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Summary: Llewyn is an angel sent to save you now, in modern times, and you fall in love (tw: suicidal ideation, quickly written, poorly edited, not religious, just some hand holding, ~3k)
-----
“Okay, well, if you could just, not jump to your death, that would really help me out,” the tired-looking man says to you.
“I’m sitting on the ledge, not jumping. Who the hell are you, anyway? How did you get up on the roof?” you ask, crabby at being interrupted.
You hadn’t been planning to jump.
Probably.
You’d considered it, but it was unlikely. Right?
“Who are you?” you repeat.
The man rubs one eye with the back of his hand, catching his fingerless gloves on his long, dark eyelashes. With a sigh, he sits on the ledge with you. You scoot further away.
“I’m Llewyn,” he says.
You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.
You give him a dirty look. “I hate to be rude, but would you kindly fuck off?”
He looks slightly taken aback. “People these days are real pieces of work, you know that? You don’t own this roof and you can’t tell me what to do.”
You look him up and down. He has on winter clothes, even though it’s summer. The heat doesn’t seem to bother him, though. He wears a corduroy jacket and pants. His shoes have seen better days.
“Who wears gloves in August?” you ask
Llewyn shrugs. “When I get sent down here, I always get sent down in this outfit. I don’t know why. There wasn’t exactly a question and answer orientation when I got this gig.”
“What gig?” you ask, completely lost.
“Angel.” Llewyn says. “It’s complicated, but you would call me an angel. Hey, you got a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” you say as you swing your legs back onto the roof and stand up.
His hand moves in the air, like the gesture helps him think. “How about one of those things that’s smoking without the cigarette?”
“A vape?” You squint at him. “I always knew New York was full of crazy fuckers, but I’m going to leave before you decide to push me off the roof.”
“Hey, that’s not- hey- that’s literally the opposite of what I’m trying to do here.“ He scrambles up and follows you. “Wait. I know you’re just going to be back up here tomorrow. I know you were going to jump today.”
Your hand is on the door to go back inside. Your fingers grip the metal, but you don’t turn it.
“You don’t know me,” you say.
“In some ways, we’re actually a lot alike,” he says, his voice closer than it was before. “I’ve got a lot to atone for. It’s why I’m doing this. You know a lot of people, I did too, but none of them know who you are now, none of them know you just want it to stop. That feeling inside of you, and how bad it is. Do they?”
You bite your bottom lip, not wanting to cry
A hand, warm and comforting, lands on your shoulder.
“Do they?” Llewyn asks again.
*****
Over a cup of coffee at the cafe on the corner, you tell Llewyn everything.
He’s not really a good listener, but he’s strangely easy to talk to. You can see everything he thinks on his face.
Sometimes he’s skeptical, sometimes annoyed. Mostly he’s sympathetic, and a little sad. He never looks bored, or like he’s trying to escape the conversation.
You don’t believe he’s an angel or whatever, but there’s something supernatural about his big, brown eyes.
The waitress refills the coffees and brings sandwiches.
“It isn’t that I want to die. I just don’t see the point of being alive,” you say.
Llewyn smiles. It’s soft and ironic. “It’s like talking to a mirror, I swear. I felt like I was being pulled along by invisible strings, from one disaster to another, one bad choice to another, until finally, I wanted it all to catch up with me. To take the choice out of my hands. I have to tell you, it isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be. Not living.”
You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. “You’re drinking a cup of coffee I paid for and sitting here like the rest of us. Once again, I don’t believe you are who you say you are.”
“That’s a fair point, but I’ve been doing this for more than a few decades.” He watches people go by for a few seconds. “Hard to find good music nowadays. It’s all written for money, to try and trick people’s hearts into believing it wasn’t. Handful of real artists, though, with something worth saying. You got one of those telephones that fits in your purse?”
You blink at him, taking your cell phone out of your pocket.
“Look me up. Llewyn Davis. Two L’s-e-w-y-n,” he says, leaning forward on the table.
You almost don’t, but maybe you want to believe. You type his name in.
Llewyn Davis.
Folk singer.
In the 60s.
Dead for a long time.
The first image is him looking clean-cut and smiley, on a sky-blue record cover with some other guy.
You hold up your phone. “This is you?”
Llewyn’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “That’s me and Mike. Duos were a thing back when I started out and Mike was my best friend. He was twice the musician I ever was. Still miss him.”
You scroll down further and hold up the next album cover next to Llewyn’s face. It does look like him.
“Inside Llewyn Davis,” you say. “Ten bucks, still sealed.”
The resemblance is dead on, but there must be some explanation.
Llewyn shakes his head, a knowing look on his face. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a coincidence. It isn’t. I don’t usually do this on the first date, so to speak, but, uh…”
He sits forward in his chair and whoosh. With a huge, feathery sound, a gigantic pair of wings unfurl from his back. The tall tips go almost to the ceiling, but they don’t disturb anything. Not even a breeze.
They’re beautiful. Not just white, but cream, and almost tan, a mixture of colors and textures. They look deep and soft, a little rough around the edges, like their owner.
They move lightly. You can’t take your eyes off of them, and Llewyn can’t take his eyes off of you.
You’re dumbstruck for you don’t even know how long, before you remember to blink and look around.
You turn in your chair one way. Then the other.
No one in the diner is looking.
No one cares.
What the actual fuck?
Llewyn grins. “No one can see these but you.”
You grab the waitress’s arm as she walks back. She smiles at you and Llewyn, non the wiser about the extraordinary thing in front of her. “Something I can get you? Dessert?”
You stare at her, then at Llewyn’s wings. She doesn’t react at all.
Llewyn’s half-gloved hand reaches out and pries your fingers loose.
“Pie. Two slices. You choose,” he tells her.
Your brain scrambles for some way to rationalize what you see, but as unbelievable as this is, it’s the truth.
You start laughing, and then you can’t stop. You cover your mouth with both hands. Still laughing when the pie comes to the table, you don’t even bother trying to eat it. You let Llewyn eat both pieces. He leaves his wings out the whole time.
*****
When you get to your apartment, Llewyn peels off his layers. He looks like a normal person in his unbuttoned flannel, white t-shirt, and pants.
He looks in the mirror to run his fingers through his dark, curly hair and brushes them through his beard. His shirt is smooth and wing-free.
“No offense, but you can go now. You did your job,” you say, not really wanting him to leave.
He’s probably busy, and now that things have settled down, it’s all so strange. You’re not sure how to handle it.
You crack open the window by the fire escape to let some fresh air in. The sky’s turning orange and pink, and you can hear commuters all over the city honking at each other.
“Sorry if I scared you with the wings. I could tell you wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.” Llewyn flops down on you couch. “Anyway, I can’t just leave whenever I want to. It doesn’t work like that. Actually, I don’t know much about it.”
“You said you’ve done this before.” You sit on the other end of the couch, legs up.
