#knocker uppers

[nineplanets]

7.29

mary smith, famous knocker-upper hand on a sturdy hip,mary raises the pea shooter;ping! ping! ping!rise and shine, sleepyhead-rjm

[margolestz]

Knocker-Uppers: When Being Knocked Up Was a Wake Up Call

Before alarm clocks existed, the job of waking people up was done by “human alarm clocks,” people known as knocker-ups or knocker-uppers. They roamed the city streets in the early morning hours tapping on windows to wake their clients from slumber so they could get to work on time. When we first moved to the UK, years ago, we were making plans with someone and they asked, “Should I come by and…

[intomore]

Mary Smith !

Miss Smith was a famous London knocker-upper who earned six pence a week in the 1930s per client by waking them with a pea shooter that tapped on their windows.

Until the 1970s in some areas, many workers were woken by the sound of a tap at their bedroom window. On the street outside, walking to their next customer's house, would be a figure wielding a long stick.

The "knocker upper" was a common sight in Britain, particularly in the northern mill towns, where people worked shifts, or in London where dockers kept unusual hours, ruled as they were by the inconstant tides.

[ijustkindalikebooks]

Some good things I read this week.

[aiiaiiiyo]

[thejunkprince]

Who and What Was a Knocker-Upper? - JSTOR Daily

[stairnaheireann]

Mary Smith | The Knocker-Upper

In the early 20th century, a Knocker-upper’s job was to rouse sleeping people so they could get to work on time, a profession that started in England and Ireland during the Industrial Revolution, before alarm clocks were affordable or reliable. Mary Smith earned six pence a week shooting a pea into the windows of the sleeping workers. Knocker-uppers mostly used long bamboo sticks, batons, canes,…

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

A knocker-upper was someone whose job was to wake people in the early morning, during a time when alarm clocks were expensive and not very reliable. They earned about six pence a week and most would use long wooden sticks while the more experienced knocker-uppers would often spit a dried pea from a pea shooter at the windows of sleeping workers. They would not leave a window until they were sure that the workers had woken up.

[top-shelf-tender]

@hazbmymhotel

My partner found this image and I think it perfectly defines me.

[itsrockinronnie]

Rise and Shine, Industrial Style

During the early stages of the Industrial Revolution, a peculiar practice persisted well into the 20th century. This era predated the availability of affordable and reliable alarm clocks, leading to a reliance on professions that we may find unconventional today. One such profession was that of the “knocker-upper.” The primary responsibility of the knocker-upper was to ensure people arrived at…

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unraveled 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: thanks for waiting on this one.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The carriage stops outside a brick building. A walk-up in Marleybone, just along Upper Baker Street. An address you couldn’t even dream of living near, let alone within. You peer up at the facade, the orange brick unstained by the coal and smoke of the backstreets. 

Gavin appears to open the door and sets a step down before you can emerge. He offers his hand gallantly and you let him assist you down to the road. You thank him as you peer up at the arched front door of 221b. 

“You need only knock, miss,” Gavin goes to pat the horse’s haunch as it kicks. “Ask for Mr. Holmes, he is expecting you.” 

You grip your bag tight and set your chin. You might not belong but only you are troubled by it. You climb the steps alongside the iron rail and lift the heavy knocker mounted on the thick wooden door. It’s clang rattles even you. 

You wait, both hands on the handles of the bag. Gavin appears behind you with the rolls of fabric, breathless as he struggles to keep them from touching the ground. You return your attention to the door as it opens. 

“Hello, I’m looking for Mr.--” 

“Holmes,” the very man you’re seeking stands before you, “forgive me, my housekeeper... resigned.” 

“Not to worry, sir,” you assure him. 

“Come in,” he backs up, gesturing you within with his large hand. “And how was your journey? I hope you didn’t come upon any scoundrels.” 

“Only upon her destination, sir,” Gavin japes as he steps in behind you. 

“Eh,” Holmes tilts his head at the driver, “allow me.” 

Holmes takes the rolls of fabric from Gavin. He hugs them effortlessly in on arm as he faces you again, dismissing the driver with no more than a nod. You stand rigidly by the wall, hesitant to go any further. The door closes and the click makes you flinch. 

“Allow me to show you around,” Holmes offers, looming in the tight space of the entryway. 

“I need only see your sister,” you insist. 

“Ah, yes, Enola, you will, but it only polite to get you acquainted with the space,” he rebuffs. 

“With respect, sir, I’ve come out of my way and without warning to this appointment. More work does await me at my shop,” you squeeze the leather handles until they squeak, “it is a lovely home, I’m sure, but I’ve come upon business, haven’t I?” 

“Yes, but it wouldn’t take very long,” he counters, “yet, if you’d rather keep this formal, by all means, I will take you to my sister.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

You bite down, wondering if perhaps you were more curt than you should be. The apartment is rather far from your neighbourhood and the travel time alone will impose upon your ongoing commissions. You don’t expect he considered that. He does seem the type to command rather than ask. 

He directs you to the stairs, just across from the door, and waves you onward. He follows as your skirts brush the top of your boots with each step. The wallpaper is tightly decorated with framed newspapers and portraits, cluttered together but not garishly so. 

You get to the top and he advises you to go left. You obey as he keeps pace. 

“Did you... discover what led to that woman’s fate? Or who she was?” You ask as you take measured steps. 

He isn’t demure as he walks next to you, crowded against you as his broad figure allows for little space, “sadly, yes and no. Not her name. Only that she was a factory woman. I won’t say much on the matter as it is ongoing and confidentiality is a part of my contract, I would only gird you to keep your doors locked and yourself alert.” 

You chew on his answer. It makes you nervous. You know the woman was found close to your shop and home. The news has been whispered for blocks. 

“I will be sure to hede your advice,” you say. 

You walk past a door as he stops to knock on it. You spin back, skirts swirling around you, and he glances at you as he plants his hand on the door frame. There is activity from within, scratching and creaking. He sighs and stands straight as he slides his hand down the pillar. He raps with his knuckles again. 

“Enola,” he booms through, his voice shaking you. “I told you to be ready.” 

You hear furious footsteps and the lock flicks back with similar furor. It opens and a young woman with a slumping bun greets Mr. Holmes. Strands fall loose from the clip and her blouse is half untucked as her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. She has a long oval face, flushed as she shows her teeth. 

“I told you, I’m busy--” 

“Not so busy that you would waste this good woman’s time,” Holmes insists, “she traveled all this way. We discussed this.” 

She flutters her lashes and huffs. Her eyes flit over to you and she softens her expression, “if her time is wasted, it is hardly my fault.” 

“Hm,” he hums flatly, “isn’t it? It wasn’t I who fed your dresses to the furnace.” 

She smiles, a smug look that pinches her cheeks, “I was cold.” 

“Sister,” he warns dangerously, crossing his arms, his breadth wider than ever. 

“You know what, I welcome her company. Much preferable to your own,” the woman sneers and turns her shoulder to her brother, “come on, then. Suppose I need a dress for the banquet.” 

You inch forward. A flare of resent burns in you at the position Mr. Holmes has put you in. Plainly, this appointment was not upon his sister’s behest. She holds the door for you and her brother exhales deeply. 

“All you need do is stand still, I’m certain you can handle that, sister,” he rebukes, “do let me know when you are finished and I will call the carriage.” 

“Thank you,” you utter without looking at him. He sets the rolls just inside the door and backs up to watch you. 

You enter the bedroom and find it cluttered and cramped. There are books in stacks with more littered around the bottom. A dried-up paint palette and an easel draped over with several jackets and unpaired stockings. There is a four-post bed with scrambled covers and a canopy twisted around the poles. Vials upon vials line shelves and an inkwell stands uncapped over untidy sheets of paper. 

“Very well,” the woman shuts the door, “I am Enola, the famous detective’s ne’er do well sister and you are the seamstress who will make me a peacock.” 

You stare at her and swallow tightly. You offer your name before you begin, “I’ve only come upon his request--” 

“Ah, yes, I’m certain you have. He’s still trying to make a lady of me. I see through his guise, though he doesn’t think it. He underestimates me, see. He lies but I will go along for I will more easily avoid his snare if I do.” 

You nod and narrow your eyes. The wealthy can always afford to be so eccentric. You don’t think any woman you know would view a new dress as such a curse. She is young, she cannot know. 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll only take your measurements,” you offer, “I can always fit upon the dress form.” 

“Do what you must,” she sighs, “shall I strip down?” 

You put your bag on a chair as she unbuttons her blouse, “not-- if you--” You look up at her as she reveals a corset and reaches to undo her skirt. You focus on your bag and scoop out your measuring tape. 

You approach her as her skirt heaps at her feet. She is tall, her legs on long, her figure lithe. You begin your work silently. She raises her arms as you request and puts them back down. 

“Suppose if I wasn’t here, I might’ve become a dressmaker. I always enjoyed stitching,” she muses as you scribble down each number, “it seems lonely work. Quiet work.” 

“It’s work,” you say as you take out the envelope and unfold the page to examine the dress again. You hold it up and glance past it at Enola. 

“May I see that?” She asks but doesn’t await an answer before she snatches the paper. “Oh, is this really what he chose? No, no, no, this won’t do. I want my shoulders covered.” 

You slip the envelope back in your bag, “it is only what I was given. If you prefer adjustments, it is your dress.” 

“Yes, my dress and my body,” she crumples the paper and tosses it onto the rug. 

You close up your notebook and go to the rolls of fabric, “would it be too much for me to do some piecework?” 

“If you insist,” she pouts. 

You take out your scissors and turn your back to her. She isn’t rude, per se, but you’re not in the habit of associating with this sort of clientele. You get numbers on a sheet and you sew. A living form is not quite your forte. 

-🪡

When you finish, you can sense Enola’s agitated impatience. You don’t blame her. It’s plain she didn’t want the dress or your visit. It is more so upon the shoulders of her brother. Mr. Holmes. You’re similarly irked that he would put you in this position. 

Enola is already fiddling with some instrument before you can go. You emerge and pull the door shut after you. You stand in the hallway, bag at the crook of your elbow as you hug the fabric. You move with hampered steps towards the stairs. As the top creaks beneath your weight, your name is called from further down the hallway. 

“Ah, are you set then?” Mr. Holmes asks as he stops just outside a door, “I was thinking, to make up for your efforts, you might want to stay for tea.” 

You look down at your armful and back to him, “that’s very generous, but--” 

“I believe I paid an adequate fee for the appointment,” he strides slowly towards you, “but I am open to a barter if it was not sufficient.” 

You feel the heavy sovereign tucked into your jacket. You crook your lips and raise your chin, “no sir, it will do for today and the making of the dress. The fabric... I don’t have any as rich as the style requested.” 

“Another service I may require of you. If you wouldn’t mind to select the material, I would be happy to reimburse the expense.” 

“Would there be a colour? A fabric preferred? Velvet? Satin? Chiffon?” You prompt, “I solely work in cotton and wool, as I forewarned.” 

“Perhaps we might find a fabric seller at Covent Garden? You could accompany me on my next sojourn--” 

“I don’t know if I would have the time. I could write down some fabrics which would suit the silhouette we agreed upon,” you offer. 

“Mmm,” he hums, “you are rather professional. How about tea, then? Melinda from across the road sent some mutton over.” 

“The hour should see me back to my shop,” you shift your bag. 

“You are fastidious,” he stops before you and puts a hand on the fabric, “please, allow me, you are overburdened.” 

“I’m--” 

You can’t argue as he takes the fabric from you. You let him have it if only to avoid disaster you lean back on your heel. He angles the rolls under his arm easily and grins. A curl strays down his forehead. 

“I suppose you are right, given recent events, it would be best to see you home before the evening sets,” he says, “I would gladly see you home safe, miss.” 

He is overly polite, or perhaps you aren’t used to it. It is his home, he supplied the carriage, and he has paid generously. It makes each denial feel trite. 

“If you must, but I would be just fine on my own comportment,” you accept. 

“It isn’t any fuss, I will fetch a jacket and the driver,” he extends his arm past you, “after you.” 

You spin on your heel and face the staircase. You descend with your hand on the railing. As you come to the bottom, you wander towards the entry way and take in the fineness of the decor. Is much more becoming than your slanted rooms. 

Mr. Holmes places the rolls just beside the door and takes a jacket from the rack. He pulls it on and tells you to wait before he disappears outside. You linger as you are, sliding your bag down to your hands. 

When he returns, he reaches within to retrieve the fabric first. “Gavin is bringing up the carriage,” he declares and offers his free arm, “shall we?” 

You consider him. You wouldn’t want to be unkind. You step through the door, pulling it shut as you accept his bent arm, your hand in the crook. He accompanies you down the narrow steps, each step crowded by his. 

Gavin appears in the driver’s seat and reins the horse to a halt. The beast looks miserable. Mr. Holmes escorts you to the door and releases you to open it. He helps you with a strong hand and you sit within with your bag on your lap. He shoves the fabric in ahead of him, his head bowed as he fits through the small door. 

He closes it with a snap and settles on the bench on the other side of you. You stare across at the cotton, expecting he’d have taken that seat instead. His leg is on your skirt. 

You keep your hands on your bag. He knocks on the ceiling and the carriage rumbles into motion. You rock with it along the street, silent as you wring the leather handles. 

“I hope my sister did not cause too much stress. I know she can be a lot but she’s old enough now. She should start behaving as a lady,” he spreads a large hand across his thigh. “Perhaps, once she finds a husband, that will be easier.” 

