He walks towards you with slow, measured steps. "This is going to sting."

You can't keep yourself from sighing. "Which is a fact I'm sure you're completely torn up about."

Armand bends down, adjusting himself so that he's sitting directly in front of you on the bathroom floor. He lifts his chin slightly, looking at you in a way that feels so incredibly boyish you briefly forget that you're supposed to be mad at him. "You really think I'd find joy in hurting you?"

You frown, dropping your gaze so that you're forced to look at your scraped knees. The marks aren't particularly overwhelming but they're worse than anything Armand or Louis have seen you with. The blood that's dripped down your legs and the gravel still stuck to aggravated skin aren’t making things look any better, either.

"No," you admit, "You've never struck me as particularly sadistic."

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly but the expression feels far from a smile. "There are people that would disagree with you."

"Fine," you amend, "You've never been particularly sadistic towards me."

He lifts the washcloth he just dampened, dabbing the fabric against your knee. To Armand's credit, he does so incredibly carefully but your skin feels so raw you still inhale sharply when he moves the washcloth.

The reaction doesn't go unnoticed. Armand places a hand against your leg, his fingers bending around your lower leg. He drags his thumb against uninjured skin soothingly. "I think I could be converted."

You press your hands against the tile floor as Armand works at removing a stubborn piece of gravel out of the largest scrape. "Especially after today, I'm sure."

He sighs. "I'm not sure there's much point in hurting you when you're so good at doing it yourself."

Great--this again. "I tripped," you say slowly, over pronouncing each syllable, "I know you hate that I bleed. I hate it, too." The thought of staying still feels overwhelming but there's not much you can do with Armand sitting so close to you. "I hate that it makes Louis feel like a monster. I hate that it makes you uncomfortable."

You swallow once in an attempt to keep a lump in your throat from forming. When that doesn't work, you give into your earlier impulses and try to pull your leg away from him. Armand's hold on you tightens before you can create any meaningful distance. "You don't have to help me."

"I'm sure you'd feel so much better if your darling Louis could be in here, reminding you that are as faultless as always," he drags the washcloth downwards, "but he's not feeling up to it right now."

A sharp pinch of guilt settles somewhere behind your chest. "I didn't mean it like that."

He doesn't respond. Despite your lingering annoyance, you let your leg relax again. Armand dislodges another piece of gravel. When the jagged piece of rock falls out of place, a small trickle of blood follows it. You watch Armand as the fresh blood begins to drip down your leg.

You do your best to keep your expression neutral. "It won't be a big deal if you need a break." Armand doesn't look up at you. "I know that you don't want Louis to feel worse, but you're under no obligation to do this."

Armand scoffs, the sound bitter. "Under no obligation?" He drags out each syllable. You resist the urge to shift as Armand's hold on you tightens again, his nails just barely pressing into your skin. "In over 500 years of existence I have never felt as obligated to anyone as I feel to you."

His response settles over you, the weight of it heavy enough to make your lungs feel flat. An uncomfortable warmth begins to burn its way up your neck.

Obligated to you. The words coil themselves around your stomach. "Why? Because I'm so pathetic I couldn't possibly survive without your intervention?"

With no warning, Armand places a hand on your shoulder. Your back is pressed against the bathroom wall before you can even register the fact that he's pushing you. The new angle isn't uncomfortable but it does make it difficult to not look him in the eye.

"Any obligation I feel towards you comes from a level of devotion you're not capable of understanding." He forces the words out in a way that almost feels violent. All you can do is stare at him. "There is no amount of comfort, self preservation, or emotion that I would put above your well being."

The confession stretches out over both of you in a way that's inescapable. You can't breathe, can't blink, can't react. Even though your thoughts feel incoherent, you still still feel your mind instinctually try to swallow them so that no one else can reach them.

He shouldn't care about you as much as he does on Louis's behalf or his own. You haven't done anything to deserve any kind of dedication, especially one that feels as incredibly resolute as Armand's. Something about the way he's looking makes it impossible for you to try to explain that to him, so instead of responding, you nod.

Armand pulls away from you slowly, his hand dragging down your arm until he's sitting up straight again. He begins to gingerly dab at your other knee. You let him work silently for another minute before extending an arm towards him.

You're not sure if he sees your intentions through your thoughts or if he's just that familiar with you now, but his expression doesn't indicate much surprise as you pull his hand away from your leg. Armand lets you bring his knuckles to your lips. "You're very important to me. I don't--I don't want you suffering over every time I get a papercut."

