Krummes Holz Gibt Auch Gerades Feuer

Krummes Holz gibt auch gerades Feuer

happy name day grumpy boy \o/

I will always remember your comment about Clavis going bald😂 Truest words spoken!

I mean every comment😌♡

Understandable🥲 Akuneko definitely needs it's time to do the dailiesXD

💌 Send this to the twelve nicest people you know or who seem to have a good heart, and if you get five back, you must be pretty awesome. 💌

ELLEN! Tumblr has been eating my asks so I saw this very late 🥲

Thank you so much for the message, right back at you 🥺♡

Here's a little Keith for you😌

💌 Send this to the twelve nicest people you know or who seem to have a good heart, and if you get five back, you must be pretty awesome. 💌

ELLEN! Tumblr has been eating my asks so I saw this very late 🥲

Thank you so much for the message, right back at you 🥺♡

Here's a little Keith for you😌

for the angst ask (thanks for opening them btw) vlad and illness? he waited so long for his mc (gn) just to watch them slowly dying in front of him, their last moments and what that entails? I want to be crushed haha

A/N: Hello anon! I took a little bit of artistic liberty here because I had an idea so its not illness, but rather an accident. The rest of the request is still honored.

CW: death, loss

Vlad x gn reader

Word Count: 1783

A Pureblood vampire has nothing but time. It becomes their only constant, the one fixed thing they can depend on as the world around them evolves and changes. The flow of time brings mighty mountains to their knees and changes the course of rivers. It has seen man crawl, then walk and now, in the late 19th century, begin to run as technology makes leaps and bounds within shorter and shorter time spans. And one sure thing about time: it never stops.

How does one bear the weight of years and decades and centuries? Vlad has found a way. Something that fascinates him. 

People. 

He has loved them with a ferocity sharp and deadly. That their lives are so fleeting, rising like sparks from a fire only to blink out of existence and return to darkness within mere decades, is what makes them precious. Worth fighting for. And he has never loved a human, or any other being, as much as he loves you.

You were the one he waited for. The one who imprinted yourself upon him like a brand, your essence burned into his soul with a heat that never subsided as he waited all those long years for you. And when the time came, when you understood who he was and what you meant to him, when you returned those extraordinary feelings of love and desire, he understood the words Shakespeare had penned when writing his greatest love story: 

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea 

My love as deep. 

The more I give to thee,

The more I have, 

for both are infinite.” 

You gave his world a beauty far beyond that field of roses he holds so dear. Vlad’s heart holds entire universes of love only for you. 

Which is why, when you told him you did not want to be turned, despite the consequence of death, he never once questioned it. He had simply raised your hands to his lips, his claret eyes closing as he pressed a kiss into your skin, accepting your decision. 

And decided then and there he would dedicate every moment you had together to bringing you joy. He would show you the world and in return, give the world the gift of your smile.

Which is why you were in London, exploring the world’s largest city and breathtaking capital of the British Empire. You were staying at Claridge’s, one of the grandest hotels London had to offer, and swept up in the whirlwind of pleasures Vlad had arranged: an outfit tailored just for you at London’s most exclusive boutique, high tea at one of the oldest tea houses in the city, a boat ride on the Thames. As you disembarked, hand in hand, a young boy was waiting with a message for Vlad. A mystery item he had commissioned was finished and would he care to come pick it up or have it delivered to the hotel? His rose-colored eyes had gleamed, his excitement dancing within their depths and along the curve of his lips. He would come right away. When you had asked what this mysterious item was, he had simply smiled softly. You would see soon, beloved. Go, the carriage that would take you back to the hotel was waiting just across the street. He would meet you in the hotel’s salon for supper.

You parted, his smile still warming your heart against the misty London air and you took the time to watch his tall figure grow smaller and smaller as he walked with the young boy down the street, eventually disappearing from view as they rounded a corner. Your heart could not be any fuller, your soul could not be more content. Vlad was the key that unlocked the truth about love: it mattered, more than anything. He mattered more than anything. Loving him had transformed your world into something so perfect it could be called heaven. You were so lost in your starry-eyed thoughts, your mind floating in the clouds on a breeze of affection and anticipation, you did not pay attention as you stepped onto the street.

You did not see the carriage with its spooked horse barreling towards you.

You did not hear the shout of warning.

You stepped out into the street.

And your world went black.

