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New York, 1977
With the blackout, the heatwave sent straight from Hell itself, and everything else happening at any given time in New York City, Daniel’s itinerary of interviews and investigative articles has left him swimming in papers, papers, papers. It’s tiring as hell, but the work itself is refreshingly rewarding. For the past few weeks he’s been running off the high of feeling like he’s actually done some good, at least for one sad sack out there in the city. Plus he’s finally gotten used to jumping turnstiles going across-city and back again; Daniel figures he’s probably Public Enemy #1 to whatever useless subway cop is stationed at Lexington Ave, and that makes him feel even more victorious. His fucking arms hurt, though.
On the bright side, he’s got a steady cash flow coming in instead of pouring out for once, thank God, but the cloud to this silver lining is that the sheer volume of shit on his to-do list means he’s had enough free time for just about jack-all. He hasn’t had an actual drink in an actual bar for almost two weeks, never mind scoring any chance at sex. Maybe twenty-five is the age when his shit finally comes together as a fully-fledged adult with a real job.
In sum: he was busy. Busy enough that he neglected himself, but that was pretty much on par with his normal M.O., so all clear there. If his clothes were unwashed after two or three wears or if his hair was more frizz than curl in this muggy heat, then so be it. Again, it’s not like he had any spare time to pursue anything worth looking good for.
Obviously Daniel should have known better— should have known him better— when he swung out of the sleek and shiny office building, straight from another interview with a Rockefeller-wannabe finance mogul, only to catch the sight of Armand waiting for him across the street. It was barely half past seven; fortunately for his part-time vampire paramour, the sun always sets early in the city. Daniel is a little pissed at the whole long-time-no-see schtick he’s been forced into, but he’d be lying if he said the unexpected reunion didn’t make him insanely excited. Daniel thinks they’d need ten years and ten different psychologists to figure out what the hell is wrong with the wires in his brain.
“Your hair looks different,” Armand tells him once he’s crossed the street. He’s propped against a lamp post, affecting a suaveness that must have taken Armand decades to master into looking natural. Daniel doesn’t believe it for a second; he’s seen Armand trip over his own feet the first time Daniel took him to the electronics section at Sears.
“What a polite way of saying it looks like crap, thank you. It’s this heat—“ Daniel gestures to the air surrounding them— “and not everybody has a fan, or the electricity to use it, after the blackout.”
“Humidity’s a bitch, as they say?” Armand parrots, probably having picked the phrase up from the thousands of conversations he hears in the city, both verbal and mental. It gets a laugh out of Daniel, anyways.
Without a word, they begin walking away from the skyscraper, starting towards whatever direction Armand has in mind. “Where’ve you been?” Daniel asks him, noncommittal but curious.
“Vienna, for a time,” Armand replies. “Miami, mostly.”
“Preying on annoying tourists and Long Island retirees?”
Three years ago, Daniel might have balked at the idea of discussing Armand’s feedings so casually. But Daniel has learned that Armand is an evil creature, and his actions are disgusting and evil and beautiful at the same time. They haunt Daniel, they arouse him, but most of all they have made Daniel an accessory to nearly every criminal act in the book, and he’s learned to accept that.
“No, I’m afraid— surveying some real estate. I try not to mix business with pleasure.”
“And what are you here for now, boss? Business or pleasure?”
There’s that special gleam in his eye that says Daniel’s in for an Armand special; it’ll either be eight hours of weird cryptic experimentation that never even considers the line between ethical and unethical, or eight hours of the nastiest, freakiest psychosexual shit that gets Daniel off in ways hitherto unexplored by mankind.
“I am here to take you to the cinema— or, rather, for you to take me. You are free tonight,” Armand says in lieu of asking, “your eight o’clock canceled for tomorrow.”
Daniel stops walking, immediately sensing something off. “Why the hell would he do that? It’s the teachers’ union rep, we’ve been trying to schedule this for months.”
Armand obfuscates. Daniel thinks those two words should always go together. Armand and obfuscate. Kind of like bull and shit . “Shall we find the closest film theater?” Armand prompts.
