Dani

The story of Lennor Sinclair - the eternal lover.

★ Eyes Behind the Curtain - Armand x OC

★ To Feel Like a Wife Again - Armand x OC / Old!Daniel x OC

★ The Woman at the Crane - Young!Daniel x OC

★ A Quiet Hunger - Young!Daniel x OC (Smut)

↪︎ Part. 2 - Old!Daniel x OC (Smut)

★ A taste of us - Platonic!Louis x OC / Old!Daniel x OC

Pairing : Old!Daniel Molloy X OC

Summary : Lennor is hungry. Daniel knows exactly how to satisfy her hunger.

TW : NSFW. Mdom/Fsub. Blood drinking (vampire drinking vampire blood). Finger sucking. Dry humping. Female orgasm.

Word Count : 2.4k.

A/N : English is not my first language. If you notice any mistakes, I’m sorry. This is only the second time I’ve written smut, so please be kind :) I wrote this during one of my breaks. I needed a little escape from my exams for a while. I’m so excited for season 3 (Armand, please kiss that old man!). Feel free to interact if you enjoyed it! Enjoy!

My masterlist ! Take a look if you’re curious ;)

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New York, 2025.

« Lennor ? »

The loud sound of a gulp. Then another.

« Lennor, come on, that’s enough. »

Still nothing, except her grip tightening around his neck. The woman nuzzles further against his throat, fangs buried deep in his flesh. She drinks with her eyes closed. Her otherwise peaceful face twists with frustration. She doesn’t want to let go. Oh no.

« Don’t be difficult, baby. »  

Daniel sighs before pressing a kiss to the top of her curls, twirling one around his index finger. Those untamed curls, as dark as the sky outside. Thick and messy, like they always are when she wakes up. His hand strokes her hair, feeling the softness of the strands against his skin. A kind of bait. A tender gesture, but it changes nothing. Lennor keeps drinking like a starving vampire, and Daniel begins to feel frustrated by her behavior. Stubborn woman. 

Stopping his hand, Daniel grabs a fistful of her curls. A firm grip he keeps against his palm, fingers tightening as he waits for his girl to stop drinking his blood.

But she will not stop. Her throat bobs each time the hemoglobin slides down into her throat. 

« Lennor, stop. »  

Finally, he pulls. Her fangs slip free from his neck. Blood drips down her chin, falling onto his naked thighs. Her eyes are wide. Large grey eyes filled with frustration, and she hisses. Her nose wrinkles, brows furrowing. Lennor is angry. She wears the face of an addict who’s just had her fix taken away, and it makes Daniel laugh. A mocking laugh, low in his throat. Because he knows Lennor is, in fact, one. The old man knows exactly what that feels like. He was an addict too, a long time ago. It nearly cost him his life.

« Don’t do that, sweetheart. » He purr, bringing her face close to his by her hair, keeping her in place. « You’re gonna drain me if you keep going. Is that what you want? To drain your old man? »  

« No, but I’m hungry, » she replies, like a challenge. Her shoulders slumped, eyes still wide and nose still wrinkled.

With a swift movement, too fast for anyone to anticipate, she tries to sink her fangs back into his flesh. In vain. Daniel pulls on her hair, keeping her face far from his neck. Keeping his grip. Keeping control. His own expression changes. He had been quite amused by her behavior. Now, she’s beginning to irritate him.

« You’re not hungry, » he sighs, frustration slipping into his voice. « You’re just spoiled. A spoiled brat, huh? »

And when Lennor shakes her head, he adds:

« No? You’re not? »

Lennor’s frown deepens, clearly displeased at being called that, like she were some child throwing a tantrum. To her, it is only proof of love. Drinking from her beloved without being able to stop. Perhaps she loves him too much. He should feel flattered that she feels such a desperate need to sink her fangs into the wrinkled skin of his throat.

But just as she’s about to argue, Lennor feels something shift. An intrusion, a small opening in her mind she had not intended to leave unguarded.

« Baby … »

« You love drinking my blood too. That’s not fair. »

« Not the same. » He laughs. Always that trace of mockery underneath. 

He rises his free hand to her face then, rough fingertips brushing along her cheek. Slow. Almost soothing. His thumb catches the blood still staining the corner of her mouth before wiping it away. Lennor turns her head sharply, irritated by the gesture more than comforted by it.

« Don’t. »

She tries to pull away, pushing herself up from the sofa with a frustrated huff, but Daniel still has a grip on her hair. One sharp tug and she falls back against him with an annoyed hiss.

« Hey, hey, hey… » He murmurs, amusement thick in his voice. « Where are you going? »

« Away from you. »

Another attempt to move. Another failure. His grip doesn’t really hurt her. He would never hurt her. It is just a reminder that, in this exact moment, in their living room, he remains in control. And his expressions shifts, just like that. Something calmer. More thoughtful. 

« Since you’re hungry, » he says softly, « open your mouth, Pretty .»

Lennor arches a brow, not quite understanding where he is going with this, until the index finger that had been gently caressing her cold skin moves closer to her mouth. Her face relaxes and her eyes light up. 

« Open that mouth, Baby, » he orders softly, his voice no louder than a whisper, tilting his head slightly.

That tone. The one that sends pulses between her thighs. Soft throbs that only grow stronger as he presses a little more insistently against her lips. He wants her to give in, to get what he wants. Or rather, to give her what she wants. Because Daniel knows, she loves sucking on his fingers. That much he had understood since they found each other again, how she always tried to take his fingers deep into her mouth whenever he fucked her. She doesn’t know why. Neither does he. But her cunt always tightened around him when he did. And since his darling wanted something to eat, he might as well give her something to keep her occupied for a while.

So she obeys, her lips parting enough for him to slide two fingers inside. Not too far, just at the entrance. The rest is up to her. To tilt her head forward, to take them deeper into her mouth, coating them in saliva with her tongue before sucking on them. Slow at first, her taste buds savoring the feel of his cool skin against the warmth inside her mouth. A trace of blood beneath his nails. A little bit of herself on his fingertips. Remnants of her earlier wetness.

Bobbing her head, she cannot help but keep looking at him, her gaze caught, almost drawn in. Orange in gray. Hunger in his eyes, and still that same frustration at having such a stubborn wife.

« Is it good, Baby ? » Daniel asks, a teasing edge in her tone. 

She hums, the sound vibrating around his two fingers. Her tongue still swirls around them, wet noises mixing with the few moans the young woman lets slip. Moans Daniel seems more than happy to hear.

« Fuck, look at you. I bet you’re as wet as my fingers right now. »

A third finger joins the others in her mouth, and Lennor can only nod, her eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head. She sucks with more eagerness now, holding herself back from sinking the tip of one canine into the flesh of his fingertip. 

His hand leaves her hair and slowly trails down her back. Long strokes over the fabric covering her body before stopping at her ass. One smack, then another.

And she understands.

Her hips begin to move, her clothed cunt rubbing against the skin of his thigh. Each roll of her hips sends a pleasant sensation straight to her clit. It only makes her go faster. She has had a taste of pleasure, and now she wants more.

Blood is not the only thing Lennor is hungry for.

Attentive eyes watch her. Daniel takes in every little reaction that flickers across her face, committing each one to memory. The way her brows furrow when she presses the flat of her tongue against his fingers. The way her eyelids flutter when she takes them deeper, as though that were somehow still possible.

Lennor's mouth is full, and she takes pleasure in that. So much so that she can't stop herself from wrapping both hands around his wrist as she grinds against his thigh, fucking herself on it, as if reclaiming control. He isn't the one giving her pleasure anymore. She is the one taking it.

« Yeah, there she is », he murmurs, arousal wrapping around his tone, « my hungry girl. »

He brushes a curl away from her eyes, a tender gesture compared to the perversity of the moment.

Her hips pick up speed. She is riding him with far more urgency now, moaning each time her cunt rubs against his leg through her soaked underwear. Blood-tinged saliva drips down her chin, staining her T-shirt, even trailing down the arm of her beloved.

Lennor takes so much pleasure in this, and Daniel lets her, because he knows exactly how his girl can be.

Her eyelids flutter, then fall shut as the pressure building low in her belly gradually intensifies, threatening to carry her toward orgasm. An orgasm she desperately seeks and is drawing dangerously close to.

« No, no, eyes on me, gorgeous. »

Daniel presses his knuckles against her palate, lifting her face closer to his.

« Come on, open those eyes. »

Lennor opens them, a crease forming between her brows. Not out of frustration. No. She is desperate. She wants that sweet release. The one that makes her body shiver. The one that seems to turn every cell in her cold, dead body into sparks of electricity racing through her veins. The one only Daniel can give her, even through something as simple as his presence. She is doing all the work. Sucking on his fingers, grinding against him. He does nothing but watch her, encouraging her with words wrapped in that smooth, honeyed tone of his.

But it's him.

The man she feels safe enough with to do all of this.

The man she trusts enough to let herself fall apart in front of him.

With a simple movement, she presses her forehead against his, still looking into his eyes, more vulnerable this time. Her body tenses. Her walls tighten around nothing. She is so close. And Daniel seems to feel it. His arm tightens around her, keeping her close, guiding her through the thrust of her hips.

« You gonna come ? Gonna come on my thigh like the good girl you are? »

« Please, » she manages to breathe out despite the fingers deep in her mouth.

« I know, Baby. I know. »

He murmurs it softly, almost encouragingly.

« Let go for me. »

And she finally does, as if her body had simply obeyed him. Her orgasm hits her hard, moans rising through the living room, muffled by what she continues to suck on. It feels good. Like she is alive again. Like she is taking a breath of air after being underwater for far too long.

« There you go, Len, that’s it. » He coos the words before pressing kiss after kiss into her hair. « Ride it out for me. »

Her hips still move for a moment, slower now, overstimulation making her groan before she comes to a complete stop, slumping against him. She doesn't want to move anymore. Instead, she buries herself in his neck, still sucking, content to remain there and enjoy his embrace.

After a while, giving her time to collect herself, Daniel shifts slightly, carefully removing his fingers from her mouth, slick with saliva.

« You okay? » He asks.

She nods and immediately curls closer, earning a laugh from him. A low chuckle vibrates through his chest.

« Use your words, baby. » A pinch at her side. « You okay? »

« Yeah. I'm fine. »

When she finally feels like moving, she slowly untangles herself from him and lets herself fall back onto the couch, collapsing beside her lover on the free side. She stays close anyway, her shoulder brushing his, like she can’t quite bring herself to put real distance between them.

