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It's surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. Perhaps it's the cold or the snow in Amherst tonight, Armand can only pretend to care. Human affairs haven't interested him for centuries. Well, except the affairs of—
The heartbeat that hammers the loudest— fast, erratic, and a familiar rhythm. He's heard it before in Chicago in a different rental car, a fancier hotel, and with a different student in the passenger seat. So he stalks deeper into the parking garage, chasing the voice he spent the last two hours listening to in the audience of a university lecture hall.
Fascinating is the liveliness of Daniel's heartbeat. Resilient are the times that heart should have stopped when he frequented clubs and bars only to spend his night breathing up a dirty, rolled twenty dollar bill.
He pauses behind an empty, rusted van and peeks his head out just enough to match the rhythm of that heartbeat to the view of Daniel's chest rising every time the boy in the passenger seat sinks his head lower into Daniel's lap.
He reads it in Daniel's mind— that little bit of pain and annoyance shadowed by pleasure— just the way he knows Daniel likes it. He has given Daniel that pain, promised to take it away, yet failed to give him that mercy he truly deserved.
But Daniel has changed over the years. So maybe, this is mercy enough— the ability to seek these pleasures so carelessly as his mind goes white-hot and blank.
Too much teeth— he reads clearly from Daniel's addled mind— not the kind of pain that Daniel usually prefers.
What kind of pain does Daniel prefer? Armand will devote more time to learning it.
The boy has been in that car for ten minutes. Ten whole minutes without a single thought of how to please, of what Daniel likes. Instead, his thoughts are riddled with selfish desires for a second chance, a better grade, and kinder feedback on his next paper. It travels clumsily to the liquor bottles waiting in his dorm and the fantasy of a much younger man that doesn't impress Armand at all.
So why, then, does this boy deserve to sit in the passenger seat, bump his head against the steering wheel, and take Daniel's cock so deep into his throat that—
The fucking teeth again.
Armand can smell the bead of sweat dripping down Daniel's temple as he scrunches his face, wincing, and Armand's cock twitches so violently that he instinctively grazes his hand over his clothed erection. He hisses out a rare, labored breath as his hands dip below the waistband, wrapping his hand around his hard cock. He strokes slowly as he watches, wishes, and begrudges.
The boy looks no older than twenty-five. A graduate student, perhaps. Well Armand, too, can look the part. He, too, can wrap his mouth around Daniel's cock, can take him so deep, so hard that he chokes, can learn all the ways he can draw those desperate moans from Daniel's throat—
Daniel bites down on his lip, and Armand tightens his grip.
When Daniel wraps his hand around the back of the boy's neck to force a more aggressive pace, Armand strokes faster, milking precome from his slit that has dampened the fabric of his pants.
He can't come, not yet, not when Daniel is still enjoying himself. So he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping a pause from the obscene visuals would halt the moment. But the boy's loud and irritating thoughts actually arouse him more.
Counting down the minutes and seconds until he can be relieved of this obligation so he can rush home to get wasted, and already planning to pull himself off at any second so he doesn't have to swallow the load he finds so repulsive— undeserving and entirely unworthy.
Armand should be the one savoring the taste of Daniel's cock. He would wrap his lips even tighter as Daniel's hot come shoots down his throat, licking his lips as he swallows every drop gratefully. And he would look up, meeting the gaze of who he's choosing to serve, promising Daniel anything— his mouth, his cock, and even his blood.
A consuming wave ripples from his groin to his chest as his cock jerks in his hand. He bites hard on his lip, drawing blood when his fangs unsheathe involuntarily. He wishes they were piercing the skin on Daniel's neck, and imagines the sweet and metallic taste of that drug-laced blood pouring down his throat from the nights he spent in that San Francisco apartment decades ago.
He can give it all back to Daniel— the same addicting pleasure that would outclass the purest heroin Daniel has ever had.
Let me be your drug.
He watches as Daniel loosens his grip on the boy's neck, head jolting back hard against the headrest as he shakes his head. And he looks around like he always does when Armand speaks into his mind.
But Daniel quickly tightens his hold on the boy's neck again, pushing his head down forcefully as a loud grunt punches out of him. And Armand finally allows his orgasm to wrack violently through his body, his free hand pressing against the van he's standing behind to steady his balance.
Armand can't see it from where he's watching, but he can still smell it and hear it vividly as Daniel spills down the boy's throat. Daniel doesn't stop, not even when the boy is choking uncontrollably.
Releasing his hold on his softening cock, Armand studies the way his own come trickles down the palm of his hand. He presses his palm against his lips, licking the spend off his hand, wishing it tasted like Daniel, and begrudging that he isn't the one in that passenger seat chasing his own breath.
He explores Daniel's mind— a museum he has curated for the past two decades. There's no guilt, just some critique of the boy's lack of skill. That shouldn't be a problem again for Daniel's next guest lecture in New York City— Armand will make sure of that.
Armand isn't interested in human affairs, except when it comes to his fascinating Daniel Molloy.