#moon over bourbon street

[eyefeelthebeat]

Forgot to post this lol I created it after I put together The Dead of Night and House of Wolves. Can't even remember why.

#Spotify #franz ferdinand #evil eye #the hives #abracadaver #depeche mode #the dead of night #my chemical romance #house of wolves #gorillaz #dracula #sting #moon over bourbon street #keane #the iron sea #florence and the machine #blinding #allie x #simon says #bastille #skulls #white lies #unfinished business #imagine if i tagged every album #tunes

[countesspetofi]

Since Interview with the Vampire has been in the media so much lately, “Moon Over Bourbon Street” has been playing on heavy rotation in my head. It was the song that first led me to the books, since Sting wrote in the liner notes of Dream of the Blue Turtles that the first book was the inspiration for the song.

I ended up singing it for my senior show in high school. At that point everybody already knew I was a weirdo, but I figured I would go out as a fabulous spooky weirdo. I knew the guys on the lighting crew, so I got them to give me a single blue spot on a dark stage. I wore a 1940s-style dress in black with pink and red rose appliqués, pale makeup with bright red lipstick and dark eyebrows, and heels that took me up to six feet. I was surprised that I got a pretty good reception in that little farming community. Maybe there were more vampire lovers in the cornfields than I suspected.

Anyway, I’m very fond of this recording, not just for the arrangement (which is totally worthy of fondness on its own merits) but because I think this song works really well with a female vocalist, and this lady is very good. Which is probably weird, what with it being written from the point of view of a male character, but the whole source material is so steeped in queerness that what the hell.

#youtube #moon over bourbon street #interview with the vampire #jazz #vocal jazz #1980s music #sting #dream of the blue turtles #spooky music #memory lane

[holodrome]

#Michalina Sarba #Rudy Lisek #Moon over Bourbon Street Cover

[hwaightme]

Impressionism

(masterlist) (taglist)

🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting

‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.

While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.

And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?

It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too. 

A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.

Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him. 

There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.

They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response. 

His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.

‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.

You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.

While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-

A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.

Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath. 

“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”

“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.

“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt. 

“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.

“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?

“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”

“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.

“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”

“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”

“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”

“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.

"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.

"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.

“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.

“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.

“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.

“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”

“Ah, I see-”

“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:

“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.

“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”

“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”

“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”

“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”

“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.

Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture. 

You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers. 

“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home. 

Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before. 

“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”

“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.

“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger. 

While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.

“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”

“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”

“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries. 

“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.

“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”

“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.

A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.

“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”

“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.

“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting. 

From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth. 

“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”

“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.

“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”

“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”

“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story. 

“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served. 

A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring. 

You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in. 

“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”

“Pardon?”

“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”

Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.

“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.

“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”

“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”

“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”

“Elusive, aren’t they?”

“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”

“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”

“Two of us who are searching?”

“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”

“Then we can keep searching together.”

While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.

Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him. 

“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.

“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”

“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”

“There are private clinics?”

“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”

In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet. 

“Ah, yes, I see-”

“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”

“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”

“Careful-”

“Sorry wha-” 

With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.

“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.

“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”

“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”

“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.

“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.

“How so?”

“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore. 

There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement. 

‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.

Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.

You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.

“This really is a rainy day,”

“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it. 

Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.

Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.

“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”

Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another. 

With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin. 

The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.

He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed. 

“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:

“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.

The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one. 

Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought. 

“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”

“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.” 

Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.

“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.

“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.

Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.

“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”

“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.

“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”

“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.

“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”

“...I’d like that.”

In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow. 

“What?”

“Nothing at all.”

You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past. 

“Pissarro.”

“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.

“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.

“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.

The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.

“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.

As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.

Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.

On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.

“I know. I can wait too.”

“Soon, my love.”

“I-I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”

One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.

Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within. 

You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.

“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.

“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”

“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”

“Seonghwa-”

“Work can wait, I just need to-”

“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.

“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.

You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.

Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.

“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:

“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”

“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”

“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”

“Shh-”

“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”

In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.

“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”

“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”

“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”

As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.

Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you. 

“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”

“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine. 

“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.

“What were you scared of?”

“Losing you again.”

“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”

Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own. 

“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you. 

The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?

“But they didn’t.”

No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports. 

“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”

“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”

You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.

When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.

Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.

🩸 perma-taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @lightinyreads @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @alyszaen @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy

#kflixnet #cromernet #k-labels #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa fluff #park seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa fluff #seonghwa x y/n #seonghwa x you #park seonghwa x you #park seonghwa x y/n #ateez fluff #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez au #ateez #kpop writers #kpop writing #park seonghwa #seonghwa #vampire!hwa #vampire!seonghwa #vampire seonghwa #vampire hwa

[happy74827]

Butterflies

[Harvey Specter x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: You know you’re screwed when you feel them fluttering in your chest {GIF Creds: jeysuso}.

WC: 717

Category: Fluff

For all my Harvey lovers out there, I made a cute fluffy quickie (I’m seeing a lot of my fics being swarmed with love so why not add to it 🤗)

『••✎••』

It happened over a bottle of bourbon. A spilled bottle, actually. But a bottle of bourbon nonetheless, and that is important to note.

You didn’t mean to spill the alcohol all over your date, but he had made some comment about how you shouldn't be wearing a dress with a plunging neckline, so you just… happened to tip the entire thing over him.

The man was furious, of course, but he left pretty quickly after that. And you were left with a mess on the floor and a waiter hovering at the side, asking if you wanted another bottle.

You told him no. You just wanted to go home.

You didn't want a new date; you didn't want to sit at this stupid table with the stupid white tablecloth, the stupid, gaudy candlesticks, or the stupid waiter with the stupid, expectant look on his face.

"Miss?"

"No, thank you," you say, a little more firmly, gathering up your things and leaving as much cash as you can on the table. If you were smart, you'd have brought an umbrella, but you're not smart, so you'll just get drenched like an idiot.

But, fortunately for you, the person calling your name knew you well enough to know you weren’t that smart.