Daniel’s been working like a dog for weeks now. Whatever Armand’s done to free up his weekend, he won’t worry about it until Monday. He gives up any fight that might have been brewing in his mind, and, curious about whatever devious plans are to come, follows the walking corpse that is his lover to the movies.
It’s the satisfaction, Daniel thinks, that keeps bringing him back.
Armand picks the movie, of course. Never mind that Daniel’s been wanting to see Annie Hall for weeks now, no— of course it’s Saturday Night Fever that’s caught Armand’s eye.
The first alarm that goes off in Daniel’s head happens when they don’t take their usual seats in the row near the front, like Armand prefers. Instead, he leads them to the very back of the room, up the stairs and into the last row. It’s busy enough but not a full house, so they have the row all to themselves. Armand picks two seats in the middle and they sit down. Strategically, Daniel does not comment on the change of seating. Better to just let Armand have his thing.
Once they’ve settled in, it only takes a few minutes for the lights to go down and the film to start rolling. Armand is riveted; his eyes are wide like a child, taking in all the lights, colors, and the dancing prowess of John Travolta.
In typical adolescent fashion, the Bee Gees have barely finished singing ‘Staying Alive’ and already two teenagers tucked into the left corner in front of them have their tongues down each other’s throats. Daniel pays them no mind; who gives a shit, so long as they keep the noise down enough to not bother Armand.
Keeping quiet is evidently not sufficient for his date, who notices the couple immediately and shoots a woeful glare in their direction.
“Inconceivable,” Armand whispers. His eyes are golden slits of fury, and Daniel prays he isn’t feeling arsonous this evening. “They purchase tickets to a show and yet spend their time locked in one another’s embrace. There is no reason they could not do this at home, where they would not bother any of the patrons who have come here to actually enjoy the film.”
Daniel shoots back, “It’s just the way of the world, boss. Cultural stuff, you know. Everybody does it, or did it, when they were kids.”
There’s a short pause where Armand looks at neither the screen, the couple, nor Daniel. He nods after a moment, finally getting what he was looking for. “Ah, Sandy Cormac, at an evening screening of Butch Cassidy.” Alright, so apparently what he was looking for was in Daniel’s head. Whatever, man. “You two ‘made out’ for the entire two hours. Fascinating.”
They finally go back to the movie, Daniel ignoring the blatant mental violation, just in time for Travolta on the screen and another disco hit blasting through the speakers.
It is, admittedly, kind of a shitty film. Whoever wrote the dialogue needs to be on the waitlist for therapy right after Daniel, and even though the bright lights and colorful club scenes should have him entranced, Daniel can’t help but let his mind wander on other things. Mostly he wonders what films will be like in thirty, forty years from now, then the next hundred. What’ll they think of next? When will they run out of crap storylines and bad actors? And will Armand be there, still watching, while Daniel pushes up daisies in a rundown graveyard in California, a new young man under his spell?
“Do not ask me again,” Armand whispers aloud, a clear warning. He’d been listening in, then, not paying full attention to the movie.
“It’s not asking if you’re the one creeping around in my head, asshole.”
“Jealous of a future lover, are you?” Of course that’s what he gets out of Daniel’s messed-up thoughts. “I’m flattered.”
“You wish,” Daniel spits back, and they settle down once again.
Not even twenty minutes later, Daniel feels the unsettling coldness of Armand’s hand on his knee. Daniel says nothing, just basks in the sensation of the touch. He obviously hasn’t fed in a while, a week at least. The fact that Armand’s cold, dead limbs makes Daniel twitch in his jeans has honestly stopped bothering him for a longer time than he’d be willing to admit.
The hand on his knee slides up to his lower thigh. Then higher. Then, just slightly, even higher still.
Daniel sucks in a breath and places his hand atop Armand’s, which doesn’t move from its spot, now on his upper thigh. “We’re in public,” Daniel hisses, a little too loud.
The lady three rows in front turns around to glare pointedly at them. Daniel reads between the lines and moves the conversation to their minds instead. You love movies, he thinks loudly towards Armand. You shouldn’t even remember I’m here right now; you always get so focused whenever we watch something. What gives, man?
Daniel is terrified of the look Armand gives him— like the cat that ate the canary. He wags in his seat like a goddamn dog, too excited to be embarrassed.
