#vampirelevi

But, just in case you missed it... My Levi prompts from Feb! Enjoy (again, probably)!

Rainwater dripped from the iron rail as you descended the spiral staircase beneath Denfert-Rochereau, each step carrying you farther from the wet cobblestones and café conversations of Paris and deeper into something that had forgotten the sun.

Ever since finding the carved flame three nights ago, sleep had become impossible. Every dream ended in smoke and a name you didn’t recognize when you woke.

Your headlamp cut a white tunnel through the ossuary. The walls of stacked femurs and skulls watched without blinking. Sound died strangely here—the drip of water from the limestone ceiling arrived muffled, as though the bones themselves absorbed it. Twice you stopped, certain another set of footsteps had echoed behind your own. Both times the passage behind you was empty.

The side chamber waited at the end of the permitted tunnel, low-ceilinged and colder than the main ossuary. The kit settled onto the stone floor in its usual careful arrangement: sharpened pointing trowel, brushes of three sizes, dustpan, finds bags, graph paper, measuring tape, scale, camera, gloves. Sketches of the niche already filled the plan. Every layer removed so far had been photographed in place. Protocol required that nothing significant be disturbed without the team present. That rule had already been set aside for the night.

Thin, even scrapes removed the next layer of earth. Carefully, the smallest brush swept away the remaining soil. Metal emerged against the carved back wall: a tarnished oval locket engraved with roses and a single flame. Photographs should have been taken first. Measurements should have been logged. Instead the locket came free in gloved fingers and opened under the headlamp.

The miniature inside showed a young woman with your eyes and the same small mole beneath her left ear. Around her throat hung a pendant identical to the one your grandmother had left you—the one you kept in a box because wearing it made your skin feel too tight.

The locket slipped into your jacket pocket without logging it. The omission would leave a hole in the site’s provenance—a mistake no responsible archaeologist would ever make.

A figure stood where the light gave way to darkness.

So still you thought, for one impossible moment, that he had always been there.

Black hair.

Pale skin.

Eyes like winter river water.

Your hand closed around the handle of the trowel. “This is a restricted excavation.”

He said nothing at first. His gaze moved across the tools. Without asking, he nudged the measuring tape away from the damp edge of the trench before aligning the largest brush with the trowel.

“Your notes will smear,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “How do you know my name?”

He looked at you for a long moment. “You’ll remember.”

Your headlamp flickered.

Not once.

Three times.

Each pulse left him standing a little closer than before.

The air in the chamber shifted. For three heartbeats it smelled of beeswax and lavender. Someone laughed—light, then abruptly cut off. Ash drifted through candlelight that wasn’t there. Cold iron pressed against skin that wasn’t yours. A church bell tolled once, somewhere far above or inside your own skull. A voice that was not yours whispered in French you had never studied: Run, mon amour.

You pressed your free hand to your temple. “What is this?”

He did not answer. Dust moved along the floor where there was no air current. One skull no longer seemed to fit the pattern. You couldn’t remember whether it had always been facing this way.

You held up the open locket. “This belonged to her.”

His eyes changed for a fraction of a second—something ancient and stripped bare moving behind them—before the stillness returned.

“Yes.”

You should have left. You stayed. “What happened to her?”

He studied the carved flame on the wall as though reading a language only he could see. “They burned her.”

The smell of woodsmoke returned, stronger this time, threaded with lavender and the sharp sweetness of melting beeswax. Fragments surfaced and vanished: ash drifting, someone laughing, cold iron, church bells, a desperate whisper.

Your palm slipped on the edge of the carved stone. A shallow cut opened across the pad of your thumb. Blood welled, dark and immediate.

He noticed. His posture did not change, but something in the air around him tightened. He took one deliberate step back, as though the distance required effort. His eyes fixed on the small bead of blood for one long second before he looked away.

You wrapped your thumb in the edge of your glove. “Who are you?”

Another long silence. Then, quietly: “Someone who’s tired of waiting.”

“You break excavation protocol often?”

“Only tonight.”

“That’s usually how disasters begin.”

You should have been afraid. Part of you was. The rest of you—the part that had lied to your professor, ignored safety rules, and pocketed evidence you had no right to take—felt only a terrible, magnetic recognition.

Footsteps echoed from the main tunnel. Security. Or Dr. Moreau coming to check on the student who had stayed too late. The sound was real and ordinary and somehow more frightening than anything else in the chamber.

The man in the coat did not move. “If you return tomorrow night,” he said, “come alone. The lower chamber beyond this one.”

You swallowed. “Why would I come back?”

He looked at you for a long moment. The answer, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“Because you already have.”

He turned and walked into the deeper dark. No footsteps followed him. No breath. The shadows simply took him.

You stood alone, the locket heavy in your pocket. The puddle of water near your boots still showed only your own reflection and the carved wall behind you. The skulls watched. The air smelled of limestone again, and rain on old Paris stone.

You climbed the spiral staircase on legs that did not feel entirely yours. At first you thought the second rhythm beneath your ribs was the distant Métro. Then you counted.

Your pulse.

Another pulse.

Not matching yours.

