armie is just about to respond, some coy, flirtatious parry that he knows will bring delight to Timothée’s eyes, when the vampire pauses, eyes rounding, head turned to the side as though caught by some unheard sound. Hackles raised, goosebumps appearing again on his moonlight skin, alert for something that Armie with his limited human senses cannot detect. Armie mouths,
“What is it?”
And Timothée’s lips form the shape of shhhhhhh and Armie can feel how tense he has gone in his arms. Timothée jumps down, lands noiselessly like a stalking jungle cat on the cold stone floor, and as he does Armie with that preternatural ability to detect peril can feel the air begin to transform slowly around them, insidious, unwelcome. Danger.
There is something standing on the other side of the door, and it radiates malevolence.
They both stand pressed against the bone-inlaid entranceway, heads cocked, eyes wide, ears pricked. Blue veins stand out pulsing against Timothée’s ice-colored skin; every inch of him is on full alert, and even as Armie braces himself for whatever horrible thing seems bound to happen next he wonders what limitless supernatural strength looks like on this ethereal fae-like creature. His beauty is terrifying in itself; what must ruthless combat look like upon that faultless countenance?
On the opposite side of the door, the presence heaves, writhes, undulates. Armie strains and strains to hear something, anything, but there is nothing, only silence ornamented with that thick sense of hazard, so clear and sharp it’s like he can taste it in the air. Timothée’s gaze rises to meet Armie’s and his eyes are – not fearful, exactly, but not secure, and Armie is dismayed for it. If Timothée, this powerful, centuries-old creature, is apprehensive about whatever it is that is happening, then they’re nothing if not fucked.
They wait, stationary, overwrought, thrumming on the inside from surging adrenaline. Armie is just about to go insane from lack of fruition when an alarmed voice – female, Julianna’s, he thinks – rings out from somewhere down the hallway, and abruptly the heavy aura vanishes. Timothée straightens, eyes clearing, mouth set, and exhales.
“What in the fuck,” says Armie, warring with himself for control of his voice, “was that?”
“I have no idea,” says Timothée grimly, “but it wasn’t anything good.”
He unlatches the door, pokes his dark head out into the skeletal candlelit hallway, searches. Almost immediately footsteps rush up from the left and Julianna appears, several hairs out of place, eyes saucered in her phantom-hued face.
“Mr. Chalamet, Mr. Hammer,” she says, and her voice is shaken. “You both are all right?”
“We’re fine,” says Armie. “Did you feel that – whatever it was?”
“Felt it,” says Julianna, “and saw it. There was something standing outside your doorway – a woman, I think, but – not a woman.”
She’s flushed and frenetic and Timothée lays an automatic hand on her shoulder; immediately, the fear in her face lessens, her breath calming as she gathers herself. Armie is impressed: Timothée is magicking her, using that matchless vampire charm not to seduce, but to appease.
“It’s all right, Julianna,” he says, and his voice is a song. “Nothing to fear, it’s gone now. Would you like to come sit?”
He leads her gently inside the room, guides her over to the bed, perches her at the end of the mattress. Normally this would cause Armie to be a combination of dismay, horror, amusement: she’s sitting smack in the middle of the area where their earlier shenanigans took place, but there is no space inside of him to worry about that now. Now, he is all leftover fight-or-flight, apprehension, concern; now, he is all hunter.
“This woman,” he says slowly, retrieving his drink from the bedside table and handing it to Julianna; she accepts it with thanks in her eyes and takes a slow sip. “What did she look like?”
“I – I really couldn’t say, sir,” says Julianna, shaking her head. “As you know, it’s quite dark in the hallway, and I wasn’t near enough to her to make out any distinguishing details. She was wearing a dark cloak, so at first I thought she was one of ours, you know, a hostess…”
She tapers off, takes another drink for mettle.
“But she wasn’t. There was something – wrong about her. When I noticed I shouted out right away and then she was just, I don’t know, gone. I barely saw her move, but one moment she was in front of your door, and the next, she was not. She didn’t even turn to look at me when I yelled.”
Armie and Timothée look at each other, baffled. Timothée says,
“What was she doing?”
“Nothing,” says Julianna. “Truly, nothing. Just standing there. But I could feel her from all the way down the hallway. I’m used to the supernatural world; it is part of my job to rub elbows with species of all kinds, but the aura I sensed from her – she was not right. There is no other way to describe it. She felt quite evil.”