Can I tell you a secret Daniel? Armand thinks slyly, looking back at the screen in front of them, a final glance. I have seen Saturday Night Fever twenty-three times already.
So then why did you… Daniel remembers the couple, and Armand’s disgust.
His fake disgust.
Daniel has really got to stop dating theater nerds.
You’ve got to be kidding me, Daniel rolls his eyes in his head, a move easily perfected after one and a half conversations with the ancient vampire Armand. Babe, if you wanted to make out in the back of a movie theater, you should’ve just said that from the get-go.
Armand gives no verbal answer, but moves his hand farther up Daniel’s thigh, until his clawed fingers rest on top of his dick, already half-hard and pressing against the line of his jeans. It’s green lights all around, then.
A valiant effort to hold out is attempted until Armand uses the long nail of his index finger to scratch along the zipper seam, following the path of Daniel’s cock with devastating precision. Daniel manages to cough down the whimper that bubbles up in his throat, which only pisses Armand off and makes him repeat the action harder, the border between pleasure and pain slowly becoming interminable.
“Armand,” Daniel whispers heavily, a plea.
Armand reads him loud and clear. “I will keep you quiet, beloved.” He shifts his upper body from his own seat over and on top of Daniel, and kisses him into silence.
Daniel’s throat is plunged into with little ado, as Armand throws himself into turning Daniel’s brain to mush with his lips and tongue. Daniel’s got one hand in Armand’s hair and the other around his back, clinging to him like an anchor to the seafloor. He hasn’t necked like this in years— the kiss is filthy and unrefined, and the way Armand is opening his jeans with his eyes closed nearly brings the show to a sudden end before they can even get to the good part.
Before he pulls Daniel out of his jeans, Armand stops their kiss and pulls back from their embrace. Suddenly, Daniel remembers exactly where they are, and how loud some of those spit-filled exchanges might have been. He’s looking for the quickest and least embarrassing way to exit without getting glared at or called a slur, when he notices that the movie’s stopped. Scratch that— not just the movie’s stopped, everyone in the room is frozen, hands paused in between handfuls of popcorn, eyes unblinking. Daniel looks at Armand, surprise written all over his face.
“What the hell is all this?”
“Were you ever in the theater, Daniel?” Armand obfuscates. Again, it’s like its own compound word at this point. “Have you ever been on stage?”
“What? No, obviously not,” Daniel answers. “I was smoking enough pot to stun a small horse behind the bleachers, I didn’t have time to be in Happy Days or whatever the hell. Why are you asking me questions about my life instead of using me like your personal jizz rag? I was really getting into it back there, boss.”
Armand ignores the thinly-veiled plea. “Would you like to make a movie?” he asks instead.
Daniel has enough time to spit out a very articulate “huh?” before he’s being dragged by the collar, jeans still half undone, to the front of the theater.
From this vantage point he can see the other people in the room better now, their faces still stuck like wax masks. It’s a chilling image, he has to say. They’re all looking at him and Armand, yet not really, just glorified ice sculptures under Armand’s thrall for as long as he desires. But still, the feeling is there. All eyes are on them, and that means—
“Oh God,” Daniel moans. “You’re not gonna— I mean, we can’t just— oh, God.”
“Yes, Daniel.”
The heady feeling is back again, the desire to submit such a weighted thing on Daniel’s mind. He wants to be owned for a little bit, and he wants to be seen. He wants people to watch as he’s taken by an evil demon in the disguise of a beautiful man, both parts of Armand in harmony with one another despite their stark contrast.
Daniel is on his knees in a second, Armand having used his gift to bring him there. His kneecaps burn as they hit the floor too hard, and the following keen is so mortifying he has to snap his eyes closed in embarrassment.
“Look at me, Daniel,” Armand orders. But Daniel can’t, not yet.
“Beloved,” Armand says, softer but no less firm. “I will not begin until you look at me.”
Daniel breathes in deeply, and looks up. Armand is lit up by the screen, blue and yellow and red highlighting different parts of his face and chest. His eyes burn more orange than usual, and their eye contact is wonderfully charged. Daniel has no idea what he’s in for, and that’s just the way he likes it.