At the surface the night air hit you cold and wet. Rain slicked the cobblestones. Distant sirens wailed somewhere near the river. Café conversations spilled from open doorways. Pigeons startled into flight from a wet ledge overhead. The smell of espresso and rain mixed with the mineral scent still clinging to your clothes. Church bells tolled across the city—Notre-Dame or Sacré-Cœur, you could not tell which.

You pulled the locket from your pocket. It was warm against your palm. You were certain it had been cold when you freed it from the earth.

You did not log it. You did not text Dr. Moreau the truth. You stood in the rain outside the catacombs entrance, fingers curled around the small metal oval, listening to a heartbeat that did not belong to you.

When you finally looked back toward the entrance, there was no one standing on the stone steps.

But the rain had stopped falling on them.

The part of you that was still a rational archaeology student whispered that you were losing your mind.

Somewhere beneath Paris, another heartbeat kept perfect time with your own.

You returned the next night.

The rain had returned with you, thin and relentless, turning the cobblestones outside Denfert-Rochereau slick and reflective. You had told yourself again that you were only going for answers. The lie felt thinner each time you repeated it. Somewhere beneath the city, another heartbeat kept perfect time with your own. It had not stopped since you climbed the spiral stairs.

The ossuary received you in silence. The skulls watched. The drip of water marked time like a slow pulse. You did not pause when you thought you heard footsteps behind you. You kept walking.

The side chamber was unchanged. Your tools still lay where he had aligned them. The locket in your pocket was warm. You crossed to the narrow passage at the back without hesitation and descended into the lower chamber.

Candles flickered to life as you entered, though no hand had touched them. The stone bier stood at the center, velvet dark as old blood. He waited beside it.

Black coat. Black hair. Eyes like winter water. He did not speak at first. He simply looked at you, and the weight of centuries pressed between you like another presence in the room.

“You came,” he said at last. The words were quiet, almost reluctant.

“I had to.”

He studied your face. “The bond has already begun. The locket. The blood you left in the earth. The heartbeat you now carry that is not yours.” A pause. “It will grow stronger whether you stay or go. But only one choice completes it.”

You stepped closer. The air smelled of damp limestone and something older beeswax, smoke, the faint metallic tang of blood long since dried. “What happens if I stay?”

He chose his words with care. “You drink from me. I drink from you. The change takes what remains of your mortal life and remakes it. Sunlight becomes pain. Hunger becomes constant. Time becomes endless. And you are bound to me until the world itself ends.” His gaze did not waver. “You will remember everything. The love. The fire. The waiting.”

Your throat tightened. “And if I leave?”

“I walk you back to the surface. The memories fade. You finish your degree. You live a mortal life. And I return to the dark to wait for the next time your soul finds its way here.”

The thought of him standing in this chamber for another four centuries made something inside you fracture.

You took the final step that closed the distance. “I don’t want to forget you again.”

His eyes closed for one brief second. When they opened, the perfect control had thinned at the edges. He reached out and brushed a strand of damp hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers—cool, reverent.

“Mon amour,” he whispered. The French slipped out like something he had kept locked away for centuries. “Tu es revenue à moi.”

You rose on your toes and kissed him.

Four centuries of grief and longing poured into the contact. His mouth was cool at first, then warmed against yours with startling hunger. His hands cradled your face as though you might vanish. You tasted rain and salt your own tears and something darker, older, like the earth remembering fire.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead to yours. “There is no going back after this.”

“I know.”

He led you to the stone bier. The velvet was soft beneath your palms as he laid you down with infinite care. Each layer of clothing was removed like something sacred your jacket, your shirt, the locket set gently aside on the stone. His coat and shirt followed. His body was pale, lean, marked with old scars that had never fully healed even in immortality. He moved over you with the same economy he brought to everything, precise and controlled, until control finally fractured.

His mouth traced your throat. He did not bite yet. He simply breathed you in, lips brushing the pulse that now beat in time with his own.

“Tu sens comme elle,” he murmured against your skin. “Comme le retour à la maison après des siècles de pluie.”

You arched beneath him, hands sliding into his hair. Fragments of memory sharpened and dissolved: candle smoke, lavender, the taste of shared wine, strong hands pulling you into shadow, the crackle of flames, your own voice screaming a name that belonged to both of you.

He kissed lower, reverent and unhurried. When he reached the small cut on your thumb from the night before, he pressed his lips to it. The wound closed completely beneath his tongue.

Then he looked up at you, eyes dark with centuries of waiting.

“May I?”

You nodded.

He bit.

The fangs sank into the soft skin just above your collarbone precise, controlled, almost gentle. The pain was sharp and bright, then melted into liquid heat that flooded your veins. You gasped, back arching off the velvet. He drank slowly, one hand cradling the back of your head. With every pull, more memories returned not in fragments now, but in waves. Laughter in candlelight. The safety of his arms while the world outside burned. Nights of shared breath and skin and whispered French. The terror of the trial. The flames. His roar of anguish as they dragged you away.

Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes. Not from pain. From recognition so complete it hurt.