« Fuck, Baby. Look at the mess you’ve made. »

His voice is low, teasing more than anything, as he glances down at himself with a tired little smile. And indeed, his thigh is a mess. Traces of her red wetness here and there on his skin.

« And whose fault is that, huh? »

He tilts his head slightly, looking at her with that quiet, amused certainty, like the answer is obvious.

« Are you really going to blame me for taking care of my girl? »

Lennor can’t help but roll her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. He’s right. He is always is when it comes to her. Daniel is taking good care of his companion, making her feel good the way she likes. He understands how her body reacts, how her mind works, what she wants, as if all these months have taught him a language only the two of them can speak. And maybe this is what she loves the most about him. Not that he can make her come undone, but that he always knows when she is about to. Something soft settles deep in her chest, quiet and familiar.

She leans in and presses a light kiss to his cheek.

« I love you. »

A small grin pulls at Daniel's lips. 

« You do ? » There is amusement in his voice, but something else too. Love surely. 

All those years apart, stolen by Armand, unable to bear their separation, with Louis helping him along. All those years during which the love she had felt for a young, carefree Daniel, the one who made her feel human again, had been buried beneath gentle whispers in her mind. All those years before finding him again, older, but still the same in so many ways. Memory after memory had resurfaced. The passion she thought long gone had filled her heart again, so fiercely that it hurt sometimes. Not because of anything Daniel had done, but because of the realization of all the moments stolen from them. Moments they would never get to live. So no, she doesn't need to elaborate. Not when he already knows exactly how she feels.

And as if he can sense it, his arm settles around her shoulders, drawing her closer, tracing lazy circles against her arm. The apartment falls quiet for a while. Just the distant city outside. The old couch beneath them. The comfortable weight of each other's presence, with no need to fill the silence. She thinks, for a moment, that this is all they need.

Until Daniel presses a kiss to the top of her head. Then another. And another. Always those kisses, gentle, innocent at first. An innocence she begins to doubt when his other hand finds her thigh, slowly kneading the soft curve of it. His fingers sink into the plush flesh, massaging it through absent-minded circles.

Lennor chuckles « What are you doing? »

Daniel chuckles too, but his kisses don't stop. If anything, they continue their journey. From her hair to her forehead, from her forehead to her cheeks, until they finally find their destination on her lips, lingering there. A few brief pecks before he murmurs against them:

Pairing : Young!Daniel Molloy x OC

Summary : She only wanted a quiet drink. Daniel Molloy wanted a story.

TW : Alcohol

Word count : 3.1k

A/N : English is not my first language, so you may find some mistakes, and I apologize for that. This took much longer to post than expected because I haven’t been doing very well mentally lately (two of my dogs passed away, and I no longer feel like I belong in my studies…). But things are slowly starting to feel a little better, so I finally took the time to polish this piece and reread it properly. It was actually almost finished back in January. I truly hope you’ll enjoy it. Feel free to interact if you’d like.

My masterlist! Come take a look if you’re curious :)

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San Francisco, 1973.

The line is long for a Thursday night. Couples hand in hand, dressed as if they were attending a wedding. Singles with hungry gazes, eager to meet their next conquest for the night. They all wait to step in front of the bouncer, a list clutched between his thick fingers, ready to check off the names of those wealthy enough to have secured a place in the renowned bar.

The Crane. An upscale spot in San Francisco, where an invitation requires sponsorship. And yet, some still show up without one, hoping for a miracle. Perhaps to see their name appear as if by magic on the short, exclusive list.

Lennor didn’t have an invitation the first time she stepped inside. Did she really need one, when she possessed the dark gift? She had gotten in without any real trouble, her soft voice murmuring into the bouncer’s ear exactly what he needed to hear.

« My name is right there. At the bottom. See? » 

The man, a large figure with a broad back, had stood no chance against her. His gaze unfocused, eerily vacant, he had simply nodded before stepping aside. Just like that.

Since that night, he no longer even bothers checking his damn list. She is Miss Sinclair, that’s all this club needs to know about her.

As usual, she makes her way up the line, her steps steady, hands tucked into the pockets of her long coat. One she stole from Armand before leaving their home, leaving him and Louis to deal with their problems on their own. A somewhat sentimental piece, still carrying his scent, reinforcing the feeling that leaving them had been the right choice. The coat is a little tight around her hips, yet nearly drags along the ground, gathering the dust of filthy streets with every step she takes.

A few glances fall on her as she moves forward, and the closer she gets, the more she becomes aware of a small altercation. It’s nothing unusual. This is a bar. One for the wealthy, certainly, but they are hardly exempt from the vices that come with alcohol. Men in shirts worth a month’s rent, staggering more than they swing, usually ending up on the ground in their own vomit, unable to even remember the cause of their ridiculous fights.

Everything here reeks of money.

Everything, except the young man the bouncer is holding by the collar.

Brown curls crowning his head. A long light brown leather jacket hiding a multicolored shirt that would make any child green with envy, and jeans in the same shade as his coat. Did he get dressed in the dark? Lennor wonders, brows furrowed, pausing mid-step to observe.

She focuses, listening. The meaningless conversations around her fade away, leaving only the one that interests her.

« I was just trying to peek inside, not run in, sir. I promise. » 

His tone is strange, a mix of worry and playfulness. As if he knows playing the fool might get him out of this situation. As if this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Lennor tilts her head, intrigued. A few steps forward to get a better look. Lennor is quite nosy. She enjoys a good bit of gossip. A trait she kept from her humanity. And she can already tell this one might amuse her.

« You promise? You started running like a thief, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you lurking around here more than once. » 

« You think I’m the only white guy dressed like this hanging around bars? There are hundreds of us in San Francisco. » 

He’s not wrong. In this city, men dress just as badly as he does. Lennor hates their style. There’s nothing elegant about it. Nothing like what she once knew. No fine shirts adorned with ties. No tailored trousers ending in freshly polished shoes. No carefully styled hair. Nothing. Everything is far too strange for her taste.

And even if she has to admit that Louis and Armand managed to keep their sense of fashion despite these dreadful rags, the seventies remain an era she does not understand. Her own style is timeless, a young woman straight out of the 1940s, with her straight dresses and heels. She likes it that way. It’s what she was used to, shaped by her maker, and she has no intention of changing it just yet. She will have to, eventually, but not now. She’s not ready to leave her style behind. That would mean leaving them behind.

« Come on, man. Just let me go. » 

Her feet move on their own, and within a few steps, she finds herself standing in front of the two men.

« Good evening Miss Sinclair, you may go in. » 

« What’s going on? »  Lennor asks, her fingers interlaced in front of her, her gaze shifting between the two men.

« This boy was trying to get into the bar, miss. » 

The bouncer’s tone might have made her take a step back. A deep voice that seemed to sink beneath the skin of anyone unfortunate enough to hear it, making every vein tremble. Wide eyes locked onto the boy’s soul as he kept trying to justify himself, over and over again. Rapid words, the same strained tone. In a way, it amuses her, this whole absurd little performance before her.

« Is there a problem, Miss Sinclair ? » 

Snapping from her thoughts, she arches a brow, taken aback by his tone. That he imposes his authority on others, fine. But on her? Absolutely not. She has killed men for less than that. A look she deemed too bold. A thought meant to remain hidden, yet far too loud in the small, narrow mind of its owner. Always men, trying to assert themselves one way or another.

Slipping into his mind is just as easy as the first time. No barriers. He probably thinks himself superior because of his position. But what does he have to defend himself against, really? Her words seep into every corner of him. Slowly and surely, until they reach that breaking point. The moment everything disconnects. The moment she can take control. And once she has him, Lennor can only purr softly at his ear.

« You know he’s with me. Look just beneath my name. » 

The same glassy stare. The same lost expression. His eyelids flutter, his brows drawing together as he can do nothing but look at her.

« What are you doing? » 

A whisper at her side. A young voice, still holding onto a trace of masculinity. When she lifts her gaze to him, all she sees is green. A beautiful shade she has never seen in anyone’s eyes. There’s softness there. A kind of innocence, despite the confusion.

Lennor pauses. Just a second. Studying him.

« I’m helping you get in. That’s what you want, isn’t it? »

The young man hesitates before nodding, stepping slightly to the side. His expression shifts, almost suspicious, as if trying to piece together what is happening around him. Behind them, the bouncer stiffens.

« My apologies, Miss Sinclair… Of course he’s with you. Please, go right ahead. »

His voice has changed. Flattened. Empty and he steps away from the door, his broad frame moving aside with unnatural obedience. For a brief moment, Lennor watches him. Just to make sure. Then she walks past him. The boy follows. Inside, the warmth of bodies collides with the cold of her skin.

« Thanks for that. »

Lennor nods, her lips pressed together, accepting his thanks without a word. Just a polite smile before making her way to the bar. The bartender already seems to be expecting her. She comes often. Almost every night, at the same hour. Her drink is already there, waiting on the wooden counter. Always the same order since she made this place her nightly haunt. The pretty girl with her eternal glass of Scotch, he calls her. A strong taste, burning down her throat as she swallows. A taste of habit more than pleasure.

The music isn’t as loud as it was yesterday. A low guitar riff floats through the air, something slow, something aching. Too loud to ignore, too soft to truly care about. What she hears most are the heartbeats. Strong, sometimes tired, but alive, stirring her hunger now and then, reminding her that she, too, could use something other than cheap Scotch.

The yellowed light hangs heavy with the smoke of dozens of lit cigarettes. The atmosphere is dark, yet comforting in a way. No one looks at her. No one looks twice, at least. That’s what she likes about it. Being no one in a city that swallows names whole.

« Thanks again for getting me in. I didn’t think a reservation was required. »

This guy again. Taking the stool beside her as if he had been invited, his bag resting on his knees. A sigh slips from his lips. He looks relieved, shoulders loosening beneath that awful shirt. He drums his fingers against his knee, too fast, too loud for her ears. Lennor doesn’t look at him, not yet. She knows that kind of nervous rhythm. It belongs to men who want to be brave.

« I heard you the first time », she replies, taking a sip of her drink. The bartender poured more than last time.

« So… » he starts, glancing at her over the rim of his glass, freshly set in front of him. « You gonna tell me how you pulled that off? »

Lennor hums softly, eyes still on her drink as she swirls the amber liquid in slow circles. « Pulled what off? »

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, as if he’s already caught on to her little game.