Before a drop of water could even hit your hair, a tall, dark figure steps out in front of you and blocks the downpour. Some might consider this a gentlemanly action, but you knew the man, and he was hardly ever a gentleman.

"You're welcome," Harvey says, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You're a pain," you reply, but you're grateful for the cover.

"And you're dateless. So, I see two options: we can have dinner and a drink back at my place, or we can do dinner and a drink back at mine."

You can't help but laugh. "Did you use this on Scottie? I see why she left. That line was bad."

"You're not going to ask how I knew you were here?"

"Nope. You probably had Louis stalk me."

"Don't talk about the puppy like that."

"So you did have him stalk me!"

"I prefer the term 'make sure you were alright,'" Harvey replies, and he holds out his arm to you. "Guy was a douche. Let me buy you dessert to make up for it. And I don’t mean in the biblical sense, although that can be arranged, too, if you'd like."

"Harvey, you’re such—"

You turned to him, ready to tell him exactly what you thought of him, but the words died when you met his eyes. Those same eyes that allured you into taking his offer at Pearson Hardman. The same eyes that made you agree to work with him on the case despite your better judgment.

In a flash, you saw the whole thing: your first meeting, the cases, the laughs, the looks, the touches. And now, the moment.

When you were younger, the term butterflies had never really made sense to you. The idea of feeling them in your stomach seemed ridiculous, and yet, there you were, feeling them for the very first time.

They were all fluttering around inside of you, and all you could think was, "Oh, no."

And as if the universe had heard you, it suddenly stopped raining, and you both stood there in the middle of the street, the moon casting a warm light on your faces.

Harvey noticed it, too, and his expression softened. His usual cockiness was replaced with a gentle concern. "You okay?"

You nodded, biting your lip. "Yeah."

Harvey reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his hand lingering a moment longer than it needed to. He gave you that signature grin and asked, "You look like a velvet cake kind of girl. Am I right?"

He was right.

Goddamnit, he was right.

And as he swaddled you in his coat to keep you warm as you both went back inside, the anger and confusion you felt earlier melted into a quiet, warm glow.

Date night had not gone according to plan, but when his lips met yours and your hands slid through his soft, brown hair, you realized that, perhaps, sometimes, it was good to deviate from the plan.

The butterflies seemed to agree.

#harvey specter #harvey specter x reader #gabriel macht x reader #harvey specter x female!reader #harvey specter/reader #harvey specter x you #harvey specter x female reader #harvey specter imagine #fanfic #x reader #reader #fanfiction #suits #suits netflix #suits fanfiction #suits fanfic #suits fandom #mike ross x reader #mike ross #michael ross #donna paulsen #louis litt #jessica pearson #harvey specter gif #suits edit #season 1 suits #suits usa #suits tv #mike ross fanfic #mike ross/reader

[xxhellonursexx]

Have you ever heard the song "Moon Over Bourbon Street" and would ever make a short comic about it?

Yes, I have heard it! For those who are not familiar with the song:

Sting (the composer) has said that he composed the song in New Orleans and that it was inspired by Anne Rice's gothic noir novel Interview with the Vampire which is partially set in the French Quarter of the city. The song reached No. 44 on the British singles chart.

Sting himself has said of the composition..."That was inspired by a book by Anne Rice, called Interview with the Vampire, a beautiful book about this vampire which is a vampire by accident. He's immortal and he has to kill people to live, but he's been left with his conscience intact. He's this wonderful, poignant soul who has to do evil, yet wants to stop. Once again, it's the duality which interested me." He also said that although it was inspired by the Rice novel that "there was one moonlit night in the French Quarter of New Orleans where I had the distinct impression that I was being followed ..." (from Wikipedia)

I think it would be a charming comic, and I'd love to make it someday.

#iwtv

[witchersmistress]

A guarded walk home

hello darlings, here is a secon part for New Orleans. took me a few days, wanted to make sure i had some historical facts as close to accurate as possible!

Summary: A POV from both Aurora and Syverson, one set in the first year that they met in 1864 and then in the now in present time of their reunion.

Word count: 2.7 K

Trigger warnings: swearing, pda and swoon worth heroics

New Orleans 1864

Slipping on my lace gloves as the cool evening mist curled around my ankles as I made my way down the front steps of my friend Caroline’s home. “Are you sure you can’t wait a few more moments, John will happily walk you home? '' she said as she held her hand on her back and the other one cradling her pregnant stomach. “ I don't want to see you go missing like so many women before you” her face taught with worry “Tsk tsk” i said turn to meet her gaze “ You need John more than I do, it's only a short walk down the road, I’ll be fine, I'll stick to the french quarter, they have those fancy cast iron lights now” I teased her “now remember what I said about the tea and stay off your feet'' she nodded and watched me walk to the end of the walk way, waving one final time as she closed the door.

Father certainly would disapprove of my lack of escorts but after seeing my patients I'd like to go over what we discussed and preparations I may need for next time. As one of the few midwives here in the French quarter, I was always summoned at every hour of the day and night. The sun was well past the horizon but the moon was full, the gas men won't be out tonight to light the street lamps, officials ordered, there was still plenty of light from the moon to guide my way home. Passing shop owners as they closed down for the night, Bourbon Street was rather quiet this evening. The local drunkards started to filter out into the moonlit night with their fallen women of choosing, ducking passed to avoid being insnared in that mess, I made my way across the cobble stone street as a woman let out a horrific shriek, looking back to see her, pinned to the wall as the man rutted into her.

I kept walking but collided with a wall of some sort. Losing my balance, I began to fall back when strong arms encircled my waist to keep me steady. I looked up into the face of my hero and it was the heroic Captain Syverson. In his confederate uniform. The long grey sleeves are lined with red, with a red cuff at the bottom. His three gold stripes on his shoulder blade indicate his status. He looked down at me with those cerulean blue eyes. The corner of his mouth was turned up in a crooked grin. “Well Ms. Hathaway, you need to be more careful where you are walking” he steady me on my feet, reaching down he grabbed my basket and handed it back to me. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks “Thank.. Thank you Captain "I stutter trying to conceal my blushing face.