He doesn’t even realize Armand’s taken his dick out until he’s pulled back by a hand in his scalp, and suddenly Daniel is two inches away from his already leaking head. Armand’s smiling down at him, petting him like a dog, and with the way he’s salivating and panting harshly for the prick in front of him he damn well feels like the family rottweiler. It’s revolting; Daniel’s so hard he could cut diamonds.
“Good shows require proper pacing, Daniel,” Armand informs him. “First comes the exposition. Here’s where we introduce our characters, and explain their roles. Yours, for example, is this.” And he promptly pushes his cock halfway down Daniel’s throat.
Armand is rarely vocal in bed, not nearly to the level Daniel sometimes gets. He’s breathy when he wants, or sometimes the moans are kicked out of him when he hits a spot inside Daniel that makes him clench his muscles in an even tighter vice. But the moans spilling out of Armand right now are nothing short of pure pornographic bogus, way too loud to be anything but an act of the highest order. Daniel, however, could not give less of a shit. Each time he touches Armand’s cock to the back of his throat the vampire gasps like he’s just had his third orgasm, and it’s the fucking best.
There’s no finesse in it; they’re here to put on a show, and sometimes shows can get messy, this much Daniel knows. His face is covered in spit from when he buries his face in Armand’s groin, nosing his way back up to the head, tonguing his slit. Armand has been moaning and gasping nonstop, and even though Daniel knows better than to lay a hand on his own erection, he still feels like he’s ten seconds away from shooting off at any moment.
The cold hand that had been used for fucking Daniel’s face is suddenly pulling him off. Daniel tries to resist, still slurping down whatever skin he still has in his mouth as he’s shoved off with a pop.
“That’s enough, Daniel,” Armand says, no more ragged breath or wantonness in his voice any longer. Daniel realizes he can see the distinction: before was his actor’s voice, the character. Here, he’s fully in director mode. It’s a stark contrast, but that’s Armand.
“On your hands and knees, beloved, facing the audience.” Daniel follows his direction. “Good. A little to the left, yes. Perfect.”
When he raises his head, Daniel can see every single one of the people staring at him, frozen in time. His cock leaks precome onto the theater floor; Armand has pulled his jeans down to his knees, and is coating two fingers with lube.
“The rising action follows the exposition, of course,” Armand says as he pushes a finger into Daniel’s hole, up to the knuckle. A hearty “Guh,” is the only response Daniel can muster.
“There are finer points to each section of the rising action, especially in five-act plays, but I’m not sure if you’re up to hearing it, dear.” Armand’s up to two fingers now, pressing down on that spot inside him that makes Daniel’s back arch involuntarily. His breath is coming in harsh pants, even louder when he’s the only one in the room who’s actually breathing.
Armand pulls his fingers out quickly, careful not to provide any more pick-me-up stimulation to Daniel’s prostate as he goes. Behind him, Daniel can hear Armand slicking himself up, and the anticipation mounts even higher. Everybody’s watching them. Everybody is going to see what Armand wants them to see— a vampire laying claim on his fascinating boy. When Daniel huffs out a laugh he sounds like he’s as high as a kite.
Armand’s cock teases against Daniel’s rim, catching him off-guard. “Look at our audience, Daniel,” he orders, and Daniel does. “They want a show, beloved, and we will give it to them. I think they want to hear you beg.”
Armand wants to hear him beg, more like. But still, Daniel moans out a pitiful, “Please,” towards the crowd in front of him.
Armand pinches his left cheek so hard it starts to bleed. The pain and the iron twang of blood in the air send shockwaves through Daniel. “Do you think our audience in the back can hear that? Project your voice.”
“Please!” he nearly shouts. “Christ alive, Armand, just fuck me!”
Armand says nothing about his improved projection, but rewards him with a smooth slide into Daniel, all the way up to the hilt.
The moan that comes out of Daniel’s lips could never be accused of being too quiet. They stay there for a moment, Armand’s pelvis flush against Daniel’s ass, both looking out into the crowd of people who are still unnaturally silent and still. Daniel makes eye contact with an older woman in the third row, and as Armand begins thrusting a steady rhythm into him, he imagines being able to watch her real reactions to the scene in front of her. Her disgust, her hatred, her fear, all of that he knows he would see in her face, were she unfrozen. But underneath that primary emotion, he knows he would eventually find the fascination and arousal that shoots through himself whenever Armand comes to him with bloodied hands and face. It has to happen to other people, too, he’s sure; Daniel can’t be the only freak in this city.