“Doesn’t mean I understand it,” he shrugs. “Look, all I know is that this feels different to me. You’re different.”
You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, coming from an angel who looks after hard cases all day.
“Any chance you have a guitar?” Llewyn asks.
“I don’t play.” The look that passes over Llewyn’s face is like someone told him he’d just missed the last train to reunite with his lost love. “They don’t have guitars in heaven?”
He scratches his stomach over his t-shirt. “Heaven and hell, none of that is exactly what people think it is. Basically, yes, I play the guitar sometimes, in the place I usually am, but it doesn’t sound right. Nothing sounds quite like it does down here. I don’t know if it’s the material or the air. Playing anywhere but Earth feels wrong.”
His fingers tap along his stomach absent-mindedly.
“My neighbor’s son takes lessons. She’d probably let me borrow it. He hates it anyway.” You’re up off the couch before Llewyn can respond.
Your neighbor’s home, and happily lets you borrow the guitar, and reassures you that her son’s interest is soccer now so you can borrow it for as long as you want.
Llewyn’s eyes light up when he sees the instrument. “That’s better than I expected,” he says as you hand it to him.
He settles it into his lap, plucks at the strings and starts tuning immediately.
“Whoever she bought this from knew what they were about,” he says. He strums it experimentally. “Not bad at all. It’s almost as old as I am.”
He looks more human like this, with the guitar, and more comfortable than you’ve seen him.
“Do you know any Fleetwood Mac?” you ask, only partially joking.
His brown eyes laugh at you. “I like their music, but no. I can’t tell you how many times I asked to be sent down to guide one of them. Guess they didn’t need my help, though. I can play you something I used to sing.”
If you hadn’t believed he was an angel before, you would’ve believed the second he started singing.
Llewyn’s voice is beautiful. It reaches right into your chest, into your heart.
He probably had the same power before he was an angel, or whatever he is.
You have to swallow around the lump in your throat as he picks out the last part on his guitar, humming along until finally, he and the strings fall silent.
He smiles to himself. “It just occurs to me, maybe it was a bad choice to sing a song about hanging to someone who was dangling her legs off the roof an hour ago.”
“No,” you say, your heart beating fast, “no, it was great. Really.”
You sit up straight, broken out of your reverie. You both smile awkwardly.
“I can’t believe I’ve never heard of you before,” you say.
Llewyn rolls his eyes. “History’s full of forgotten guys like me.”
“I don’t think so,” you say. “I’m not sure there was ever anyone like you.”
Something in your voice makes his big eyes lock onto yours. You stare at each other for awhile. His eyes and lips turn downward. More than that tired look he has, there’s some confusion in it, a worry.
Llewyn sets the guitar aside and stands. He goes to the window, wordless and stands there, looking up at the rising moon.
He shakes his head. Shakes it again.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
The mood in the room is heavier when Llewyn glances back at you.
“Just thinking about something I heard, up there,” Llewyn looks out the window. “I’m not usually much for people. I had to learn to talk to them, to do the job. I feel like I have more empathy than I used to. I never felt like I wanted to stick around with someone before, though.”
It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask him to stay.
You want to know more about him, and hear more of his music. You want to kiss him. That’s probably not allowed, but you can’t help it. You feel something for Llewyn you’ve never felt before.
He faces you, conflict of his own written all over his face. He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.
He stands there, doing nothing.
His brown eyes pop open wide. “Shit.”
“What?” you ask, a little panicked by his panic.
He scrunches up his mouth, tension in every muscle of his body.
He grunts.
“Shit!” he yells, his hands in fists.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, raising your voice.
“My wings are gone. I can’t,” he waves his arms around, “I got nothing. Damn.”
“Llewyn, I don’t understand.” You get up, but he paces away from you.
“No, you wouldn’t understand,” he laughs humorlessly before turning and pointing his finger toward you. “I knew you were different. Fucking knew it.”
He brushes by you on his way out, not grabbing his coat, but leaving the guitar.
*****
He doesn’t come back that day. Or that night. Or the next day.
There’s not a lot of information about Llewyn Davis online.
Nothing about where he used to live or even where he’s buried.
You have no idea where to search for a man who shouldn’t exist.
Different, he’d said.
Maybe whatever you’d felt in your heart, that little seed of something that had blossomed into full color after you’d heard him sing, maybe he’d felt it too.
Angels probably weren’t supposed to fall for humans.
You look up at your ceiling. “Hey, whoever you are, if I try to jump off my roof again, will you bring Llewyn back?”
Silence.
“Figures,” you mumble.
You pick up the guitar, brushing your fingers over the strings and making a racket of noise.
Llewyn’s music is so complex, but the truth of it makes it easier to understand. You’ve been listening to it non-stop. You wish you could’ve seen him perform back then.
The Gaslight.
It hits you like a bolt of energy. It’s famous for a lot of things, mostly Dylan, but to you, it means Llewyn.
It isn’t open anymore, but the building’s still there.
You grab your bag, touching Llewyn’s fingerless gloves, and rush out the door.
*****
Your hands shake as you run toward the building. You recognize the body slumped on the stairs, his feet stretched out onto the sidewalk.
“Llewyn!” you bend over him.
He blinks his eyes awake. “I’m awake. Stop shaking me like I’m a bottle of fucking milk or something. Geez.”
You throw your arms around him and hug him.
Llewyn tenses, but finally, hugs you back. His hand comes up to rest on the back of your head.
“You’re okay,” he says against your ear, so softly it’s mostly just air. “You’re okay.”
That’s when you realize you’re crying.
You sit back, wiping your face with your hand.
A woman walks by and stops to offer you a tissue.
“Thanks,” you say.
She looks less than pleased. “I had a homeless boyfriend once. Trust me, get out while you can… no offense,” she looks at Llewyn.
“None taken,” he says dryly as she walks away.
You tuck the used tissue into your pocket. “Come on, let’s go home.”
You feel exposed out on the street like this. You want to get him back to where it’s warm and safe.
Llewyn resists when you tug his hand.
“I don’t know,” he says with a doubtful look. “I can’t just move into your place. We hardly know each other.”
“You have to. You don’t strike me as the old-fashioned type,” you tell him. “You can sleep on the couch.”
Llewyn laughs, but you have no idea why.
“If you had any idea how funny that is.” He wipes his eyes. “Sure, I’d love to sleep on your couch, honey.”
He wraps his arm around your waist as you start walking toward home.
“Shame about the Gaslight,” he says.
“We’ll find other places you can play,” you say.
He tilts his head at you, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “We will?”
“Yeah,” you tell him excitedly, “I already paid my neighbor for the guitar. I have all of your albums, or at least the ones I could buy online.”
You reach up and touch his beard, the hair soft and scratchy all at the same time.
“I think you’ll have to change your hairstyle a little bit, or people will think you’re trying to hard to be the real Llewyn Davis.”
Llewyn looks annoyed. “I am the real Llewyn Davis.”