« Come on. The bouncer. One second he’s ready to punch me, the next he’s practically apologizing and rolling out a red carpet at your feet. »

The woman finally turns her head, just enough to look at him from the corner of her icy eye. A faint smile tugs at her red lips.

« Maybe he just likes me. »

Daniel raises a brow, unconvinced. « Yeah? That all it takes? A smile and suddenly rules don’t apply to you? »

« You’d be surprised what a smile can do. » She takes another sip, unbothered, letting the silence stretch just a little too long.

And this silence falls. He starts drumming his fingers against the wood once more, slower this time, more confident, matching the shift in his posture. He turns toward her on the small stool, his eyes studying her, not leaving her face. He’s calculating. Trying to decide whether it’s worth continuing the conversation. She seems interesting enough, she hears him think, and pretty too. And he needs to talk, apparently.

« I’m Daniel Molloy », he says, as if his name should mean something to her. Not yet.

He extends a hand toward her. Large, with slender fingers but she can already sense the strength in his grip before even taking it. Fine hairs dust the base of his fingers and the top of his wrist. Lennor watches the quick pulse beneath his skin, the bluish veins under sun-warmed flesh, before placing her hand in his, shaking it. His palm is warm, too alive against her cold one.

« You Irish ? »

« Why ? »

« Molloy is an Irish surname. » The woman explains. « Any Irish relatives ? » 

Daniel frowns before shaking his head. He idly plays with the rim of his glass, turning it between his fingers, a confused look settling on his face. He likes keeping his hands busy, she notices. But what truly intrigues her is the curiosity in his eyes, a small spark. He wants to know more.

« Not that I know of. I take it you’re Irish. »

She nods. A faint smile stretches across her lips. The ice in her Scotch clinks against the glass as she sets it down. She is, and a proud one.

« Lennor Sinclair. »

« Doesn’t sound very Irish. »

« Still one. »

« From where ? »

« Galway. »

He nods and she gives him a tight smile. 

« Why don’t you have an accent ? »

« Lost it. »

« And what’s a girl from Galway doing in San Francisco ? »

« Is this an interview ? »

He laughs softly, nervously. The sound itself seems to surprise him, and he leans slightly closer, as if afraid she might leave if he doesn’t keep talking. The sound of his bag’s fabric rustling reaches her ears, almost louder than the soft music filling the bar.

« No. I just like hearing stories. »

« I don’t have any worth telling, kid. » Lennor replies, the nickname leaving her lips without even thinking about it.

« Kid? We’re basically the same age. »

« We’re not. Believe me. »

Daniel stares at her, brows slightly drawn, searching for a crack in her tone. She avoids his gaze, not out of shyness, but to let him believe he’s unsettled her.

« How old are you? » He asks, a teasing note in his voice. He wants to know more about her, she can tell.

« Not gonna tell you that. »

« Right. » A pause. « If I guess your age, you buy me a drink. »

Now it’s her turn to fall silent, caught off guard by his sudden confidence. Real confidence. Her gaze drops for a second before locking back onto his.

« Okay. »

« Twenty-five? »

« No. »

« Twenty-two? »

« No. »

« Twenty-eight? »

« No. »

She crosses her legs, the fabric of her skirt brushing against her bare skin. A small, meaningless movement, but it makes him look away. He flushes slightly, or maybe it’s just the bar’s lighting.

« Under thirty? »

« I’m not giving you clues. That’s cheating. »

« Come on, just one. »

« No. »

« Please. »

« Not gonna happen. »

« You give me a clue, and I buy you a drink. How does that sound? »

« And then I buy you a drink when you figure out how old I am? »

« Yeah. Fair trade. »

She laughs, finally. A real laugh, soft and rough all at once. Sudden, unexpected, even to her. And he seems to cling to it like a promise. He smiles, his eyes fixed on her face, and for a moment, time slows just a little.

« You’re weird. »

« Maybe. »

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He didn’t guess her age. She still bought him a drink. Then he bought hers. Scotch, she wouldn’t have anything else. A taste of habit, as she liked to call it. Daniel ordered the same, supposedly to compare it to the ones he’d had before. The way his face twisted in disgust, the sharp burn down his throat, said otherwise. Lennor laughed, and he joined her, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

They found a table not far from the bar. A worn-out booth, dark stains marking the faux velvet. They looked brownish under the dim lights, but Lennor preferred not to think too much about where they came from. Daniel slid in beside her again instead of taking the chair across the small round table. She didn’t really mind. The booth was wide enough, and he knew how to keep his distance, it seems.

« And then, after we broke up, I thought it might be interesting to move here, you know… to hear people’s stories, like I always wanted. »

He’s a reporter, or an interviewer. Lennor hasn’t quite figured out the difference, but she listens attentively, genuinely interested in what he’s telling her. He is sweet, kind, almost charming in his own way, and it feels good to talk to a man she hasn’t known for decades.

There’s something in his eyes that comes alive whenever he talks about the people he’s met. A small spark of passion. He reenacts conversations with the movement of his hands, and Lennor finds herself drawn in, absorbed by his words, which sometimes seem endless.

« Was your ex-girlfriend one of your interview subjects? »

« No, » he chuckles shyly. « She wasn’t interested in that. »

« Shame. »

« Yeah... »

She takes a sip. Her fourth drink of the night. Always the same temperature, always the same amount.

« No, really, »  she begins after swallowing. « You seem very interested in people. It’s charming, seeing someone so eager to hear other people’s lives. I wouldn’t have the patience for that. »

That last part seems to catch his attention.

« Patience to listen, or to answer? » Daniel asks, his gaze traveling her face, searching for something.

« To listen. »

« And to answer? »

« You’re not getting your interview, Daniel. I have nothing to tell you. »

His posture changes. He straightens slightly, as if trying to build up confidence, his hands lifting into the air, ready to support his argument. The same confidence as before, when he first sat beside her at the bar. His heart beats faster, she can hear it through the music, adding a low drumbeat beneath it. It almost makes her smile. 

« That’s not true. Everyone has something to tell… something to tell me. »He leans closer, both hands flat against the table. A curl falls over his forehead. « Give me a chance. I’m a good listener… not as good as you are, apparently, but you won’t be disappointed. »

« You’re the one who might end up disappointed by the story I could tell you, Daniel. Not me. »

« Why ? »

« Because I’m just a young Irish woman from Galway who decided to move here. Nothing extraordinary. »

And perhaps, deep down, Lennor wishes that were still true. Just an ordinary young woman from a tiny town on an island mostly populated by sheep and cows. The daughter of Irish farmers, eldest sister to five girls and one little brother. A girl so passionate about theater that she left everything behind to follow the stage director she had just married. Just Lennor from Galway. Nothing more.

But he doesn’t seem convinced. His furrowed brows give him away, as do the thoughts crowding his mind. She’s lying. It’s obvious. Does he truly believe she’s one of those mysterious women you meet in bars, the kind who only exist in the pages of dark novels?

And just as she’s about to steer the conversation elsewhere, Daniel smiles. Wide. Toothy. A little ridiculous, in Lennor’s opinion. And all she can do is sit there, unable to understand what exactly he’s doing.

« What are you doing ? »

« I’m smiling. »

« Yeah, I can see that, » she says, arching a brow. « But why? »

« Wasn’t it you who told me I’d be surprised by what a smile can do? »

And at that, Lennor can only laugh, raising a hand to cover her mouth and muffle the sound. Her shoulders shake with quiet giggles, brushing against the faux velvet of the booth. Daniel laughs along with her, probably realizing just how ridiculous his attempt to change her mind really was.

« You’re definitely a weird one, Daniel Molloy. » Then, more softly. « Maybe one day. »

The young man smiles at that, warm and triumphant, as if he had already won something. A promise, perhaps. The certainty that he would see again the woman he had met by chance in a bar far too elegant for him.

And Lennor lets him believe it.

Pairing : Young!Daniel Molloy x OC

Summary : An intimate ritual between Lennor and Daniel.

TW : NFSW. Light Fdom/Msub. P in V. Nipple sucking. Blood consumption (Human drinking vampire blood in a sexual way). Blood play.

Word count : 2k.

A/N : English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes. This isn’t what I was supposed to post, but I had this idea for Daniel after my History of the Press exam, so I went for it. It’s the first time I’ve written actual smut, so please be kind. The other post I planned with Young!Daniel is almost finished, as well as the one with Claudia (platonic, of course). Enjoy!

Come and read my other works !

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

San Francisco, 1973.

The sun is about to rise. Lennor can see the sky changing through the narrow gaps left by the closed curtains. Opaque curtains, she had insisted on that. A deep burgundy color, similar to the heavy theater ones. All that’s missing is the false velvet texture. Daniel had searched through shops to buy them for his beloved. These were the only ones he could find.

Her eyes never leave the curtains. They are close enough that she could almost reach them with her fingertips from the bed. But her fingers are already occupied, gently threading through Daniel’s defined curls. Her other hand is intertwined with his near her face, tightening with each slow thrust. She had told him she wanted to take her time with him tonight. Or rather, this morning.

Lying on top of her, buried deep between her plush thighs, his face rests against the side of her breast. His mouth nurses her nipple, as if trying to draw milk that does not exist, and never will in her dead flesh. When he sucks harder, his hips push more urgently, the sound of skin filling the room.

«You look like a good boy like that.» Lennor whispers against his hair, nuzzling her cheek against the top of his head.

«Say that again.» He moans around her nipple, his teeth grazing her flesh with each word. Lennor laughs and tugs at a lock of his hair. Not mockery. Of course not. She actually loves that. That submissive part of him.

«You are a good boy, Daniel.» She repeats, her breath cut short by another rough thrust. «My good boy. That’s what you like to hear?»

«Fuck yes.»

She chuckles again, and her hand slips free of his curls, drifting in light, exploratory touches over his skin. His nape first. Then his shoulders, where she feels him tense beneath her fingers, before sliding down his back. Goosebumps rise along his skin at the contrast of her cold touch, his breath faltering in response.

She loops an arm around his broad shoulders, holding him close, anchoring him there as his weight settles more firmly against her. A gentle embrace, rocked by his long, unhurried strokes.

His grip loosens around her hand. His mouth leaves her nipple. His hips still.

Daniel lifts his head, green eyes locking onto hers. For a brief second, neither of them moves, as if the rest of the room has fallen away. Pleading, damp eyes that let his loud thoughts spill through. Thoughts where Lennor stands at the center of his desire, of his fantasies.

Thoughts that pass, making room for one in particular.

His favorite.

