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Fate brings together to strangers from different sides of the world.

A short story in which Ilya, member of the Priory of the Orange Tree, helps Shane, dragonrider from East.

⚔️ hollanov

🍊 the priory of the orange tree!AU

🐉 strangers to lovers, fantasy

CaitVi Post Cannon HeadCannons

Content warning: fluff fluff and more fluff, obviously post cannon, mentions of severe trauma, hurt comfort? If I need to add anything lmk!!

Authors note: thought of some headcannons for them and wanted to post them. Ik I usually don’t post like character x character but I wanted to so meh. Also my requests are still open and you can find all the information you need in my introduction.

Wordcount: 522

Masterlist: Introduction:

i'm genuinely unable to stop thinking abt Armand and reader and this is definitely me projecting but i loveee the idea of reader having rlly cold hands (&feet) and not even noticing at first how cold armand is (physically) i just think he'd be so concerned like wdym ur thoughts didnt even register my hand being cold when i passed u something or like maybe she does realise but doesn't piece together its because he's a vampire until one random night shes like 'ohh yeah' Also (again im projecting here) but i love thinking abt reader doing writing on the side (poetry or smthn like that) and armand finding some and having to fight to not read them cus it's such and intrusion of privacy but also he wants to know her more deeply. ugh i love him sm. Sorry this has nothing to do w assistant reader (?) but i need to express my armand brain rot to someone who gets it.

(apologies this is so long)

-🦇

It’s…alarming.

All the times he’d handed her a drink, every time her fingers brushed his, every time she accidentally bumped into his bare skin, nothing.

Vampires are cold, of course they’re cold, they’re dead. It’s impossible not to notice the temperature difference. Flesh and blood meeting corpse. Usually an accidental touch would result in a flinch and a hasty explanation. But not with her.

She just would smile and accept the drink, or apologize for bumping into him, no thoughts at all about feeling his cold hands. No alarm bells, no shock or surprise…

Is she healthy? Her blood did seem to behave oddly, perhaps a dysfunctional autonomic system, but she didn’t seem ill? Perhaps he’d do some digging into her medical records to check.

It would create a mess if she were to suddenly fall ill. Ever the interesting case.

· ·─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ ·

She’s awake long into the night, as usual; nearly nocturnal thing. He’d offered to make her a nightcap and she’d laughed.

“What’s funny?”

She chuckles again before answering, “I don’t know…the fact that you’re still playing bartender? Don’t get me wrong you’re very skilled at it, but I can make my own drinks.”

He seizes the opening, “You strongly dislike other people doing things for you.” It’s not a question, and he knows it will strike a chord, but the warmth that blossoms in her checks is well worth it.

“Not really.”

He looks at her pointedly when she doesn’t elaborate.

She sighs, resigned to relinquish this bit of information, “I’ve worked in the service industry before as a survival job. I know how rude people can be and the horrors servers have to deal with. Just…makes me feel like I’m exploiting them.”

She is endlessly interesting. Fascinating, even.

“I’m offering. You’re a guest in my home. And like you said, I’m very good at it.”

“But-“

“Just accept it,” He says her name in that smooth and gentle way that he knows will have her acquiescing, just like everyone does. She chews on her lip and nods at him after a moment of pondering. He turns so she can’t see the minuscule smile he can’t keep off his face.

It takes him mere moments to make the cocktail just the way she likes, an amaretto sour, the ingredients at the top of the bar cart left over from his time as Rashid. And if the amaretto and sour mix were always topped off, what of it?

She’s hard at work transcribing their solo session at the dining room table, something about being more productive when she’s not sitting on the couch or in her bed.

Even before he extends his hand, she’s turning and reaching out hers to grab the drink, as if she’d known exactly the moment he’d been there to give it to her. Hmm.

“Thank you, Armand.” He’s still not entirely used to her sincerity, though he’s loathe to admit that. He’s very happy and secure in his relationship, thank you very much, Daniel Molloy.

She grabs the glass and her fingers brush his again absentmindedly, and he’s struck again by thoughts he’s had since they met. It makes him freeze in his spot as he reheats those leftover thoughts, remembering the medical charts he’d looked at one night.

Something must shift in the atmosphere, the vibe in the room changing, imperceptible to most but not to her. Inquisitive eyes find his calculating ones, brows atop them furrowed.

“Is something wrong?”