“Yeah, but we’ll have to tell people you’re his grandson or something,” you say.
“Look, I’ll play all the music you want, but this is all starting to sound a little far-fetched.”
You stop at the light, changing position so you can grab his hand and slide your fingers through his. “Does it sound more far-fetched than how we actually met?”
He’s quiet for a few moments. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll tell people I’m my own grandfather.”
The crossing light is red, but there aren’t any cars coming so you start to dart out into the road. Llewyn holds you fast, though, not letting you go anywhere.
He looks a little apologetic. “Sorry. I uh, just want to make sure… you’re not going up to the roof anytime soon, are you?”
His brown eyes, so deep and expressive, search your face.
You take both his hands, making he knows you mean every word. “No, I’m not. We’re not going up there unless it’s for me to make a video of you singing.”
Llewyn looks relieved, like there’s a weight off of his shoulders. Literally, there is. With no wings, he’s as human as you are.
As out of touch with the world as you’ve always felt, Llewyn makes you feel complete.
You needed a man out of time to feel whole, and Llewyn, you’re sure, has always needed someone to believe in him.
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OMG this is so sweet and sad and PERFECT!!! Llewyn having to atone for all his shitty behaviour by being a guardian angel is just spot on!
His hand moves in the air, like the gesture helps him think. “How about one of those things that’s smoking without the cigarette?”
"...You got one of those telephones that fits in your purse?"
You blink at him, taking your cell phone out of your pocket.
“Look me up. Llewyn Davis. Two L’s-e-w-y-n,” he says, leaning forward on the table.
His almost-got-it references to modern stuff is so cute I swear. The idea of him knowing what a vape is and telling her to google him just tickles something in my brain.
And the singing! My heart can't take it...
This was so gorgeous! Thank you for sharing it with us!
Frankenstein (2025) feat. final screenplay + complete screenplay by guillermo del toro.
there's a lot of scenes i haven't put on here but i'm still figuring out how to make gifs without adobe photoshop so the speed + quality differs per gif.... ahhhhh
Summary: Llewyn is an angel sent to save you now, in modern times, and you fall in love (tw: suicidal ideation, quickly written, poorly edited, not religious, just some hand holding, ~3k)
-----
“Okay, well, if you could just, not jump to your death, that would really help me out,” the tired-looking man says to you.
“I’m sitting on the ledge, not jumping. Who the hell are you, anyway? How did you get up on the roof?” you ask, crabby at being interrupted.
You hadn’t been planning to jump.
Probably.
You’d considered it, but it was unlikely. Right?
“Who are you?” you repeat.
The man rubs one eye with the back of his hand, catching his fingerless gloves on his long, dark eyelashes. With a sigh, he sits on the ledge with you. You scoot further away.
“I’m Llewyn,” he says.
You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.
You give him a dirty look. “I hate to be rude, but would you kindly fuck off?”
He looks slightly taken aback. “People these days are real pieces of work, you know that? You don’t own this roof and you can’t tell me what to do.”
You look him up and down. He has on winter clothes, even though it’s summer. The heat doesn’t seem to bother him, though. He wears a corduroy jacket and pants. His shoes have seen better days.
“Who wears gloves in August?” you ask
Llewyn shrugs. “When I get sent down here, I always get sent down in this outfit. I don’t know why. There wasn’t exactly a question and answer orientation when I got this gig.”
“What gig?” you ask, completely lost.
“Angel.” Llewyn says. “It’s complicated, but you would call me an angel. Hey, you got a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” you say as you swing your legs back onto the roof and stand up.
His hand moves in the air, like the gesture helps him think. “How about one of those things that’s smoking without the cigarette?”
“A vape?” You squint at him. “I always knew New York was full of crazy fuckers, but I’m going to leave before you decide to push me off the roof.”
“Hey, that’s not- hey- that’s literally the opposite of what I’m trying to do here.“ He scrambles up and follows you. “Wait. I know you’re just going to be back up here tomorrow. I know you were going to jump today.”
Your hand is on the door to go back inside. Your fingers grip the metal, but you don’t turn it.
“You don’t know me,” you say.
“In some ways, we’re actually a lot alike,” he says, his voice closer than it was before. “I’ve got a lot to atone for. It’s why I’m doing this. You know a lot of people, I did too, but none of them know who you are now, none of them know you just want it to stop. That feeling inside of you, and how bad it is. Do they?”
You bite your bottom lip, not wanting to cry
A hand, warm and comforting, lands on your shoulder.
“Do they?” Llewyn asks again.
*****
Over a cup of coffee at the cafe on the corner, you tell Llewyn everything.
He’s not really a good listener, but he’s strangely easy to talk to. You can see everything he thinks on his face.
Sometimes he’s skeptical, sometimes annoyed. Mostly he’s sympathetic, and a little sad. He never looks bored, or like he’s trying to escape the conversation.
You don’t believe he’s an angel or whatever, but there’s something supernatural about his big, brown eyes.
The waitress refills the coffees and brings sandwiches.
“It isn’t that I want to die. I just don’t see the point of being alive,” you say.
Llewyn smiles. It’s soft and ironic. “It’s like talking to a mirror, I swear. I felt like I was being pulled along by invisible strings, from one disaster to another, one bad choice to another, until finally, I wanted it all to catch up with me. To take the choice out of my hands. I have to tell you, it isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be. Not living.”
You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. “You’re drinking a cup of coffee I paid for and sitting here like the rest of us. Once again, I don’t believe you are who you say you are.”
“That’s a fair point, but I’ve been doing this for more than a few decades.” He watches people go by for a few seconds. “Hard to find good music nowadays. It’s all written for money, to try and trick people’s hearts into believing it wasn’t. Handful of real artists, though, with something worth saying. You got one of those telephones that fits in your purse?”
You blink at him, taking your cell phone out of your pocket.
“Look me up. Llewyn Davis. Two L’s-e-w-y-n,” he says, leaning forward on the table.
You almost don’t, but maybe you want to believe. You type his name in.
Llewyn Davis.
Folk singer.
In the 60s.
Dead for a long time.
The first image is him looking clean-cut and smiley, on a sky-blue record cover with some other guy.
You hold up your phone. “This is you?”
Llewyn’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “That’s me and Mike. Duos were a thing back when I started out and Mike was my best friend. He was twice the musician I ever was. Still miss him.”
You scroll down further and hold up the next album cover next to Llewyn’s face. It does look like him.
“Inside Llewyn Davis,” you say. “Ten bucks, still sealed.”
The resemblance is dead on, but there must be some explanation.
Llewyn shakes his head, a knowing look on his face. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a coincidence. It isn’t. I don’t usually do this on the first date, so to speak, but, uh…”
He sits forward in his chair and whoosh. With a huge, feathery sound, a gigantic pair of wings unfurl from his back. The tall tips go almost to the ceiling, but they don’t disturb anything. Not even a breeze.