The one only Lennor can fulfill.

«Please.» He murmurs against her lips before placing a quick kiss there. Then a second.

«What do you want, Beloved?» The vampire asks.

Small caresses from his shoulders to his hair. From his hair to his brows. And finally from his brows to his cheek, which she cups in her palm. And he melts into it. If he could put all his weight into the hollow of her hand, he would. Instead, he nuzzles there, brushing her skin with his nose before pressing his warm, wet lips to it.

She knows what Daniel wants. She has heard it. The knowledge settles low in her chest, heavy and familiar. He thinks too loudly. Always too loudly, especially in moments like this, when pleasure loosens his restraint. Then he doesn’t hold back, the words too loud for his human mind.

«Come on, sweetheart. I need to hear it.»

He nuzzles further into her palm, hiding half his face, only to murmur:

«Blood.»

«My boy wants blood?»

Daniel nods. Lennor smiles.

«But has my boy been good enough to have it?»

It isn’t really a question. He is a sweetheart with her. A good man, despite his young age. He has made her happy from the very beginning of their relationship, a few months ago. And this time, Lennor is not cast aside by a companion who preferred to devote his time to someone else. Daniel is hers, and hers alone.

«Please, baby.»

Her eyes soften, and her thumb strokes his cheek, drawing invisible circles over his skin. His warm, rosy skin.

With a single gesture, the sharp nail of her index finger slices into the skin of her breast. The one he hasn’t yet suckled. A red line appears, drops beginning to trickle down the slope to pool in the hallow between her breasts. But before the wound can close, Daniel’s mouth latches on, and he drinks, lapping like a kitten. His tongue strokes are urgent, punctuated with whimpers and moans. His hips move forward again, resuming that slow rhythm. That embrace. Gentle in intention, overwhelming in effect. The one that makes Lennor sigh with pleasure. A tingling sensation spreads through her dead flesh, and Lennor moans in answer. 

Her body seems to awaken more and more with each stroke of his tongue against her skin. Every hair on her body rises. Those along her arms, those low on her belly. Every inch of her skin comes alive beneath the pleasure, and her cunt tightens around him. Pleasure in its simplest form, so pure that she almost resents him for stopping. A pout forms on her lips as Daniel lifts his head, blood staining his mouth a beautiful shade of red. Disheveled curls. Sweat trailing down his temples. Wide, shining eyes. Her gorgeous beloved.

«Was it good, needy boy?» Lennor asks in a whisper, the pout softening into a teasing smile.

She earns a quick nod from him. His lips press into a tight line, his focus narrowing to his movements. Always that unhurried rhythm, those precise motions. His gaze drifts from her eyes to her chest, bouncing with each thrust. Her generous breasts, something that seems to fascinate him every time she stands naked before him. Lennor catches the change in his gaze before he realizes it himself. Looking at the trails of blood resting between her breasts, like an offering. The way his focus lingers there sparks a quiet thought in her mind, slow and deliberate.

With the tip of her finger, she gathers the blood. It is already beginning to thicken against her skin, cold and sticky. The drops slide along her finger as she presses the tip to the bridge of his nose. Reddish patterns bloom beneath her touch, following the shape of his face as if she were committing it to memory. She doesn’t rush. What she is doing does not need haste. It is intimate. A kind of ritual meant only for them. A ritual in which he can do nothing but participate, captivated by her movements.

When her finger no longer glides easily, she reaches once more between her breasts to gather more blood and continues. Soon, his face is covered in red lines, marked by a part of her. He is hers, just as she is his.

«Fuck», she sighs, her cunt clenching around him, «if only you could see yourself right now…»

The last drops clinging to her finger, Lennor brings them to his lips. As if Daniel understands her intention, he opens his mouth, tasting the blood once more. His lips close around it, tongue circling the tip, a soft whine escaping him. He sucks, bobbing his head slightly, drawing her finger deeper into his mouth. The blood is gone now. He keeps his mouth busy, soaking her fingertip in saliva, as if to mark her in return.

«You taste so good.» Daniel moans, mouth full, looking deep into her eyes. «So damn good, baby.»

Daniel lets his hand travel downward. Gentle strokes over the soft rolls of her belly, squeezing the lowest one before gripping her thigh. He pulls it onto his hip, changing the angle, putting more weight into the lower part of his body. His cock hits the deepest place inside her. That spongy spot that makes her eyelids flutter shut. She bites her lip, thinking of what the neighbors might hear, and he releases her finger.

«No, no…» He whines out. «Please, look at me.» 

A hand presses against her cheek, forcing her to open her eyes. He stares at her, his large green eyes pleading, wet, so in love. As if Daniel were looking at something priceless, something he can cherish and keep close to him. The way he holds her body against his own. The softness of his fingertips on her skin. Him. A simple human making her feel good. Lennor suddenly feels small under the weight of his gaze, and her eyes drift back to the curtains, still closed, still holding back the morning light.

«Lennor, look at me.» 

His tone is vulnerable, punctuated by broken breaths that hit her face, warm and heavy. Beer breath, with a hint of whiskey. That’s what he chose to drink tonight at the bar. Always the same order.

«Am I… fuck… am I doing a good job?» He asks in a whisper, close to her ear. He kisses her there, then on her cheek.

She nods, meeting the green of his eyes once more. «Yes, you are.»

Daniel moans again at her words, as if her words were exactly what he needed, and his hips speed up, forcing her back to arch against the mattress. The sounds grow obscene with each thrust. Wet noises, mixed with the sound of their skin meeting. Her cunt clenches more, and she feels his cock twitch. He’s close. So close. His brows knit together, sudden determination settling over his features. His hips lose their rhythm, hitting her cervix harder than before, until he breaks, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside her, his cock twitching as he spills into her warmth. Forehead against forehead, he stays there for a moment, catching his breath before pressing a kiss to her skin. 

«That was hot», he says, still close to her face, his breath slowly returning to normal.

«The blood or you liking being called a good boy?»

A chuckle escapes him as he nuzzles his nose against hers, a tender gesture of affection.

«The blood… and you.»

Lennor raises an eyebrow, feigning a question, fully teasing him.

«In that order?»

«Mhm.»

His lips find hers, soft like a whispered thanks. They dance in slow, deliberate movements, just as their hands resume their caresses. On his back. Through her hair, along her cheek. A kiss that tastes of her blood, sliding to brush her jaw, then trailing along her neck. The chill runs through her body again, the pulsing heat between her legs returning with a sharp, delicious thrum.

«Daniel…» she breathes out, lifting her hips in an instinctive movement.

He grips her hip in response, kneading the extra flesh there, grounding her even as her body seeks more. His thumb presses slow, deliberate circles, almost calming, as if asking her to stay right here, in this moment. Another thrust forward cuts off her breath as Daniel’s teeth nip at the skin of her shoulder. Persistent bites before his tongue flicks flat over the superficial wound.

«What are you trying to do, Beloved?»

The same thing she does when she drinks his blood. Piercing the skin, taking a few careful gulps, then licking the wound. Lennor never takes too much, that’s why she licks it. To have a final taste. Her Beloved doesn’t have fangs like her own, only teeth that cannot do as much damage as he would like. She can almost feel his frustration. The way his hand presses on the flesh of her hip, how his breath changes against her skin, chilled by the saliva coating the spot. But she can also feel him harden again, just slightly. A twitch, and she smiles.

«You’ll never be satisfied, will you?»

A soft laugh vibrates against her skin, quiet and breathless, before his lips press there again. Not biting. Just holding himself back.

Pairing : Armand X OC

Summary : Under the bright lights of Paris, Lennor becomes a star. In the shadows behind the curtains, something watches her. Something not quite human.

TW : Angst. Anxiety. Stalking. Manipulation. A bit of NSFW (not with Armand sorry). Nudity. Fluff. My very bad attempt at capturing an Irish accent.

Word count : 9.2k

A/N: English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any spelling mistakes (especially toward the end. I didn’t have time to proofread properly, sorry. I just really wanted to post it). This took so long to write, you have no idea. More pieces are coming soon, including one with Young Daniel and another with Claudia. I hope you’ll enjoy this one!

Come and read my other works !

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Au Théâtre Athénée. Les Velvet Jesters vous présentent leur nouvelle création :

LA GUILLOTINE DOREE.

Une revue burlesque et provocante, mêlant chansons et rires, flirtes et passion, chaleur et vérité. Mesdames, surveillez bien vos époux.

Avec comme rôle principal :

Lennor Sinclair, the Irish Sweetheart

Tous les soirs à 20h30

Réservation aux guichets à l'entrée, ou dans toutes les billetteries agréées.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Paris, 1928.

And there she was. Right in the center of the poster. Her first real one. Properly printed, not hastily sketched by Deirdre. No garish, bleeding colors. No misspellings. Not that Lennor would have noticed. She still hadn’t learned French. She could thank Marcel, the theater manager, for helping her memorize her lines. She had the accent right at least.

She imagined the dress she is wearing in the illustration. A long, pale one, cinched at the waist with a light faux satin belt, perfectly embracing her full figure. The fabric flows smoothly over her round hips, highlighting the soft rolls of her belly, before flaring down to the floor. A daring neckline reveals just enough of her breasts to draw the eye. Nestled between them is a fake pearl necklace, crafted from the pearly stones of an old rosary she once stole. Yet, on the poster, it looks real, glittering under the soft golden lights. Her gaze lingers on her face. Eyes closed, blowing a kiss to the passersby bold enough to watch her. It’s irresistible. Lennor finds herself irresistible. It is the first time she has ever seen a generous silhouette displayed on a street poster. Let alone for a show held in one of Paris’s grandest theaters. Well, not quite as grand a venue as the troupe had hoped, but it’s a beginning. Their beginning.

«The Irish Sweetheart, huh? An’ here I tought I was the only one allowed ta call ye that...»

A presence. A broad torso pressed against her back. A masculine scent, strong, one he had chosen at a market two days after their arrival in Paris. A woody blend, cheap some might say, but one she liked enough to tolerate near her pillow. A quick kiss on her shoulder, before a chin came to rest there, strong arms wrapping around her waist. A strange display of love in a public space.

«Yer magnificent. Look at ye, Len. Me leadin’ lady. The star of Paris.»

The star of Paris. The Irish Sweetheart. But to him, she is only Lennor. Or Len, as he had always loved to call her. That name had been his first gift, long before France, long before the stage. A rainy night. A pub in Galway, not too crowded. Lennor had just celebrated her nineteenth birthday and decided to go out for a drink with the eldest of her younger sisters. One pint, maybe two, before heading home. 