“Yeah,” says Armie heavily, as he retrieves his shirt and yanks it back over his head, “she did to us, too.”
“Are there other feeder rooms near ours?” Timothée is miles away, brain whirring. “Any other door she was standing in front of?”
“If she was, I do not know, sir. I am sorry,” says Julianna. Her hands have stopped quivering from the combined elixir of Timothée’s influence and Armie’s whiskey but her face is still drawn, apprehensive. “Yours is the only room on this side of the hallway in this particular section of the catacombs.”
“Thank you, Julianna,” says Armie kindly. He hands Timothée his shirt and the dark one pulls it on effortlessly, eyes still planets away, solving for x. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Hammer,” says Julianna, offering an unconvincing smile. “But if I may say, I think it best if the two of you return to the party for the rest of the evening. Security down here is notorious for its excellence, but as you can see by our unwanted guest, even the best systems can sometimes be bypassed. I think it safer for you in the presence of many others, rather than alone, at least for the time being.”
“I agree,” says Timothée, and Armie nods. “We appreciate your vigilance, Julianna, you’ve been very helpful.”
He’s an impeccable gentleman, cordial, and Armie hears easily in his voice how he was trained, at a boarding school where prim schoolmarms rapped on naughty boys’ knuckles for insolence, at a pretentious university chock full of men in bowler hats. It’s endearing and it’s not the time but he can’t help the fond that crosses his face and Timothée catches it, grins despite himself, arches a brow. What? He is asking, but Armie can’t answer.
“Of course, Mr. Chalamet,” says Julianna, and she is all dignity now, back to her composed hostess self. “I must apologize for the interruption. I assure you both that we will be investigating the presence of our unwanted guest immediately. In the meantime, was everything in the room to your satisfaction?”
“It was perfect, Julianna, thank you,” says Armie, and Timothée nods his agreement.
“Excellent. Mr. Hammer, shall I have some food brought to the bar for you? I know you didn’t get a chance to eat.”
Armie had forgotten about the subdued growl in his stomach, but as soon as she mentions sustenance his hunger seems to multiply tenfold, a bothersome need that clamors to be fulfilled instantly. “Yes, actually, that would be amazing. I don’t suppose you have cheese fries?”
“No. But we have bacon ranch cheese fries,” says Julianna with some satisfaction, and Armie grins.
“Speaking my language.”
*
Julianna escorts them back to the party, promises Armie that his fries will be delivered to the bar as soon as possible, and leaves them with the assurance that yes, thank you, she’s quite all right on her own.
“I have protection,” she says, withdrawing an intricate silver amulet from the front folds of her robes. “I am descended from the Valais witches. I have my own form of magic.”
And with a clever arched-brow smirk, she turns on her heel and evaporates once more down the gruesome candlelit hallway.
As soon as she’s gone Armie shuts the door, leans against it, tosses Timothée a look.
“You can’t tell me that’s not terrifying.”
Timothée is endlessly amused by him. “I have to say I’ve seen worse.” He reaches into the pocket of his blazer, withdraws a clove cigarette and a lighter, although Armie knows he can spark a flame between his fingertips if he so chooses. “Bacon cheese fries, hunter? And you have abs like that?”
Armie barks out a laugh, surprised. “Give me a break. I can’t eat salmon and vegetables all the time.”
Timothée grins, lights his cigarette, draws a massive drag. Blows smoke to the side, shakes coal-black desultory curls out of his eyes. “Let’s go to the bar. You can eat, and we can talk about what the fuck just happened."
Armie shakes his sunshine head, looks around them to ensure there are no unwanted eyes observing what they shouldn’t, runs a surreptitious hand up through Timothée’s hair. “Again with the modernisms.”
Timothée knows what Armie means: that he’s been picking up on how easily Timothée can switch between formal and informal language as needed. “Knowing your audience is crucial. Come on, chausseur.”