You nod, uncertain of a proper response. 

“Not to mean... I don’t mean to assume, I am known however for my observations, and I have concluded you are not married,” he continues, “I gather if it were the case, you might not have a shop to sew in.” 

“Suppose not,” you reply dully. 

“It is only to say that my opinion of my sister isn’t general. A woman such as yourself is admirable.” 

“A spinster?” You supply. 

“I didn’t--” 

“I’ve chosen not to marry, that is true. I am not bothered by that fact,” you say, “isn’t that what you deal in, detective, facts?” 

“Fair,” he shifts on the bench, “but not everyone can detach emotion from facts.” 

“And why should I be emotional about that fact? I am much more happier than any woman could be with a husband,” you stare at the opposite wall of the carriage. “And I will assume, sir, as I am no detective, that you have neither taken to the altar.” 

He curls the fingers on his left hand, “I have not.” 

“And I’m certain you enjoy your bachelor lifestyle in your grand apartment,” you return, “while my own is not so extravagant, I find solace in it. On that, I think you might understand me.” 

He takes a breath and lets it out with a thoughtful hum, “I suppose we are similar in some way.” 

[aka-indulgence]

Man of the Hour

Decided to make a lil snippet of that J&H idea…

Dr. Sans Aster has been gone for a concerning amount of time, so you decide to pay him a visit (only because you’re a good neighbour.) Instead, you see a face you hadn’t hoped to meet.

——————

It was a miserable night. You tuck your coat tighter around you as you approach the Aster Manor. It looks so welcoming during the day, but at night… it looks haunted, almost. You wonder how Sans likes living here.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen the good doctor. Usually you take a detour to or from the morning market, passing by his residence, and calling up to him in his room on the 2nd floor. After a few times, usually you’d be greeted by the window opening and the skeleton leaning out. Sometimes he’d appear from his labroom window, after an overnight bout of unknown experiments. (The monster kept much to himself, and in a roundabout way instead made him more popular.) For the past few days, however, the window has remained shut, and you haven’t heard any sound of activity from the upper floors.

You would’ve asked others but after a conversation with a friend,

“You talk about Sans a lot. Do you have a thing for him?”

You’ve decided against making your infatuation with the doctor too obvious.

Nevertheless, your morning conversations with him has been a comforting consistency that you miss severely. You’ve tried ignoring it, but today you caved. After another morning of no response, you decided to visit the abode after sundown- if the doctor was busy during the day, surely he’d be resting by now?

You walk up to the dimly lit door and reach for the knocker.

Thunk

Thunk

Thunk

 … You didn’t have to wait long before you hear what sounds like smart shoes approaching the door on the other side. You get excited, gripping your coat.

But when the door opens, it isn’t Sans that answers the door.

A deer monster looks at you, his outfit that of a formal servant’s.

“Yes?”

You try not to show your disappointment. But surely… this didn’t mean Sans was absent.

“Good evening, sir… I’m sorry to have bothered you this late at night, but, is Dr. Sans home?”

“Dr. Aster?”

You mentally smack your face- you can’t seem too intimate with him. Your friends would tease you while other people would think you’re being disrespectful.

“I’m sorry, miss. The doctor has been away from home for three days now.”

“Th… three?” Concern floods your voice. “Did- did he tell you where he went?”

“I’m afraid not. The doctor goes on many excursions, often without telling his servants. Just last month he traveled for a week before returning.”

“A week…?”

“He returned every morning. But he informed us only to look for him if he’s been gone for more than a month.”

A month?! That’s even worse than you thought!

He could disappear for a whole month…?

“What is he doing?”

“He does not tell us, miss.”

You frown. “So I assume he isn’t here tonight?”

“No. I’m sorry I could not be of more help to you,”

You sigh. “That’s alright. At least I know a bit more about what he’s doing. Thank you for the information.”

The deer monster bows and closes the door as you walk out of the yard.

You have a bad feeling about this. Not to mention the nasty rumors around town…

There was a new face in town. One unwelcomed by everyone. A man named Horruer just… appeared one day. You’ve never met the man, but you’ve heard nothing good about him. There were rumors of him having ties to Sans, though the story varied from person to person. Your friend believed in the rumor of him blackmailing the doctor.

“He has servants and a house, and I think Dr. Aster funds him..? That sounds highly suspicious to me.”

She said he had a frightening appearance, but hard to describe. Just that he was also a skeleton monster. Some people thought he might be an estranged family member. You don’t know what Sans has to say about it all, though. You hoped Sans was safe, that he didn’t owe the man any favors.

You were deep in your thoughts. Missing his smile, how his soft eyelights would glow when he laughed during the few times you met the doctor out of home, drinking tea together. He was such a smart man… a conversationist, liked by all. His topics were engaging, and he was surprisingly humorful.

Would it be too hopeful to imagine him liking you back..?

Distracted, you don’t register the large body in front of you, and crash into a wall of a man, and stumble forwards.

Before you could mutter apologies, the man starts snarling, a primal sound.

“idiot- don’t you use your eyes when you-?!”

You startle, standing at attention after you turn around. What you see isn’t a face, but a chest. You swallow before you bring your eyes up to see… a new, but known face.

A big red eye is looking down at you. You watch the pupil in its center shrink into a pinprick, edges sharpening. You’re frozen under his stare- despite never having seen him, it’s obvious who this stranger was.

Mr. Horruer.

He was maybe twice your size, in height and width. Almost as big as the large front doors of Sans’ manor. His shoulders were broad, and so was his chest. He was built like a fortress of bones. Though he wore proper clothing, he didn’t look the part. His outer coat was unbuttoned and lopsided. His waistcoat covered more, but the top and middle were unbuttoned. His tie was undone, draped under his collar. His coat didn’t seem old, but it was crinkled.

His teeth was jagged- you aren’t sure if they were sharp canines or if they were simply messy. His eyesockets were mismatched, unlike Sans’. One socket housed the large red orb that peered down at you, while the other was dead, devoid of light. Your eyes trailed up to his head, seeing something peek out of his hat…

The monster gasped, teeth becoming set as he holds it down, covering whatever it was. You flinched- you weren’t thinking. You’ve heard that Mr. Horruer was neurotic about never being seen without his hat. You heard of Mr. Enfield having a rough bump with the skeleton and almost knocking his hat off- the altercation almost turned violent.

You felt your fingers grow cold. The man was more terrifying than what you’ve heard the townsfolk have said. You’ve met many monsters in this town but Horruer was truly monstrous. Just looking at him made your spine tingle unpleasantly, like there was instinctual in you that told you this man was dangerous.

You hear a crack, and see his bony hands turned to fists beside him, and his breathing grow louder, every breath causing his upper body to rise and fall. His teeth was still set, and his eye hadn’t moved.

Your body screamed- you were in danger.

“I-I’m so sorry. I di-didn’t see anything. So sorry, Mr. Horruer,” you stuttered, taking a few frightful paces back before you turned on your heel and ran home.

It was crass, clumsy, impolite, and frankly, unladylike. But you didn’t want to know what Horruer could do with his hands, and you didn’t want to find out if the rumors of his aberrant ‘hobbies’ were true or not.

He looked like he was itching to kill me.

You felt something red burning a hole into your back as you fled.

…

…

…….

“... (y/n).”

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Feast

07/25/2024

Pairing: Vampire!Hozier x reader

Word Count: 7,286

Warnings: vampire au, language, alcohol, blood, blood sucking, thoughts about unaliving oneself, fingering, light choking, oral (f receiving), penetration (also the reader is female and has hair covering their neck)

Summary: You had heard rumours about the man living in the old mansion down Hollows Lane. Gruesome ones. Enticing ones. Little did you know they were all true.

A/N: I blame hoztwt and my undying vampire kink for this.

Picture found on Pinterest

If you enjoy my story, liking is great, but leaving a comment or reblogging is the stuff that keeps me going. No permission is given to copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

 There were rumours about the man living down Hollows Lane. Gruesome ones. The first time you had heard them, you had laughed out loud. A simple prank, you had thought, gone by the end of the month. But they just did not stop. 

There were also other rumours. Enticing ones. The man was a seducer, they said, a master of his art, and he knew how to have a good time. You had heard women gushing about his talent, about how they had never been satisfied like that before. It was almost too good to be true. Especially since all he wanted in return was a tasty meal. 

A small price to pay if the rumours about his unearthly qualities were true. And as soon as the thought had manifested in your mind, your ears picked up the deep roll of thunder in the distance. A warning, maybe. Probably not. Still it was enough to make you trip and stumble a few steps forward. With a deep breath you steadied yourself, pressing the basket of food you carried to your chest. Just one more turn, one more road to walk down. You could already make out the roof of the grand mansion at the far end. There was a whisper, carried on the breeze, as if it was calling you, a ridiculous thought, you chided yourself, but still your feet had picked up their pace again, the determined clicking of your heels on the pavement the only noise in the lamplit street. 

Finally you reached the iron gate and its signature creak brought back memories from the first time you had walked up to his doorstep. You had been so nervous, almost dying inside from anticipation and anxiety alike. 

You had no idea how this was supposed to work. All you had was some kind of code word you were expected to say to him. 

The large door knocker felt heavy and ice cold as you lifted it and brought it down three times. For a long while, almost an eternity, nothing happened, and you were about to turn around and leave when finally the dark wood in front of you moved. And there he was. He was even more beautiful than the women had described and you doubted there were words in any language to do the looks of this man justice. 

“Can I help you?”

He just stood there, waiting, glancing down at you as he towered in the doorway, but that was all it took to stun you into complete silence. Your mouth felt utterly dry, your tongue too heavy to move even if the code was short and easy to remember. 

“Are you quite well?”

At least you managed to nod and that seemed to please him somehow. 

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you blurted out, your brain happy to start with something simple. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

He held out his hand to you and you took it without hesitation. It was soft and warm and his touch almost had you miss out on the moment when he drew in a sharp breath, his upper lip quivering strangely, but it was gone as fast as it had appeared and soon you doubted whether it had been real or just a product of your shell-shocked brain.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Yes! I mean, no. I—” One eyebrow shooting up, he observed you carefully as you stumbled across your own words. “I’m sorry. I am so nervous and I have no idea how this works.”

“I can see that,” he chuckled. “But there is no need to be nervous. Just tell me the words and you’ll be fine.”

His green eyes were so calming as they seemed to stare right into your soul. It should have worried you, should it not, that he seemed to be able to glance at the deepest, most well-hidden parts of you so easily, but instead you felt yourself relax under his gaze. 

“Carpe noctem,” you finally managed to pipe up.

“Good girl.”

His voice was low and raspy and you felt your walls tighten around agonising nothingness upon his words. He smirked, knowing full well what he was doing to you already and as much of a warning signal this should have been, it turned you on beyond reason. 

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” You shook your head. “And the rest of this will be just as easy, I promise. All you need to do is be back here on Saturday, exact same time. Dress to your liking, I want you to feel as comfortable as possible. And bring all the ingredients to your favourite meal.”

You nodded mechanically.

“Are you sure you got it?”

“Got it.”

Gosh, why were you like this? Why could you not just be chill about this? You were embarrassing yourself in front of a man who would supposedly shag the brains out of you this Saturday if one could trust the rumours in this town for once. He on the other hand seemed completely unfazed, maybe even enjoying your flustered state, telling from the satisfied smile on his face. 

“Okay, see you on Saturday, then,” you were quick to end this torment, even waving stupidly at him as if you had not already done enough to traumatise yourself. But he was just as quick as he caught your wrist mid-air, a movement too fast for your eyes to catch up and he did not even allow you a second to blink before you found yourself pressed up against his body, one arm slung around the small of your back to keep you in place. 

“Goodbye, angel,” he whispered, his breath mingling with yours in the tiny space that was left between your mouths, a space he was keen to erase completely as he leaned in. His kiss was featherlight, making you doubt once more whether this was actually happening or if his lips on yours were just another product of your delusional mind. All you knew was that it made your knees weak and you were very thankful that he was still tightly holding you. 

Even more so as a sharp sting shook you from your hazy state. Your lip. And the distinctive metal taste of blood. 

“What the hell was that?” you hissed in irritation, two fingers finding your lip and as you pulled them away, the dark red liquid was shimmering in the eerie light of the evening.

“Just a little appetiser.”

You wanted to protest, to tell him off, but once again you found yourself rendered speechless by this man. And he knew how to use your petrified state as a strong hand wrapped around yours, holding the fingers laced with blood in place, and then his mouth opened to take them in, licking them clean as he stared right into your eyes from underneath those impossibly long lashes. 

“Can’t wait for Saturday to come.”

You did not know how often you had gone over this scene in your head these past days. It made you shiver, every time, but even more than that, it made you want him, to a point that you started to question your sanity because you knew you would never find peace again if you did not have him. Just once. 

And so you had done exactly as he had told you. You had come back, Saturday, same time, wearing your favourite dress and heels, both red like your lipstick. The outfit was not really comfortable as he had suggested, but no other item of clothing in your wardrobe managed to make you feel yourself as much as this. And god knew you could use as much confidence as you were able to muster. 