He's quiet for a moment before setting down his washcloth. Then, he brings his pointer finger to the side of your leg, wiping at a trail of blood that's yet to fully dry. You watch him with an almost morbid level of curiosity as he brings your blood to his mouth.

Armand watches you as he drags his tongue against the side of his finger. "Everything with you is its own kind of suffering."

----

sometimes the notes are filled with details that armand should have no way of knowing about, like compliments about dresses and hairstyles from a day in which she never saw him. she thinks there’s a beauty in that, in knowing that just because she feels alone doesn’t mean armand isn’t with her.

she never tells lestat or nicki about the notes and gifts. it’s not that she thinks there’s something inappropriate about armand’s gestures of affection, she just knows lestat and nicki are prone to worrying about her.

lestat and nicki wouldn’t see the implication of armand’s constant presence as a warm gesture of affection, they’d find it strange and try to put a stop to it. everyone will be happier if she does her best to keep the extent of the relationship between them private.

armand’s also definitely an underwear sniffer and stealer 💔 he knows that bestie’s endeared by some of his more unconventional displays of affection, but there are lines.

she might be a little off put by the extent of his obsession devotion, so he pokes around in her closet in private. he just needs a little a little piece of her to keep on him at all times, and he always brings the item back eventually, throwing it in with her washing before taking something else.

the hiding under her bed thing 🥺 ugh, he would end up tucked under there eventually to get a break from the world.

i like the thought of bestie finding him between the floorboards and bed frame eventually. instead of being weirded out like a normal person, she’s a little confused and worried about how armand’s doing.

she lies down on the floor so that they can be on the same level while bestie tells him that he can stay under there if he’d like, but there’s no need to. he can lay down in bed with her if he’d like.

she can’t bring herself to destroy it because of the amount of work she put into it, and she can’t share it with anyone because she doesn’t want any of her friends knowing she’s been painting armand…even if it was completely subconscious.

so she tucks the painting into the corner of her studio. one day, her agent stumbles onto it with a profound gasp. bestie’s agent insist that bestie share this painting, that the best pieces are born from an artist loving their subject. as someone that’s studied art for years, the agent can feel the amount of adoration behind every brushstroke.

bestie wants to roll her eyes and dismiss the comments, so she does her best to look at the painting objectively. it’s then that she realizes that the painting is something that could have only been made by someone in love.

He’s also very big on feeding you. It helps that he’s typically ravenous after anyway, but he loves to stand in front of the open fridge with his arms hanging loose around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder, nuzzling your cheek and neck while you peruse. Or if you’re too wiped out to move (thankyouverymuch) he’s more than happy to gather up a haul and bring it upstairs, all the while knowing it’s just fuel for the next round.

B is for Body (their favorite body part on them and on their partner)

He’s not stupid, he knows he’s got good hair. People love to touch it, run ther fingers through it, gently brush it from his face. Girls ask him all the time what products he uses, or what his routine is (he doesn’t have one, it just kinda…..does this?) but they’re convinced he’s just gatekeeping. 

And he likes it too, don’t get him wrong, but he kind of thinks people are so mesmerized by the hair they don’t notice his actual best feature, which is his eyes. They’re so big and round and brown, they give away all his secrets. They burn with intensity when he’s chasing down the puck or checking someone into the boards; they go all wet and glassy when he’s watching a sad movie no matter how neutral the rest of his face is. And when you’re having sex, they say everything he’s thinking—all the things he can’t quite say out loud because it’s hard for him sometimes. They show you just how in it he is, how deeply invested he is in you and him and this moment; how much he wants this with you today, tomorrow, the next day, and every day after. Forever.

On you? It would be quicker to list the parts he doesn’t love, because there aren’t any. But if he has to pick a favorite, he thinks it probably would be your neck. He loves how sensitive it is, the way you unravel when his lips graze the space behind your ear and it sends shivers down your spine; loves the way you writhe when he kisses a little deeper, when kisses turn to gentle sucks and bites and playful flicks of his tongue over the tender flesh; loves to bury his face in its crook and inhale the scant traces of your perfume that drives him absolutely wild; loves to lick from the base of your throat all the way up to your earlobe that he sucks into his mouth.