After a while, they walked in. A troupe, arms linked, stumbling into the room. Already half-drunk, knocking over a few chairs as they passed. Three men. Four women. Strangers. Irish, perhaps, but not from Galway. The accent of one rolled oddly on his tongue as he took his order at the bar. They spoke loudly, claimed space in the cramped little room. Lennor had looked up, first annoyed, then intrigued. Because among them, there was him. Taller than the rest, older than her, a worn coat slung over his shoulders, a smile playing at his lips as if he always carried a joke in his pocket. Blond curls clung to his forehead, and his pale green eyes seemed to be searching for something even amidst the chaos.

And then he saw her. Just a glance, a few seconds at most, before he turned back to his friends. Yet before he left for their table, following the group, he raised his glass in her direction. Lennor hadn’t known what to do. Her eyes fell, tracing the scratches in the wooden table, far too flustered at having been noticed. She, a plump young girl. Pretty, but plump. That’s what she’d been told often enough to start believing it. Her softness. What people noticed before even asking her name. But him. He did not look at the roundness of her body. His eyes landed squarely on her face, warm and deliberate. A stranger, and yet, in that second, he made her feel seen. 

Lennor didn’t see him again that night. She left before she had the chance to cross his path once more, her sister close at her heels. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him, about his eyes and the quiet gentleness they held. That stranger. A man she was never meant to meet again. However, fate had other plans. Three days later, on a walk. Lennor wanted to clear her mind, to escape the constant noise echoing within her small house. He recognized her and this time, he did not let her slip away. He walked her home, speaking far more than she did, filling the silences with tales of stages and cities she had never seen. Patrick O’Carra, a young director from Dublin, barely twenty-five. His voice was deep, carrying without being heavy. She let herself drift with it, the words brushing her ears like the wind’s playful touch. A voice that demanded to be listened to, that inspired trust. A voice she felt she had always known.

One meeting became two, then many more. By the end of the year, he was no longer just the stranger with green eyes. He was her companion, her confidant, and most importantly her love. They married young, with little more than a borrowed suit and a ring he could barely afford. No grand speeches, just two hands clasped tight and a vow whispered in the half-light of a church in Galway.

And now, years later, Paris. The stage. The thunder of applause. And him, still looking at her as if nothing else had ever mattered.

«We’d have ta manage fillin’ the seats first, luv.»

Another kiss on her clothed shoulder, his cigarette-stained breath tickling her ear.

«Would ye stop worryin’? Yer bleedin’ perfect up there.»

She laughs softly, the sound caught between amusement and disbelief, before tilting her head against his chest. Her arms are folded across her body, pushing her breasts up, his words warming her in a way only he is capable of.

«If I’m perfect, it’s only ‘cause ye keep sayin’ it,» she responds, her tone low. 

Paddy huffs a chuckle, pressing another kiss to her temple. «No, Len. It’s ‘cause it’s true. Me perfect girl.»

If he says so, it must be true, right? Lennor had never truly dreamed of glory when she chose to leave her small town to follow a man and his troupe. She doesn’t even know if this play will bring her any, even a sliver of it. Perhaps she is only meant to be a fleeting star, shining for just a brief moment before fading away more abruptly than she would wish. If that is the case, as long as Paddy stands by her side, it does not really matter. She will take whatever the audience is willing to give.

«Go on now. Curtain’s waitin’.» He pulls back, his hand lingering at the small of her back.

One last glance at the poster. One last glance at her own face upon it. At that girl. At herself, before following her husband inside the theatre. Two hours left. Only two hours. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

«Vous parlez comme un roi… mais vous bougez comme un pantin aux ficelles tirées par des doigts pleins de beurre.»

The audience bursts into laughter. Lennor isn’t even sure what she just said to Aiden, her partner on stage. The lights blind her a little, despite all the tests they ran before. A fine layer of sweat coats her skin, a few drops beading on her temples, thankfully hidden by her thick curls. She feels great, though. She’s in her element. The stage feels like hers. She moves across it with ease, her dress stirring the thin film of dust still clinging to the old boards.

Aiden follows up without missing a beat, his tone mockingly noble, his face painted in grotesque makeup. A white base, poorly spread and cracked in places. Lips painted a garish red that extends past his cupid’s bow. And a fake beauty mark, cut from a rough piece of fabric. Crude for the front rows, but perfectly convincing from the back of the room.

«Moi ? Aux mains pleines de beurre ?»

Grand gestures. A puffed-out chest. A grimacing face. A grotesque reaction that makes the audience laugh. And Lennor laughs too. Her character has to laugh. Loudly, head thrown back, hands clutching her chest, trapped inside a corset far too tight. She steps forward, light on her feet, as if dancing around Aiden. Her shoulders sway, following an imaginary rhythm that carries her next line.

Then, somewhere beneath her ribs, a small tremor. Not fear, not quite. Just a wrongness, a cold thread winding its way through her spine. She pretends to listen, waiting for the cue, that single word that will let her spring into the next part of her act. But she can't. Beyond the stage lights, something stirs her senses. She doesn’t know what, she doesn’t know where, but something feels off. Quiet, crawling. Her body knows it before her mind does. A sudden unease crawls beneath her skin, raising goosebumps. Shivers ripple through her, and her body feels cold, trembling. She throws quick glances toward the audience, but sees nothing. The light keeps her blind. 

«Pourquoi aurais-je les mains pleines de beurre ?»

Aiden continues, focused on his own performance. He looks at his hands, turning them over quickly, confusion written across his face. His character doesn’t realize it’s an expression, and Aiden plays it to perfection. He brings them closer to the light, then shows them to the audience before stepping toward Lennor.

«Où est le beurre sur mes mains ?»

Lennor is supposed to answer, to proclaim the next line. The words get stuck in her tight throat. Her muscles tense. Her eyes flicker between Aiden and the audience before catching Paddy’s gaze in the wings. A small nod, trying to reassure her. You got this, he would have said, it’s only stage fright.

«Pas… Pas vos mains, voyons !» She pulls herself together, she has to. Her mind clearer now, her voice too. «Celles du ventriloque.»  

«Le ventriloque ? Qu’est-ce que Paul a avoir avec mes mains remplies de beurre ?»  

The feeling is still there, but her survival instinct takes over. The lines start flowing. This scene is meant to be lively, funny, even ridiculous. Lennor’s body begins to loosen, her movements growing more fluid. Just stage fright. It’s only stage fright.

After an hour and a half of performance, the theater empties quickly. Some head home. Others wait outside, hoping to meet the actors, choosing the words of praise they’ll say to them. Lennor stays alone on stage, sitting on the edge, her legs warmed by the still-glowing floor lights. She’s not really proud of herself, but more than anything, she doesn’t understand what happened. She doesn’t understand what unsettled her so deeply. Her skin still remembers the remnants of the shivers that ran through her an hour earlier. The loss of control over her own body, her own mind.

Footsteps behind her, heavy on the floorboards. She recognizes them. Paddy. He wouldn’t have left her alone. The rhythm of his walk. Slower as he reaches her, as if approaching a wounded animal. A dull sound. He’s just sat down behind her, probably cross-legged. His arm slips around her shoulders, a comforting warmth against her back.

«If ye’re upset about what happened on stage… 't only lasted half a second, Len. Sure no one noticed a' all.»  

Lennor shakes her head, biting her lips. A nervous habit. «If no one noticed, then how come ye did?»  

«’Cause I know ye, don’t I? An' I always know when somethin’ isn’t right with ye.»  

He tilts his head, resting his chin on her shoulder. Even though she doesn’t look at him, her eyes still fixed on the empty theater, she knows there’s nothing but tenderness in his green eyes. Mistakes happen often, and Patrick knows that. He’s never blamed his actors. He prefers to be encouraging. You will do better next time, I am sure of it. He knows how to bring out the best in his troupe, and Lennor just feels like she didn’t do him justice this time.

« I ruined the scene.» Her shoulders slump, a sigh leaving her lips.

Paddy shakes his head, the short stubble on his chin brushing her skin. «No… what’re ye talkin’ about? Ye were perfect. Just how I imagined yer character.»

«Ye should say that to Aiden. He was perfect.»

A quiet laugh escapes him, and he presses a kiss to her cheek. «But he’s not me perfect girl, is he?»

Their eyes finally meet in silent understanding. And in the half-light of the stage, all the nerves, all the doubts, fade away. There is only the theater, the dust of the floorboards, and the two of them.

«Let’s grab somethin’ ta eat,» he murmurs against her ear. «Then we’ll go home, and I’ll take care of ye. Me perfect girl.»

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Moans of pleasure fill the room, blending with the soft creak of the bed. Lennor moves her hips slowly above his, Paddy’s large hands resting on her thighs, fingers pressing into her skin. He lets her move. He lets her take pleasure with his body. And takes his own through hers. His lips find her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. Her hands explore his muscular body, one tangled in his hair, keeping his face close, the other tracing his spine, fingertips brushing along his back. It feels intimate. It feels good. To let her body relax. To let the fear fade away.

Paddy lets his hips meet hers, setting a new rhythm. Faster, yet just as languid. His mouth travels down, from her neck to her collarbones, before finding one of her breasts. Lennor’s lips part, releasing trembling sighs. Barely words, barely sounds. Her hand tightens in his hair, her forehead falling against the top of his head, her eyes fluttering closed.

But instead of the darkness she expects, she sees them. Two amber orbs, golden light bleeding into her mind. Two orbs without a face. They’re alive. They follow her. She can almost sense something behind them. Not anger, but something unspeakable. Ancient. And worst of all, they stare at her without wavering, like a predator watching its prey. Lennor can only open her eyes. The soft light from the bedside table floods her pupils, but her body remains tense. It’s the same feeling she had on stage. The same shiver running through her spine.

Her eyes drift toward the window. It isn’t a conscious movement, just a slow, imperceptible pull. Lennor feels drawn to it, like something is calling her. All her senses blur, her sensations fade. Her body no longer seems entirely her own. She’s still there, physically but her mind is searching for something, for answers. Paddy feels it too. The way her body tenses in his arms, the way she tightens around his cock, breath faltering. His hips slow down instinctively. His mouth leaves her nipple. He looks up at her, confused, brows furrowing. He follows her gaze, trying to see what she’s looking at beyond the window. But there’s nothing. He sees nothing. Hears nothing. Absolutely nothing.