He sealed the wound with his tongue and rose over you again. His own wrist was already bleeding where he had cut it clean, deliberate. He offered it without a word.

You took his wrist. The blood was rich, metallic, alive with centuries. The moment it touched your tongue, the world shifted.

Fire and ice raced through your veins. Your senses exploded every flicker of candlelight became sharp as starlight, every scent layered and complex, the second heartbeat now thundering in perfect sync with your own. Strength flooded your limbs. Hunger deep, ancient, aching woke in your chest. And beneath it all, the bond snapped into place like a lock finding its key.

You cried out, tears flowing freely now. Joy. Grief. Love so vast it had no name. The memories crashed over you in full every night he had stood in this chamber speaking your name to the dark, every century of loneliness he had carried for you.

He kissed the tears from your cheeks. “Pleure, mon amour. Ces larmes sont sacrées.”

You pulled him down to you. The joining was inevitable bodies moving together with the certainty of souls that had done this before. He entered you slowly, deeply, a low sound escaping him that carried four centuries of restraint finally breaking. You wrapped your legs around him and met every thrust with your own, nails digging into his back.

The blood play wove through it like a second rhythm. He bit your throat again as he moved inside you deeper this time, drinking while pleasure built in tight, relentless waves. You bit his shoulder in return, the taste of his blood sending fresh ecstasy through both of you. Every shared swallow tightened the bond until you could feel his pleasure as your own, his centuries of waiting as your own grief finally healed.

“Je t’aime,” he whispered against your skin between thrusts, voice rough with emotion. “Je t’ai aimée à travers le feu et le temps. Tu es mienne. Pour toujours.”

The climax, when it came, was not merely physical. It was the shattering and remaking of everything you had been. You came with his name on your lips Céleste’s name and yours at once. body shaking, tears streaming down your face from the overwhelming pleasure of the bond snapping fully into place. Wave after wave of ecstasy rolled through you, each one carrying fragments of memory and centuries of love. He followed you over the edge with a broken groan, burying his face in your throat as he spilled deep inside you, still drinking, still giving.

The change completed in the afterglow.

You lay tangled together on the velvet-draped stone, his arms around you, his heartbeat now perfectly synced with yours. The candles burned lower. The chamber no longer felt like a tomb. It felt like home.

You turned your face into his chest. “I remember everything.”

His hand stroked your hair with infinite tenderness. “Then you know what we lost. And what we have regained.”

You lifted your head to look at him. His eyes were soft in a way you had never seen open, unguarded, full of a love that had outlasted fire and centuries.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” you said.

He kissed your forehead. “Nor am I.”

You stayed like that for a long time two immortals in an ancient chamber beneath Paris, the rain still falling on the city above, the bones of the catacombs keeping their silent vigil. The locket rested between you, warm and whole.

Eventually he spoke again, voice quiet but certain.

“We have all the nights that remain. I will teach you the hunger. The shadows. The beauty that lives only in the dark.” A faint, rare smile touched his mouth. “And I will never let them take you from me again.”

You smiled back through the last of your tears, the joy still trembling in your chest.

“Neither will I.”

He kissed you once more slow, deep, promising eternity.

Above the catacombs, Paris continued its restless night. Below, in the lower chamber that had waited four centuries for your return, two souls that had once burned now began their forever.

The sun had just set and Levi wouldn’t be awake for another hour or so. Being a vampire, he slept during the day and was active at night. He was a typical vampire who couldn’t see his reflection in the mirror, drank blood, and was weakened by sunlight.

Ever since you two had become an item, he didn’t let you go out at night alone. He didn’t let you go out during the day since he couldn’t accompany you. But you had something to do and decided to sneak out and return before he woke. Unfortunately for you, he had sensed movement while he slept and appeared suddenly in front of you, blocking your exit.

The candles lit themselves around him on the walls, casting a dim but warm lights onto his chiseled features. He looked ghostly and pale, but his eyes glinted in the firelight as he watched you. He noticed the lamp in your hands and the cloak around your shoulders.

“And where are you going?” he asked you coldly. “I thought I told you that you weren’t allowed to leave this manor without my permission.”

He took a step closer to you and you could smell his cologne along with the light scent of pine. His long nails were immaculately filed to points and they reached out for you, stroking the two fang marks on your neck.

“Have you forgotten that you and I are connected now that you’ve been marked?” he asked quietly, taking your wrist with his other hand and pulling you slowly towards him. “I can sense your every movement. I hear your every heartbeat, no matter where you go. No matter where you try to run and hide from me.”

He pulled your hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of your wrist softly. His lips were cold, his breath icy on your skin.

“Where is it you were going?” he asked, half closed eyes watching you as he used his sharp fangs to prick your skin, drawing blood. He licked the droplets that fell down your fingers and smirked, his teeth glinting like knives in the darkness.

He took another step closer and pulled you flush against him, one hand in the small of your back. He leaned against your neck and took in a deep breath before chuckling. You could feel his laugh through his chest, sending shivers down your spine.

experience??

in that case what makes you think you are capable of forming a fully developed opinion on the subject

idk friend i dont think you are all 14 year olds