D is for Dirty (a dirty little secret of theirs)

He’s got a lot of fantasies that skew pretty porny, and almost all of them center around him fulfilling some kind of handyman role. He hangs a shelf, he unclogs a drain, he fixes a busted radiator—all while some sweet thing in a skimpy little outfit is giving him big eyes, making excuses to touch his arm, cooing her thanks, asking if there’s anything, anything at all, she can do to repay him. 

He also kind of loves “stuck” porn. Usually the ones where the girl is trying to get something out of the washing machine and she gets caught. Just hangs there virtually helpless with her ass in the air, the hem of her short skirt barely skimming the bottom of it, just begging for a pair of rough hands to come up behind her and slide it up to her waist, revealing her glistening center. The guy can touch her, finger her, eat her out, fuck her, and all she can do is take it.

He kind of questions what that says about him, like, as a person at first. But when you find out about it and you’re not only understanding but super down to try it? He’s fucking thrilled.

H is for Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I mean, if you think the hair on his head is thick and luxurious…

I is for Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

This bitch invented intimacy. Cradling your cheek in his palm, brushing the pad of his thumb over your lips just to feel how soft they are before his head drops down for a taste. Rests his forehead against yours when his thrusts start to pick up, his brows drawn in concentration, his jaw falling open and hanging slightly slack because holy shit this feels so good. Not just good, but right. Everything about it, you and him being together like this, is so right he can’t even believe it’s real. He’s been waiting his whole life to feel just once like he’s in the right place at the right time and it’s finally happened. He needs this intimacy with you—craves it, even. It’s what sustains him, what keeps him coming back looking for more even when his old avoidant ways are knock, knock, knocking at the door in his head and pointing urgently at the watches on their wrists.

J is for Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)

Logan was never really a “jacking-off” kind of guy. From the time that he was old enough to get girls, he could just…get girls. He didn’t need to resort to fucking his own fist like some kind of teenager enslaved to his hormones. Once in a while, he’d do it to help him get to sleep if he was having a hard time doing so, but it wasn’t, like, habitual. That is, until you came into the picture.

Now, his head is so overrun with you he can barely get anything done—he’s totally distracted thinking about you, or remembering the last time you were together, or imagining what it’ll be like the next time he sees you. He’s a man possessed, and jacking off has now become a necessity. He’s almost forced to do it just so he can have a clear head for an hour or so before it starts all over.

K is for Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Lingere. He’s definitely got a thing for lingerie. Like, more than the base level appeal it holds for most guys, he’s pretty certain. He doesn’t even need a full set to get him going. Sometimes a fleeting glimpse of a dainty strap, or seeing the top of a pair of thigh-highs is enough to make him sweat. But if you come at him with the works—bra, panties, tights, garter belt, maybe a little sheer dress or cape he can rip off of you? Oh, brother, that boy is gone. His knees will hit the floor so hard it leaves a divot, and he will crawl to you with those big, round, begging eyes.

T is for Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t own any toys himself, but he’s veeery interested in your collection. Gives you some shit when he first stumbles upon them, teasing grin spread wide, his eyes dancing impishly as he’s bringing them out of your nightstand. But then he starts kissing you and running his hands all over your body, so hot and bothered at the thought of you laying in your bed cumming over and over with your bullet he can’t help but ask if he can watch—or better yet, use one on you himself.

Some guys think of toys as the enemy, but John sees them for what they truly are: teammates.

U is for Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He is first and foremost a little shit, so he teases you quite a lot. Likes to talk a big game about all the ways he’s going to make you wait, and beg, and squirm, and plead for him to give you what you want. But when the moment actually comes? Oh, he’s folding so fast. All you have to do is look up at him with those eyes (those fucking eyes) and he’s melting into a puddle of need.

V is for Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s very verbal and vocal, but he tries really hard not to be. Most of his sounds are these deep and guttural grunts and groans he’s struggling to repress or muffle in the name of trying to maintain some semblance of control. Hushed whispers of “Oh, fuck…” when he slides inside you the first time, followed by shaky moans at the feeling of your slick heat enveloping him, his mind spinning out of control. And the longer you go for, the harder it gets for him to hold back, the more noises he starts to make. He gasps and pants and fucking whimpers when he slams his lips into yours for a kiss, trying to disguise his not-remotely-disguiseable desperation.

Getting him to agree had been easy. One kiss to his pouty lips and he caved. Garrett never needs much convincing when it comes to you. If you asked him to jump, he’d probably ask how high.

Which is exactly why he’d agreed to your mysterious “lip balm challenge” without so much as a question. 