Armand shakes his head, a little dismissive laugh that’s more of an exhalation of breath as he sits in the chair next to her.

“You don’t…you have no reaction to the temperature difference.”

“The…what?” She says around the rim of her glass.

He looks at her like, well not like she’s stupid, but in disbelief at the entire situation.

“Surely you’ve noticed our difference in temperature?” He gestures to his hands, “We’ve had skin on skin contact many times, and yet you never seem to mind the chill.”

Now it’s her turn to stare at him in disbelief, but it morphs into a little smile as she takes another sip of her drink.

“Armand.” And it’s a bit mocking.

He replies with her name in the same tone.

Her glass is set down on the table with a small clink before she’s wiping her hands on her thighs. She cocks her head ever so slightly and holds out her right hand to him.

“Take my hand.”

What.

“What?”

She laughs again, and it’s a lighter sound, one of her laughs where something has genuinely amused her.

“Just take my hand. Surely you’ve noticed?” She wiggles her fingers enticingly.

Asking him to hold her hand? After the other day, after all of this, and she’s just…?

He’s never going to fully understand her. And isn’t that insane? This one mortal, this one person on this earth with the life of a mayfly who will live and die in less than 100 years, is an endless spool of thread to unravel.

He will never tire of her it.

With a long suffering sigh that is clearly not genuine, his clawed hands take the one she’s offered him. He feels a flash in her mind the second her skin meets his. A spike in adrenaline, in heart rate. It’s impossible not to notice the way her blood pumps faster, the way her breathing quickens, but only just barely. But it’s gone as soon as it comes. Either she’s tamping it down, blocking him from her mind, or the feeling has passed.

“So?” She prompts.

He glances back up to meet her eyes, broken out of his stupor. Oh, right, her hand.

Turning his focus back to the limb in his grasp, he notices for the first time that it’s cold. Not as cold as his, obviously, there’s still living flesh and blood circulating through it but…it’s definitely cooler than expected. A lot cooler than expected.

The grip on her hand becomes more investigative, inspecting.

“It’s…cold.” He looks up at her. “But you always complain about being hot?” It’s true, at least once a day.

“I know, doesn’t make sense, does it? Internally I always feel warm, but my hands and feet usually run cold. In the winter, they feel like little ice packs.” Her voice wavers a tiny bit as she finishes because Armand is tracing his claws over the skin of her palm and down her fingers, seemingly enraptured. She’s so close in temperature to him, a half a millennia old creature of the night.

“You didn’t notice because your hands are already freezing.”

“Exactly.” He’s still holding her hands, running his thumbs over the back of her palms, turning them over and holding them. He can feel her pulse beneath her skin, separated by a mere four millimeters of tissue and vein, rising up to meet him.

“Your hands are a little colder than mine but I just assumed you had poor circulation.”

He smiled again, “That’s one way of explaining our condition.”

“Your delicate condition, you make it sound like you’re a sickly Victorian woman. Need to take you to the sea.”

It’s not unkind when his grip tightens on her hand, it’s not scary or malicious. Teasing. As expected.

“I think you’re the one who needs a trip to the seaside to get well again. Cold hands, fatigue, insomnia, I could go on.”

The roll of her eyes is dramatic and over exaggerated, “Yes, yes, point out the flaws in my mortal life and body. What seaside are we going to?”

We. We. The word makes his still heart beat.

“We’ll see.” With a final squeeze, he releases her hand and places it back onto the table.

They both already miss the contact, but neither will say.

The sun will be rising soon, not that it matters to Armand, daywalker that he is, but Louis will be missing him.

“Drink is fantastic as always.” She smiles over the rim of her cup again, taking another swig. Armand nods, standing as he does so. She’s trying to pretend she’s not actively staring at him as he does. His hands, his shoulders, his neck, his hair, his eyes. But he can see it all through her mind. Him through her. And he cannot dwell on the way she looks at him, the lens she captures him in. It will take his breath away.

So instead, he leans down, hand on the back of her chair, mouth not too far from her ear.

“Try not to stay up till sunrise, will you? I don’t want to find you passed out here.”

Her composure cracks a sliver, and the full body chill he gets in response is delicious.

“I’ll try. But no promises.”

“I’m sure you can do it. Make sure you have dreams so I can wish you pleasant ones.” His hand lingers on her shoulder for a moment before he leaves. And he doesn’t have to see her to know how warm she gets, he can feel it from feet away.