They’re beautiful. Not just white, but cream, and almost tan, a mixture of colors and textures. They look deep and soft, a little rough around the edges, like their owner.
They move lightly. You can’t take your eyes off of them, and Llewyn can’t take his eyes off of you.
You’re dumbstruck for you don’t even know how long, before you remember to blink and look around.
You turn in your chair one way. Then the other.
No one in the diner is looking.
No one cares.
What the actual fuck?
Llewyn grins. “No one can see these but you.”
You grab the waitress’s arm as she walks back. She smiles at you and Llewyn, non the wiser about the extraordinary thing in front of her. “Something I can get you? Dessert?”
You stare at her, then at Llewyn’s wings. She doesn’t react at all.
Llewyn’s half-gloved hand reaches out and pries your fingers loose.
“Pie. Two slices. You choose,” he tells her.
Your brain scrambles for some way to rationalize what you see, but as unbelievable as this is, it’s the truth.
You start laughing, and then you can’t stop. You cover your mouth with both hands. Still laughing when the pie comes to the table, you don’t even bother trying to eat it. You let Llewyn eat both pieces. He leaves his wings out the whole time.
*****
When you get to your apartment, Llewyn peels off his layers. He looks like a normal person in his unbuttoned flannel, white t-shirt, and pants.
He looks in the mirror to run his fingers through his dark, curly hair and brushes them through his beard. His shirt is smooth and wing-free.
“No offense, but you can go now. You did your job,” you say, not really wanting him to leave.
He’s probably busy, and now that things have settled down, it’s all so strange. You’re not sure how to handle it.
You crack open the window by the fire escape to let some fresh air in. The sky’s turning orange and pink, and you can hear commuters all over the city honking at each other.
“Sorry if I scared you with the wings. I could tell you wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.” Llewyn flops down on you couch. “Anyway, I can’t just leave whenever I want to. It doesn’t work like that. Actually, I don’t know much about it.”
“You said you’ve done this before.” You sit on the other end of the couch, legs up.
“Doesn’t mean I understand it,” he shrugs. “Look, all I know is that this feels different to me. You’re different.”
You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, coming from an angel who looks after hard cases all day.
“Any chance you have a guitar?” Llewyn asks.
“I don’t play.” The look that passes over Llewyn’s face is like someone told him he’d just missed the last train to reunite with his lost love. “They don’t have guitars in heaven?”
He scratches his stomach over his t-shirt. “Heaven and hell, none of that is exactly what people think it is. Basically, yes, I play the guitar sometimes, in the place I usually am, but it doesn’t sound right. Nothing sounds quite like it does down here. I don’t know if it’s the material or the air. Playing anywhere but Earth feels wrong.”
His fingers tap along his stomach absent-mindedly.
“My neighbor’s son takes lessons. She’d probably let me borrow it. He hates it anyway.” You’re up off the couch before Llewyn can respond.
Your neighbor’s home, and happily lets you borrow the guitar, and reassures you that her son’s interest is soccer now so you can borrow it for as long as you want.
Llewyn’s eyes light up when he sees the instrument. “That’s better than I expected,” he says as you hand it to him.
He settles it into his lap, plucks at the strings and starts tuning immediately.
“Whoever she bought this from knew what they were about,” he says. He strums it experimentally. “Not bad at all. It’s almost as old as I am.”
He looks more human like this, with the guitar, and more comfortable than you’ve seen him.
“Do you know any Fleetwood Mac?” you ask, only partially joking.
His brown eyes laugh at you. “I like their music, but no. I can’t tell you how many times I asked to be sent down to guide one of them. Guess they didn’t need my help, though. I can play you something I used to sing.”
If you hadn’t believed he was an angel before, you would’ve believed the second he started singing.
Llewyn’s voice is beautiful. It reaches right into your chest, into your heart.
He probably had the same power before he was an angel, or whatever he is.
You have to swallow around the lump in your throat as he picks out the last part on his guitar, humming along until finally, he and the strings fall silent.
He smiles to himself. “It just occurs to me, maybe it was a bad choice to sing a song about hanging to someone who was dangling her legs off the roof an hour ago.”
“No,” you say, your heart beating fast, “no, it was great. Really.”
You sit up straight, broken out of your reverie. You both smile awkwardly.
“I can’t believe I’ve never heard of you before,” you say.
Llewyn rolls his eyes. “History’s full of forgotten guys like me.”
“I don’t think so,” you say. “I’m not sure there was ever anyone like you.”
Something in your voice makes his big eyes lock onto yours. You stare at each other for awhile. His eyes and lips turn downward. More than that tired look he has, there’s some confusion in it, a worry.
Llewyn sets the guitar aside and stands. He goes to the window, wordless and stands there, looking up at the rising moon.
He shakes his head. Shakes it again.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
The mood in the room is heavier when Llewyn glances back at you.
“Just thinking about something I heard, up there,” Llewyn looks out the window. “I’m not usually much for people. I had to learn to talk to them, to do the job. I feel like I have more empathy than I used to. I never felt like I wanted to stick around with someone before, though.”
It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask him to stay.
You want to know more about him, and hear more of his music. You want to kiss him. That’s probably not allowed, but you can’t help it. You feel something for Llewyn you’ve never felt before.
He faces you, conflict of his own written all over his face. He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.
He stands there, doing nothing.
His brown eyes pop open wide. “Shit.”
“What?” you ask, a little panicked by his panic.
He scrunches up his mouth, tension in every muscle of his body.
He grunts.
“Shit!” he yells, his hands in fists.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, raising your voice.
“My wings are gone. I can’t,” he waves his arms around, “I got nothing. Damn.”
“Llewyn, I don’t understand.” You get up, but he paces away from you.
“No, you wouldn’t understand,” he laughs humorlessly before turning and pointing his finger toward you. “I knew you were different. Fucking knew it.”
He brushes by you on his way out, not grabbing his coat, but leaving the guitar.
*****
He doesn’t come back that day. Or that night. Or the next day.
There’s not a lot of information about Llewyn Davis online.
Nothing about where he used to live or even where he’s buried.
You have no idea where to search for a man who shouldn’t exist.
Different, he’d said.
Maybe whatever you’d felt in your heart, that little seed of something that had blossomed into full color after you’d heard him sing, maybe he’d felt it too.
Angels probably weren’t supposed to fall for humans.
You look up at your ceiling. “Hey, whoever you are, if I try to jump off my roof again, will you bring Llewyn back?”
Silence.
“Figures,” you mumble.
You pick up the guitar, brushing your fingers over the strings and making a racket of noise.
Llewyn’s music is so complex, but the truth of it makes it easier to understand. You’ve been listening to it non-stop. You wish you could’ve seen him perform back then.
The Gaslight.
It hits you like a bolt of energy. It’s famous for a lot of things, mostly Dylan, but to you, it means Llewyn.
It isn’t open anymore, but the building’s still there.