He cocked an eyebrow, “Where is your escort home? It's not safe to be walking the streets late at night "I brush away the imaginary dirt off my skirts “ I was just leaving The Davenports, Caroline is a dear friend and she is nearing the end of her pregnancy and is a nervous wreck.” i said with a slight smile “ I was admit that i would make it home just fine on my own, that she needed John more than I so hear i am” i let out a soft laugh, i seriously sounded so ridiculous, that even Logan was laughing “ My you are a stubborn thing, aren't you?” Straightening to his full height, he adjusted the sword on his side. “ Would you allow me the privilege to escort you the rest of the way home?” I nodded at him as he offered me his elbow, looping my right arm through his as we continued our walk towards my fathers home. We chatted softly amongst ourselves. I've never felt more relaxed in another person’s company, we laugh over the little things. We come upon the gate to my home, far too quickly. He opens the gate and allows me to pass by before closing the gate behind him. He walked me up to my front door.

We stood there for a few silent moments, stepping closer,while he cleared his throat “ Should you ever find that you are in need of an escort, especially at night, please feel free to send for me, no matter how late or how early.” he stepped back as my front door opened, it was Charlotte, our maid, she was a dear friend of mine and so curious about the work I did. The captain smiled up at her “Good evening, just making sure that Ms. Hathway made it home safely, with all these disappearances you can't ever be to safe” she smiled softly and in a soft voice “That is very kind of you Captain, her father would be quiet pleased by this'' she looked over at me “ Your father instructed me to wait for you before heading for home, he was called away on an emergency and will be back as soon as he can.” i nod “Thank you Charlotte, give me just a moment with the Captain, I’ll be right in” she nodded, curtsied and closed the door with a soft click

New Orleans 2023

“ I wanted to thank you again for escorting me home” he gave me a smile, his white canines flashing at me, as i went to turn and open the door, his hand gripping my jaw stopped me. I looked up into those blue eyes, swirling with so many feelings. He leaned in so close that his lips were centimeters from mine “I mean it Aurora, send for me, don't travel alone in the dark '' I nodded as I stared at his plump lips. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against my lips before pulling away and walking down the stairs “Have a good night Ms. Hathaway” I’m too stunned to speak as i watched him disappear into the foggy evening, hastily open the door, i let myself in and shut the door with a slam, as my cheeks turn pink, placing my basket and gloves on the table Charlotte rounded the corner, she just raised an eyebrow, she didn't have to say anything but i knew what she was thinking I waved her off “I’m off to bed, incase Caroline needs me” she nodded “Yes ma’am, have a good night” i thank her and make my way up to my room. Still thinking about the feeling of his lips on mine.

I was loading up my truck in the early morning sun, with the help of Gus, when a familiar smell washed over me. The smell of juniper, citrus and rose, I knew that perfume anywhere. It was her. But that was impossible, I lost her so long ago. Sliding the pocket watch out of my pocket, the one she had given so long ago, I opened it to reveal the only photo I possessed of her after that faithful night. I still remember everything about her. The way her porcelain skin flushed a beautiful shade of pink when I said something that caused her to blush. The way she lite up when she talked about something she loved. Her funny and silly demeanor that she fought so hard to hide. Her dedication to her patients, the way she slept on my chest on the night she managed to escape from her duties. With a sad smile I closed the pocket watch and put her back in my pocket. The scent grew stronger with a faint hint of green tea and honey. I tracked the scent across the street to the cafe, but it wasn't there, it was higher up, moving my eyes across the balconies when a flash of red caught my attention, i focused in on the girl, she lifted her gaze from her mug and met mine, those eyes, id recognize anywhere, where looking back at me with a slightly blush to her cheeks.

Syverson’s pov

She was just as beautiful as the last time I saw her, the same night, she died in my arms. That was over 150 years ago and it felt like yesterday I watched her breathe her last breath. She had the same striking green eyes, the freckles that peppered her skin, like a million little kisses from the sun. That same shade of red-hair, down to the middle of her back, where I'm sure she has those two dimples at the bottom of her spine just above the sweet swell of that curvy ass. I chewed on my lip as I took her in like I was seeing her again for the first time.

This first time we had met was at a founders day party. She was absolutely breathe taking in the emerald green gown, with black lace and beading on her bodice. Her black satin gloves up to her elbows. Her hair pinned back in elegant curls and around her neck was a simple silver and gold heart shaped locket, that she had inherited from her grandmother on her 13th birthday, that's what she told me. I starred at her for a few moments before I smiled and waved at her. Her cheeks flushing even more. Throwing my rag in the back of my pick up, I jog to just under her balcony, my body vibrating with the possibility that it was indeed my girl.

We bantered for a minute but I couldn't stand to not be this close to her and not have her in my arms. I jumped up and grabbed the railing of the balcony and hauled myself up with ease. She stood there with her mouth agape like a cod fish out of water.

I placed two fingers under her chin gently pushing it up with an audible click as her teeth met. I'm Logan and you are?" She took a few moments "Aurora, but most people call me Rory" I took a step closer and curled a strand of her hair around my finger " I think I prefer Aurora" I drank in her features I never wanted to forget them trailing my eyes down her neck and chest settling on the silver and gold heart shaped necklace that she had worn so many years ago, I gave it to her sister after passed, its what she would have wanted. I looked back up at her inquisitive face, her green orbs sparkled with amusement, and delight but also recognition. Some part of her soul remembered me. "I finally found you" I breathed. She looked at me with a quizzical expression,and one of my men whistled at me "Come on Syverson, we need to get going." I let out a low growl of annoyance at him before looking back up at her. " Till next time sugah" placing a soft kiss on the corner of her plump lips, I dropped down over the balcony and strutted over to my truck.