So now you’re sitting on his lap on the desk chair in his room, your phone propped up on a stack of textbooks and random notebooks. Various flavoured lip balms are scattered across the desk between his laptop with the unfinished essay he’d been working on before you barged in and distracted him.

Not that he seemed to mind.

“What are we doing again?” Garrett murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice low.

One arm is wrapped loosely around your waist, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your side beneath your shirt while his other hand rests possessively on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze. He’s buried his face in your neck, clearly much more interested in kissing you than filming anything.

You laugh softly.

“I bought some lip balms and you have to guess the flavour,” you explain, trying—and failing—not to smile at the thought of the reaction you know is coming.

“Hm, okay.”

He presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear with a content sigh, his chin resting on your shoulder while he waits patiently for you to start.

You hit record and brighten immediately, holding up the collection of colorful tubes.

“So, I’ll be testing these flavoured lip balms and my current boyfriend, Garrett, has to guess the flavour,” you say smoothly, feeling the way he freezes beneath you. “They’re pretty wacky flavors, so we’ll see how well he does.”

For a moment, he’s completely silent. But then, without a word, Garrett reaches around you and presses stop to the recording.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, his eyebrows drawing together. “What did you just say?”

You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. “Baby, I already explained the trend to you. Keep up.”

His expression somehow becomes even more offended when you ignore him and press record again, popping open one of the lip balms.

“Here,” you say, turning toward him after applying it.

But, to your surprise, he dodges your kiss.

“Garrett, come on,” you whine, puckering your lips.

“I’m not kissing you if you think I’m your ‘current boyfriend’.”

His pout is ridiculous.

“It’s just a saying,” you huff, desperately trying not to laugh.

“Well, I don’t like it.” He removes his hands from you and crosses his arms dramatically. “Do you have a list somewhere? Future boyfriends lined up for when you get tired of your ‘current’ one?”

You nearly lose it.

Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and turn further in his lap, your phone continuing to record in the background, utterly forgotten.

“It was a joke, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.

His eyes soften immediately afterward, though, because apparently even fake indignation has limits when he’s looking at you.

“Only my forever partner gets to call me that.”

“Aww,” you coo, heart melting at his words. You wrap your arms around his neck and press a kiss to the tip of his nose.

He watches you carefully, his expression suspicious but completely helpless when you smile at him.

“It was a prank,” you whisper, your lips brushing his.

“Not a very funny one,” Garrett grumbles.

“No, like, that's the only reason we’re recording something.”

You nod toward your phone with a grin, which is when understanding dawns on his face.

“I knew you were being sneaky,” he whispers back, shaking his head fondly.

Garrett smiles, and it isn’t one of his cocky grins or the easy smile he gives reporters and teammates. It’s the smile that only ever belongs to you, the one reserved for quiet moments and whispered confessions, and it makes your heart squeeze because you know you’re one of the very few people who get to see it. 

“There’s nothing current about us,” you confess softly, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I hope you know that.”

“Oh, I know that.” He then smirks. “Already bought a ring, so you can’t get rid of me now.”

“What?!” Your shriek echoes through the room, earning a burst of laughter from him when you smack his shoulder with a little too much force.

“Yeah, but since you already told everyone I’m your ‘current boyfriend’, I guess I’ll have to take it back…”

You stare at him. “I can’t tell if you're joking.”

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

His grin widens at your expression, leaning forward and reaching past you to stop the recording. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he finally kisses you.

And apparently, he’s been waiting. Because the second your lips touch, he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him with a pleased hum.

The chair squeaks beneath the two of you as he stands, effortlessly lifting you along with him.

By the time he finally pulls away, you’re slightly breathless and staring at him with flushed cheeks.

“Hm,” he says thoughtfully.

“What?” You murmur, watching as his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

“Cherry cola?”

“Huh?”

“The lip balm.”

Your brows furrow for a second before realization dawns on you. Right, the stupid challenge. The whole reason you'd dragged Garrett away from his homework and set your phone up in the first place had almost completely slipped your mind after he'd kissed you senseless. 

“Um, yeah,” you answer after a beat. “It was.”

“It’s nice,” he says, his eyes sparkling mischievously. And before you can even process it, he tosses you onto the bed with a laugh. 

The playful look on his face—and the unmistakable glint in his eyes—tell you that he definitely hasn't forgotten your little “current boyfriend” comment just yet.