You grab your bag, touching Llewyn’s fingerless gloves, and rush out the door.
*****
Your hands shake as you run toward the building. You recognize the body slumped on the stairs, his feet stretched out onto the sidewalk.
“Llewyn!” you bend over him.
He blinks his eyes awake. “I’m awake. Stop shaking me like I’m a bottle of fucking milk or something. Geez.”
You throw your arms around him and hug him.
Llewyn tenses, but finally, hugs you back. His hand comes up to rest on the back of your head.
“You’re okay,” he says against your ear, so softly it’s mostly just air. “You’re okay.”
That’s when you realize you’re crying.
You sit back, wiping your face with your hand.
A woman walks by and stops to offer you a tissue.
“Thanks,” you say.
She looks less than pleased. “I had a homeless boyfriend once. Trust me, get out while you can… no offense,” she looks at Llewyn.
“None taken,” he says dryly as she walks away.
You tuck the used tissue into your pocket. “Come on, let’s go home.”
You feel exposed out on the street like this. You want to get him back to where it’s warm and safe.
Llewyn resists when you tug his hand.
“I don’t know,” he says with a doubtful look. “I can’t just move into your place. We hardly know each other.”
“You have to. You don’t strike me as the old-fashioned type,” you tell him. “You can sleep on the couch.”
Llewyn laughs, but you have no idea why.
“If you had any idea how funny that is.” He wipes his eyes. “Sure, I’d love to sleep on your couch, honey.”
He wraps his arm around your waist as you start walking toward home.
“Shame about the Gaslight,” he says.
“We’ll find other places you can play,” you say.
He tilts his head at you, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “We will?”
“Yeah,” you tell him excitedly, “I already paid my neighbor for the guitar. I have all of your albums, or at least the ones I could buy online.”
You reach up and touch his beard, the hair soft and scratchy all at the same time.
“I think you’ll have to change your hairstyle a little bit, or people will think you’re trying to hard to be the real Llewyn Davis.”
Llewyn looks annoyed. “I am the real Llewyn Davis.”
“Yeah, but we’ll have to tell people you’re his grandson or something,” you say.
“Look, I’ll play all the music you want, but this is all starting to sound a little far-fetched.”
You stop at the light, changing position so you can grab his hand and slide your fingers through his. “Does it sound more far-fetched than how we actually met?”
He’s quiet for a few moments. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll tell people I’m my own grandfather.”
The crossing light is red, but there aren’t any cars coming so you start to dart out into the road. Llewyn holds you fast, though, not letting you go anywhere.
He looks a little apologetic. “Sorry. I uh, just want to make sure… you’re not going up to the roof anytime soon, are you?”
His brown eyes, so deep and expressive, search your face.
You take both his hands, making he knows you mean every word. “No, I’m not. We’re not going up there unless it’s for me to make a video of you singing.”
Llewyn looks relieved, like there’s a weight off of his shoulders. Literally, there is. With no wings, he’s as human as you are.
As out of touch with the world as you’ve always felt, Llewyn makes you feel complete.
You needed a man out of time to feel whole, and Llewyn, you’re sure, has always needed someone to believe in him.
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Summary: Llewyn is an angel sent to save you now, in modern times, and you fall in love (tw: suicidal ideation, quickly written, poorly edited, not religious, just some hand holding, ~3k)
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“Okay, well, if you could just, not jump to your death, that would really help me out,” the tired-looking man says to you.
“I’m sitting on the ledge, not jumping. Who the hell are you, anyway? How did you get up on the roof?” you ask, crabby at being interrupted.
You hadn’t been planning to jump.
Probably.
You’d considered it, but it was unlikely. Right?
“Who are you?” you repeat.
The man rubs one eye with the back of his hand, catching his fingerless gloves on his long, dark eyelashes. With a sigh, he sits on the ledge with you. You scoot further away.
“I’m Llewyn,” he says.
You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.
You give him a dirty look. “I hate to be rude, but would you kindly fuck off?”
He looks slightly taken aback. “People these days are real pieces of work, you know that? You don’t own this roof and you can’t tell me what to do.”
You look him up and down. He has on winter clothes, even though it’s summer. The heat doesn’t seem to bother him, though. He wears a corduroy jacket and pants. His shoes have seen better days.
“Who wears gloves in August?” you ask
Llewyn shrugs. “When I get sent down here, I always get sent down in this outfit. I don’t know why. There wasn’t exactly a question and answer orientation when I got this gig.”
“What gig?” you ask, completely lost.
“Angel.” Llewyn says. “It’s complicated, but you would call me an angel. Hey, you got a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” you say as you swing your legs back onto the roof and stand up.
His hand moves in the air, like the gesture helps him think. “How about one of those things that’s smoking without the cigarette?”
“A vape?” You squint at him. “I always knew New York was full of crazy fuckers, but I’m going to leave before you decide to push me off the roof.”
“Hey, that’s not- hey- that’s literally the opposite of what I’m trying to do here.“ He scrambles up and follows you. “Wait. I know you’re just going to be back up here tomorrow. I know you were going to jump today.”
Your hand is on the door to go back inside. Your fingers grip the metal, but you don’t turn it.
“You don’t know me,” you say.
“In some ways, we’re actually a lot alike,” he says, his voice closer than it was before. “I’ve got a lot to atone for. It’s why I’m doing this. You know a lot of people, I did too, but none of them know who you are now, none of them know you just want it to stop. That feeling inside of you, and how bad it is. Do they?”
You bite your bottom lip, not wanting to cry
A hand, warm and comforting, lands on your shoulder.
“Do they?” Llewyn asks again.
*****
Over a cup of coffee at the cafe on the corner, you tell Llewyn everything.
He’s not really a good listener, but he’s strangely easy to talk to. You can see everything he thinks on his face.
Sometimes he’s skeptical, sometimes annoyed. Mostly he’s sympathetic, and a little sad. He never looks bored, or like he’s trying to escape the conversation.
You don’t believe he’s an angel or whatever, but there’s something supernatural about his big, brown eyes.
The waitress refills the coffees and brings sandwiches.
“It isn’t that I want to die. I just don’t see the point of being alive,” you say.
Llewyn smiles. It’s soft and ironic. “It’s like talking to a mirror, I swear. I felt like I was being pulled along by invisible strings, from one disaster to another, one bad choice to another, until finally, I wanted it all to catch up with me. To take the choice out of my hands. I have to tell you, it isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be. Not living.”
You lean back in your chair, arms crossed. “You’re drinking a cup of coffee I paid for and sitting here like the rest of us. Once again, I don’t believe you are who you say you are.”
“That’s a fair point, but I’ve been doing this for more than a few decades.” He watches people go by for a few seconds. “Hard to find good music nowadays. It’s all written for money, to try and trick people’s hearts into believing it wasn’t. Handful of real artists, though, with something worth saying. You got one of those telephones that fits in your purse?”
You blink at him, taking your cell phone out of your pocket.