I looked at the few strands of hair I got off her shirt and looked at Gus " Come on old boy, we have a witch to find" he ground and rolled his head back " No way man you can drop me off, I ain't ever stepping foot in Ms. Freya's house again" I rolled my eyes at him " She isn't that terrifying" he looked at me like I was a edjit. " I swear that woman put some voodoo magic in my house and she always watching me" I belted out a laugh "Fine then you big baby" as I parked the truck I'm her driveway " you can stay here and wait for old Louise, I'm sure he misses you" his eyes widen looking around the property " on second thought going inside doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all" he quickly hopped out of the truck and on to her porch, I laugh at him as I climbed out, and up the stairs to visit an old friend.

Looking up one last time at my shining star, she stood there bewildered, a soft wind blowing her hair behind her. Looking over at my passenger seat, looking at my right hand man, Gus. "Kill joy" he just smirked at me as I drove down the bustling french quarter, looking back at mon cher as she leaned over the edge of her balcony till all I could see was her silhouette.

#henry cavill #henry cavill characters #henry cavill imagine #captain syverson fanfiction #syverson fanfiction #henry cavill vampire #lost love

[sweetestofchaos]

Run From Me - Three | K.TH

p. vampire!taehyung x vampire hunter!reader

g. soulmates - enemies to lovers - reincarnation

r. 18+

w. flashback - blood drinking - illusions to sex - dub con (reader is high from vampire venom) - murder

wc. 3.4k

an. divider and support banner made by @benkeibear. betaed by @theharrowing. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TAEHYUNG!!!!!

fic masterlist

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Some time in the 1920s…

The city streets are filled with bodies and chatter. Smoke blankets the night air in a fog as people try to get from place to place. Music spills out from an open door, a man dressed in a black suit smiles as patrons enter and exit the venue. The Perching Bird, an up and coming jazz club that holds many vocal talents within its walls. Voices speak softly over the live band that plays on the center stage. 

In the background are beautiful maroon drapes that are tied back with golden rope that stands out against the dark wooden wainscoted walls. The floor is a cream colored marble to brighten the room, filled with tables set for two and larger groups of four. A handful of plush maroon and gold booths are pressed into the corners of the room, crisp white table cloths with beautiful flower centerpieces.

On stage a large black woman’s hair is perfectly coiffed out of her face and her green tinted hazel eyes shine in the lights. She croons the lyrics of ‘I’ve Got A Crush On You’ by Ella Fitzgerald and the bartender, Howard across the way smiles proudly. Gloria is one of their top acts and Howard loves her voice. He only works on the nights that he knows she will be there.

The scent of bourbon is strong and warm as the bartender pours a drink for another guest. He takes his eyes off the stage for a moment to thank the paying guest and flash them a coy smile. As the song ends, everyone inside claps politely and the bartender watches as Gloria leaves the stage.

From the back of the stage, a man with auburn hair parted and styled out of his face stands with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his green trousers. He wears a white button up shirt with a maroon and green striped tie. Overtop a matching green waist vest finishes off his outfit as it ties in the black and maroon two-toned oxford shoes.

The man is up next to sing and it is his first night at this club. He is a traveling entertainer, never staying in one city for too long. He is searching for a woman and has yet to find her. He got a tip from a friend of his that the woman he is looking for will be here tonight.

Gloria steps into the back and smiles at the new guy. “Break a leg out there kid,” she smiles as she walks past, patting his chest. He licks his lips and chuckles. Kid? He is far from it, but he knows he doesn’t look his age, not even close. 

Hidden from view, he waits until he is called up on stage. His hands remain in his pockets and he inhales deeply, closing his eyes as he sorts through the scents in the room. Smoke, alcohol, heavy perfume…nothing stands out to him. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we want you all to welcome a new talent to the stage. He comes to us with a very unique tone. Please give a warm welcome to Taehyung Kim!”

Taehyung pulls his hands from his pockets and slaps a smile onto his smooth face as he steps out into the spotlight. The band plays a simple introduction beat and Taehyung bows to the crowd before he waves and shakes the owner’s hands in thanks. He walks up to the mic and looks around with a small smile on his face, his cheeks growing in size making everyone swoon. Looking over his shoulder, Taehyung nods his head to the band and they go right into ‘Everything Happens To Me’ by Chet Baker. 

The setlist is easy enough. Taehyung picked songs he knew were popular in this area like ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ by Frank Sinatra, ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ by Billie Holiday and a few others. 

Halfway through ‘Moon River’, creamy sandalwood catches in Taehyung’s throat. The cardamom spice burns his tongue while green citrus sends a shiver crawling down his spin. He takes a step back, allowing for the band to fill in the silence a little more as he tightens his grip on the mic stand. 

A shadow moves in the corner of his eye and Taehyung inhales once more. You are here, finally. 

Finishing the song, Taehyung turns to the band, keeping his hand over the mic as he fills them in on the new song that he wants to add to the playlist. They seem excited to play something new and Taehyung already has the owner’s permission to try it out. Turning back to the mic, Taehyung glances over at your table and your eyes are elsewhere; not even sparing him a moment of your time. Oh. His gums ache as he watches your finger glide over the thin gold chain of the diamond necklace that sits against your throat. 

You are focused on the story your friend is enthusiastically retelling. You have heard it before but the details always change. Your lips spread wide, showing off your teeth as you laugh and smile. Taehyung speaks into the mic and watches as your smile drops the moment you hear his voice. Can you feel the pull? Can you hear his heart calling your name? 

“This next song is one I wrote myself,” Taehyung smiles, glancing down at his feet to feign being shy. “This is for the one that got away.” He whispers, the mic hardly picking up with words. As the guitar starts to play softly, Taehyung looks back at the band one last time as he sings.

Chueokdo uimi eopsi

Naege neon sarajigo

Ijjeumedo I can't

Two backup singers fill in the gaps, their voices blending together beautifully as Taehyung keeps his face close to the mic, his hands holding on gently like he would a lover.

Let you go, let you go

Geu mari dain geoni

Hanmadiman namgigo

Huhoehamyeon

Won't you let me know? Let me know?

His finger taps to the beat as he sings. Not once losing himself as the lyrics and his voice spill into the hearts around him.