Armand’s trying to break his hips at this point— the hiccupping gasps that are punched out of Daniel’s lungs could wake the dead, and he knows he’ll be feeling tonight’s activities in every inch of his body tomorrow.
Good, he thinks. Don’t ever let me forget this feeling, the feeling of being owned.
Armand uses the hand he has on Daniel’s shoulder to push him up from his hands and into the air, so that they’re back-to-chest. Daniel has to keep himself from falling over at the deeper sensation this position gives them.
“Yes, this is better,” Armand muses to himself. “I believe this position offers the audience the best vantage point for the scene, don’t you think, Daniel?”
“Fuck me,” Daniel begs. They wouldn’t be able to hear his plea in the back row, for sure. His brain is slowly turning to mush, overheated and exhausted.
Armand smiles into the crook of Daniel’s neck; he can feel the cold lips against his carotid artery. “As you wish,” he says.
In this position, their fucking has turned into a slow grind as one. Armand pushes incessantly against his prostate, bringing them up together and then back down. Armand is kissing his way up Daniel’s neck and on his face, and Daniel raises his hand back to bring their cheeks together, so he can rub his face against Armand’s like a cat. His reward for this is Armand’s still-slick right hand coming around to hold Daniel’s cock in a frigid vice. The feeling makes Daniel shout a quick, “Ah!”, but it doesn’t stop him from fucking into the tight channel of Armand’s fist. God, it’s so good— they’re so good. It’s pure bliss and utter torture at the same time, and Daniel basks in the false dichotomy.
“What, hah, what part of the story are at, boss?” Daniel whispers.
“Nngh… what?” Comes the reply from the ancient vampire Armand.
“The expi, exposition. Then the rising action. What next?”
Daniel knows what’s next, he’s a reporter, for Christ’s sake. But he wants to hear Armand say the stupid joke.
Armand has evidently regained some of his lost senses. He begins thrusting against Daniel with a renewed fervor as he tells him, “Beloved, now comes the part of the show when tensions have reached their peak, when the final straw breaks the camel’s back. Now comes the climax.”
The bite is expected, but the flood of arousal following it never is. It’s like a fire seeping into his bones, even as the life is being drained from him. As soon as Armand sinks his fangs into his neck, Daniel’s coming all over the floor of a crappy movie theater in New York City, just as God intended.
Armand keeps drinking and thrusting even after Daniel’s cock has sputtered out, and after a few minutes of devilish overstimulation, Daniel feels a cold wetness filling up inside of him. Once Armand has pulled out with a loud, wet sound, they slump down against each other on the theater floor to catch their breath.
“Fuck,” Daniel exhales, and Armand laughs and nods in agreement.
“I would need to feed if you’d like to go again, beloved.”
“What I’d like to do,” Daniel says, groaning as he stands up, “is get our shit and get the hell out of here.” He helps Armand up, even though they both know he doesn’t need the assistance. “What is it you said? Why waste their money here to make out when they can just do it at home for free? I like the way you think, boss.”
While they are straightening their clothes out, Armand says, “Very well, let’s head home. But first let me retrieve my recording camera from the projector booth upstairs.”
Daniel cannot believe his ears. “The what.”
“You didn’t think I would go to all that trouble of correcting our blocking and voice projections for nothing, did you? Of course, I have it all on tape. We will retrieve the camera, go home, and watch the recording. Then I will make notes for areas of improvement, and next week we can go see Annie Hall. Most of it, anyway. How does that sound, Daniel?”
Daniel’s got a busy schedule for the rest of the month, he doesn’t have time to have public sex in every movie theater in New York City. He doesn’t have time to be jerked around by a 500 year-old vampire who’ll probably be gone by the time September rolls around. But Armand is a beautiful, evil thing, and Daniel is enthralled and disgusted by him. It’s fucked up, but that’s the way it is, God help him.
“Grab your videocamera, babe,” he tells Armand. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”