“Look me up. Llewyn Davis. Two L’s-e-w-y-n,” he says, leaning forward on the table.
You almost don’t, but maybe you want to believe. You type his name in.
Llewyn Davis.
Folk singer.
In the 60s.
Dead for a long time.
The first image is him looking clean-cut and smiley, on a sky-blue record cover with some other guy.
You hold up your phone. “This is you?”
Llewyn’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “That’s me and Mike. Duos were a thing back when I started out and Mike was my best friend. He was twice the musician I ever was. Still miss him.”
You scroll down further and hold up the next album cover next to Llewyn’s face. It does look like him.
“Inside Llewyn Davis,” you say. “Ten bucks, still sealed.”
The resemblance is dead on, but there must be some explanation.
Llewyn shakes his head, a knowing look on his face. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a coincidence. It isn’t. I don’t usually do this on the first date, so to speak, but, uh…”
He sits forward in his chair and whoosh. With a huge, feathery sound, a gigantic pair of wings unfurl from his back. The tall tips go almost to the ceiling, but they don’t disturb anything. Not even a breeze.
They’re beautiful. Not just white, but cream, and almost tan, a mixture of colors and textures. They look deep and soft, a little rough around the edges, like their owner.
They move lightly. You can’t take your eyes off of them, and Llewyn can’t take his eyes off of you.
You’re dumbstruck for you don’t even know how long, before you remember to blink and look around.
You turn in your chair one way. Then the other.
No one in the diner is looking.
No one cares.
What the actual fuck?
Llewyn grins. “No one can see these but you.”
You grab the waitress’s arm as she walks back. She smiles at you and Llewyn, non the wiser about the extraordinary thing in front of her. “Something I can get you? Dessert?”
You stare at her, then at Llewyn’s wings. She doesn’t react at all.
Llewyn’s half-gloved hand reaches out and pries your fingers loose.
“Pie. Two slices. You choose,” he tells her.
Your brain scrambles for some way to rationalize what you see, but as unbelievable as this is, it’s the truth.
You start laughing, and then you can’t stop. You cover your mouth with both hands. Still laughing when the pie comes to the table, you don’t even bother trying to eat it. You let Llewyn eat both pieces. He leaves his wings out the whole time.
*****
When you get to your apartment, Llewyn peels off his layers. He looks like a normal person in his unbuttoned flannel, white t-shirt, and pants.
He looks in the mirror to run his fingers through his dark, curly hair and brushes them through his beard. His shirt is smooth and wing-free.
“No offense, but you can go now. You did your job,” you say, not really wanting him to leave.
He’s probably busy, and now that things have settled down, it’s all so strange. You’re not sure how to handle it.
You crack open the window by the fire escape to let some fresh air in. The sky’s turning orange and pink, and you can hear commuters all over the city honking at each other.
“Sorry if I scared you with the wings. I could tell you wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.” Llewyn flops down on you couch. “Anyway, I can’t just leave whenever I want to. It doesn’t work like that. Actually, I don’t know much about it.”
“You said you’ve done this before.” You sit on the other end of the couch, legs up.
“Doesn’t mean I understand it,” he shrugs. “Look, all I know is that this feels different to me. You’re different.”
You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, coming from an angel who looks after hard cases all day.
“Any chance you have a guitar?” Llewyn asks.
“I don’t play.” The look that passes over Llewyn’s face is like someone told him he’d just missed the last train to reunite with his lost love. “They don’t have guitars in heaven?”
He scratches his stomach over his t-shirt. “Heaven and hell, none of that is exactly what people think it is. Basically, yes, I play the guitar sometimes, in the place I usually am, but it doesn’t sound right. Nothing sounds quite like it does down here. I don’t know if it’s the material or the air. Playing anywhere but Earth feels wrong.”
His fingers tap along his stomach absent-mindedly.
“My neighbor’s son takes lessons. She’d probably let me borrow it. He hates it anyway.” You’re up off the couch before Llewyn can respond.
Your neighbor’s home, and happily lets you borrow the guitar, and reassures you that her son’s interest is soccer now so you can borrow it for as long as you want.
Llewyn’s eyes light up when he sees the instrument. “That’s better than I expected,” he says as you hand it to him.
He settles it into his lap, plucks at the strings and starts tuning immediately.
“Whoever she bought this from knew what they were about,” he says. He strums it experimentally. “Not bad at all. It’s almost as old as I am.”
He looks more human like this, with the guitar, and more comfortable than you’ve seen him.
“Do you know any Fleetwood Mac?” you ask, only partially joking.
His brown eyes laugh at you. “I like their music, but no. I can’t tell you how many times I asked to be sent down to guide one of them. Guess they didn’t need my help, though. I can play you something I used to sing.”
If you hadn’t believed he was an angel before, you would’ve believed the second he started singing.
Llewyn’s voice is beautiful. It reaches right into your chest, into your heart.
He probably had the same power before he was an angel, or whatever he is.
You have to swallow around the lump in your throat as he picks out the last part on his guitar, humming along until finally, he and the strings fall silent.
He smiles to himself. “It just occurs to me, maybe it was a bad choice to sing a song about hanging to someone who was dangling her legs off the roof an hour ago.”
“No,” you say, your heart beating fast, “no, it was great. Really.”
You sit up straight, broken out of your reverie. You both smile awkwardly.
“I can’t believe I’ve never heard of you before,” you say.
Llewyn rolls his eyes. “History’s full of forgotten guys like me.”
“I don’t think so,” you say. “I’m not sure there was ever anyone like you.”
Something in your voice makes his big eyes lock onto yours. You stare at each other for awhile. His eyes and lips turn downward. More than that tired look he has, there’s some confusion in it, a worry.
Llewyn sets the guitar aside and stands. He goes to the window, wordless and stands there, looking up at the rising moon.
He shakes his head. Shakes it again.
“Are you okay?” you ask.
The mood in the room is heavier when Llewyn glances back at you.
“Just thinking about something I heard, up there,” Llewyn looks out the window. “I’m not usually much for people. I had to learn to talk to them, to do the job. I feel like I have more empathy than I used to. I never felt like I wanted to stick around with someone before, though.”
It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask him to stay.
You want to know more about him, and hear more of his music. You want to kiss him. That’s probably not allowed, but you can’t help it. You feel something for Llewyn you’ve never felt before.
He faces you, conflict of his own written all over his face. He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.
He stands there, doing nothing.
His brown eyes pop open wide. “Shit.”
“What?” you ask, a little panicked by his panic.
He scrunches up his mouth, tension in every muscle of his body.
He grunts.
“Shit!” he yells, his hands in fists.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, raising your voice.
“My wings are gone. I can’t,” he waves his arms around, “I got nothing. Damn.”
“Llewyn, I don’t understand.” You get up, but he paces away from you.
“No, you wouldn’t understand,” he laughs humorlessly before turning and pointing his finger toward you. “I knew you were different. Fucking knew it.”
