Work Text:
“cof·fin
/ˈkôfən,ˈkäfən/
noun
a long, narrow box, typically of wood, in which a corpse is buried or cremated.
Middle English (in the general sense ‘box, casket’): from Old French cofin ‘little basket or case’, from Latin cophinus (see coffer).”
To lay with death. Is that what this was? Curled up beside one who should have died long before you met him. The coffin was a home to such perverted intimacy, a place where whispered secrets could be lost into the morning air. He spoke more than you, though that was to be expected at this point. He didn’t push, and you didn’t pull, lulled into the impossibly false sense of security masked by the cloud of wooden musk that surrounded you both. Ironic was a way to describe it, to feel more alive than ever while your heart refused to beat.
He hadn’t turned you; he’d mentioned countless times his distaste for the idea of making a fledgling of his own. No, the once who had blessed you with the dark gift had left you in the dust the second it drove you crazy. He had just been the one lucky enough to find you half dead and blood-drunk in the middle of the Parisian streets. You were barely coherent enough to give your name, you didn’t even recall how he’d gained it. Likely one of his various tricks that he pulled out of thin air, that was how you had learned his after all, the word spoken to you like a soft breeze through your hazy mind.
Armand. French in origin, “Army man.” He, however, was not one to fight, not in the traditional sense at least. He had others fight his battles, moving the pieces like a chess master.
“You’re staring...”
The words pulled you out of your thoughts, your gaze flickering up to meet his. His eyes glowed in the dim light, illuminating a space that should have been as black as the night that was now escaping you. Not that you could see it, locked with him in the space he rested. You had your own coffin, though it rarely got used these days.
“You’re the one who comes crawling to me every night, worrying about my safety,” he hummed, that intense look raking over your form.
You sighed, pressing closer to him and resting your head on his chest. With a tone that certainly lacked any annoyance, you mumbled, “Get out of my head.”
“You can block me out,” he responded, his free hand wrapping around the nape of your neck to hold you in place. “Why do you think you can never hear me?”
You could only shake your head, your eyes fluttering shut as you focused inwards. No one else could hear you two, that much you were certain of. You’d scanned the halls about a dozen times before Armand had lured you to sleep. The coven knew of your... affections for one another, though everyone assumed it to be yet another one of their maître's charity cases. The only thing you had going for yourself was your intimidation factor, something that had followed you since your childhood. Everyone in your village had assumed you either possessed or a walking curse, all merely because of your presence. You didn’t speak often, and when you did it was short and blunt. The only one who had seemed to see past that was the very person holding you gently as he read.
And that was all you needed. He had his moments, and it was obvious to anyone who looked between you two that Armand saw you as another piece to elevate his image. That was why he trailed you along everywhere he went like you had a leash, it was your duty to follow, to scare anyone not thrown off by his willowy build and inhuman stare. His skin shined a warm gold, one no human could give off without the aid of cosmetics. His eyes were an autumnal shade of orange, warm enough to blend until it was impossible to tell where the shadows merged into highlights. It was obvious he was no ordinary man, and yet people still dared treat him like he was a plague.
But that was where you came in, where you began your work. And as a reward, you were treated to moments like this; away from everyone, just you, him, and his notes on the theater’s performance.
He flipped through the script, propped up by his knee as he underlined sentences and made notes only he understood. It was a routine at this point; you didn’t sleep until you were sure he had already retired to a meditative state. His age made it, so he didn’t need sleep the way you did, yet he still indulged you in your fits of protectiveness. Perhaps it was the fledgling mindset you still clung to, the one he encouraged you to stay in. Jealousy clung to you when anyone dared approach him, even know just reminiscing on one who had gotten too close today had your heart racing furiously.
“Breathe,” he commanded, the clawed fingers on your nape trailing down to graze your spine.
You did as you were told, despite not even needing to breathe. The air passed through your lungs, doing little to inflate them. It escaped through your mouth, a masquerade of a human tendency. Your hands encircled his waist, nails toying with the hem of his nightshirt, aimlessly grabbing just to grab. Just to prove your claim on him.
“Did you feed tonight?” Armand asked, his tone low. “You weren’t on stage with the other’s performance. I thought the bloodletting would’ve enticed you enough to show your face on stage.”
“The scent made me wretch,” you confessed.
“Too much in his system...” he trailed off, looking down at you. You heard the familiar scratching of his pen against the paper before he set it down.
In a flash, you felt his skin pressed up on your lips. Opening your eyes revealed him baring his wrist for you, the veins underneath coursing with blood that would never naturally return to them. You shook your head, though that only made his scent flood you even more.
“I’ll live,” you hissed, “I can always hunt tomorrow while you rehearse.”
“...Drink,” he ordered simply, nudging his olive-skinned hand over your teeth. Instantly, you felt your fangs begin to sink out, implored by his words to do as he said.
There was little more protest as you accepted his offer, your hunger outweighing your emotions. You hadn’t even realized how starved you were until you bit down, teeth piercing the fragile flesh that held him together. The warm, saccharine liquid spilling down your throat, your eyes rolling back at the feeling. He had to have known you hadn’t eaten, stuffing a victim with your favorite tones before draining them dry. That was the only explanation, as this hadn’t been the disgust worthy blood you had scented early at the theater. This was earthy, blooming on your tongue with spice like a holiday drink, and borderline nostalgic. Even as it leaked down his arm, there was an effort made to lap at the spillage, savoring it like liquid gold.
You could’ve sat there for hours, slowly nursing at the honeyed ichor that swelled from the plump puncture wound. He knew this, having to pull you away once he deemed you full enough. His thumb swiped over your bottom lip as you unlatched from him, looking up to meet his stare. His – now bloody – finger pushed past your lips, wiping off the excess onto your tongue. You sighed, relishing in the moment of pressure before he pulled away. You could still taste the way the blood mingled with his skin, adding a delicacy to the way it leveled in your mouth. It was now his. No longer was it a life force stolen from another, you could truly taste Armand in it. You could taste how his natural vanilla sweetness hung off the blood’s richer tone, like a wisteria blood hanging from its branch.
His hand wandered, cupping the side of your face and holding your gaze on him. He tilted his head, ever so slightly due to the confined climate, inspecting your blown out pupils. He smiled, condescendingly soft as his words slipped out, “You look at me like you’re a dog.”
He was right, he always was. You were at his beck and call, only speaking when he asked you to. But, like a dog’s would be, your loyalty was rewarded.
He pulled you closer, his lips pressing against your hairline in a chaste kiss.
“Rest,” He ordered, his voice piercing through the walls you had put up. They were never strong enough to keep him out, perhaps you never wanted him to lose that tether to you. Perhaps you were just weak. His charms certainly kept you tied to him, your eyes growing heavy despite your wishes, shutting you into a familiar dark world.