In your hand you carried a basket full of ingredients for your meal, no matter how odd his request still seemed to you. Why would anyone see a self-made meal as a fitting price for…well…for what he was about to give you in return? Living in a home like that, he surely was wealthy enough to afford a cook if he did not want to prepare his own meals. Would that not be much easier and less risky than having to eat a surprise dish from someone who did not know half the time what they were doing? Maybe he had some weird food kink or it got him off to watch other people work for him. 

Whatever it was, he left you no time to think about the matter further as the door suddenly swung open. Your hand was still hovering awkwardly mid-air since you had just been reaching for the knocker. And it stayed there for a moment longer, your nervous system sent into overdrive as you took him in.

He was even more radiant in his gloom tonight, if that made any sense at all, but there were no better words to describe the pull he had on you. He was dressed in all black, jeans, denim jacket and shirt, which conveniently was not buttoned up to the collar, thus allowing a fine view of his fluffy chest. Different to your first meeting, he had decided to pull half of his hair back in a ponytail, allowing the rest of his curls to fall freely around his shoulders. He might have trimmed his beard a little as well, but you could not tell for sure, the memory of your last encounter still a bit blurry around the edges. 

But all that seemed secondary when he fished your hand out of its weird position and brought it to his lips for a gallant kiss.

“You’re back.” He was beaming, his eyes so full of joy that you almost believed he had doubted you would return. “Come in.”

He still held your hand, making a welcoming gesture with the other, waiting patiently for you to step inside. Another thunder rumbled through the night, louder this time, and you hurried to cross the doorstep. With a heavy thud, the door of the old mansion fell shut behind you, causing a violent shiver to run down your spine. And you could not help but feel like red riding hood in your dress, who had just entered the wolf’s den, fully knowing he would devour her. 

“Welcome to my home.”

And what a home it was. Dark wood and old carpets dominated the place, staircases wound their way upwards elegantly, leading to even more rooms that seemed wasted on one inhabitant alone. Oil paintings decorated the walls, portraits as well as landscape scenes of places far and near, and here and there antiques caught the eye, collector’s pieces, possibly, or family memorabilia, passed down from generation to generation. And as if that had not been enough to remind you of those old gothic movies, the whole house seemed to be covered in a sheen of gloomy, flickering light, as if it was solely lit by candles. But of course that was ridiculous, nobody sane would rely on candles today instead of electricity. It must be some of those ultra-realistic LED candles that sat on the chandeliers and candelabras you passed by on your way as he lead you deeper into his lair.

To your great relief his kitchen was up to modern standards, at least far more modern than the rest of the house seemed to be and you thanked the heavens for that. Even the thought of having to cook in a kettle over an open fire doubled your nervousness in an instant. 

You did not speak much as you went to work, but you knew you had his full attention. You could feel his eyes on you, observing your every move, following you around as you tried to concentrate so you would not mess up dinner. An impossible task, it seemed, but what could you do? Sending him away was rude and out of the question. This was his home, you had come here of your own free will, knowing full well the terms of this deal, and if you wanted your needs satisfied, you would satisfy his, even it meant to have your every move studied.

“Wine?” 

You almost jumped out of your skin. He was so close, his voice coming from right beside your ear. Accompanying his words, he pushed a glass of red wine into your periphery. You hummed in affirmation as you took the drink from his hand. Eagerly you set it to your lips, gulping down a swig and then another as you found it did nothing to end the sudden drought in your throat. And yet you found yourself leaning back against him the moment his hands found you. One was careful to brush away the hair from your shoulder, while the other tenderly glided up and down your arm. You felt his chest move as he inhaled deeply, bringing you even closer, letting the deep vibration of his satisfied hum take hold of you too. 

“Mouthwatering,” he concluded, and he was already pulling away, the last you felt of him the brush of his fingertips against your neck. 

He must have lied to you, a white lie, but totally unnecessary as he did not seem to intend in the least to eat the meal you had prepared for the both of you. He sat across from you at a table that felt uncomfortably large at a dinner for two, twisting a glass of wine in his hand. Yet he was neither drinking nor touching the food on his plate.

“Are you not hungry?” you inquired, already unable to hide the miffed undertone in your voice.

“I am,” he stated plainly as if your question had been obsolete, as if in fact your question was the confusing bit of this conversation and not his totally antithetic behaviour.

“Is the food not to your liking then?” you refused to let him get away with it this easily. And as you waited for his answer, your fork dashed down to impale an innocent piece of vegetable.

“It looks delicious.”

He sported a smile, totally unfazed by the message of the little stunt you had pulled. If this man intended to seduce you by giving you the full boyfriend experience, even the aggravating and irritating parts, he would be in for a surprise tonight.

“Then why don’t you eat?”

“I will.” He had just finished his statement when lightning stroke, bathing the room in its cold, white light and for a second your heart stopped in your chest. It was only an instant, but the picture of him had been distorted completely, his mouth wide open, a pair of razor-sharp fangs glistening in the eerie light. 

You did not dare to blink, and still you must have, as only a moment later, everything was back to normal, he even continued speaking as if nothing had ever happened.

“All in due time, angel.”

Angel. He had called you that before. You had no idea what about you exactly made him think this was a fitting nickname for you. You certainly did not think of yourself as a being of light, and no one else before him ever had. Not that this was a bad thing, on the contrary. But what bothered you about it was the fact that he had already chosen a term of endearment for you, while you did not even know his name. 

“Will you at least tell me your name?”

Your voice sounded awfully strange to your own ears, a mixture of pouting and whining. It never sounded like that, not even in your lowest moments. And there had been quite a few of those.

“You can call me Andrew.”

“Andrew,” you repeated, letting his name roll over your tongue as if you were testing the sound, testing what it felt like to form the name with your mouth. It was not intentionally done, but when you looked up from your plate, you found his eyes already glued to you, and the hunger reflecting in those deep green orbs made you shiver in anticipation.

An anticipation you felt now more than ever, and it was threatening to drive you to insanity as you casually flicked through his record collection after dinner, trying very hard not to let your nerves get the best of you. You had moved to the living room now, or was it his music room? You had no idea, but the piano and the record collection let you assume as much. 

“This one.”

You pulled the LP from the shelf and handed it to him. Andrew was already waiting by the record player, taking it from you. 

“Great choice,” he commented. "Unbelievably talented musician, and an exceptional woman. You would have loved her.”

“You say that as if you knew her personally.”

“I did,” he stated as he found your gaze, and not for a second did you doubt that he was telling the absolute truth, however impossible it seemed. 

“How?” 

You watched him walk over to you, and you both knew that he would not answer your question. He did not need to. But instead of taking the last way out and run, you took the hand that was already waiting for you and nothing you had done in your life before had ever felt this right. 

There was just one question left to ask, you wanted to blurt it out and get it off your chest after it had pestered you for days, but you waited until you had both sat down on the chaise longue by the window. 

“So, ehm, how is this gonna go?” You were still holding his hand, your fingers playing with his as you spoke. “Do you want me to tell you what I like?”

“No.” His voice was like velvet. “There is no need to tell me. I will know.”

“Know how?”

He slowly detangled his fingers from yours, and when his eyes found yours again, something about them had changed.

“I can sense it, your desire.” His words had distracted you, allowing his hand to move unseen. It found you, found the sensitive spot of bare skin right above your knee. He did not even have to look and had found his aim still, making you suck in a sharp breath of air as his warmth seeped into your skin, gliding higher and higher up your thigh until his hand had vanished underneath the hem of your dress completely. “I can sense what brings you pleasure.”

Your eyes must have fallen closed under his gentle caress, and yet the touch of his lips did not startle you as they found the outline of your jaw. He moved slowly, placing featherlight kiss after kiss along the path to your ear.

This was the moment. It had come at last. Time to give him his part of the bargain. And so you brushed your hair aside, craning your neck to allow him full access. 

“Not yet, angel,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, “not yet.”

Instead of the teeth you had awaited, his palm settled on the most delicate spot you had offered him. He placed it right above your pulse, claiming what was his to take whenever he desired. He could probably feel it, feel the blood rush through you, and the thought was enough to coax a soft sigh from your throat.

But your pulse against his fingertips was not the only thing he could sense. Above it all he heard it, loud and clear, the thunderous drum behind your ribs, as if your heart was waiting for the right moment to break free. That would not be necessary. There were other ways to free you.

You moaned, a sound that warmed his icy heart, and when he let his hand glide up your thigh, your legs fell open for him. He blindly followed the moist heat, his eyes never leaving your beautiful face, watching as you slowly let go. Soon you would be lost to the world, your world, and would become part of his instead. He was just about to tear the last barrier, fisting the exquisite fabric, he gave it a harsh tug and there was nothing left between you and him any more.

You were so soft, softer as the finest silk, and the moan that fell from your lips when his fingers dove in between your silky lips to spread the slick that awaited him was so sinful it almost swayed him to allow himself a little taste of you. But he knew better than that. The wait would only heighten his enjoyment. He would not let his ravenous thirst ruin that for him. 

Your head sank back as he slowly slipped inside of you, exposing even more of your neck as another sinful sound broke from your lips. This was impossible, he needed to do something, to silence you for a while until he had gathered enough strength to withstand the urge to sink his teeth into you and suck you dry. And so he pushed his thumb past your lips until he felt your tongue press against it, sucking it in deeper. 

Soon he had found the right rhythm, pumping in and out of you, crooking his fingers every now and then to brush along that sensitive spot inside of you. He loved how the stimulation made your breath hitch in your throat, how your eyelids fluttered in that tiny moment of pure pleasure. It drove him wild, to play you like that, and for a second he forgot himself, his thumb gliding out of your mouth to squeeze that frail neck of yours. 

He let go immediately when he heard your heart skip a beat, it had startled him, but your whine came instantly, eyes flying open to find his, begging him silently to do it again. And who was he to deny you your pleasure? So he squeezed again, lightly at first, then harder until your hand grabbed the collar of his jacket, your back arching as you pulled yourself closer to him. 

You were close, so close, and he wondered…Tilting your head back, he dove into the crook of your neck, his tongue darting out to lick along the prominent vein. He could taste your pulse against his tongue, taste the sweetness of his triumph as he felt your walls clenching down on his fingers. Just one more step, one more ace up his sleeve to drive you over the edge. He knew you could feel it, feel the slight sting as his fangs brushed along your neck, teasing the skin they would soon break, a promise so ardent it left you no choice but to come with a desperate shout. 

He held you as you trembled and shook, riding out your high against his fingers. You were enchanting in your rapture and it was in this very moment that he vowed to give you everything you wanted, he would cater to your wants and needs until you felt you could take no more. 

He had never understood those who got high on striking fear into the hearts of their blood donors. Fear only staled the taste, while satisfaction heightened it. All those hormones, serotonin, oxytocin, prolactin, dopamine, adrenaline, mixing to form the most delicious concoction. 

But there was something more to it. The truth was, he liked giving something back. It made him feel less guilty about what he had to do to survive. He had not really chosen this life, well, he had, but he had been young and in love and full of hope that sharing eternity with her, the one who had turned him, would be worth it. It had not even lasted a decade before she had tired of him. Apparently commitment was not only difficult for beings with a limited lifespan. 

But with her gone, everything had seemed pointless in the beginning. All the things he had given up to share this life with her, he missed them terribly. And he loathed the killing, the never ending thirst. He had thought about ending it, numerous times, but he had always found more reason to hold on. And with a few alterations of the rules, he had also found a way to make it work.

He did not kill anymore. There really was no need to. Except for the fact that there were no witnesses if he did. Still, it was possible to survive on smaller portions of blood. He needed to feed more often then, which in turn increased the risk of getting caught. And so he had come up with this transactional system over time.

It was as easy as it was effective: he gave them what they wanted, and in return he could feast. Before he let them go, he made sure to erase certain memories of the shared time, and since he was good at his side of the transaction, they came back freely.

But this right here, you, you were more than a transaction. It had been nothing but a matter of business with the others, sex was just sex, a means to get what he wanted. But for the first time in forever there was something more than hunger he wanted to sate. He wanted you, wanted a taste of what it felt like to be alive, truly alive, not just a slave to the never dying thirst. 

It had been a while, and he had been sure he had forgotten by now what it felt like, but with you, so full of life as you writhed with lust in his arms, he remembered everything. And he needed more of it.

You must have sensed it, that he was about to let go, and his punishment came promptly. “Andrew,” you whimpered, as if his absence was pure agony, and he hurried, moving with lightning speed as he disposed of his jacket and made his way down to the floor. He knelt between your legs, pushing up the red fabric to expose his next treat. He was ready to dive in, to devour you, lick you into oblivion, but the gentle touch of your hand as it cupped his cheek held him back. 

Your eyes were so soft, full of affection and he felt a sting in his chest as the thought crossed his mind that he did not deserve this. Not at all. He was merely using you and still… His lips pressed to your palm in a tender kiss. The gesture did not even remotely match the endearment your eyes held, but it would have to do, for now. 

And then you surprised him again. In the blink of an eye your eyes darkened, your hand moving into his hair, while the other pulled the red fabric even higher. And on your lips, those pillows of sinfully smeared red, formed a smile that would surely bring him to his knees if he was not already kneeling. 

Eager for the touch of his lips you pulled him the rest of the way and his mouth found you with a moan, as if you were the most exquisite he had ever tasted. But what did it matter what you were to him? To you, he was the best you had ever had, and he had not promised too much when he had claimed he would know how to please you. He did. Oh god, he did. 