«Are you okay ?»

His voice is soft, as if he’s afraid to startle her. His fingers find her chin, gently turning her face toward him. Her glassy eyes meet his. Those beautiful eyes, all lost in his own.

«What's wrong ?»

Lennor shakes her head, her gaze more alive now, but wetter, shimmering with tears. She tries to look away again, back toward the window, trying to pierce through the darkness, to see beyond what the streetlight allows. She feels it. It’s here.

«Come on Len, talk ta me.» 

His voice is only a whisper, quiet but warm in her ear. Paddy doesn’t let go of her chin. Instead, his thumb strokes her skin, slow and reassuring. He knows her well enough to understand this is what she needs right now.

«Do ye wish ta stay like this ?»

Like this. Him still inside her. Her in his strong arms. Lennor nods, resting her head against his chest, shoulders slumping, the top of her head pressed beneath his chin. The dampness of his skin seeps onto her cheek, not pleasant, not really, but the embrace is. Warm, wrapped in the faint scent of sweat.

«There’s somethin' watchin' me out there,» she murmurs. « I don’t know what it is, but it follows me, Paddy.»

«What are ye talkin' about? What d' ye mean by somethin'?»

What does she even mean by something ? She doesn’t know. Shouldn’t she have said someone ? That would make more sense. How can she feel followed by a thing? And yet Lennor is sure of it. It’s not human. It doesn’t feel human. That presence she senses while being on stage. That heavy gaze pressing against her while she rides her husband. Nothing but invasive. Nothing but voracious. As if it exists outside of time itself.

«Wait… is that thin’ out there right now?»

Her back hits the mattress as Paddy pulls out of her, leaving her empty and wet between her thighs. He gets out of bed, the blanket sliding to the floor in his haste. It’s so cold without him, even after only a few seconds.

His long fingers grab the curtain and pull it further aside, the metal rings scraping against the wooden rod. He squints into the night, lips slightly parted, standing completely naked in front of the window.

«Patrick, people can see ye from the street.»

He laughs, a short, nervous chuckle before his face turns serious again. «If ye’ve got a stalker, better let him see who he’s dealin' with.»

«Ye, cock out in front of our bedroom window?»

«Exactly.»

Lennor shakes her head, running her hands over her face. A nervous laugh escapes her despite herself. The chill returns to her skin and so does the fear. The situation unnerves her, as much as Paddy’s sudden behavior does.

After one last glance outside, scanning both sides of the street, he closes the curtain and turns back to her. His steps are heavy on the floorboards. He exhales, another shaky laugh slipping from his lips, almost like hers.

The mattress dips under his weight as he sits at the edge of the bed. Lennor wraps her arms around herself without realizing it. A defensive, instinctive gesture. He doesn’t try to move them. Not yet. His fingers barely touch her skin, tracing a faint line along her arm, featherlight.

«Is that why ye were so distressed on stage earlier?»

His fingers trail slowly up to her neck, sliding into her hair, still damp with sweat. He isn’t trying to possess her. Just to remind her: I’m here. And he is. She’s safe with him. She doesn’t answer. She only shifts, pushing against the mattress with her feet to crawl closer, rolling onto her stomach until her cheek rests on his bare thigh, her face turned toward the window.

«I feel like I am crazy.»

Paddy says nothing at first. His fingers move slowly through her hair, parting it with a meditative tenderness. The gesture is simple, but it grounds her.

«Ye’re not crazy, Len. Whatever it is, I’ll handle it.»

His voice is low, a whisper that brushes against her skin. He keeps touching her, combing through her hair with his fingers, tracing the curve of her ear, down her temple, as if drawing an invisible boundary between her and what she fears outside. She closes her eyes. No more amber eyes watching her. Only darkness. Her breathing slows at last. The weight on her chest lifts, just a little. One arm wraps around his leg, just tight enough to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. A comforting warmth. He’ll handle it, he said. Paddy will handle it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Second week of performances. Longer than they had ever dared to hope. The play is a success. Glowing reviews appear in the Parisian papers. A revolutionary play, in every sense of the word. Patrick buys everyday newspapers that mentions them. Marcel translates the reviews, and Lennor carefully keeps the clippings in a little box. Sometimes, she reads them at night, when Patrick has already fallen asleep beside her. She can recognize a few words now, but her eyes always return to one thing. Her name. Lennor Sinclair. Paris knows her name. She feels like a star. A real star.

Yet even in this sudden light, something darker lingers. The unease that first gripped her on stage hasn’t left since. It clings to her like the smell of smoke after a fire. She feels it in the quiet moments, between applause and sleep, in the stillness after she closes her eyes. Sometimes, she catches herself searching the corners of her room, the shadows between faces in the crowd, certain that something is watching. No one else seems to notice. Not even Paddy, despite his efforts to understand what Lennor feels. It’s a constant presence, almost a part of herself.

The theatre was packed again tonight. Hundreds of people, all applauding, all watching. Some of them had been there before. Lennor recognized their faces as they came forward after the show, offering congratulations. Her French isn’t good, their English is even worse. Compliments tumble in a jumble of words she barely understands. Still, she smiles, nods, and plays along.

Bouquets of roses pile in her arms, heavier with each handful. Her muscles ache, her back stiff, but she keeps holding them. All she wants is to go home, sink into a hot bath, and sleep before doing it all again tomorrow. Just one more week, then Paddy will have to talk with Marcel about scheduling the next performance. «That’ll depend on the audience,» he had reminded them. «Paris loves novelty. Write me a new play, and we’ll see if it makes the program.»

A few more people approach, new faces this time. A few more roses, that even the audience doesn’t know where to place in her already overflowing arms. Paddy stands farther away, chatting with the rest of the troupe, letting the star bask in her moment. Lennor had enjoyed it at first. Now, she only wants to leave.

«So, this is the star everyone in Paris can’t stop talking about.»

A voice behind her. Perfect English, with the faintest hint of an accent. She turns, still weighed down by the roses. The figure that greets her is new. Skin like warm amber. Dark curls peeking from beneath a grey hat. Well-dressed, movements fluid, almost unnervingly elegant. There’s something about his posture, a poised refinement that catches her off guard. Her eyes study him, curious but cautious, tracing the line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. She can almost feel the weight of his gaze before it lands on her. He looks young, yet there’s something about him, something ancient.

«I almost detect a hint of sarcasm in yer voice,» she replies, careful not to move, still clutching the flowers. Her heart beats faster, a faint flutter of tension in her chest. Why is her body reacting like that?

He smiles, faintly. The kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. «Not sarcasm,» he says. «Admiration, perhaps. Though I must admit, I expected someone taller.»

Lennor laughs politely, the sound feels a bit strange in her own throat. «And yet here I am.»

«Indeed.» He steps closer, just a few steps. His gaze lingers, unhurried, studying her face as if trying to place a memory. «You were extraordinary tonight. The way you held the stage… it’s rare. You make people forget to breathe.»

«That’s kind of ye.» Lennor tightens her grip on the flowers, shifting them to keep them from falling. In a way, she’s grateful that her new admirer didn’t bring yet another rose. Her arms feel like they’re about to detach from her body. And none of her troupe offered to help. A bit rude. «I’m sorry, I didn’t catch yer name.»

«That’s because I didn’t give it.» A smile appears again on his lips, pinched delicately together. More genuine than the last one. «But you may call me Armand. I run a theatre troupe as well.»

«Really? Her' in Paris?» Lennor sounds more animated now, less guarded. Less tired too, as if her body finally found a chance to let go of the useless tension. A warm sensation runs through her veins, coloring her cheeks. She takes a step forward, and their eyes meet.

«Not far from here, maybe a ten-minute walk.»

«So ye’ve come to watch the 'competition, then?» A playful tease. A grin on her lips, Lennor shifts the flowers again in her arms.

Armand smiles, shaking his head slightly. Something shifts in his demeanor as well. His posture loosens, becomes more casual.

«Just to see why my audience seems to be dwindling by the day,» he replies.

«Well, I’m sorry to hear that.»

«Don’t be. The success is more than deserved.»

Caught up in the conversation, Lennor doesn’t hear Paddy approach. A hand slips to her hip, squeezing her gently through the fabric of her long dress. A wordless warning. He’s always been attentive.

«Here. Let me take those, Len.»

Relief washes over her. He takes half of the roses from her arms, grimacing at their weight, muttering a low “it’s heavy” under his breath. She giggles, nose scrunched, teeth bared in a wide grin. A smile just for him.

Armand watches the scene, detached. A couple, perfectly in tune even in something as simple as passing off flowers. And yet, Lennor’s eyes shine as if he’s just performed the most romantic act imaginable. Those roses will probably end up in the trash in a few hours anyway.

With a few more roses now transferred to her husband’s arms, Lennor relaxes her stiffness, her numb muscles, her tense shoulders. She rolls her neck, side to side, back and forth. Eyes closed to savor the feeling of weightlessness before opening them again.

«Oh right… Paddy, dis is Armand. He runs a troupe here in Paris.»

«A fellow artist. It’s a pleasure to meet ye » Paddy notes, his voice bright and warm. He loves meeting others who share his passion for theater. Despite the burden of the roses, he manages to free one hand and offers it to Armand, who takes it.

«You should come and see the play. Saturday. Next week, how does that sound.»

«Why not, it’ll be a night out. It’s been too long since we’ve gone anywhere together.» That spark lights up her face again, a soft smile lifting her lips. Her cheeks flush a warm pink, and her eyes crinkle at the edges.

«Why not,» Paddy echoes, seeming to like the idea.

«Here.» Armand reaches into the pocket of his shirt. A card. He hands it to Lennor, careful not to let their fingers touch. It’s nothing but an address. Presumably the theatre’s. No establishment name. No title of the play. Just an address, written in black ink on paper that looks far too refined for such a simple purpose.

«I hope to see you there.» One last look before he straightens his hat, tipping it just so, then turns on his heel with a barely audible «à bientôt».

«He seems nice,» Paddy concludes once Armand is out of sight.

«He said I was small.»

«Probably a joke. And is he really wrong?» The young man teases, a spark in his green eyes as he looks down at her.

«Well, I am taller than every Parisian woman we’ve met. So aye, he is wrong. And if ye think the same, ye are wrong too.» Lennor fires back, narrowing her eyes in mock severity.

«Ye’re wearin' heels, sweetheart.»

She rolls her eyes. «They’re wearin' heels too. And I’m still taller.»