It’s tucked safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, carefully wrapped in the softest black velvet. One look at the pin, a detailed red rose made from the purest rubies with its emerald leaves and curving stem, made by one of the finest jewelers in Europe, and he knew it was worth every cent. It was a work of art and he was proud of the design he had created. He wanted something unique, something custom-made that no one else the world over could have, a symbol of his feelings for you and a sign to all who saw it that you, like the rose, are a rarity worth remembering, a beautiful spirit worth marveling at.

He turns the corner onto the street where you had gone ashore after your boat tour, his mind running through the way he imagines you will smile when he presents his gift, a smile that rivals the sun in all its brightness. All thought however screeches to a halt as he notices the crowd gathered, blocking most of the way. There are police wagons and officers doing their best to keep people away from something on the road. Vlad passes an elderly man sitting on the filthy flat pavement meant for pedestrians, his dirt-streaked face blanched with shock, hands shaking as he tries to drink from a flask. He hears the mumbled words, repeated over and over to no one in particular:

“The horse stepped on a nail. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t stop it. It stepped on a nail. I couldn’t stop it. They came out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop it-”

Uneasiness begins to slowly creep down Vlad’s spine like a spider descending on its silken thread. He was planning to walk around the crowd, his long legs swiftly taking him away from the buzzing and gawking of the crowd so he could get to you, his light, his love, and make sure you were ok. He will never be able to answer why he didn’t stick with this. Why instead of walking around the crowd, his feet begin taking him through it. 

Each step feels like the earth is trying to stop him, gravity is desperately pulling at his legs, trying to slow him. His feet feel like they are made of granite, dragging along as he shoulders his way through the dense, foul-smelling mass. Each beat of his heart becomes louder, the crowd’s murmuring becomes distorted. Fate has wrapped his heartstrings around her cruel fingers and pulls, forcing him to shamble his way toward a truth that will sunder his very soul.

He breaks through the throng. 

And sees you lying there, your soft hair touching the filth of the street, your head pillowed by hard, uneven cobblestones. 

Someone has thrown what looks like a shabby picnic blanket over your body, but Vlad can smell the blood through the fibers, through the grime of a London street. Your eyes are open, blinking rapidly, your lips trembling as you mouth one word. He recognizes the shape of his name.

“I’m here, beloved.” How he manages to speak through a throat full of thorns is a miracle, another question with no answer. He sinks to his knees beside you, feeling the dampness soak through his trousers, the hard stone biting at him. “I’m here.” You turn your head and the effort that costs you is evident in the flickering light of your beautiful eyes. He reaches out with a shaking hand, the movement slow as if underwater, and manages to brush your hair off of your forehead with infinite tenderness. His fingers are stained red with the blood trickling down your temple. He repeats the motion anyway.

Your breathing is labored and erratic but you refuse to look away, holding his gaze for as long as you can.

“I’m…..sorry.” Your voice wheezes, rough with strain.

His heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Tiny shards that embed themselves into his own lungs, that twist his stomach into a Gordian knot, that pierce his very soul and cling, barb-like and heavy.

“No, my love. My dearest one. No.” He smiles. It is a reflex, a gesture of comfort. His lips shift without him even conscious of it. Words continue to find a way through his blocked throat. Because he knows you need them. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” His hand, still trembling lightly, slides down, cupping your face, the one he has loved for ages, the one white as bone and red with blood. “I love you.”

A shudder wracks your body and your eyes close. For a moment you don’t breathe and panic seizes him, gripping his mind with hands of steel. No, no. Just another moment. No.

And then you manage another breath. Your eyes open again, seeking his. Your lips part and he leans down to catch your labored, whispered words.

“I’m….scared.”

The truth of it bears down on him. He has seen death so often that it had become as innocuous as the changing of the seasons. Spring follows winter, autumn follows summer. People are born, live out the time they are given, and then die. 

And yet your words have turned the world upside down. Death is no longer an abstract, cyclical idea. It is real. It is on that grimy cobblestone street, leaning over you, reaching down, seconds away from taking you away from him forever. Stealing every place you never went. Every kiss you haven’t shared. Every declaration of love yet to be spoken.

Vlad presses his lips to your cold forehead, his hand still cupping your face.

“I’m here, beloved. I promise, it will be okay. I’m with you.”

Your eyes are on him, but they are no longer focused. The flame of life inside of them is sputtering as the curtains slowly close on your mortality. Your breathing becomes rapid, uneven, louder. The sound forever burns itself into his memory. 

You draw one breath.

His soul quakes. Don’t go, beloved.

And then another.

Beloved……I’m scared.

And then you are still, sightless eyes gazing into nothingness.