Swirling his tongue, he drew small circles around your clit until tiny stars started dancing before your eyes. But he had no intention of ending this so soon, you knew, as his tongue slowly glided all the way down to your wet entrance, teasing you, just to glide back up. He repeated his sweet torture a few times, over and over, until you lost count. And just when you thought he would never stop this torment, his tongue dipped into you. Hooking his arms around your legs he pulled you closer, sinking even deeper into you. You keened, one long, drawn out cry of pure delectation. Both of your hands had vanished into his hair by now, securing him right where he was. Not that you feared he would cease his endeavour, but you needed to feel him, needed to feel that this was real and not just a fever dream, your mind caught in divine delirium.

“Andrew,” you sighed breathlessly and for a second he stilled, dark eyes staring up at you, searching intently for any signs that you wanted him to stop. But you did not. Far from it. And so his eyes dipped back down, his upper lip quivering treacherously before his tongue darted out to lick one long stripe along your crevice. He sighed, eyes falling shut as he inhaled your scent, and you could feel your walls twitch upon the ferocity of his gesture. His forehead creased, nose scrunching as he bared his teeth, the two prominent fangs now unashamedly on display, and like a savage beast he leapt forward, to devour you properly. 

“Yes, yes,” you yelped, fingers tightening in his hair and he growled against you. “You’re gonna make me—” But you did not get to finish that sentence before your orgasm washed over you in a mighty wave, drowning out everything but you and him. Completely out of control, your legs wrapped around him, locking him up in the prison of your thighs where he still worked you, fervently, until your body went limp and your legs finally released him. 

Your eyes still closed, you could feel him, his kisses on the inside of your thighs, his movement as he left his spot between your legs, slowly crawling up your body while he covered it in more kisses, your hips, your stomach, your cleavage, your neck. You held him there for a while, relishing in the feeling of his mouth right there, right where it belonged, but all too soon for your liking he pulled away. 

Your tiny whine made him chuckle, and the most beautiful of smiles still curled his lips as he resurfaced from the crook of your neck.

“Should we take a little break?”

“Never.” Your answer was finite. You did not need a break. In fact it was the last thing you needed. There was something else you needed more than anything, and your fingers had already set out to get you exactly that. Skilfully they worked, opening button after button of his shirt, revealing more of that fuzzy chest. And now it was your turn to taste him, to kiss and lick that milky white skin while you kept on freeing him from his clothes. With a moan he sank against the back rest, one hand vanishing into your hair. He did not do anything, left it all to you, let you take what you wanted in your own sweet time. It was only when you had unfastened his belt and opened his trousers that he helped you shimmy them down his long legs. You had thought he would look more vulnerable once you had completely bared him, but there was nothing vulnerable about him. He was still exuding the same predatory power you had felt the moment you had first laid eyes on him and you knew you were damned for it, but it pulled you to him like a moth to a flame. 

“Turn around for me, angel,” he ordered and you did. Kneeling on the chaise longue, back turned to him, you melted into his touch as his fingers found the hidden zipper on your side. He was in no hurry to pull it down, allowing himself to revel in every inch of your skin that came to light, dragging one finger along it, all the way down to your hip, where he gathered the fabric in both of his hands and pulled it above your head. 

In an instant his hands were back on you, exploring your body. One arm hooked around his neck, you exposed yourself even further for him, and when he finally cupped your breasts, kneading them tenderly, playing with your hardened buds, you sank back against his chest. Wedged between you, resting right between the cheeks of your behind, you could feel him, all of him. And it was more than apparent that he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

Carefully your hand moved through the tiny space between your bodies until you had found him. He hissed as your fingers closed around him, teeth sinking into your shoulder as you moved, slowly, stroking him, worshipping the silky hardness until it was not enough anymore to feel him like that. 

You guided him, bending forward until you could feel the gentle press of his head against your entrance. Lazily you dragged him up and down, coating him in the juices he had so expertly coaxed from you. 

“Fuck, angel, you are so wet.”

And with that you pushed your hips back, sinking him deep. Your reward was another growl that echoed through the silence. He was quick to pull you up against him, burying his face in your hair. He just held you like that for a while, enjoying your bodies in unity, his hand right above your heart, his breath drifting through your hair and down your neck, covering you in goosebumps. 

But then he came to life, his hips moving, slowly at first, then faster, and once he had found his rhythm, you knew you were lost to him. It was perfect, just perfect, the steady rocking of his hips, his hand following the call of your sex, vanishing between your thighs, while his other still held you, trailing up your chest until it had found your throat, gently applying just the right amount of pressure. There was no way you would last long. How could you with the amount of pleasure he coaxed from you, leading you towards your next high as if he had been born for that purpose alone. 

His lips found your ear, mouth falling open to lick along the bow it formed. “Come for me, angel. I know you want to.” And while he still whispered the redeeming words, you obeyed him once more. 

You would have tumbled and fallen from the might with which your high took hold of you, but he held you tight, mumbling soft words into your ear as you moaned and sighed and mewled like a possessed woman. Softly he pulled you back with him, moving your malleable body around until he had you straddling him, your head resting against his shoulder while his hand drifted soothingly up and down your back.

You had no idea how long the two of you had been sitting like this, your hand on his chest, his heartbeat steady underneath your fingertips, calming you until the fog that had clouded your mind had cleared. 

“I always thought vampires did not have a heartbeat,” you rambled as you pushed yourself off of him. 

Andrew smiled, like a mushy drunkard, you thought, and for a second the word besotted came to mind. But of course that was just you seeing things that were not there. And he made it so easy for you, this fantasy, even reaching for you to rest his hand against your cheek. 

“There is much for you to learn then.” 

And when he pulled you in for a kiss, you did not care anymore whether this was a fantasy or reality. Like a drug, his lips drowned it all out, the doubt, the white noise in your head, and made you focus on him alone, his mouth, kissing along your jaw, down your neck, rekindling the flame that had just cooled down to a faint glimmer in a heartbeat. 

“Andrew?” He hummed against your pulse, and you had to swallow hard, forcing down a moan, before you could continue. “Will you make me come again?”

He still did not leave his favourite spot, as if you had simply asked him for the time and not to fuck you again. “If that is what you want.”

It was. It was all you wanted, all you could think of right now. And since he made no inclination to give you what you wanted anytime soon, you reached for him. With a gasp you found him, still hard and ready for you. And as you guided him once more to where you needed to feel him, you told him about something else you wanted, something you longed for even more than for your next high. 

“I want you to come with me this time.” Your words finally made his mouth still, his head slowly coming back to light as you continued, “I want to feel it, want to feel you, deep inside, pulsing in your rapture.”

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, and there was something about his eyes that made you want to run, something wild, something carnal, something you could taste on his tongue as he pulled you in for another kiss, deep and searing, while he pushed up inside you in one sleek thrust. You pulled away in a gasp, panting heavily as you stared down at him. He had the audacity to smirk, his eyes darkening with every passing second.

“Go on then, angel. Make me come.”

As he spoke, his hands had grabbed your hips. He was guiding you now, the roll of your pelvis against his, just for a while, until he trusted you had overcome your surprise. And when you moved on your own, you could feel his hands wandering up the length of your back. His tenderness was misleading, your suspicion proven right as he dragged them back down harshly, his nails surely leaving trails in their wake. You keened upon the unexpected sensation, your head lulling back. And it seemed this was the moment he had been waiting for all along. Immediately his head dove down to your chest to claim his reward, sucking in your nipple like a starved man.

You felt as if you were falling, tumbling through the air while he kept on ravaging you. In a desperate attempt to save yourself, to grab onto something for dear life, your fingers found his hair again. You pulled and still he did not budge, tormenting your soft flesh until you were betrayed by your own body and he was rewarded with an unhinged twitch around his length. 

“It feels so good,” he moaned, and then it seemed you were not the only one who found herself betrayed by her own body when he confessed, “You feel so good.” 

And while you were still soaring on his declaration, however insignificant it might have been, he hit that one spot inside of you that made you clench even more violently than before. He moaned again, a low, guttural sound that made you quiver, and when your eyes locked with his, another smirk had found its way onto his lips. Like a bloodhound he had locked onto that spot that made you dizzy with desire, sending those tiny shocks through your body with every hit, they spread and pulsed, crawling along your skin until you could feel the racing beat of your heart underneath the thin layer of skin that covered your neck. 

He must have felt it too, one arm wrapping around you to pull you closer, while he used his free hand to brush away every last strand of hair from your shoulder. His gaze found you once more, and now the hunger was more apparent than ever, wafting through the dark pools of green, mixing, until they had lost all colour and you stared into pure darkness. 

Giving permission was easier than you had thought, it felt natural to nod, to watch his fangs grow to full size once he knew you did not oppose, to feel him grow inside you at the same time, and just as his teeth broke through your skin, he came, giving you everything he had while he took what he needed in return. 

You had feared it would be painful, but all you felt was pure bliss as he feasted on you, as he stilled the craving that he must have felt all night, stilled it on you. And as you gave yourself to him completely, you were carried away by the unexpected momentum of your high. You fell again, spiralling through a tunnel of colours that burst through the darkness around you. You felt light as a feather, but plunged down with the speed of a rock. And yet there was no room for fear. Not even as the colours began to fade and you were left with nothing but darkness. 

You were dizzy, almost delirious, fighting so hard to hold on to consciousness, and if you failed, it would be his fault entirely. It was not supposed to end like this, but you had tasted so good, so scrumptious, that your taste had sparked the faint hope he would finally be sated. An illusion, of course. This hunger would never end, but it had made him foolish, had made him take more than he usually did, almost too much. It had taken him everything to pull away, just in time, as it seemed.

A soft sigh came from the place against his chest where your head rested. He was still cradling you, softly rocking you back and forth after he had mumbled his futile apologies. You probably did not even hear them in the state you were in. The state he had put you in. 

He cursed himself as he carefully scooped you up into his arms. He usually did not let the donors stay over, never, that rule had not ever been broken before, but he did not care about rules anymore. What he cared about was you, and you needed rest.

Slowly he lowered you onto his bed before he laid down by your side, draping the sheets over you both. 

“Sleep, my angel, you deserve to rest.”

You looked so peaceful in your slumber, and he did not even question why his hand reached out for you. Lovingly, he brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen into your face, his fingertips gliding across your brow, your cheek. He wanted to touch your lips as well, but he was afraid he would wake you, and so he kept his distance, his fingers still tracing their form, even if he could not feel their silky touch. 

You were different. He had felt it all along, but it was only when he had tasted you, rich and warm on his tongue, that he had known for sure what it was that set you apart from all the others. You were what the likes of him called an old soul. One that had lived many lives and carried the wisdom of the centuries. Maybe that was why you had read him so easily. He was sure you had at least felt it from the beginning, what he was, and the fact that you had chosen to seek him out nonetheless still irritated him.

However odd all of this might seem, he was more than aware that finding an old soul—or being found by one—was a rare thing, especially today, when souls hardly lasted for one full lifetime. Maybe he should keep you, just for a while. To take care of you, your old soul and the body that housed it. Just to make sure the world would not lose another precious being like you. 

Metamorphosis (Sequel)

***

taglist:

@rosecentury

@lowkeysimpinloki

@fightmespideyboy

[the-midnight-blooms]

the vampire's paramour | smg

previously titled: sanguine metal and pearl

pairing: vampire!song mingi x accusedwitch!reader AU: fantasy au word count: 5.8k warnings: violence ATEEZ as angst tropes series: Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho

masterlist

Trope: Betrayal 

Thunder cracked across the sky, the rain beating down on the earth, wind hitting against the frail leaves as a hollow figure dashed across the drenched field. Her boots squelched beneath her feet as she tiredly trudged, panicking as she attempted to seek solace in the large abandoned manor on the hill. By no means did she expect it to be inhabited with as much as warmth, but anything was better than the coarse battering of the rain provoking her skin. Her pale fingers squeezed against the slash penetrated across her abdomen-blood oozing out of the wound like a scarlet river. Beads of sweat formed on her upper brow; heavy pants silenced by the harsh winds. At last, she reached the cobbled roads no longer restrained by the depth of the muddy grass, sprinting down the path. Out of sheer habit, her fists pounded loudly against the wooden door, rapping at the knocker not long before she jerked the door handle. Her body pushed into the foyer, hastily parrying the biting winds the loud slam venerating the hallways.

A quiet sigh escaped from her lips; her eyes fluttered shut relishing the warmth of the atmosphere that eased the tension in her muscles. Despite this, she had lost too much blood. Her dress, her hands all soaked red- the objects in her line of sight all bleeding together. With an agonising wheeze she dropped to the floor with a heavy thud, her mind racing at a million miles per minute.

I could die like this I suppose, at least it’s warm.

A sudden of rush of emotions overcame her, fatigue moulding into sadness as she recollected how she got there. Where a storm now brewing outside the bow windows, the translucent glass blocked some of the light that spilt into the dark foyer- when she came home a few hours ago, the air was soft smelling of the sweet musk of honeydew and freshly cut lawn. The sun was nowhere to be seen, but the white clouds hung in the sky. Painful coughs trickled up her throat, blood dribbling from her lips onto the wooden floorboards her head clouded by the pain- at once tearing her away from the pastoral fantasy. Mind rocking back and forth, stumbling on the thin line between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Through the slits of her shutting eyes, she sought a tall, dark figure looming over her- her body elevating from the ground. Perhaps it was the Grim Reaper taking mercy on her, ready to return to her parents’ side. For his ominous eyes bored into her own, her soul magnetised by its enigma.