Paddy chuckles, watching her with that soft, amused look he always gets when she’s being stubborn. He shifts the roses to one arm and reaches out to brush the back of his fingers against her cheek.

«Aside from that little detail, he seems fine. It’s thoughtful of him ta invite us to 'is show.»

«It is. But 'is card is odd. There’s no name. No title. Nothin'.» She turns the small card over in her hand, frowning as if it’ll reveal more if she stares long enough.

«Maybe he can’t afford more. Our cards were simple at the beginnin' too, ye weren’t even with us yet. And who knows how long they’ve been performin' here. They might be just startin" out.»

«Maybe.» Her shoulders rise and fall in a half-hearted shrug before she lets out a long breath. She swings the card lightly between her fingers, then tucks it into the bodice of her dress. «Now, is it possible ta go home? I’m tired of carryin' these flowers.»

He laughs, lifting the bouquets as if to toast the night.

«As ye wish, ma grande star de Paris.» He says with a bow, before they turn toward the exit. He offers her his free arm, and she loops hers through it with a small but weary smile.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Lennor stands alone in front of the theatre. Paddy hadn’t been able to come with her. He had to present some potential new ideas to Marcel, hoping to extend the troupe’s stay in Paris. She had considered staying with him, as his partner, having helped write some of the plays. But her husband had convinced her to go. That Armand seemed interested in your work, he’d said, rummaging through their cluttered desk in search of his notebooks. Go make some new friends, Len.

And there she is. Facing the new autumn evening breeze, her long coat draped over her shoulders, her neck hidden beneath synthetic fur. Cold light spills from a few flickering neon signs. A luminous front, striking against the darkness. There's a certain energy to this place, despite its location. The theatre sits at the very end of the street, tucked away, and Lennor is surprised to see so many people gathered for a venue this secluded. Ten minutes of walking, yes, but ten to find it at all. Le Théâtre des Vampires. That's what she reads on the facade as she approaches. She smiles at such a name.  A bit kitschy for this city. Her footsteps echo in the street, her heels striking the stone pavement, occasionally sinking into the gaps wet from the rain.

Tightening her coat around her body, she makes her way to the ticket booth, a few coins she'd prepared in her pocket for her ticket. As she gets closer, the ticket seller comes into view. A vampire with an artificially pale complexion, painted with white makeup. His eyes are emphasized with black eyeliner, and fake fangs fill his mouth. The caricature is fully committed, and Lennor can't help but smile at such effort. A smile that slowly fades as she meets the vampire's gaze. Indifferent. Cold.

«Un ticket, s'il vous plait.» Her accent rolls more naturally now, smoother on her tongue than when she first arrived. She speaks French with more ease, despite not understanding everything.

The seller tears a ticket from the roll and slides it across the wooden counter, pushing it toward her hand.

«Balcon sud… non, c'est gratuit pour vous.»

The coins she’d taken out clatter onto the wood before he finishes speaking. Lennor stops her hand mid-motion, one or two coins still resting against her palm.

«Gratuit?»

«Ordre du boss. Maintenant, allez-y. Vous n’êtes pas la seule dans la file.»

Free. An order from Armand? After one last glance and a faint smile, despite the ticket seller’s tone, she leaves the line, the coins slipping back into her pocket, and slips through the entrance. Warm air hits her skin, and she can’t help but remove her coat, draping it over her arm. Ticket in hand, she follows the signs. Arrows, panels. She walks through narrow hallways, passing what she assumes are the actors. Their makeup is the same as the one at the entrance. The same way of staring at her.

She reaches a curtain. Thick, a deep red, much like a stage curtain. With a sweep of her hand, she pulls it aside and steps onto the balcony, relieved to have found her destination. Bathed in a gentle atmosphere, the balcony isn’t very large. A row of benches, as red as the curtain. A simple balcony, like this theatre.

«Delighted to see you decided to join us.»

Lennor turns. It’s their second interaction, and once again, Armand has appeared behind her, making her jump.

«Well, how could I refuse, especially when I’m receive'd so graciously.» She smiles, a nervous little laugh slipping from her lips. «The free seat wasn’t necessary, I had enough ta pay.»

Lennor extends her hand toward him, and he takes it, bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss. A shiver runs along her skin, stirred by the cold. He is cold. Paddy hadn’t told her just how cold. But more than anything, his eyes don’t leave hers as his lips brush her skin.

«Not at all. You are our guest, and our guests do not pay.»

He leads her to the bench, showing her where she’ll be spending the next two hours. She knows nothing about the show she’s about to watch. He didn’t explain anything, and Lennor didn’t bother to ask. She likes surprises and given the crowd at the entrance, she expects it to be a good one.

«Oh, hum... me husband apologizes for 'is absence. He has some matters ta handle regardin’ the theater.»

«You’re here, that’s what matters.»

He settles beside her, close enough that she can feel the chill that seems to cling to him. The theater hums with muted anticipation. Lennor can almost hear the murmur of the audience below. She leans forward slightly, observing. The room is packed, and she can’t suppress the thought that crawls into her mind: if this place is full, it’s because her own show is no longer on the program, at least for now. Armand shifts beside her, crossing one leg over the other and clearing his throat to draw her attention. Heat rises in her cheeks. She shouldn’t be having such arrogant thoughts.

«It will start soon,» he says, his voice smooth, almost whispered. She turns to him, nodding her head, his profile carved by the glow of the stage sconces. There’s a gentleness in his expression, yet something unreadable. She lets her eyes wander over his face, an unexpected softness emerging despite the sharpness of his features. A strong nose and brows on a boyish face. 

«It’s been a while since I’ve watched a performance.» Lennor breaks the silence, her voice dropping closer to a whisper, as she hears the audience begin to quiet below. «I’ve grown so used ta bein’ the one performin'.»

Armand inclines his head slightly, absorbing her words. «I see… and yet, you watch like someone who knows every move, every breath. It makes the experience… different.»

«How different?»

«More alive,» he murmurs, the corner of his lips twitching in a faint smile. «Because you see what is true and what is hidden.»

«Ye think too much of me already, me friend…»

The lights dim further, flickering, capturing Lennor’s attention. She glances around, amused by the atmosphere the theater imposes. But her amusement fades with the first notes of the orchestra. A carefully orchestrated cacophony, less brilliant than she expected but equally unsettling. Brass blares against recorded screams, male and female.

Lennor feels a familiar shiver creep along her spine, half thrill, half unease. And in that precise moment, she can’t help but think of the amber eyes she saw when her own eyelids had closed, that inescapable feeling of being watched. She shifts slightly on the bench, those familiar shivers coursing through her body. Goosebumps rise on her arms. Her muscles tense.

The light settles on the stage, blinding her for a moment before revealing a man standing with his back to a crimson curtain. His back draped in a long black cloak, a stark contrast with his white hair. He stands upright, facing the now silent audience, every gaze fixed on him. Lennor holds her breath, a single bead of sweat slides down her temple.

«Welcome !» he announces, his voice deep, shadowed in its own darkness. «To the displacement of reason. And the excretion of pathetic desires.»

His pauses are punctuated by gestures, arms opening one after the other to reveal the red lining of his cloak.

«Good evening !»

«Good evening !» Some of the first-row audience members reply.

Lennor can’t look away. A presence rarely seen in an actor. The stage belongs to him, as does the audience’s attention. More gestures follow before he hisses like a cat, revealing fangs instead of canines. That feeling of unease fades. She is enthralled, captivated by this presence. A harness descends from the ceiling. He grasps it, slowly lifting from the ground, his cloak unfolding like wings over the audience.

«What you about to see … is, for you, an outrage that masks a birth and a rebirth of what is …»

«Who is dat ?» Lennor asks Armand quickly, leaning so he can hear. «He is incredible, really.»

«Santiago,» he replies, «our finest actor.»

Santiago continues his ascent, suspended in the dimming light as the music shifts, strings humming with tension, an almost sacred reverence. The harness twirls him slowly, and from above he gazes down upon the audience, eyes dark and glittering. His smile is sharp, poetic in his own way. 

«… a rebirth of what is feared, forgotten, and desired.»

His voice echoes as though coming from everywhere at once. From below, veiled figures materialize onstage. Dancers draped in black, their movements serpentine, mirroring each other in choreographed chaos. A ritual is underway. Lennor feels her pulse quicken. A central figure seems to represent Death, with a grayish face, hooded, holding a small pitchfork. Shadows in full light. A macabre introduction to what awaits them next. The orchestra plays a new tune, far more cheerful than the screams that greeted them. Flutes replace the brass. A tambourine replaces the bass drum. Death is joyful, and Lennor doesn't quite understand where this play is trying to lead her. A happy Death dancing to the sound of flutes?

As if sensing her turmoil, Armand leans toward her, his breath brushing her neck, a hand resting on the back of her bench. «Patience, it has barely begun.»

«Maybe I should have read the program,» she murmurs back, her shoulders slumping.

«And spoil the surprise?»

«Is it worth it?» Lennor smiles.

«You will see, my dear...»

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The music rises through the room, making the wood of the balcony tremble. Lennor’s legs ache now, unsure how to sit to avoid the numbness creeping up to her hips. She has been entertained. She has laughed, but she’s growing tired. The vignettes follow one another, Death always at the center, encountering poor victims unlucky enough to be chosen. An old man, and now a little girl awkwardly played by a grown woman. The music punctuates the pauses, never allowing minds to rest. More brass. More flutes.

Not wishing to offend her host, she remains attentive, her eyes never once leaving the stage. She watches. She watches, even when she feels Armand’s heavy gaze on her profile, as though he’s trying to understand her, even perceive her thoughts. He can try, she thinks.

«But why take her? She’s only eight?»

The mother of the little victim begs Death, on her knees, clutching at the long cape with small hands. Her voice is plaintive, accusatory in a way. She seems to offer herself instead, but Death remains unmoved. Or at least, that’s what Lennor believes she understands.

«It is not she whom I wish to take with me.» A growl, deep from the throat.

The orchestra swells once again, the cacophony rising in layers, but Lennor barely hears it. She finally looks away, her attention caught by the play of lights. Those lights again, flickering like old bulbs badly wired, before cutting out all at once. Lennor gasps. Armand shifts beside her, his body seeming to inch closer, their thighs touching. One spotlight, sickly and abrupt, snaps on, centered on the stage.

Something. Someone stands there.

