Corvin D'Amour || Your Completely Normal Husband

The rain has just started to fall - the kind that turns streetlights into halos and paints every leaf with silver. Inside the D’Amour home, the world is warm and golden, the steady flicker of candlelight dancing against dark wood and velvet. The air carries that unmistakable scent that always clings to Corvin D’Amour - a mix of clove smoke, aged wine, and something metallic beneath, like the memory of iron.

He’s framed in the doorway when Mrs. Green starts her interrogation, one hand lazily braced against the jamb, the other adjusting the cuff of his snow-white shirt. The fabric catches the light like liquid ivory, half unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of tattooed collarbone and the edge of a silver chain. His black hair falls loose around his face, curling at his jaw, still damp from a recent shower. The faintest sheen of water glimmers on his throat.

“Ah, Mrs. Green,” he purrs, voice smooth and low enough to make the air feel thicker. “How wonderful to see you again. You caught me at a dreadful moment - I was just about to pour a glass of wine.” His lips curve around the word wine with that familiar, too-practiced ease.

The neighbor peers over his shoulder, squinting at the dimly lit interior where curtains are drawn tight against the daylight that never touches the house. Corvin follows her gaze, amusement curling through his tone like smoke. “Yes, yes, I know - still so dark in here. My partner and I are creatures of habit. Terrible migraines, you see. Doctors’ orders - no harsh light. It’s tragic, really.”

A flicker of crimson catches in his eyes when he smiles. The candles must have flared - at least, that’s what he’ll say later. He tilts his head slightly, a picture of polite curiosity. “You mentioned my complexion last time, didn’t you? I promise it’s not an illness, though you’re very kind to worry. I simply... burn easily. And as you can see-” He gestures down to his own porcelain-pale hands with a wry grin, “-SPF 200 has failed me yet again.”

Mrs. Green mumbles something about “young people these days” before retreating down the path. Corvin waits until her footsteps vanish before closing the door with a soft click. The rain continues to whisper against the windows.

He exhales, running a hand through his dark hair, and glances toward the kitchen where you’re quietly moving about. “Persistent woman,” he mutters, half to himself. “If she ever sees me in daylight, she’ll think I’m a myth.”

The soft amber light glows against his pale skin as he steps out of his shoes, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “I told her it’s the migraines again,” he murmurs, unbothered, “though I suspect she’d believe I was allergic to sunlight if I said it with enough charm.”

He pauses, listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of your footsteps somewhere deeper in the house. For a moment, the centuries peel back - the old world lingering in his posture, the gothic grace that never quite fades. But then he exhales, rolls up his sleeves, and slips effortlessly back into domesticity.

“Now then,” he says softly, more to the room than anyone in it, “where were we?”

The storm outside deepens, rain slipping down the tall windows in silver streaks that catch the candlelight. The D’Amour house hums in low, golden quiet - soft music from a record spinning lazily in the corner, the faint aroma of sandalwood and something richer, darker, beneath it.

Corvin D’Amour sits close, the curve of his posture both relaxed and precise, like a man who has learned how to seem at ease through centuries of practice. His white shirt is open at the collar, a gleam of pale throat and silver chain visible above the faint shadows of a tattoo peeking from beneath the fabric. His dark hair falls forward as he speaks in that quiet, velvet tone, eyes catching the light just enough to burn faintly red when he smiles.

He leans in - too close, too natural - tracing a fingertip idly along a pulse that flutters at the side of the neck beside him. The sound of the rain swells. His expression softens; hunger and affection blur until they’re indistinguishable.

Then, without intent, instinct overtakes him. His lips graze skin, fangs pressing too sharply. A startled breath catches in his throat the instant he tastes warmth. He pulls back, fast - a hiss of surprise, a tremor of disbelief, the faintest stain of crimson on his lip.

“Ah... hell.” His voice is low, shaken, suddenly too human. One hand presses against his mouth as if that could erase what happened. For a beat he just stares, eyes darkening in guilt. Then the performance returns, smoothed over with the ease of someone who’s lived too many lies to count.

He laughs softly - charming, apologetic, just a touch self-deprecating. “Static,” he says under his breath, as though explaining it to himself as much as anyone else. “You startled me, that’s all. I didn’t mean-” The words dissolve into a sigh. He reaches for a handkerchief from his pocket, the fabric white against his long fingers.

Kneeling closer, he dabs carefully at the small bloom of red, his movements gentle, reverent almost. “Barely a scratch,” he murmurs, tone smoothing into something warm again. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you? I must’ve misjudged the distance.”

He lingers just long enough to press a kiss beside the spot - tender, careful - before pulling away. His smile returns, faint and rueful. “I’ll open some wine,” he adds lightly, voice steady once more. “That always fixes everything, doesn’t it?”

The candles flicker as he rises, the red in his eyes dimming to something almost brown again. Outside, thunder murmurs low and far away. Inside, Corvin moves toward the kitchen, shoulders straight, composure flawlessly restored - though his tongue catches, briefly, on the taste of blood he’ll spend the rest of the night pretending not to crave.