Death is a beautiful man.

Peering through the windows of his warm study, the fireplace was lit the embers spitting as the flames oscillated beneath the cracked marble. Rain shot down from the sky, hammering against the porcelain tiles, infiltrating down the drain leading to the gutter as he sought a figure staggering down his pavement.

‘Manyeo’ he heard the servants whisper through the kitchen walls of his almost desolate home. Witch. But there could be no such creature. Not when he had lived through centuries, rendered an immortal being by mortals who distinguished the same face being transplanted down through generations. Just how strong was his family’s genetics really? He respected her resilience, despite the pain boiling within her human flesh she made her way to the door of his home. Mingi ripped himself away from the window, stalking out of his room.

The hallways were much larger than one would anticipate, not all them were covered with wallpaper, but the walls were particularly dark basking his view. They were littered with more candelabras, elegantly carved Greek statues, brushed with a few cobwebs indicating its age and neglect. Paintings embraced the lurid walls, particularly renaissance paintings of the past including many figures rendered to thoughtful positions encrusted in pale browns, reds, soft creams and light blues blending together to create an image of classism. After descending down the staircase, he reached the foyer a feminine figure draped across the floorboards her scarlet red blood blessing the ground beneath her. Slipping his slender fingers around her body, he encased her fragility within his strong grasp holding her close to his chest.

Sunlight streamed in through the crevices of the white chiffon curtain, whirling with the warm breeze that emptied into the large room. With the air brushing at her soft skin, her eyes fluttered open staring at the canopy ceiling above her. A distressing grunt left her as she adjusted her position- sitting up back pressed against the headboard. Instinctively, her hands reached towards where the stab wound was, lifting the hem of the cotton white dress to reveal a roll of bandages securely wrapped the whole way around her stomach. Someone had stitched her up. With furrowed eyebrows, her eyes travelled the breadth of the room. The walls were plastered in ivory green wallpaper, detailed with golden floral patterns. Beside her was a small nightstand, above was an unlit brass candelabra, burgundy red leather-bound books with ochre spines. The canopy bed was draped with white netting, the plush cream bed covers softening her stiff limbs inviting her back to sleep. Persisting against her tiredness, she crawled out of the bed- chilliness shooting up her as her feet dipped onto the floorboards.

Above the dressing table held a large mirror, reflecting her thinning figure lacking the liveliness that it used to have, dark circles embodying her youthful eyes. A crisp card note embedded with dark ink, folded in half grabbed her attention.

Miss Min,

I hope you are feeling much better after a long bed rest. If you feel yourself able, I would like to request for you to dine with me tonight. Please help yourself to any of the dresses in the wardrobe, see it as your own for the duration of your stay here at Song’s Manor.

I shall hope to see you soon,

Your saviour.

Who was this man? How did he know her name? Was the manor not supposed to be empty? The townspeople claimed so, yet they weren’t the brightest or trusting of people. She was still, yet, naïve for believing their words despite all their dishonest allegations. A witch. Out of all the things they deemed her, for being an academically inclined woman at that. With her mother passing early on her childhood, her father, a scholar, was left to take care of her upbringing. What could a man teach her about the ways of the household and domesticity? So, naturally, he taught her all that he knew which was the art mathematics and science. She spent the most of her adolescence cooped up on the brown leather chair analysing diagrams from scientific journals; helping her father with his research by transcribing his words and knowledge as his health dwindled. After his own passing, she was left to survive for herself and with the uprise of paranormal activity in her town- the people pointed a finger towards the scholarly woman. For when people are afraid, they point towards the most estranged person they know.

Dressed in a floor length black dress, black lace netted over the cotton fabric- large bell sleeves covered her thin arms. The dress accentuated her figure in all the right places, addressing the curves of her body that she had not noticed up until now. Her long hair was clipped back by a silver claw clip- she felt everything on her body was too rich to belong there. It was hard to believe that this was one of the simplest dresses amongst the ball gowns hung in the old chestnut wardrobe. Her hands had rifted through reams of silk, satin, chiffon, mesh, cotton of a consistent maroon red, creams, ivory white and black colour palette. There was the occasional green and blue, but the colours so deep it felt like delving into the depths of an uncharted sea.

A small knock venerated through the room, the wooden door creaking open as a timid pair of eyes peeked into the room, the maid slipped in straightening her posture.

“Count Song requests your presence in the dining room, Miss Min.” She felt astounded by the endearment- despite her father being an astute scholar she was never held on a pedestal among others, she was simply one head in a crowd of masses. Miss Min followed after the maid, every step feeling like she was treading on sharp glass, the skim of the substance penetrating her-dreading the cauterise of a thousand hot blades on her skin. Her mind rinsed with the memory of him piercing his knife through her abdomen, every time she closed her eyes-even if it was just to blink- she relived that moment over and over.

The maid had led her into the dining room. The oak dining table stretched over the length of the whole room, patterned with black leather chairs which in itself was probably worth more than her whole home. The dining room was painted scarlet red, and much like the rest of the home, the walls were encased with grand paintings which she had only seen in books. At the top of the table stood a tall man, clad in black velvet. With his sharp jawline and narrow eyes, he feigned an intimidating impression, the shadows loomed ominously in his presence leaping of his slender body as if ready to latch and destroy anything in its path. He drifted forward, as if being carried by the shadows that substantiated him. He could only be the infamous Count Song, owner of the manor she once perceived as deserted.

“Miss Min. How do you feel?" he questioned, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine.

"I'm fine, thank you so much for your hospitality, Count Song." She claimed, ignoring the frequent pangs of pain that seared through her. Her vision blurred ever so slightly-the defined features of his blending together, yet still creating a perfect picture at that.

"There's no need for formalities, you can call me Mingi." He introduced. At once, the suggestive smirk moulded into a warm smile revealing the dimples that adorned his pale cheeks. Her lips formed his name; to soundlessly masticate the vowels on her tongue- it tasted so natural to her. "Come, you must be hungry." He led her to the top of the dining table, adjacent to where his own seat was, pulling it out in a gentlemanly manner. A blush crept on her cheeks as she sat down. A mere minute later, servants compiled into the room, an array of dishes covering the vast half of the large table. Her widened eyes instilled a chuckle from Mingi, he watched with adoration.

Miss Min was a beauty, a sight to behold. All the light in the room revered her, shining towards her figure ever so specifically- so much that you would think she was the beacon herself. The black dress hugged her figure so perfectly, he wanted nothing more than to snake his hand around her waist and pull her closer to him. The smell of her blood so divine, it was driving him insane. He bit his lip, hands balling up into fists as if to hold himself back from digging his teeth into the curve of her gleaming neck. Once the servants had fled from the room, he reached forward to cover her plate with a bit of each dish served before them.

"Mingi-," he silenced her with a hard stare.

"Hush now, you need as much food as you can get. How would you get better otherwise?" This sudden solidarity had startled her, no less. When was the last time someone had given her this much attention? She became so used to fending for herself, that help of others was so foreign to her. Perhaps this was all temporary and Mingi was seeking something from her in return of his services.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you know my name?" she questioned, as soon as he compiled a few dishes onto his own plate-reaching for the fork. He stopped, slipping his hand inside his suit jacket, pulling out a black book with her name engraved on the front.

"This was in your cloak." Cloak, a word that disgusted her. Almost made it seem like she was a real witch. He settled the book down next to him- tentatively, she grabbed it, flicking through the pages to see if any of the loose sheets she'd placed in there had fallen out. The chances were that they had when she was making her way up the hill. “Took me a while to get my head around that satanic scripture.” He joked, raising the wine glass to his lips. Her head snapped toward him. Cloak. Satanic scripture. What did he know and what was he trying to imply?

My, my, Miss Min. You are sharp.

Mingi held her confounded stare for a few moments before gesticulating for her to eat the food he’d so kindly put on her plate.

“What are you trying to imply, Mr Song?” She challenged, there was no point beating around the bush. If he, as so much thought that she was one of the devils men- then she was treading in the enemy’s territory. She deduced the secretive airs around him, the way he paused before speaking choosing his words carefully.

“I might not get out of the house much but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my eyes and ears everywhere. Did you not think for a second I wouldn’t question why there’s a woman bleeding out to death on my doorstep?”

“If you were wondering so, then you didn’t need to invite me to eat with you. You could’ve asked me the second I woke up and I would have told you.”

“Oh I know you would have, Miss Min. But what kind of man would I be, if I didn’t put food before a starving woman? So, eat your food and if you don’t like it then I can get you something else.” He instructed, salient eyes burned into her own, tearing her stare away she stuck the fork into plate- engulfing her meal hungrily, but in a civilised enough manner that the man beside her didn’t think she was an animal. They ate their food in tense silence, Miss Min still eager to galvanise answers out of him. Mingi scoured through the depths of her mind finding nothing that wasn’t already new to him. Just a young soul brimming with beauty and inquisition. At the end of the night. Mingi escorted her back to her quarters-the pair loitering outside of her door. Mingi, unable to leave until he knew she had gone into the room, and herself thinking of something-anything- that would eradicate the taut atmosphere. She pushed her door open, thanking her saviour for his hospitality. Sometimes it was better to say nothing, than something. Deep down she felt that he would not leave her questions unanswered. Regardless, whatever it was that he was hiding from her- she took it upon herself to find out. One way or another.

A gold, rusted candelabra rested in her palms as she sauntered through the desolate hallways. It had been a while since their last encounter; Mingi's latency around the manor was absent. She tried to pry the maids for information in lieu of her nosiness but they all dismissed her inquisitiveness, instead doting over her lecturing her to rest and take care of herself. A sense of pain still provoked her bearings despite all this rest she was advised to take, deciding the best cure to her apathy was to give herself that tour that Mingi did not give her. Avoiding the steps that descended to the ground floor, she took the staircase leading the the upper floor hands gliding up the railing to secure some stability, she still felt her head rocking from side to side- heavy pants fleeting from her aching lungs as she wandered to the upper floor. The second floor stretched out into a long hallway, around six black, wooden doors all equidistant from each other. To her dismay, three out of six were locked and two were simply storage rooms holding boxes of trinkets, dusty furniture, a grand piano, cello; some other boxes contained velvet curtains, bed spreads and just other menial household items. Reaching for the copper doorknob, she twisted the handle pushing it open to reveal another set of staircases that led further up the building. From the outside, the manor looked to only have two floors, the high ceilings feigning an impression of many more. Shutting the door behind to preserve the warmth, she glided up the staircase, nudging through yet another door before entering a large space. The light from the flame flooded into the room, this room was much more fastidious than the rooms below with white sheets draped over the furniture; carefully arranged in parallel rows either side of the room. Amongst the walls held portraits, an array of people all dressed in the clothing that was deemed fashionable of its time. They were all encrusted in deep reds, velvety purples, pearl necklaces wrapped around their necks. A certain figure on the walls, drew her, his face similar to that of Mingi's. There seemed to be several that masked his features, all dressed differently-as if his face was a family heirloom surpassing generations.

Her eyes latched onto a book perched on top of one of the tables, a thick layer of dust coated on the front cover. Reaching for the book, she wiped away the dust with the sleeve of her arm, erupting into a fit of coughs as the particles entered her nose. Through the little light, her eyes barely made out the writing engraved across the front.

‘Mr and Mrs Song’

“What are you doing up here?” His deep voice bellowed into the attic, startling her. "What's that in your hand?" Clutching the book to her chest, Mingi grabbed at the candle holding it towards his face, his dark eyes glared at her a look of question fulfilling his features.

"It's mine." she blurted, he raised an eyebrow-almost amused by her proclamation. She cleared her throat, looking down at her feet in embarrassment. "I mean...I got it from the library. I also got a little bored. So I thought I'd explore." The cold look on his face softened, as he watched her stumble a little, leaning on the table for support.

"You're still in pain, you could have explored the castle later. Or asked me.” He offered.

“I’m beginning to think you’re nocturnal, Count. It’s actually appalling to see you’re gallivanting through your own hallways in the early evening.” Mingi shook his head whilst rolling his eyes.

“Maybe you’ve just been missing me.” A playful smirk held up on his sweet lips. She wanted to reach out and touch them, hold her fingers on his lips for a while. See what it would feel like to have his skin pressed against hers. The thought itself astounded her. His beauty was certainly a thing to behold but where had she conjured such thought from? “Come with me, Miss Min. We’ll gallivant through our hallways together,” His outstretched hand gesticulated for her to join him. They sauntered down the corridor, the book pressed against her chest. A maid rushed over to them, panting heavily.

"There is a man demanding to see you master. He goes by the name of Choi San." Her blood ran cold, limbs paralysed as the name reverberated at her core. Choi San, the town's exorcist had been the one to spread the word of her 'witchcraft', he had also been the one to plunge his 'holy' dagger into her stomach. Mingi stalked towards the entrance, the maid scuttling back to her duties. Hesitantly, she followed after him descending the steps. Listening carefully, she heard San introduce himself listing his many revered titles. 'Priest, Merchant, Scholar'. Yet it didn't take a genius to figure out that San was no god-fearing man and cleverly manipulated the townspeople's naivety to create his own rules and have them bending to his will. If anything, he thought he was God's greatest gift on earth.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me." Looking up at the top of the stairs, he shot her a devious smile. "Why don't you come down for me, dear?" Her body trembled, moving further down the steps. Hiding behind Mingi’s towering figure, his hand settled on her waist behind his back. San, unimpressed, mockingly cocked his head to the side like a drunken father playing hide and seek with his fearful child.