Geurae na soljikage

Da malhallae

Neoneun maeil eotteon saram eotteon gose

Myeot beonssigina mwol haneunji neol saenggakae

Lost without you, baby

The highnote casts a chill over your body, goosebumps rising as the hair on the back of your neck stands upright. Taehyung’s eyes roll upwards from the floor and whiskey brown meets honey. The words that fall from his lips have you hypnotized. 

I wish you would love me again

No, I don't want nobody else

The world around you fades, nothing can be heard over the sound of Taehyung’s voice as he continues to sing. Your ears ring but the buzzing is a subtle feeling at the base of your jaw that melts into your bones. You blink once, twice…by the third time you are no longer in the club. Now you lay on a plush softness; your body sinking deeper and deeper.

Colors, so many colors blind your eyes in a kaleidoscope of unknown shapes and textures. Where are you? This isn’t the club. You cannot hear anything no matter how much you try to focus past the ceaseless humming of your veins. 

Turning your head slowly, a searing pain pinches and pulls at the side of your throat making you wince. You didn’t want to move anymore than you already had. Blinking away the tears from the sudden pain, you are meat with a mahogany nightstand. It is clearly hand carved with a white doily placed on the surface. What looks to be an antique vase sits in the center with freshly cut white calla lilies.

The scent is subtle as it slowly filters into your sinuses and eases your mind. The walls are covered in a light tan wallpaper with a geometric flower pattern in dark brown. Brown furniture takes up space in the room, nothing over to the top but everything is mahogany and hand carved. It all looks to be antique, the style not quite meant for this era but beautiful nonetheless.

Little by little, the buzzing in your veins settles. The muck of your mind stills and becomes a clear mirror to reflect the night's events. You try to recall the moment you left the club and the buzzing is back, a silent partition determined to keep your memories at bay. 

Your face twists up in a grimace as you lift your hand. It feels like you have swam through a swamp filled with molasses, or maybe quicksand, unable to move freely as your hand falls right back to your side. Your lips part to call for help but the words die as soon as they process in your mind. A lock clicks and icy terror locks your muscles in place. Unable to move, a whimper leaves your lips.

“You’ve awakened dear one?” 

A voice deeper than the Congo river floats into your ears and the bed sinks from a new weight. Your breath stills in your chest. The bedding shifts from the weight and you can feel it against your skin. Did you sleep with this stranger? The scent of lavender and honey tickles your nose making your head ache. You hate the scent of lavender, always have ever since you were a child.

“Easy, dear one.” 

Dripping water catches your attention and you struggle to turn your head towards the voice. A cool hand, warmed over by hot water, touches your cheek. You don’t recall it being cold outside, so why does this stranger’s hand feel like this? Fingertips graze your skin and you shiver as water trails down your face.

“I hoped you would still be sleeping. Forgive me? I got a little carried away.”

What is this man talking about? Who is he and what has he done to you?

“Don’t be afraid, dear one. I won’t hurt you.”

The fingers on your cheek follow the contours of your face as a warm hand cups your chin and you flinch as a wet cloth is pressed into the side of your neck. You whine, unable to scream as the feeling of red hot needles piercing your skin burns through your neck. The man hushes you softly, the low notes of his voice a quiet warning as he wipes at your neck. His touch is firm but not uncaring as the wet cloth is removed from your skin. You can hear water droplets again before the cloth touches your skin once more. Why is he cleaning you? What has he done? Why does it feel as if you’ve been attacked?

“Look at me, dear one.” 

Careful hands help turn your head and you gasp. Beside you, the man from the club stares down at you with that same piercing stare. Gone is the waist vest and tie, his white shirt is unbuttoned midway down his chest, his sleeves are rolled up, exposing the smooth skin of his forearms and his hair is no longer parted neatly. It looks disheveled as if hands have run through the silky looking strands. The man’s face has hard lines, soft cheeks and dark eyes. He is what is spoken about when you hear ‘tall, dark and handsome.’ He offers a closed mouth smile, his eyes squinting slightly as his cheek softens the hard lines of his face.

Fingers ghost over your face again, touching as if they have your whole being memorized. As if they have touched you a million times before. A finger traces your upper lip before it lowers to your bottom lip and pulls at the plump skin. It feels like you are not within your own body as this man caresses you without a word. Such soft touches are for lovers not strangers…

“P-Please…” 

Your voice struggles against the sand that seems to have found a place lining your throat. You want to go home. You want to promise you won’t tell anyone about him. The cloth is back on your throat, pressing a little more firmly as the man wipes at your skin. From how the water runs down the side of your neck and over your shoulder, you know that your necklace is gone. Did he take it? Is this a robbery? Tears gather at your waterline and the man frowns as he collects your tears with his thumb.

“I do not mean to frighten you, dear one.” He sighs, pulling his hand away to drop the cloth into the bowl in his lap. 

You catch sight of the reddened cloth and the man’s frown deepens as your scent starts to sour.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. You are safe with me…” 

The words are spoken like they have been said before. They are sincere but something deep down inside begs you to run. Run far, far away. Swallowing past the dryness in your mouth, you try again to speak. Your lips part and the man is quick to slip his hand behind your head. Slowly, he helps you sit up and raises a glass to your mouth.

Cool water floods your insides and you greedily gulp down the soothing liquid. He pulls the glass away and sets it on the nightstand, cooing as he wipes away the water that spilled from the corner of your lips. Easing you back down onto the bed, he watches as your pupils shake and dilate.

Leaning down, the man skims his nose along your jaw and kisses just below your ear, “You smell divine, dear one. I don’t think I can hold back much longer…” His lips are frosty with a subtle warmth underneath, creating goosebumps on your skin as he peppers kiss after kiss on your skin. “May I taste you again? Share with you my love again?”

You shake your head, the pain in your throat clawing at your veins as you try to sit up. Your body won’t move and when you stare at the man above you, a name falls from your lips. His eyes widen a fraction of a second and he is pulling you into his lap. His hands cup your face and he rests his forehead against yours.

“Again, dear one. Say my name again? I beg you, please?”