……..beloved?......

And his world goes black.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @bubblexly

Welcome back, Violett!! 💖 For the ikepri halloween costume challenge, may I request Chevalier + devil + spooky? 🤗 Hope you have a lovely week! 🥰

A/N: Here you are @skiagrafia! I really enjoyed this! I was inspired by a short story by Tumblr legend Neil Gaiman called "Other People." You can read it here

Chevalier x Reader

WC: 900

The wooden bench in the church is rough to the touch. The end of it is splintered and there are scratches in the wood of the pew in front of you. A shudder runs through your body as you wonder how they got there. They’re too small to be from any wild animal. Certainly too shallow to be a bear or anything like that.

In the distance, you hear a lone cry, a faint howl that momentarily chases away the silence of the church like a broom violently scattering cobwebs. But outside the windows there is only gray, a gloom that seems to have wrapped itself around the small building in the middle of the woods. It's latched onto the peeling paint and loose nails and clings, territorial.

You nervously pull at a hangnail on your index finger, pull until it comes right off, taking a sliver of skin with it. You frown as you stare at the angry red stripe on your finger. That should hurt. It doesn’t.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance back at the church's double doors. They are as scratched as the pews and look somehow heavier than they should. The iron hinges are shaped like tridents, their points wickedly sharp for something decorative. Uncomfortable, you turn away again, smoothing down the folds of your white skirt.

You know you’re meant to wait. But for what….?

You can’t quite remember. It’s that elusive scratching at your mind when you know that you know something but can’t for the life of you call it forth.

The howling sound breaks the silence again.

This time it is louder. Closer.

You pull on the ends of your sleeves, curling your fingers inwards to clutch the white material.

In front of you, the altar is cracked, a jagged line like black lighting running through the stone. The cross on the wall above it hangs crooked, as if it is considering letting go, allowing the fall to the tiled floor to do what it will.

A loud whooshing sound pulls your attention back to the church entrance. The wooden doors have opened and in steps the most beautiful man you have ever seen. Dressed from head to toe in pristine white, broad of shoulder, long of leg with a face that could make a person weep at its classical perfection. His hair is pale as bone and rising from his head are twin horns of curling onyx. Striking as all this is, it's his eyes which catch you attention the most, a piercing blue the color of cruel frost, of endless frozen skies. When he fixes his gaze directly upon you, it feels as if winter itself is blowing through your bones, sending a corkscrew of cold fear straight through your body.

He stops walking and looks down at you, where you are sitting on the pew bench, his expression smooth as polished glass.

“We must go.”

His voice sends another rush of cold through you and you feel yourself starting to shiver. You glance at the church doors, now wide open. All you can see is gray gloom. Impenetrable. Suffocating.

“Where?” How your voice shakes, how small it sounds.

Again a howl pierces the church. It is louder now than before.

The window panes of the church tremble.

His gaze remains steady, although there is now a glint of something in his eyes. Something sharp and bright.

“You know.”

You rise to your feet on legs that feel numb. The man starts back down the aisle, then turns when he sees the way you grip each wooden pew you pass, your body tilting like a willow in a violent storm. The grip of your fingers is so strong, your nails dig little half-moon crescents into the wood.

He pauses, waiting for you to catch up and then takes hold of your arm. Despite the black gloves, his touch feels as hard and cold as frozen iron. The cold rushes through you and you can barely walk for all of your quivering.

You are almost at the open doors, at the mouth of all that opaque gray.

“W-w-what’s out there?” Your voice is barely a whisper, a wisp of smoke on the precipice of fading.

You’ve reached the doorway; his hand is still on your arm. He turns his head, looking down at you with those eyes of the most unearthly, startling blue.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Absolutely nothing.”

And then he slings you forward, forcing you into the gray. A flap of your white skirt. The white of your wide eyes. And then you are gone, utterly and completely, swallowed by the nothing. No trace of you left except the frightened marks of your fingernails in the scarred wood of the pew.

He reaches down, tugging once on the edge of his black glove, making it fit perfectly again. He turns his artic gaze towards the gloom. A second later there is a rush of wind, a burst of turbulent energy that continues its howling as it enters the church. It shakes the windows, jostles the crooked cross on the wall, skims the broken altar before growing still.

Slowly a figure fades into view, another lost soul slumped forward in the wooden pew. It will need time before it awakens, notices its surroundings.

Just like you did.

Just like they all do.

And when it does, he’ll be there.

Silently as fog he steps outside the church, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly @ozalysss @ikesimpleton