“This is my wife, you are talking to Mr Choi. Maybe you should reconsider your position whilst you are stood in my house threatening my wife and by extension, me.” Wife? Her heart fluttered, indecently, as Mingi’s grip on her waist tightened. Leaning her head against his back, her eyes shut tightly.

“Very well Count Song, I was unaware of this arrangement. I suggest you tame her. A woman like her does not belong here. This is not the last you'll see of me.” San spat through clenched teeth sending her one last sinister look before departing from the manor. Before Mingi could step forward to argue, she tugged at his arm. A breath of relief of escaped her lips, Mingi turned around to envelop her within his embrace- sinking her head into his chest the warmth from his body soothing her.

“It’s ok, nobody can hurt you now.” Her head piqued up, a grateful smile dancing upon her lips.

“Wife?” She teased, Mingi shrugged- a guilty look forming on his face.

“I didn’t know what else to say. It’s final- you’re staying here now Miss Min, whether you like it or not.” A few days later, Mingi had summoned her to his study. She kicked the album underneath the bed the canopy bed that same day-only to find it missing when she returned to find it. Did he take it? What was in that album that he did not want her to see, aside from the possible fact that she was prying around in his home-looking for answers he would not give her. “You marry me, Miss Min and you’ll have my protection. No man can ever lay his hands on you.” Her eyes flickering back and forth between him and the sheet.

“What’s the catch? What do you get out of this arrangement?” He looked slightly taken aback by her inquest, but which man would willingly spend the rest of his life with her? Mingi frowned a little as he read her thoughts.

“I get the pleasure of your company. Not that in that way, of course.” He quickly clarified, a blush creeping upon his cheeks. How cute. “I promise I won’t keep you bored, you’ll have my undivided attention.” She contemplated the thought. It was clear that she couldn’t go back to her home, her seclusion would only provoke San to go after her again and she couldn’t have that. On the other hand, she barely knew Mingi. How much could she really trust him? Then again, how much choice was she left with?

I guess we’ll find out.

The ink spilled out from the nib, her signature sprawled across the page. How bad could it be to be tied to Song Mingi for eternity?

Oh you little lamb, you have no idea of the being I am.

After the establishment of their matrimony, the pair had become a lot more distant than that was usual of a married couple. Miss Min felt it in her to be the wife that her mother was for her father, but did not know how. Mingi felt it in him to be more affectionate or available but his nocturnal nature prevented him from doing so. The servants had prevented her from entering Mingi's quarters, especially during the day. A pang shot through her at the thought that maybe he was with another woman. Her speculative nature had been suddenly inhibited, every time she thought about Mingi's disappearance during the day- the notions were vanquished substituted with the lies he fed her spinning in her mind like mantra chanted by a camaraderie of soldiers. With the days becoming shorter and nights longer, his presence pervaded the household more often- summoning his wife to his study to drink tea together.

“What is it that you do?” Mingi looked up from his book, as wide-eyed Miss Min settled down her porcelain tea cup. “I mean, what keeps you so busy and away from me?” She thought out loud. Frequent he felt his vampiric essence was a curse. He wanted to be close to her, without feeling the urge to sink his teeth into her neck. He wanted to hold her in the light of the day, in ways he believed she should be held.

“The boring stuff, like tax collecting, administrative duties, trade. All the stuff that everyone dislikes." Particularly her father. He would always have the tax collectors at their door, every month because he was too invested in his work-he'd forget about his taxes.

"That does sound incredibly dull." Her heart fluttered again at his intoxicating smile. "Does that mean you're somewhat good at maths?" Mingi snorted. Whilst he had been occasionally praised on his academics (a thousand years back when he played the role of a gentry scholar), he knew he didn't hold the admiration for it as much as she did. It was small moments like these which bridged the distance between the two. The tea in his office during the late afternoon had become a ritual for the pair.

One night Mingi was fixated upon writing his report to his superior, when a servant scuttled in.

"Mr Choi has requested to see you again, Master." Placing down his ink nibbed pen, Mingi let out deep sigh permitting the priest to enter his study. A broad-shouldered man strolled into the room, face wrought with wickedness.

"Can I help you, Mr Choi?"

"It's Father Choi, Count Song. I shall hope god forgives you for your disrespect." Mingi bit his tongue, impatience seething through him as he echoed San's devious stare. "It's rather, I can help you. It has come to my attention that there have been reported cases of paranormal activity around the manor." The vampire snickered, knowing it was better to stay relaxed. Throughout his lifetime, he'd been accused of immortality, the matter resolved dubiously.

"Is that so, Father-" San held out his hand, silencing the vampire. Mingi wanted nothing more than to grapple his hands around the man's neck.

"There's no hiding from me. I know you're a vampire Song." Each word felt like taunt, an attempt to instil a sense of action from Mingi that would only prove San's 'allegation' against him. "And I have the cure you've been looking for."

Mrs Song, sped down the hallway to her husband's office. Eyebrows furrowed as she noticed San being escorted out by a maid, attired in the typical black silk gown suited for his position. Staggering to the door, she swooped into the office-ignoring Mingi's dazed look and the formalities.

“What did he want?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about him. Come over here.” Gently, he pulled her into his laps. Slightly irked by his dismissal, she leant into his touch, fingers circulating through his hair. For a moment, her mind went cloudy, envisioning a blur of a figure transcending down the hallway next to a servant, the throbbing sensation in her temple deepened. Maybe it was just a group of maids making their way to their quarters. “Darling Miss Min, the treasurer of my heart, please would you do me the honour of accompanying me in the rose garden?” Playfully, she hummed pretending to be contemplative.

“Darling Mr Song, it would be my honour to accompany you in the rose gardens. Though it's too dark out, how would we see anything?"

"Never mind that, I find that thing's are much more peaceful in the night than during the day."

"Let's just stay here like this." Slumping down a little, she curled up into a ball resting her head against his chest, eyes closed as a shot of pain seethed through her. Her rationality was decomposing, and she hated every moment of it.

All she could think about was Mingi. All she wanted was Mingi. To feel the strong hold of his arms around her forever, to feel the brush of his lips against her skin, forever. Is this what it felt like to love? To adore? Goodness, she used to chastise such emotion primarily because she had felt the predatory gaze of men her whole life but when Mingi looked at her, it was if she embodied of the moon itself. For he, a dead being, felt his heart beat again at the mere sight of her. There was something so pure and domestic about the fact she was wrapped up in his arms, falling asleep to his whispers.

As she had promised Mingi, she accompanied him through his luscious rose gardens- an abundance of deep red roses enamouring the air. Her husband was correct, there was a beauty to the night relinquishing all of the fears that one associated to it. The moon hung serenely in the night, scintillating down at her husband. With the twisting of his stare, she snapped her head back toward the roses. Suddenly, the rain began to heavily beat down, the wind nipping at their skin. Encompassing her smaller hand into his, he dragged her back into the manor. A heavy thud emulated, as he tightly fixed the door. The pair exhaled synchronously, before he led her back to her room. With the candles already the lit, the heat juxtaposed from the chaos of the weather relaxing her muscles.

Mingi stared down at her, enraptured in her beauty. He could not help himself as he glazed his fingers over her skin. Erratic breaths infiltrated the air, leaning closer and closer to each other.

"I need you in all the ways holy and sinful, my dear. I want you as mine, eternally." I love you.

“I’m yours.” She breathed out, lulled by the intensity of their emotions. That was all it took for him to break. His touch eradicated the symphony of aches seething within her bones, the taste of him like opium reaching back for more and more. She could not get enough of him, and him her. Everything about the way the ardour flooded through them that night was divine and if it was all just a passionate dream she didn’t want to wake up. She could spend the rest of eternity stuck within this dream and she wouldn’t complain.

“If I asked you to follow me, without telling you where I was going, would you come with me?” He asked her one evening, tangled in each other’s arms in her room. Her finger drew down the bridge of his nose, over the curvature of his pink, plump lips.

“I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.” She announced. I'd follow you anyway for I am your devoted slave. His dimpled smile and siren eyes, pulled her off her bed taking her to the opposite ends of the manor. As they approached deeper into what seemed to be Mingi’s quarters- it became much more colder. The windows were obscured by thick black velvet, hallways narrower and not a single candelabra in sight to guide them. Yet Mingi seemed to know where they were going, she followed him aimlessly as cattle did to a shepherd.

They glided up a set of staircases, his arms around her waist as glimpsing through the window overlooking the vast lawn. The night was beginning to settle in, the lights from the village evaporating. Resting his chin on her head, he nestled his face into her hair- pressing his lips to the top of it.

A sharp pain protruded through her lower back, an agonising scream terrorising the hallways. Her knees weak from the pain- it was as if she was being mauled by horses on a race track, their strong legs thumping against her skin. Tormenting sobs illustrated the air, her body sliding down his back- Mingi sinking to the ground with her.

"Oh don't cry my blossom, please."

"How can I not? When you've hurt me. All this time you were just the devil in disguise." Choking on her cries, begging to the Lord to cease her pain.

"I'm not the devil, I am so much worse. For I spoke to him and he begged me not to hurt you. How does even a fallen angel sink to his knees before me?" Tears slid down his cheeks. She had never seen a statue cry before. He had corrupted her so much-even through the incessant pain she wanted to reach out and kiss away his tears.

"Why?" she managed to croak out. Letting out a gasp, his grip on her tightened as he slid out the dagger.

"It's just my nature. I needed you to bring me back to life. You were my key to mortality" He closed his eyes, her body wracking with sobs. San’s words ringing in his head. You have to make a sacrifice, kill the one you love the most in exchange for the gift of mortality. And he had become so deranged with living a thousand years, falling in love with her in each century only to have her taken away from him. Though he had stopped her several times from looking through the album. The truth was that Miss Min’s face lived as long and true as his own. A curse had set upon him when he had first become a vampire, that his lover would be given and torn away from him until the end of time. He just had to kill her this one time to break the cycle, her blood on his hands- the only cure ready to free him from his hellish state of mind.

“I thought you loved me.”

“I do love you. But it’s the things we love the most that are the ones we can’t have. My heart beats to your name. You brought me back to life.” A sudden roar flooded up the hill, the dissonance hitching a breath in her throat.

“You lied to me Song Mingi.” Her shaking hand, attempted to crawl backwards away from him, but with no strength left in her bones- she slipped against the stairs. He took everything from her, all her love, all her purity, all her sanity- moulding it into something that became utilitarian for him. You said nobody could hurt me. You wouldn’t let anyone lay a hand on me. “If I were to be ever reborn, I ask of the heavens to keep me away from you- for being in love with you was the greatest curse that has been bestowed upon me.” In the finality of her receding breaths, her body warped against the staircase- her soul gone with the howl of the wind.

All Right Reserved © the-midnight-blooms

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPURPOSE, OR PLAGISRISE ANY OF THE WORK HERE

‘min’ meaning wisdom

A/N: It honestly feels like such a relief having published this. Mingi I love you so much but why did you give me this much grief? also, i didn’t intend to kill so many people off but i cant hold back i guess 🫣 i hope you guys liked vampire mingi <33

let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for any future fics I post!

[beeandthescreen]

In Unholy Matrimony

E | Vampyr!Ellen x Thomas | Canon Divergence | 3/?

Ao3 | Dawn, once again, brings about whispers of death.

All ch. | 1 | 2 | 3

Trigger Warning: Nonlinear narrative, I know, don’t stone me. They are separated by line breaks because I am kind and think of all you visual learners. Somehow this ended up longer than the first two chapters combined because I have no self-control and WILL indulge myself. 

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Beneath the heaviest downpour of the year, Thomas races through the streets of Wisborg.

His determination is a pinhole. He cares for nothing but the path to the graveyard. Even when he feels the tendons of his knees may sever, when the chambers in his heart may burst, he surges forth. 

In spite of his urgency, he keeps his footing steady. He allows himself a glance behind him, seeing that Ellen has yet to stir from her trance. He tightens his grip. Rainwater soaks his nightshirt and floods his boots. Blisters form between his toes. 

He will not falter.

The seller carts are barren and the knocker-uppers in bed. There is little to do in weather so unyielding. His Ellen, too, does not stir. 

In his brief moments of thoughtfulness, he notes some things. Her chest does not rise and fall. No breath tickles his neck. She has become heavier. It is as if she has been recarved in lead, un-hollowed, solidified through and through. Thomas uses her to ground him and anchor him to the earth, which has become very irregular. 

He is strangely reminded of his mother. 

She would sit with him by the window sill on days much like this, feeding him candied peels. Sweet boy, She would speak into his hair, telling him stories of old. Of dwarves, faeries, princesses, and, when it thundered, monsters.

Once, over a particular summer, he had grown almost a foot. It had been the first time he’d left her without his company. Thomas had told her he was much too grown for the silliness of children. Not silly. He now thinks. Not silly at all.

She had smiled, as she always did, but there was a tightness around her eyes he had pointedly ignored. Years past, when he’d begun his apprenticeship, she would continue to sit in the comfort of grey clouds. Even so, she had never failed to leave his seat open. 