You can feel the stiffness of his length as you sit in this man’s lap. His name falls from your lips once more and his arms wrap around your waist. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, body shaking and you realize belatedly that he is crying. Movement comes to your limbs in an act of muscle memory as you cradle the man in your arms, one hand resting on the back of his head as your fingers smooth over his hair.

Again his name falls from your lips and you press the softest of kisses to his temple. His skin isn’t as warm as it was before. It feels colder now, the heat slowly evaporating from his pores. A dry tongue licks at the side of your neck and your fingers tangle in his hair. A firm tug makes the man moan against you.

“Taehyung.”

It’s a warning. One that Taehyung will clearly ignore, but a warning nonetheless. He kisses up the side of your neck, his nose pressing into your cheek as he fumbles to find your lips. Taking pity on the man, you guide his face upwards and capture his lips. Past the coolness of his lips, the bitter tang of something metallic makes your stomach roll in disgust. You move to draw back and Taehyung follows you.

Your lips never break apart and you groan as he kisses the very breath out of you. His hands find your waist and nails dig into the subtle flesh, pricking the skin enough to draw blood. You hisses against Taehyung’s mouth and he nips at your lower lip.

“Smell so good, dear one. So good.”

His mouth is attached to your throat before you can process his words and you cry out as teeth puncture the freshly cleaned wound. Taehyung slurps loudly as your blood rushes into his mouth. Gulp after gulp makes him moan and his skin heats up. You whine, your core throbbing and clenching around nothing.

Your mind clouds with black and white static, the whooshing rush of your blood, loud behind your ears and your hands push at Taehyung’s shirt. As his skin peaks from underneath his clothing, your hands find purchase against the strong muscles of his shoulders. You squeeze and pull him closer, you want his skin on yours. 

“P-Please…Tae?” Your voice sounds miles away, a ghost of who you know yourself to be. Begging for something you have never had.

Grunting, Taehyung pulls away from your neck and crashes his lips into yours. Your blood tastes sweet and tangy, something close to a red wine. Taehyung strips himself of his shirt, sharing with you his unblemished skin, sunkissed from a time long ago. He rolls you over, hovering above as he shoves his trousers and boxer shorts down his thighs, kicking them off his legs. The heat that rests against your lower stomach is hot as your body trembles in anticipation. Taehyung grins down at you, a boxy smile with pink tinted teeth. How boyish he looks above you with mused hair and wide eyes.

“Taehyung,” You breath out, unsure of what to ask, but Taehyung takes control. He knows your body inside and out, he can and will give you everything you ask for and more. His touch is gentle and unrushed, like he has years to pull your pleasure from you again and again. There is no pain as he takes his rightful place between your legs. As his teeth sink into your neck once more, your body burns with pleasure.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest, pumping harder as the blood never reaches back to recycle. Your walls tighten around Taehyung, your legs hold him close and your nails drag down his back, red lines marking the skin for only a few seconds before they disappear. How much longer will this pleasure last? You have come undone how many times? Your body feels like lead, sinking rapidly in a bottomless ocean. Your eyes flutter and the colors around you swirl, fading into a monotone of black. Your breathing is shallow and it hurts to think.

“T-Tae…”

The name falls on deaf ears and tears leak from the corners of your ears. This feeling, this heavy weight that seems to lighten with each gulp that Taehyung takes makes something deep inside crumble away bit by bit. You know this feeling. Struggling, you cup Taehyung’s cheek and stroke the apple of his cheek. His face is wet, you know that he is crying. Taehyung can feel your heart slowing and yet he cannot stop. The sweetness of your blood calls to him, warms his body twice over. It is a feeling that he has chased all throughout time.

Death bitters the blood, tainting the very source from which Taehyung drinks. He wants to stop, he knows he should stop…Your hand falls away from his face, fingertips wet with his pink tinted tears. Bitter, rotten and cold blood touches Taehyung’s tongue and he rips himself away from your neck, gagging on the taste. His tears stream down his faster, now a deep red as he cries blood. Raising his right wrist to his mouth, Taehyung bites down, tearing into the flesh and hurriedly presses the bleeding limb to your parted lips.

Blood pools in your mouth but you do not drink, there is no movement from you. Your heart is still, not a single beat fills the room. Taehyung sobs as he places his hands over your heart and starts chest compressions. You can’t die! 

Repeatedly, Taehyung tries to resuscitate you, letting more blood flow into your mouth but nothing happens. He holds you in his arms and cries. His tears disappear into your hair as he wails. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, his face is flush with the very life he stole from you and it hurts. 

How can he live without you? He doesn’t want to be alone again. He just found you…please…please he didn’t mean to hurt you.

How long will it take to find you again? How soon will your soul be reborn? He will scour the Earth a million times over until he can keep you by his side. This was a mistake, Taehyung understands that now. He was too hasty and that cost you your life. He will spend an eternity begging for your forgiveness. He will find you again. He must. 

#taehyung fic #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #vampire taehyung #fic: run from me #soc taehyung #exqueuese me

[desertfangs]

I was just looking up the top music videos on MTV in 1985 for... uh... reasons and #8 is If You Love Somebody Set Them Free by Sting, which appears on his album Dream of the Blue Turtles. Which also contains the song Moon Over Bourbon Street, a song that was written about Interview with the Vampire.

So while Lestat's music videos were climbing the charts in 1985 and taking over the airwaves, they would have been played alongside Sting, with a song from an album that contains another song Sting wrote about Lestat's estranged boyfriend.

Just saying.

#this is me with my string wall #lestat de lioncourt #i just think it's neat #the vampire lestat #queen of the damned #vc meta #vc #vampire chronicles #vc shitposts #vc humor #lestat #tvc #the vampire chronicles #late night fandom thoughts with cat #maybe now benji will put me on his podcast

[jungle-angel]

Taking a trip to New Orleans for Halloween with jake!

Rachel.....Rachel my dahling.....you always know how to make me an offer I can't refuse (lol).