He brushes by you on his way out, not grabbing his coat, but leaving the guitar.
*****
He doesn’t come back that day. Or that night. Or the next day.
There’s not a lot of information about Llewyn Davis online.
Nothing about where he used to live or even where he’s buried.
You have no idea where to search for a man who shouldn’t exist.
Different, he’d said.
Maybe whatever you’d felt in your heart, that little seed of something that had blossomed into full color after you’d heard him sing, maybe he’d felt it too.
Angels probably weren’t supposed to fall for humans.
You look up at your ceiling. “Hey, whoever you are, if I try to jump off my roof again, will you bring Llewyn back?”
Silence.
“Figures,” you mumble.
You pick up the guitar, brushing your fingers over the strings and making a racket of noise.
Llewyn’s music is so complex, but the truth of it makes it easier to understand. You’ve been listening to it non-stop. You wish you could’ve seen him perform back then.
The Gaslight.
It hits you like a bolt of energy. It’s famous for a lot of things, mostly Dylan, but to you, it means Llewyn.
It isn’t open anymore, but the building’s still there.
You grab your bag, touching Llewyn’s fingerless gloves, and rush out the door.
*****
Your hands shake as you run toward the building. You recognize the body slumped on the stairs, his feet stretched out onto the sidewalk.
“Llewyn!” you bend over him.
He blinks his eyes awake. “I’m awake. Stop shaking me like I’m a bottle of fucking milk or something. Geez.”
You throw your arms around him and hug him.
Llewyn tenses, but finally, hugs you back. His hand comes up to rest on the back of your head.
“You’re okay,” he says against your ear, so softly it’s mostly just air. “You’re okay.”
That’s when you realize you’re crying.
You sit back, wiping your face with your hand.
A woman walks by and stops to offer you a tissue.
“Thanks,” you say.
She looks less than pleased. “I had a homeless boyfriend once. Trust me, get out while you can… no offense,” she looks at Llewyn.
“None taken,” he says dryly as she walks away.
You tuck the used tissue into your pocket. “Come on, let’s go home.”
You feel exposed out on the street like this. You want to get him back to where it’s warm and safe.
Llewyn resists when you tug his hand.
“I don’t know,” he says with a doubtful look. “I can’t just move into your place. We hardly know each other.”
“You have to. You don’t strike me as the old-fashioned type,” you tell him. “You can sleep on the couch.”
Llewyn laughs, but you have no idea why.
“If you had any idea how funny that is.” He wipes his eyes. “Sure, I’d love to sleep on your couch, honey.”
He wraps his arm around your waist as you start walking toward home.
“Shame about the Gaslight,” he says.
“We’ll find other places you can play,” you say.
He tilts his head at you, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “We will?”
“Yeah,” you tell him excitedly, “I already paid my neighbor for the guitar. I have all of your albums, or at least the ones I could buy online.”
You reach up and touch his beard, the hair soft and scratchy all at the same time.
“I think you’ll have to change your hairstyle a little bit, or people will think you’re trying to hard to be the real Llewyn Davis.”
Llewyn looks annoyed. “I am the real Llewyn Davis.”
“Yeah, but we’ll have to tell people you’re his grandson or something,” you say.
“Look, I’ll play all the music you want, but this is all starting to sound a little far-fetched.”
You stop at the light, changing position so you can grab his hand and slide your fingers through his. “Does it sound more far-fetched than how we actually met?”
He’s quiet for a few moments. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll tell people I’m my own grandfather.”
The crossing light is red, but there aren’t any cars coming so you start to dart out into the road. Llewyn holds you fast, though, not letting you go anywhere.
He looks a little apologetic. “Sorry. I uh, just want to make sure… you’re not going up to the roof anytime soon, are you?”
His brown eyes, so deep and expressive, search your face.
You take both his hands, making he knows you mean every word. “No, I’m not. We’re not going up there unless it’s for me to make a video of you singing.”
Llewyn looks relieved, like there’s a weight off of his shoulders. Literally, there is. With no wings, he’s as human as you are.
As out of touch with the world as you’ve always felt, Llewyn makes you feel complete.
You needed a man out of time to feel whole, and Llewyn, you’re sure, has always needed someone to believe in him.
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Reader met Anselm Vogelweide when they were still a mortal opera singer in 1820s Germany. He promises you eternity. This is how eternity begins.
As the title suggests this was inspired by the song Berghain by Rosalía, Björk and Yves Tumor. What helped me finish this fic was Floze's cover of Dracula.
tags: vampire!Anselm | opera singer!reader | gn!reader | no description of reader's genitalia | blood drinking | established relationship | mind manipulation (subtle) | penetrative sex | clothed sex | reader gets turned into a vampire | yes i took the vampire mechanics from VtM | Anselm kills a guy but he deserves it trust me
ships: Anselm Vogelweide/Reader'
word count: 3.9k
@winniethewife my darling, thank you for being my beta reader for this 💙
AO3
You feel his eyes on you, his gaze following your every move as you sing your heart out on stage. It's your final piece before you can return backstage and to him.
Anselm Vogelweide had been a steady patron of the Old Theater ever since Herr Marschner had finished his newest opera "Der Vampyr" and decided to premiere it here.
You were ecstatic to be a part of it. When you first heard the music and studied the libretto you could feel that this opera would be a great success. Your intuition was right. Night after night ended in deafening applause, performance after performance with not an empty seat to be seen.
And each time, hidden among the crowd and sat in the very best seats, you saw him. The wild hair, the fogged up glass hiding his left eye, the burn scars - his rugged appearance stood in direct contrast to his elegant and alluring demeanor. A wild animal in court attire.
When he spoke to you Herr Vogelweide was always a gentleman. His first words to you were "You are magnificent," and he never made you feel less than that. He kissed the back of your hand, gifted you flowers and jewelry and never overstepped your boundaries. He made you feel like the only person in the world that mattered and to Anselm this may well have been the truth. If you asked him to he would kiss the ground you walked on and thank you for the honor. His passion for life so easily ignited yours that you couldn't help but fall for him.
And yet every time his lips met your skin something in the back of your mind told you to run. Something instinctive, something primordial inside your body urging you to flee. You felt the presence of a predator even before he revealed himself to you, before he revealed what he truly was.
The sound of the crowd dispersing echos behind the stage as you make your way to your dressing room. You slow your steps, taking deep breaths to calm your racing heart. Your instincts tell you once again to stop your arrangement with Herr Vogelweide but both your heart and your loins push you back into his arms.
As you open the door to your dressing room he already sits at your vanity surrounded by a great variety of bouquets in all shades of the rainbow - all of which are from him, you gather.
"My love," he purrs, "You were phenomenal tonight." He rises from his seat and crosses over to you in two steps. His hand finds yours, his head bowed low as he kisses the back of it. Your breath catches in your throat, your heart pounding like it wants to escape your chest. You're certain he can hear it.