The flickery lighting of the tomb – now rocking and heaving with masses of murmuring beings – is the exact same as the remainder of the Catacombs, but the din of the music is like an alarm bell; Armie had gotten used to the pleasant silence of their little sanctuary. Amongst this throng, they are simply another hunter, another vampire, and there is nothing significant about either of them but their beauty to attract attention. Luckily, beauty is not a major draw for this caliber of crowd, and they wend their sinuous way through the bodies back to the bar, which is considerably more crowded than it had been when they left it, without being stopped. The current barkeep is quite different from the surly man who had been tending earlier; now they are faced with a handsome woman in her mid-thirties whose demeanor screams assurance, Hades himself couldn’t rattle her. The alcohol has long since worn off but Armie is reluctant to ingest more knowing that that thing might still be haunting the halls.
“Get another, if you wish,” says Timothée as though he’s read Armie’s mind – and, Armie reasons, he likely has. “Julianna was right, we’re safe in the tomb. Whatever that was knows it isn’t supposed to be here, and it isn’t powerful enough on its own to wreak havoc in a room full of creatures such as ourselves.”
“I will if you will,” says Armie, and Timothée nods, puffs smoke rings out through his pretty mouth. When they’ve both got fresh drinks set out before them Timothée rakes long skeletal fingers back through his mess of waves, sighs.
“I don’t know what it was for sure,” he says, musing, “but I’ve had some time to think about it, and it felt like one of mine.”
“She,” says Armie, “But not she, according to Juliana. I don’t know what it was either, but it felt angry.”
Timothée nods, pulls ponderously at his drink. “Have you made anyone mad recently?”
“Oh, plenty of people, I’m sure,” says Armie without a lick of shame, “It’s part of the job. But I’m discreet, and I’m good at covering my tracks, and I don’t think I’ve done anything so heinous lately as to warrant that kind of heavy emotion.”
“Lately?”
Armie winks. “We all have our deep dark shit.”
Timothée raises his glass. “Santé.”
“Cheers.” They clink the rims of their cups, drink deep. “What about you? Anyone after you?”
“Besides you, you mean?” It’s Timothée’s turn to wink. “Not that I can think of. I’m usually decent at keeping to myself. But you never know when you might offend someone unintentionally, I suppose, or who might think to come back for revenge. In my day I’ve turned a few vampires who did not love the thought of immortality, or they didn’t when they were new to the species, so I suppose those are possible options. But it’s my experience that the idea of eternal life grows on most vampires after a few decades of getting used to things.”
“I would imagine so,” says Armie, bridging a thick eyebrow. “I would think it would be advantageous in many ways. But all this to say – there’s no reason in the world why anything with that level of incredible malice should have chosen to hang out in the hallway outside of our door while I was trying to fuck you against it.”
Despite everything that’s happened, despite the volatility of the evening’s mood, Timothée’s fangs extend for that.
“No. Nothing obvious comes to mind.”
“Well since that’s the case,” says Armie, before the bartender temporarily interrupts by placing a gigantic plate of bacon cheese fries on the counter before him. “Holy shit, God is real.”
Timothée chokes on his blood cocktail. “Thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“Didn’t say that. I said I believe in what I know, and I know that this looks a whole lot like God if it was a food.” Armie drops a fry dripping with ranch into his mouth, grins. “Pity you can’t enjoy this with me, vamp, it’s unreal.”
“It’s enjoyable enough just to watch you,” says Timothée, amused to no end by him, his lack of façade. “You were saying?”
“I was going to say,” says Armie casually, “since we don’t know which one of us that thing is after, that we should probably stick together for a few days. You know, to see if it comes back.”
The smile that unfurls slow across Timothée’s lovely marble-carved face is catastrophic in its splendor.
“You think so, do you.”
Armie shrugs, but his heart clouts his ribcage for the pleasure in Timothée’s eyes. “Yeah, I do. We’d be strong as hell if we combined forces.”
“It just so happens,” says Timothée, watching him. “that I agree with you, hunter. We would be strong as hell together. But I can’t lie and pretend that my intentions are entirely noble.”
“Good,” says Armie, “Because mine aren’t either. My flat doesn’t have any walls made of bone, but it does have walls, and a bed, and a really fluffy carpet that would be easy on your knees.”
Timothée leans forward, searches him, finds all manner of sincerity there.
“I want to kiss you, hunter,” he says. “Here, now. Will you let me?”
“I will,” says Armie, so Timothée curls his fingers around the scruff of Armie’s neck, pulls him in, presses their lips openly together, and it is like this that they lose themselves, surrounded by dark and blood and all manner of supernatural things. Not a care in the world in that moment but for each other.