A woman. Barefoot, in a pale dress, thin, dirty at the hems, clinging to her body like the mist. Trembling, she shields herself with her arms, trying perhaps to hide her breasts through the translucent fabric. What strikes Lennor most is her face, or at least her expression. A distant gaze, beneath a heavy fringe. An angel with black hair. The audience murmurs, restless. The atmosphere shifts again. Much darker. Far more macabre.

Lennor leans forward, eyes narrowed. «That’s… a new character,» she whispers, her voice more hesitant than curious. Armand shifts again, nodding, watching her carefully.

Onstage, the flutes resume their cheerful melody. Violins join, playful. But the woman’s trembling stands in brutal contrast to the music’s lightness. Death approaches the angel and seizes her by the chin, forcing her to look up. 

«She is the one I want.»

Lennor feels her pulse quicken, unease skittering through her veins once again. Her brow furrows. Her hands rise to her mouth. The stage holds its breath.

Death draws the trembling woman to the center, the rest of the cast melting back into shadow. The music shifts once more. The flutes soften, replaced by a low hum rolling through the bass strings. The audience is silent.

Expectant.

Hungry for the next grotesque delight.

Lennor’s unease deepens.

The woman’s eyes change. Wide, unfocused. She is terrified, her mouth frozen in a silent, pleading grimace. Lennor is certain she can see tears sliding down her cheeks. An angel with sad eyes. What an actress.

Death turns, presenting the woman as though unveiling a treasure, her bare feet stark under the harsh light. Moving behind her, with a simple gesture, Death sweeps her long black hair aside, baring her neck. A ritualistic motion, repeated, practiced. Slow. Languid. Hypnotic enough to steal the breath from its spectator. Lennor’s hand tightens around the balcony rail, her knuckles whitening with anticipation. And then, in a flash, teeth sink into her throat. There is no theatrical arc of fake blood. No time for drama. A wet sound fills the theater. A visceral, tearing sound. The woman jerks, her mouth opening in a silent scream. Someone in the audience gasps. Another laughs nervously. And Lennor can only watch, mouth agape, eyes wide, staring at the bloody spectacle. Thick blood spills down the white dress, bright and horrifying. The smell reaches her, sharp and metallic. She recoils against the back of the banquette, her features twisting in disgust.

«Oh… me God,» she whispers, barely audible. Her stomach churns, tightening as if clenched in an invisible fist.

Armand doesn’t look at the stage. He looks at her. The young woman beside him. At her stunned expression as the young victim collapses onto the stage, motionless. A few spasms, then nothing. Is she dead? Has the angel with the sad eyes succumbed to Death’s kiss? Her long black hair spills over her face. Her arms once again shield the transparency of the nightgown that would otherwise reveal her chest.

No movement.

The theater plunges into darkness.

Whispers ripple through the crowd, growing louder, until the audience erupts into thunderous applause Lennor cannot bring herself to follow. Her ears ring beneath the weight of it. Her body feels heavy against the faux velvet. Her muscles are locked in place.

Her blood runs cold. And then, after a few shallow breaths, she claps. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

She can’t stop talking, her voice breaking the silence of the night as they walk through the streets of Paris. Barely ten minutes on foot before reaching her small apartment on the outskirts. Lennor had managed the walk there on her own, she would have managed just as well on the way back. But Armand had insisted on escorting her.

«One can never know what might happen in ten minutes, my dear. The shadows are voracious here.»

And even though Lennor had initially declined, she now has to admit she’s rather grateful to have him at her side. She’s curious. And she’s part of the trade. She has so many questions after what she witnessed. Her steps are quick against the cobblestones. Uneven, almost graceless. She walks like an excited child, her gestures punctuating her words, nearly stumbling as her heels catch between the stones.

«Oh, and the blood? How did ye make it look so realistic?»

She doesn’t even give him time to answer. Words spill from her mouth, as if she’s afraid she might forget even the most insignificant question. Nothing is insignificant to her. She wants to know everything.

Armand walks at her side, one hand tucked into the pocket of his long camel coat, the other lifting a cigarette to his lips now and then. An amused smile rests on his thin mouth, holding back each answer he could give her. From afar, one might mistake them for two friends in animated conversation, perhaps even intimate lovers.

«I almost forgot the fangs, Armand! The fangs… he hissed like a cat. How did ye manage dat too?»

«From the sheer number of your questions,» he says, «I can only conclude that you enjoyed it.» He switches sides, moving to her right to avoid the couple approaching them. She nods, the soft chill brushing against her round cheeks.

«I think I would enjoy it even more if ye explained how ye achieved those effects.» She smiles, a teasing lilt in her voice.

«Those are our secrets,» he replies, taking a drag from his cigarette.

The woman scoffs, a short laugh slipping past her lips. «Oh… secrets. What are ye afraid of, Armand? I believe ye’re the only troupe in all of Paris puttin' on vampire shows. What’s next? Werewolves with synthetic fur? Or perhaps leprechauns? You’ll probably need me help for that one.»

«Even if your leprechaun idea sounds like a guaranteed success,» he replies evenly, «these effects are our own creations, designed specifically for our theatre. I doubt they could be replicated anywhere else.»

Lennor’s shoulders slump, a mock pout forming on her face. She’s enjoying his company. She had been apprehensive about going to the theatre alone, without Paddy by her side. She had even considered turning back, her apartment still in sight, her steps slow on the pavement. Go make some friends, Len. Her husband’s words had echoed in her mind then, and she had decided to go through with it. She hadn’t wanted to disappoint Paddy. And she has to admit, she isn’t disappointed either. A middling play and an incredible end, one that left her speechless, but above all, the prospect of a new friend, outside her own troupe. A breath of fresh air, like the November chill that tinges her nose pink.

It’s her turn to switch sides, reclaiming her place at his right. The main streets are unusually crowded tonight, despite the hour. Not that it’s particularly late, but don’t Parisians work on Friday mornings?

«What a shame. And here I was, so eager to plagiarize ye…»  Her shoulder bumps into his in a playful nudge. Armand doesn’t seem to mind.

«So, you liked it?»

«Some things, yes. Others, not so much. But the endin'…»  She pauses. «Who was the actress playin' the victim? Ye seem to have a gift for findin' them.»

That polite smile again, gracing his thin lips.

«An understudy,»  he replies. «The original actress will return the day after tomorrow.»

Lennor nods and doesn’t press the matter further. A pedestrian crossing. A car slows and stops to let them pass. A dark street follows, its lamppost working only every other night. Tonight, it doesn’t. She feels even more grateful to have Armand at her side as they brave the darkness.

A few more steps, another crossing. This time they walk across an empty road before reaching her building. A slightly shabby place, but it was one of the cheapest and one of the closest to the city center. A reasonable rent for their modest actors’ wages. Lennor had wanted privacy, unwilling to lodge at the Théâtre Athénée with the rest of the troupe. She loves them, truly. She became part of that large, close-knit family the moment Paddy set his sights on her, in that pub in Galway. She hadn’t known it then, but they had all understood right away. Patrick had been smitten with the beautiful young woman the instant their eyes met. They welcomed her as if she had always belonged. Journey after journey. Theatre after theatre. Always together. But for once, Lennor wanted a place just for herself and her husband. To live like a real couple. To reunite in the evenings after work. To eat dinner at a table, a meal she had cooked herself. To get ready for the night in the same bathroom. To make love in their own bed, without worrying about anyone overhearing them.

«I live dere… the second window on the top floor,» she says, pointing up at her apartment.

«Do you like it here?»

She nods, her nose buried in the raised collar of her coat.Paris is a beautiful city. Alive, especially at night. A little like her. «But I must admit, I’m already longin' to go home.»

«In Ireland» , Armand adds, giving a slight nod, as if he understands how she feels.

«The one and only.»

The green island. That sense of belonging, no matter where you set foot. The warmth despite the rain. The smiles, the laughter, the language. A culture being reborn, a people striving to reclaim it since their recent independence. It had been hard for the troupe to leave Ireland, to leave that newly liberated environment. To have to speak English again after finding their way back to Gaelic. But the pull of opportunity had been stronger. Their return home would only be all the sweeter.

«You don’t seem like you’ll ever feel at home anywhere else» , he says, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground. He takes a step back, maybe two, quietly signaling that he’s about to leave.

«Never.»

Just before she can add anything else, the building’s front door opens, revealing Paddy. His shirt is unbuttoned, a white tank top visible beneath. His blond hair is tousled, a loose strand falling over the bridge of his nose. A wide smile spreads across his face as he approaches his wife. His strong arm finds her waist, pulling her against him as he presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

«How was yer evening?» He asks, his soft voice teasing her ear.

«Good. I’ll tell ye once we’re home, along with the little secrets I managed to pry out of our friend here.»

Lennor doesn’t see Armand’s gaze darken. His jaw tightens. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, even to himself. A man so firmly in control. His eyes are fixed on him. Her husband. Those wide, admiring eyes again, almost fascinated by the man holding her in his arms. A man. A simple man. And yet, he is the one she loves.

«Thank ye for bringin' her back. I truly appreciate it.»

He extends his free hand toward Armand, waiting for him to take it. A gesture of gratitude for returning his wife safe and sound. Paddy doesn’t like it when Lennor comes home alone at night. Ireland had been safe, they knew their country. Paris, however, is still largely unknown to them.

Armand studies the outstretched hand, tilting his head slightly to the side. Once again, the gesture is subtle, but this time, it doesn’t escape Lennor’s notice. He seems to hesitate before finally grasping it, giving it a few firm shakes.

«My pleasure.»  His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

And then, silence. Brief, but heavy. Paris hums in the distance. The two men hold each other’s gaze. Brown eyes sinking into green. Lennor feels Paddy’s arm tighten around her waist, his body suddenly stiff beside her. A fresh shiver runs along her arms. Her legs prickle, to the point that her eyes wander, searching the darkness for something. Anything. The same unease. The same feeling of being watched. A sensation far closer than before. Lennor shifts her weight, clutching her coat tighter around herself.

«Thank ye for the invitation, Armand.» She hesitates, then adds more softly, «For the show.»

A smile curves his lips. That same measured smile again, neither quite kind nor unkind.

«I’m pleased it left an impression.» He tips his hat, an old-fashioned gesture that feels entirely deliberate.«Have a good night.»

«Good night, Armand.»

He turns away then, already retreating into the shadows of the street. They watch him go until his silhouette dissolves into the darkness, swallowed by the city as though he had never been there at all, leaving the couple alone, unsettled by what they’ve just felt. She knows Paddy felt it too.

«Come on, Len. Ye’ll catch a cold.»