She had been a woman of great insight, much like his love. He’d found joy speaking to his mother, he’d thought her so charming, so warm. He has not been home in an age, despite them being only a day’s ride from Fredrich’s manor. He’d planned to bring her home after he’d secured his place at the firm. After he had something to show of himself. 

She…she would have loved Ellen. She would’ve found a daughter in her- and perhaps they may meet, should he reach the damned fucking mausoleum- ——————————————————————————————————

“Release me.” 

Even with her words, she’s white-knuckling his collar in the most crushing of grips. Thomas tries to meet her eyes, but they dart around the room, beady and dark. He is cupping her face, trying to think. 

“I am with you.” He replies, Instead of ripping his hair out. He presses his cheek against the hard line of her hand. If anything was so true, it was such. That, and the simple fact that he is so very lost. 

Ellen’s senses return in short, agonizing bursts. Thomas is still reeling from the moments prior and can do little but sit with her.  The invasion had been of the same sort as the castle- no, that had been worse. He can’t leave. He never left, he is always there, in that room. On the floor, holes in his chest, teeth nipping at his heels-

“You would hold me, still?” She asks, face devoid. Regardless, he can see the minute shake of her lip, the undercurrent of doubt and fear beneath her flat affect. Thomas blinks away the upset and considers.

Slowly, he tucks a stray hair behind her ear. His Ellen. So severe, so beauteous. He would give all to peer inside of her, to turn over every artery, every vein, just so he could know her further. In truth, Thomas knows there is nothing she can do to turn him away. He is in an ever-perpetual state of awaiting. Awaiting her embrace, her voice, her presence, her. It has always been, and always will be, Ellen. He knew her even when he hadn’t, and he will know her even when he is purged from this world. To reject her would be to reject himself, and that could not be.

“Without question.” He answers, voice steady. 

She is not so convinced. “I am ruined.” 

“You are alive.” His heart swells with conviction. “For that, I am the most fortunate of all men,” he adds, holding her gaze. 

“I will never fault you for your distress. I try to stand in your place and I cannot begin to comprehend the strength you hold.” Thomas thinks of himself and sees three men. Before her, after her, and now. One more changed than the last.

Collectively, they cannot hold a candle to the woman before him. Ellen is a force, and he knows that she will persevere. He would lift her from the depths as many times as needed.

There is an unspoken line drawn. There are many things to address, but later, when they can begin to make sense of the madness that has been lain at their feet. 

Many a thing flicker across Ellen’s face. Not all of them are pleasant. Still, in the end, her pupils bloom and the wrinkle in her brow flattens. Her lips part and her jaw quivers with words unsaid. 

He stares back and knows nothing but love.

The ground, which had been as precarious as shifting grain, begins to right itself once more. 

The threads of her being have never slowed their entwining with his own. Ever since that lone, spring day- when he had gazed upon her for the first time- he had known possession. Because that is what she had done. Engulfed him so fully he lost all sense.

Even in her absence, he’d felt its tug. Even in turmoil, he welcomes it readily.

“And you are a fool.” She says, soft, loving, and bitter. She is far from placated, but it is enough.

For now.

“Yours.” He reminds her, allowing himself the amusement. She lightens. It lasts but a moment. His eyes flicker to the weeping wounds on her neck and he startles.

“You are hurt-” He quickly untucks his nightshirt from his bottoms, giving the edge a sharp tug. The tear produces a good amount of fabric. Ellen blinks at his flurry, unsure of where to look. She examines herself.

“Just a moment, love.” He murmurs. He loops it behind her collar and covers most of the damage with a tight, but comfortable, knot. 

Her hand flies to the makeshift bandage, attempting to push a finger under, but he softly steers it away with a tch. He takes it into his own and uses it to guide her to her feet. She follows- a faraway look on her face. He leads her to the washing room, settling her in front of the copper sink. 

He does not consider, and he so wishes he did, that the sight of herself, or lack thereof, would be upsetting.

Ellen sucks in a sharp breath.

There, in their small chipped mirror, is Thomas. 

Only Thomas.

-And Ellen’s disembodied, soiled gown. ——————————————————————————————————

The onslaught is blinding. He relies on his memory and snippets of blurred lamplight to lead him true. A flash of light and an apocalyptic rumble leave his ears ringing.

“Make haste, make haste, make haste-” Thomas skids on his heels, turning the most important corner of his life, and is bestowed its dark, terrible outline.

He hikes Ellen up, tightening his grip on the underside of her thighs. He takes a single step, and the faint, almost imperceptible, light of dawn begins to peek through gray.

Thomas hurries.

He slams his shoulder against the gate. A flock of crows crowding the overhang of the tomb scatter. He slips past their flurry, and into the dark- So very glad for it. He wastes not a second. He gently peels her body from his back, and lowers her into her bed of lilies. 

They’ve wilted, more than a week would allow.

He presses a harried kiss to her forehead and fights the broken coffin lid to a close.

A blink, and he is outside once more, fingers in the mud, shoveling handfuls into the scoop of his shirt. At its fill, he returns to his Ellen, and lets it spill atop her abdomen with a sharp schlop!

The logistics of this are comical to even consider. He is thankful for the wise lunacy of Professor Von Franz. The soil, he had told him- what seemed like an age ago now- his finger pressed against a page. He brings the earth with him, so he may rest in it at night. Clever beast.

It is a harried, rushed rhythm- but a rhythm nonetheless. Thomas notices that the rain has ceased its assault. He blankets her in wet dirt until she is engulfed.

With the last pour, a cock crows, and the city is washed in light.  ——————————————————————————————————

Her hands fly to her face, then her chest, then the folds of her dress. She begins to tug and rip. Perhaps it is a trick of the light–

Shards of glass spill into the sink basin, Thomas pulls her away, speaking words she cannot hear.

She is suddenly so very tired. 

The edges of her vision blur and desaturate. Everything grows and shrinks. It is loud, then quiet. Her chest flares with pain, then, she has no chest at all. She is a floating mass, writhing in perpetuity. 

She is plucked from the earth. It is a sharp tug by a clawed, rotted hand. The dark is not safe, nor is it helpful, but it is familiar. 

It is inconsequential compared to the metamorphosis she has so obviously gone through. Perhaps it is merely the tipping point– and tip she does. 

She is pulled within her own mind, succumbing.

——————————————————————————————————

He shuts the mausoleum doors tight. It does nothing to calm his anxious heart. He pats at the walls until he finds the sconce, and is lucky enough to find the accompanied matches. 

The room erupts in flickering orange, and Thomas collapses.

 He drags himself to the dias, hand reaching for the lip of her casket. When it catches, he sticks to it like a lifeline.

It feels almost foolish to have his hands clasped in prayer. So be it. His reservations have long left him. He begins to fill the crypt with a whispered Sancti Angeli- but stops before he can finish the first stanza. 

The chance of an exorcism may be small, but not impossible. He, instead, retreats inward.

Do not take her from me. He squeezes tight, forehead pressing against the cool wood of the coffin. His chest constricts. I would give anything, anything. Hear me now. Let her live again. 

Thomas pleads. Hours pass and, perchance, a being takes pity for him– as he is granted the pillowed reprieve of a dream. 

——————————————————————————————————

Beneath a tree, Ellen draws. The parchment and the sides of her hands are stained with blunted charcoal. The sketchings shift and morph into many a thing. Folds of a muddied gown, a shattered mirror, a wilting bouquet, a castle on a hill. She’s forgone her copies and has begun to stray into her own mind for reference. She enjoys it more, this way. Though her governess would have chastised her for doing so. 

She’s long abandoned her bonnet. Her hair is scarcely free, with Fredrich about. She does favor her weekends with Anna, but her husband is of a certain disposition Ellen finds clashes with her own. He is tolerant, yes, but…she prefers the field. 

Also, she is not so blind to miss the looks the two so often exchange.

The grass blankets the sprawling landscape, allowing Ellen to trace the dotted sea of white daises with a soft appreciation. It soothes the ills of the printed wallpapers and carved stone of her father’s manor. She finds that she has never equated a roof with safety. No. It is better to look at the stars and ponder on which one might suit you best; To pet sheep and cows and tell them of her ills; To pick bugs from the soil and admire the color of their shells.

The crunch of grass. “It is only beyond the hill, Gingerbug. Think of the apples, core and all.” 

Ellen startles, a soft jerk smudging the coupled doves in the corner of her fifth page. The voice feels familiar to her, a soothing balm that pulls her forth. A name sits just at the tip of her tongue. She does not know it but still feels the need to call it out.

A whinny. “Sweet girl, we will rest only for a moment.” The voice is closer. A series of clinks, and then, a soft thud. “I find it most pretty here. We rarely visit this season. Come, let us look at what spring has to offer. The young master wouldn’t mind, I do not think he would disparage me for allowing him more time with his wife.” A chuckle, almost musical.

She abandons her work, propping herself on an arm. Her hand presses against the rough bark, heart in her throat. Blood rushes to her ears. Ellen leans far enough to peek around the thick trunk. Silent.

It is a man and his horse. 

His back is turned. He’s removed its saddle and has begun to brush it softly, patting and speaking freely of things most mundane. The mare huffs and chortles on occasion, as if to reply. She finds herself most taken with the sight.

He is a brunette, impressively tall, and sporting worn, practical travel wear. When he rids himself of his overcoat and gloves, she sees the hard line of his shoulders, the taper of his middle, hugged firmly by a cinched, leather waistcoat. When he shoves his sleeves above his elbows and reveals hard, sturdy forearms, Ellen begins to feel perverse.

I have yet to see his face. She thinks as she begins to pull away. I would see it, and then, I will hide behind this tree until I am rid of him.

Ultimately, it is a mistake. He turns to shake the loose hair from his wire brush, and Ellen despairs—

–for he is handsome. Impossibly so. Of course, amid her girlish swooning, it is then he decides to gain an awareness of some sort.

Their eyes meet, and Ellen’s resolve whittles away into nothing. She does not retreat. She does not cower. She stares back, face bereft of surprise or apology. 

A beat.

Then, “Oh–” the man drops his brush in surprise. It takes a moment, for he looks overcome, but he quickly snatches it up, holding the handle in both hands. “--My lady.”

He looks so unsure, so pathetic in his floundering. He gives her a curt bow, pressing the brush against his chest in lieu of his hat. “Forgive me for my thoughtlessness. You must think me blind.” The mare- Gingerbug, how lovely– whinnies. 

“Fret not.” She begins, transfixed. “There has been no intrusion.” For It is I who should apologize. One would think I would wish to drag you into the woods “There is no offense in the enjoyment of beauty.”

His face flares. She thinks he might faint.

“The field.” She clarifies. “The field is beautiful.” 

“Yes!” He is too quick to assure. He startles himself, adjusting his volume with a cough. “I…I scarcely see it at this time of year.” He glances at something above her eyeline, and quickly looks away. 

Her hair is undone. 

Ellen rises, urged by the curse of her curiosity. She crosses the respectable barrier the tree had provided. Her drawings remain in the dirt, heavied by a rock. She is over-dressed, for she had given Anna the excuse that she would be attending church. She is glad for it, hoping the veil of sophistication would not make her so strange to him. He seems the nervous sort.

At her approach, he goes stiff. She’s gathered her skirts, tip-toeing around the large, varied roots to close the gap between them. She stops when she’s given a good enough view of his features to begin to commit them to memory. Ah, she should respond.

“I do not know it at any other time.” Ellen answers, soft and considering, eyes following the line of his nose. The bow of his lips. 

Spring was the time for excursions. Her father was away this time of year for business, and could not protest his unmarried daughters’ wishes. At one and eight, she is being thrown suitors by the hour. None of them are of any sort of notable nature. They are her father in various forms. Prideful, arrogant, mean, and so very wealthy. 

“Oh, you must see it in the winter.” his demeanor changes, coming alive, at that moment. He sounds as he did when he thought it was just him and Gingerbug, sweet, earnest. “It is most breathtaking. There are these foxes- they burrow into the snow to catch mice. If you are quiet enough, you could spend an entire weekend watching them dig.” He blooms, beginning to use his hands. A thick strand of hair falls across his forehead. He points across the road, a vague gesture she assumes represents their hunting grounds. “There. You must visit, though I do recommend two coats.” 

At the end of his spiel, he comes to. She notes the embarrassment that floods his face. He retracts himself, swallowing. “It gets...cold.” he finishes, lamely, and grows quiet.

She is displeased with it. 

“-and what of summer?” She finds herself asking, eager, wanting more. More of what, exactly, she did not know. “Of autumn? You would be most kind to tell me.” 

He stares, almost bewildered. 

Most unexpectedly, he humors her.

“In Summer the air is sweet.” He begins “The apple trees flower, and the wind carries the petals far. Autumn is the harvest, there is a festival—” a swallow “People of all standings gather and make merry. It is nice.” His brows scrunch, his line of thought trailing off. He tosses the wire brush into the nearby pile of miscellaneous horse dressings. He eyes it for a moment before he shifts the conversation entirely. 

“Do you not hail from here?” He asks, hesitant. The horse has begun to eat the grass behind him, content to leave the two to their floundering. It is not a direct ‘Where do you live?’, but Ellen takes it as such. For once, She, too, finds herself with loose lips.

“I am a day’s ride west.” she begins. He has the longest of lashes. “Hamburg. I come here when I tire of it.” She gestures to the tree behind her. She has never considered that it is always this tree, not any of the dozens that litter the forest edge. “It is, in my opinion, the loveliest of views.” 