You and Jake couldn't get enough of the Big Easy during Halloween. Not only were the late night revelers out, crawling all over Bourbon street with some spiced alcoholic drink in their hands, but everything really truly spoke of Halloween, the whole city covered over in a spooky, shadowiness that could have only existed in your imaginations.

"Whaddaya think (y/n)?" he asked, pulling the car down the little side road. "Think you're gonna wanna stay here for a while?"

"Depends," you said. "Think we'll encounter some ghosts?"

Jake laughed. "C'mon hon, you've been reading way too many Anne Rice novels."

"You could stand to read one or two," you reminded him.

At long last, you and Jake turned down the long, dirt road that a friend of yours had described. Everywhere you looked there were long lines of willow, cypress and shags of spanish mosses that hung from the trees and brushed against the ground. Some of the trees were completely bare, their fingers looming like the long crooked fingers of a hag's hands while the full moon lurked above.

This was certainly a part of New Orleans that you didn't see every day. At every turn, you wondered if some creature of darkness would come bolting across your path and charge at the car. Though your husband had been a bit of a skeptic, you could see in his face the little traces of worry and fear as you kept going down that long drive.

In the dim glow of the headlights and the dusky blue of the encroaching night, you could see it, a looming, southern gothic monstrosity that peered eerily above the willow canopies. Truly, it was something straight from an Anne Rice novel, the lacy iron on the balconies, the Greek pillars that held up both levels of the imposing house.

"Whaddaya think (y/n)?" Jake asked nervously.

"I'm thinking that we're in for more on this trip than we initially thought," you answered.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood pin straight as the lacy iron gate swung open, creaking on its hinges as the leaves blew off the path, parting like the walls of the red sea as you and Jake drove up the long path once again.

#top gun maverick #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #dagger squad

[andybeers1001]

The Moon over Bourbon Street 🎼song by Sting

#music #moon #astronomy #astrophotography #nature #beauty #lovers #happy #outer space

[persephone411]

Elijah Mikaelson headcanon:

His favourite karaoke song is “moon over bourbon street” by Sting next to “a little less conversation” by Elvis Presley and “go gentle” by Robbie Williams

#Elijah Mikaelson #headcanon #the vampire diaries #the originals

[egipci]

Bourbon Street Parade

They drove down to New Orleans looking to buy some hex bags from an old connection, but they were out of luck. A little girl, no older than eight years old, appeared in front of the door wearing green fairy wings, in her hand a magic wand with curly plastic ribbons coming out the end of it. She ran the ribbons through her fingers and looped them around and made a motion as if snipping them and craned her neck back and said Old Al was dead forever. Dad rubbed his eyes with the flat of his palm, his mouth down-turned, his jaw clenched. She stretched her arm out and pointed her wand towards the river. She said you better look for some other guy but watch out for all the phonies.

Thanks, Dean said, and held out his family-size bag of tootsie rolls. She shook her head. He wagged his eyebrows and rattled the bag like, you sure? This is the good stuff. Two for five at the gas station this morning but he was already down to a third of a bag and this made him feel very generous. Again she shook her head. He made a show of unwrapping a candy and throwing it into his mouth. She gave him a disgusted look and took off.

O-kay, he said. He scraped the taffy coating his teeth with a fingernail, struggled some to get out what was stuck between them while he thought carefully about touching Dad’s elbow or offering some other comfort. He swallowed, fake-chocolate taste thick at the back of his throat, and looked at his dad and Dad sighed and slapped his shoulder and said let’s go and started walking down Conti, leaving the car behind, always knowing what to do, walking fast like he did in huge strides that you had to jog a little to keep up with him for five, six blocks, past blow-up ghosts in front of homes covered in mesh cobwebs and kids inside them screaming, the street narrowing in, the sidewalks getting busier. Out of nowhere Dad crossed the street and there was a beep and Dean waved his hand at the guy behind the wheel and there were startled angry apologetic looks exchanged and Dean turned again looking for his father and caught sight of his turning left on Bourbon and called out after him and rounded the corner, his hand on his dead phone heavy and useless in his pocket, his eyes trained on Dad’s shoulders, so far behind him now and between them fat Batman in gray suit and hard plastic cowl, Michael Jackson who couldn’t moonwalk, Dolly Parton with foam tits and cowboy hat, chick waddling in mermaid tail, sexy nurse, squad of stormtroopers, preacher raging into a microphone, Ghostface, Black guy in a shoulder-length brown wig and beige-colored bathrobe, three little kids drumming on upside-down buckets, vampire with plastic fangs and red running down her chin and down her neck and her sternum artfully between her boobs, innumerable sweaty costumeless midwestern couples drinking liquor in plastic cups, murder victim with axe sticking out his head, scarecrow, Neo in leather duster, sorority girls in heels, fun-loving gay dudes, Pennywise and closely-related generic clown, a second and third Ghostface, beer sweetness in the air and gumbo and a big manly hand on his ass squeezing and Eagles cover band singing the full moon is calling the fever is high and the — corner of St. Ann where Dad turned right and disappeared into one of the courtyards or up into the rare green aurora flashing over the Mississippi a hundred yards away with its sewage smell, leaving Dean forever with his candy and choices to make like does he go back where he came from or does he walk miles up and down Decatur for the ghosts to watch and laugh from their balconies or does he ask for a phone to please call my dad and even worse than that the humiliation of asking where are you where should I meet you why would you leave like that should I go back to the car?

But then he heard the shouting. A large-sounding, murderous-sounding man was cursing insanely. His voice echoed and spilled out into the street. Dean pushed in a narrow metal gate that led into a poorly-lit path that led into a creole courtyard just as Dad turned the corner on his way out and said found you and just as Dad turned the corner Dean made some embarrassing girlish sound and threw himself back against the wall, gasping wildly, his heart rabbiting, hopped up on high-fructose corn syrup, threatening to bust out through his ribs. Pressed his hand to his chest to keep it in place. Whatever misery Dad saw on his face made him grin wide and sharp. Across from Dean he leaned against the wall. Only three feet between them now. But Dad tugged on his jacket, pulled him closer. Dean tripped over his feet, into Dad's chest, held on to Dad's arms for balance. Dad said, Here you go, laughing. He held a cloth pouch in his hand, tried to fit it in Dean’s right pocket but found it full of candy wrappers. He tsked as they fell soundlessly to the ground and said, gonna make yourself sick bud, slow and deep and pitying, teasing, hot in that eye-prickling way. He pulled Dean’s jacket open and left the pouch and its mysteries inside the inner pocket then his hand on Dean’s chest.

