comes, saut dans le vide
theme
vincent hartley, upper class vampire, 689 years old
the first thing you need to know about vince is that he’s batshit crazy
the second thing you need to know about vince is that he’s batshit crazy
he’s also into whispering and wearing top hats
he’s simultaneously terrifying and sexy
he’s volatile with an acquired taste for human blood
he’s also batshit crazy

vincent hartley, upper class vampire, 689 years old

  • the first thing you need to know about vince is that he’s batshit crazy
  • the second thing you need to know about vince is that he’s batshit crazy
  • he’s also into whispering and wearing top hats
  • he’s simultaneously terrifying and sexy
  • he’s volatile with an acquired taste for human blood
  • he’s also batshit crazy

Катенька, Katenka: Pure.

She was pure from birth – a child with white hair, whitewhitewhite, like a sun chidden of warmth, with eyes blue and round, filled with endless tears of dreams. Hers was an innocent face, a face that knew of no problems, no heartache, no pain, only of her dreams. She dreamt of love, of a true love, a love that was hers to caress, to nurture, to hold. She filled countless nights thinking of a beloved that would one day come to save her from the cold clutches of poverty, from the disgrace that came from being a fatherless girl with not a single penny to her name; she dreamt of hundreds of men, their shadows running elusive through her mind, ever intangible, ever impossible. She dreamt they would come for her; beg for her hand in marriage and save her.

He came for her eventually.

They were both young, for their faces had not been breathed upon by the haggard mouth of age, and neither had their hearts. Both had eternal spirit and hope in their eyes, blue burning into blue, both mesmerised with the other. She trembled when they first met, for he was a man – he was a man in his power, his build, in his blue veins that ran starkly beneath his bare forearms, white like marble. She ignored how the low roof of his hut hunched his shoulders, how the damp from the walls seemed to seep into his water eyes, how the anxiety of living a life without money had weaselled its way into his voice, tenuous in its contentment, akin to the faltering tendrils of lyres. Her hands shook when he took them in his. His calloused hands shadowed her nimble fingers as they held her so gently, as though she were made of glass. “Do not fear me, my darling,” he whispered into the soft skin of her wrists, pressing his lips to her pulsing veins, kissing her trembles away, leaving her only with the simple joy that she had finally found her love, her wedding band glistening on her fourth finger.