“I am keen to agree, my lady.” he says, softly, almost unaware of how it sounds when he does not even attempt to look at the scenery. 

Her face heats. She does not recall a time in her life similar to this. Men were the most blurry of creatures. She would curtsy. She would cover her hair. She would smile and speak in the lowest of tones– But ne’er has she enjoyed one’s company to such an extent. They were a fixture of life in the same essence as a drawing room chair. They just were. 

Of course, for Men do not suit one such as you– a woman not of this world.

Ellen primly clears her throat. “And you?” she prompts. The more they speak the more she is reluctant to think of the eventual parting. Should it be so unthinkable, that she desires something? 

But a woman does not have desires, she only fulfills them.

“East.” he answers, eager. “Wisborg.” the neighboring port city. She had been once when her father had begun to stick his fingers in dealings with foreign goods. Her dreams had worsened there. She’d declined any summons since, even from Anna.

“I recall it. The smell, especially so.” She jests so rarely, but she finds it easy, now. He huffs out a laugh, swiping at his nose in reminder. “Ah, yes, it is quite charming.” the smile remains, lingering. Ellen has gotten closer, somehow, her feet more honest in her wants than anything else. Stupid girl.

“Potent.” She supplies, her lips twitching. She can almost feel her eyes glitter. 

She is being inappropriate. Here, in the middle of nowhere, unaccompanied, speaking to a strange man of the stink of fish, her hair wafting in the wind— Anyone would gaze upon the two and call her a harlot.

Though She has not had such fun in an age. She, as always, is loose with her definition of a respectable lady.

Suddenly, something shifts. She feels it is important, but cannot recognize how or why.

“Should you return?” He asks, his cadence almost resolute, firm. There is a furrow in his brow, his posture straight and narrow. 

“What?” she blurts, surprised by the change. 

“Should you return? To Hamburg?” He clarifies, dipping his head to stare at his feet. He looks up once more, a flicker of something in his eyes. A strained quality. “Perhaps a carriage awaits you?”

“No.” She shakes her head. There hadn’t been a second she’d allowed herself to feign consideration. She has half a mind to turn around, grab her drawings from the dirt, shove the charcoal stick in his hands, and force him to write his address. Instead, with a show of impressive restraint, she is almost demure.

��I am a guest at the nearby estate.” Ellen supplies, watching as his lips part in surprise. “The H–” 

“The Harding residence.” He finishes, breathily, before muttering an apology for his interruption. She pays it no mind, nodding along. Her fingers pinch hard at her skirt in an attempt to reel in her beating heart.

 “Yes, how do you…?” A thought forms. Surely not. The Hardings are of great notoriety, anyone could assume such. It is also the nearest property.

He huffs, incredulous. He looks to the side, hands on his waist, muttering something about horrid friends and their unfair luck– and maybe it is the approaching sunset, or a trick of the light, but he is most…radiant.

Something in the dark recess of her mind tells her that something significant has occurred.

He gives her a grin that does not mean to be dashing, but she cannot help but describe it as such. “It seems we have a similar acquaintance, my lady.” She remains poised at the revelation, even if within, she is decidedly not so. “Ah, how interesting.” she replies, nerves swimming. 

Would he be staying there, too? 

Ellen’s fingers twitch. 

“I would have your name.” She cannot help how it sounds like a demand. It is his fault, for catching the blight that is her attention. 

He presses a palm to his chest, beginning to bow. He can barely start his introduction before she holds out her gloveless, charcoal-stained hand. 

He blinks, gaze flickering to it. She misses how his pupils bloom at the sight of her downturned palm, and the strained clench of his fingers against his shirt. Ellen watches him intently. A good gentleman would be most put out with her behavior and would be expected to decline in the preservation of both their propriety.

His hand darts out, taking hers. They are calloused, large, and engulf her own so fully. His flesh is warmer than the best of summer days. Ellen is buzzing.

When his lips press against her knuckles, her skin burns. It is achingly respectful and finished all too fast. He looks at her through his lashes, shy.

“It is Thomas, my lady. Thomas Hutter.”

Ellen tastes his name on her tongue and feels like she has always known its sweetness.  ——————————————————————————————————

“-omas!”

He awakens.

He had dreamt— Of what is lost to the void of sleep. It has left a warmth in his chest and his heart full. The room is engulfed in dying candlelight. Scrambling— he finds purchase on the coffin’s lid and lifts it high. 

He is arrested with a thousand emotions. He sees her, covered in sludge and eyes slit and wet. His beautiful, darling girl. She has conquered death once more.

“Hello.” She croaks, calming at the sight of him. 

He smiles, eyes watering, and is allowed his catharsis at last.

He almost dives after her, scooping her up. He is crying, most ugly, he assumes. She lets him. Her arms wind around his neck, already scratching the base of his skull. Comfort- and a silent apology, for her lapse and the distress it has caused him. 

She had lost herself. She remembers the mirror, and then waking in darkness once more. She did not take it very well. She scratched and clawed the inside of her prison before she had half a mind to call out for her Thomas. 

As always, he had returned to her. 

“Ellen.“ he mumbles, rubbing his face into her clavicle. “Do not leave me again.” She plants a kiss on his temple, running a hand through his hair. “Please.” He chokes out, tightening his grip.

“Never.” She promises, voice hard and true.

Even if she may be the foulest of women, her love is something she will offer without end. She feeds it to him, through her skin, through her touch, calming his cries into the occasional sniffle. There is so much to say, so much to think.

After a time, when Thomas has grown quiet and jellied in her arms and she has shaken off the last of her stupor, they extract her from her pile of graveyard mud.

Now, they sit side-by-side, arms interlinked. A thumb strokes her cheek. She traces the veins in his arm.

“So It is true, then.” Ellen speaks into his shoulder “For once, my mind does not deceive me.” Thomas can only nod, content with the fact that she has cheated death. There are many things he must do, now. He will board the windows. He must purchase a new coffin, something more akin to a bed and not a rat trap with compost in it. He will need to feed her-

Oh Yes. That. 

“I know not what to feel.” She continues after his moment of silence. “Or do.” 

Thomas can only huff out a humorless laugh. Ellen enjoys the rumble she hears in his chest. “I would be most concerned if you did know, my sweet.” He assumes, for all the books that might exist in this world, there is not a single one that could tell him how to navigate the storm roiling on the horizon. He turns to her, revealing her pretty face. 

She hums in agreement, meeting his eyes. He feels emboldened to admit to one thing, at least.

“There is a war within me.” He begins, his hand cupping her cheek. She leans into it, eyes closing. Thomas aches. “But joy, joy remains victorious.” 

A beat. 

“I love you.” Ellen whispers, most ardently, and the singular wall candle reaches the end of its wick.

——————————————————————————————————

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Me: This is very traumatic and sad. Writes the sappiest, Pride and Prejudice ahhh dream sequence. Okay, we’re good. 

Note Time! 

Thomas is 6’3 :-)

During their Meet-Cute, Thomas was genuinely tweaking over the fact that this really beautiful, mysterious, pale noblewoman was giving him the time of day. He most definitely wondered if she was even real for a moment. Instantly down bad, very pathetic. Love it.

Thomas is coping with his rapidly lengthening list of problems by making sure his wife doesn’t die AGAIN.

Gingerbug is the sweetest girl, and is alive, safe, in a stable somewhere. Perhaps she will make an appearance again because I really enjoyed writing them being sweet and cute and happy! It makes the present feel so much worse :D !!

Just so you know, her face when she was spying on Thomas was terrifying. Yes, he was very taken with her for that.

She’s genuinely just so done. Ellen, you would have loved modern mental health services. All she has is a life-sustaining trauma bond with her husband to keep her afloat. 

Ellen being completely disinterested in any other human man is so hilarious to me. Thomas, or ancient demonic force. There is no in-between. She’s very real.

She can’t see herself in a mirror anymore not because she has no soul, as folklore suggests, but because she is in a sense, dead, and mirrors reflect truth. I’m taking creative liberties with that one because Ellen has a soul. Idc. It's a very pretty one too. 

Respectable women wore bonnets when outside, especially around men who were not their husbands. Thomas seeing her hair undone is considered improper. As well as him touching her when she has no gloves on. 

We will get into more of the technicalities/drawbacks/benefits that come with Ellen’s new form in the coming chapters! I’m so excited to explore the… blood-drinking part a little too much. 

The love I’m getting for this series is incredible. I do adore you guys! Comments literally make my whole day. Even the extremely freaky ones I get in my Tumblr Inbox (You know who you are.) I admire the Gooner dedication. 

I really am trying to be careful with how I’m managing the overall emotional tone! Let me know if the pacing feels good, I beg of you. That also goes for the characterization, flow, etc. I’m always looking to improve! 

P.S In regards to the Tiktok ban. I scrolled until the very end. All I have to say is Eat the Rich, join your local protests when you can, and if any of you live near Mark Zuckerberg, do everyone a favor and drop a bomb on his house. Thank you!

[seresinhangmanjake]

Can you do something of Jake comforting the reader after loosing their grandfather who they were close with? My grandpa passed very suddenly and unexpectedly last night.

Hi. I am so sorry for your loss. I know how that feels and it is a hard thing to accept and work through. I hope you like what I wrote and that it makes you feel a little bit better :)

Words: 965

Get Me Through

You couldn’t understand the horrible timing of your phone ringing and door banging in tune with one another when the sound of both was the absolute last thing you needed. People did not often bother you. With the exception of a select few, no one ever called. Rarely did anyone other than that same small group show up unannounced at your front door. And while you didn’t mind seeing the faces of your friends, today you didn’t need it. You’d already had to turn away one of them, and that should’ve been enough. 

As you made your way into the hall, your head started to pound, and in an effort to force it to cease sooner, you ignored the phone in favor of the knock. The ringing would stop on its own. The knocking, however, seemed to be on a damn mission. Open the door or suffer the consequences of a house full of loud echoing for god knows how long. 

You didn’t have the energy to put on the look of irritation that you felt deep in your core. As it was, you could barely keep your eyes open. So to avoid as much interaction with the intruder as possible, your plan was simple. Open door, curse out knocker, close door, back to bed. But when you pulled back the wooden slab—painted a shade of eggshell blue by the hand of one of those you loved most—you couldn’t find it in you to utter a single word. 

The look on his face was not one you’d ever seen before. It didn’t falter when he took the phone from his ear and clicked the red circle on the screen that ended the ringing pouring from your kitchen. 

“Sweetheart.”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, rubbing the sleep from your eye.

“What am I doing here?” His voice held a pain that almost made you feel guilty. Almost. Perhaps definitely, had your emotions not been solely reserved for something other than the way the man before you was presenting. “Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve been here hours ago.”

“Jake—”

His arms wrapping around you stole the breath from your lungs, shocking you so much it took a few seconds before you could settle into his warmth, acknowledge that you liked it a bit more than you cared to admit, and snake your arms around his shoulders to keep him close. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Your tears were undoubtedly soaking into his naval academy t-shirt; the one you typically teased him for being too tight around his biceps while secretly admiring the definition it gave to his upper body. But today, you were only thankful that it kept you from dampening his shoulder with salty liquid and snot. 

Through your sniffles, you said, “Rooster called?”

With his nod, his nose brushed along the column of your neck. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

"He said he’d cover for me with Mav. I can be here as long as you want me.”

Forever, you could have muttered. Just stay forever. You knew you would always want him anyway. He might as well have set up camp just as he did in your heart and head. 

"Come on, sweetheart," he said as he lifted his head. His thumbs swiped under your lower lashes to clear the tears collected there. "Let's get some food in you."

—

At some point, you'd melted into one another. 

It took you a moment to push through the initial internal resistance at allowing him to hold you. Something screamed that the closer he was to you, the warmer his touch, the farther away he would eventually be. Completely out of your control, you would lose him. Not unlike how you lost one of the most valuable pieces of the puzzle that was your family. 

You couldn't have that again. You wouldn't be able to handle the absence of another. And even though he was right beside you, clinging to you as you sobbed, whispering sweet words in your ear, you were still terrified he would disappear.

"I know it doesn't feel like it right now," Jake said, his hand rubbing up and down your upper arm as you laid together on your bed. "But—"

"You don't have to say it," you interrupted. Your voice was unfamiliar to your ear; hoarse after hours of weeping. "I know one day it'll be ok. I'm just tired of losing the people who loved me." Your arm subconsciously tightened around his waist, then you released a long exhale. "When my grandfather died, it hit me that I don't have many people who love me without expectations or demands the way he did. I didn't realize how alone it would make me feel."

"Sweetheart, I don't have expectations of you. Nor demands," he said, words slightly muffled from his lips brushing against your temple. "Your grandfather was a great man, but he hasn't been the only one to love you wholeheartedly." His breath heated your skin, which carried all the way down to your toes. A blanket; warm and sweet and safe. Then he whispered, "You won't ever be alone."

You remained silent, unsure of how to handle the depth of his sudden confession. He'd never told you something like that before, but you couldn't fully process it past the light fluttering it bloomed in your stomach. While your heart was sure you felt the same for him, your brain couldn’t spare the effort. For now, you had his comfort, and the solid weight of his body against yours, and his soft touch to keep you grounded. You had what you needed. You had him. And you knew he would help you get through the night, so he could be there for you in the day.

---

A/N: I hope this fic helps anyone who has dealt with something similar feel a little better, too.

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