I was right behind you, Dean said, belly swirling with taffy and four whole months since he’d last had Dad’s hands on him.

I know, dude.

I found you.

I know, Dad said, huge careful hands cradling Dean’s skull. He said hey come here, and his hot open mouth was on Dean’s skin and his beard scratching and his teeth and he tilted Dean’s face up finally and then there was nothing for it. Dean closed his eyes.

#my fic #john/dean #ughh is it fixed now #who knows #trying to get back to at least one story a month so whatever #happy halloween #all treats no tricks over here

[licncourt]

sting knew about louis de pointe du lac????

Akfksjsg YEAH the song Moon Over Bourbon Street by Sting is confirmed about Louis. Thank you Sting very cool.

#he's a little confused but he's got the spirit #answered #vc

[haiku--di--aliantis]

Siamo tutti addestrati a essere dei soldati. Efficienti e inflessibili. Labbra chiuse e combattere. Quando invece l'unica cosa che vorremmo veramente sarebbe poter sorridere, lasciarci andare, essere fragili e coccolabili. Anziché duri e psicolabili.

"I pray every day to be strong, for I know what I do must be wrong."

(Prego ogni giorno per essere forte, perché so che ciò che faccio è sicuramente sbagliato.)

Aliantis

Moon over Bourbon street (Sting)

#haiku di aliantis #Youtube

[krazykiki05]

The Mikealson Family Catches You Sneaking Out

Elijah Mikealson 

Sneaking out of your bedroom and going down the stair was the hard part, considering your room was right next to the righteous Elijah. But you had made it safely down the stairs, avoiding all the creaky ones you memorized. You walked with your head held high in victory as you stride to the door. But a flash of light freezes you. “Going somewhere?” It was Elijah, sitting in one of the large reading chair with his legs crossed. Despite his joke his did not look pleased. 

“Yeah. To your mom’s house.” 

Klaus Mikealson 

You knew Klaus made a mistake giving you the room with the tree by the window. Living with the supernatural, you learn how to get around places without the use of solid ground. You open your window before putting your backpack on. You crawl through your portal to freedom and grab on to the nearest, sturdiest, branch. Hoisting yourself up, you perch in the tree, looking down at your best plan of action. But you take a moment an look back at the open window, debating if you should close it. You shrug it off, assuring yourself you will be back in time before someone enters your room. You carefully climb down the tree. 

Once you get to the bottom you look around intro the darkness, the only light coming from the moon. You were only allowed three steps when-”Where do you think you’re going?” You didn’t have time process before you were slammed into your escape tree. 

“Ow!” You cry, looking up to find a pissed off Klaus. Your heart sank to your stomach.

“Get inside. Now!” Klaus barks. You run to the back porch where the nearest entrance into the house was. “And I’m locking your window!″ Klaus calls. 

Rebekah Mikealson 

You casually walk out of your bedroom and down the stairs, making your movements sound like you were just getting a midnight snack just incase any of the originals were up. You were heading for the door when suddenly your backpack was ripped off of you. You gasp and stumble back, regaining your balance. The hairs on your arm stood up as you slowly spun around yourself, looking for the thief. You didn’t expect the backpack to come flying at your gut. The impact made you double over in pain. Letting out an ‘oof’. that’s when Rebekah emerges from the darkness with a pissed off expression. “If you’re going to sneak out, at least climb the tree that’s outside your window.” She says in a bored tone. 

Hayley Marshall 

You didn’t expect for Hayley to be up this late considering she was always tried due to Hope. So when you saw a light from the kitchen you froze, cursing to yourself. Past the kitchen was the only way out the front door. Maybe if you were confident enough you could fake it. You decide to try it. “Hey.” Hayley greeted once you came into her view. 

“Hey.” You greet back. 

“What are you doing up?” Hayley asks. You shrug. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d just walk around. What about you?” You lie. Hayley wasn’t convinced but she doesn't show it in her face. 

“Hope refuses to sleep so I’m making her a bottle.” Hayley answers. You nod in acknowledgement. 

“Well, see ya around.” Was the last thing you said before continuing your journey to the front door. You were about to put your hand on the handle. 

“Take one more step towards that front door and I’ll yell for Klaus.” Hayley threatens, stopping you in your track. You groan in defeat, slowly turning around to face Hayley. “Text your little friends that your not gonna make it and go back up to your room.” 

Marcel Gerard 

You had successfully made it out of the Mikealson compound. It’s now time to visit your friend for a few drinks around the bonfire. You supplying the fanciest bourbon, of course. You had just crossed the street, the house still in your view when the hairs on your arm stood up. Someone was behind you. You swiftly turned around, searching for a figure in the midnight darkness. One emerges. Unfortunately, a familiar one. You sigh in defeat at Marcel’s disappointed expression. “What the hell do you think you’re doing out this late at night!?” He asks. 

“I’m going to visit from friends!” You defends. 

“I have my walkers, out here! Half of them don’t even know you, so they’ll feed on you. And guess who’s ass gets put in a coffin if you die.” 

“I’m guessing mine since I’m dead.” You sass. Marcel takes another step towards you. 

“I’m taking you back home before something happens and I have the whole Mikealson family out to get me.” Marcel grabs your arm but you pull away. 

“Marcel, please! Take me to the bonfire, I’ll be safe there away from your walkers.” You plead. 

“No! I’m not risking it because at some point you have to go back home. So I’m taking you home now.” 

#the originals #klaus mikealson fanfiction #elijah mikealson one shot #hayley marshall #marcel gerard