You clear your throat, trying to shake off your nerves. "You say that every time, Anselm," you tease and your reply widens the predatory grin on his lips.
"Because it is true every time, mein Schatz."
He turns your hand palm up and slowly pushes up your sleeve, revealing the barely healed gashes, two deep puncture marks parallel to each other with the perfect distance of two canines between them.
"I'm still a little sore from last time," you explain softly as his gaze lingers on his bite mark adorning your wrist. His lips graze over the mark gently before looking up, his eyes meeting yours. His gaze is mesmerizing, leaving you breathless.
"Have you thought about my offer?" he asks, swiftly changing the subject. Even his directness charms you. Since the day you first met you felt drawn towards him, like he had tied an invisible string around your neck to pull on and keep you close.
You turn your gaze away, trying to compose yourself.
Of course you had thought about his offer. A few nights ago he had invited you to dinner at his mansion, a gorgeous place full of strange yet beautiful paintings, sculptures and other pieces of art so unlike anything you had ever seen. That night after you had dined, you on the delicious meal prepared by Herr Vogelweide's hired chef, and he on you. Afterwards you had made love on the dinner table. It was a wonderful night. He had shown you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams that left you boneless and sated.
As you were laid out across the table, he kissed every inch of you reverently like he was worshiping an ancient deity on its altar. He knelt atop of you, brushing his lips against his bite mark left there on your collarbone. Anselm whispered in your ear and made his offer: Become a vampire like him.
Life unending. Forever by his side. A deathless existence.
So of course you had thought about his offer. You hadn't stopped thinking about it since that night. Not an hour went by without your mind repeating his offer again and again.
"I have," you answer softly, "but I am not sure I have an answer for you yet."
Anselm places your hand on his cheek, his well groomed beard tickling your palm. He rubs his face against it like a cat begging to be pet, his eyes closed in silent pleasure.
"Don't rush it, my love. Eternity will wait for you as long as I live."
His words soothe you and yet there is still this nagging unrest at the back of your mind; the pressure to make a decision so momentous it will shape the rest of your life. For better or for worse.
When you look at Anselm your heart tells you that eternity with him would be worth everything. Your mind tells you that love rarely lasts with so many great romances ending in tragedy.
"I still know so little about you. About what you are," you mutter under your breath. He places a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.
"Do not fret, mein Schatz. Ask and I shall answer."
As if your body had waited for his command questions pour out of your mouth like water from a fountain. As you ask question after question he gently guides you towards the chair in front of your vanity. Anselm sits down and pulls you with him. You're careful not to put your weight onto his leg with the brace as you take a seat across his lap.
One by one he answers your questions. He spins a tale of the mystic vampyr so unlike the grim stories you had heard and read, yet still familiar.
First he describes how one becomes a vampire. The bite of a vampire does not immediately transform a human into an undying creature of the night, as you had witnessed personally many times. Moreover the process involves the exchange of blood at the precipice of death.
If they are a virgin or not does not impact the transformation either which Anselm attests to with glee. He drifts off into stories of his sexual exploits as a mortal before he stops himself and returns to your questions. You remember to ask him about the time he had sex on a taxidermy horse on a later date.
The transformation, the kiss of a vampire, binds the newly undead creature to its creator. Not like parent and child but a deeper and more powerful bond tied with blood. This bond leaves the new vampire unable to refuse its creators demands, rendering them subservient to their Master's wishes.
He tells you how the death of the creator does not reverse the transformation of its transformed children like it is told in some folktales. Instead it only cuts their bond, their leash to their Master. You want to ask about Anselm's creator, the elder vampire that granted him immortality but you're too nervous to ask and let the moment pass.
Your fingers dance across the scarred tissue of his face as he explains the ways of how to kill him and his kin: That sun means death, final death and fire brings pain more gruesome than torture. Your fingers twitch against his scarred skin. Sensing your worry he kisses each pad of your fingers individually before changing the subject.
You're already aware that the diet of a vampire consists solely of blood. What you did not expect is that there are some that need to consume pounds of human flesh instead. Other vampires gain the ability to eat human food with age though it does not sustain them in any way. A skill for fitting in, not survival, or so Anselm explains.
With every answer came more questions like a hydra sprouting more heads after one is cut off. But Anselm did not seem irritated by your questions. On the contrary, he looked delighted, having told you everything you wished to know with passion and sincerity.
"Was I able to satisfy you with my ramblings?“
You can't help but smile at his teasing tone. He smiles in turn, his eyes glinting in the low light. You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his. "You always satisfy me," you whisper before kissing him. Anselm returns your kiss eagerly, his hands grabbing your hips, pulling you closer. You gasp into his mouth as you feel his cock harden beneath you.
You place your hand on his chest, pushing yourself away just enough to break the kiss, gasping for air. You feel no heartbeat under your palm, no rising and falling of his chest. It should scare you but it doesn't.
"If you turn me," you start, worry creeping into your voice, "You said a vampire cannot defy their creator. Does that mean-"
"I would never tie you to myself without having your explicit consent before and after, my love. I value your mind and spirit too much for that," he whispers, kissing your neck just below your ear, "I want you as my partner, not as my child or servant. My equal in everything." His cold hands roam your body, warming against your heated skin. They explore every inch of you, teasing and prodding all the places he knows entice you.
You gasp, his touches fanning the flames of your desire. "But you said that this bond is unbreakable unless the elder vampire meets their end," you argue, your voice struggling not to show your obvious arousal.
"Don't worry about that. I have already planned for everything. All I need is your agreement. All I need is for you to say yes."
The word reverberates inside your head, his hands and lips on you making your heart pound. It's getting harder and harder to think. Your heart knows your answer and your mind is slowly convinced by his touches. Your answer spills from your lips before you can think it.
"Yes."
With a roar Anselm is on you, his chest pressed to yours, teeth grazing against your soft skin, his hands massaging your thighs. "Let me taste you again, mein Schatz. I beg you," he groans, nibbling on your neck.
"Yes. Yes."
The sharp pain of his teeth piercing your skin quickly flows into white hot pleasure. Your moans mix with the sound of Anselm sucking on the wound his fangs created, greedily and messily drinking your blood like a man possessed.
"You taste divine," he moans, his breath hot against the wound, before continuing to feast on your life essence. Instinctively you grind against his clothed erection, desperate for release.
"I need you inside me," you moan, clenching around nothing, "Please, Anselm."
He pulls away from your neck, his beard stained red with your blood as he licks his lips.
"Then you will have me."
Anselm undresses just enough to free his straining cock while you undress in kind, settling above him, preparing yourself to take his massive length.
"You're so beautiful," Anselm groans as you slowly sink down on his cock, straddling his thighs, "So perfect."
Every inch of him spreads you wider to accommodate his size. You curse under your breath, already overwhelmed by the way he fills you completely once he's fully inside you. You know you won't last long tonight.
"Let me show you how much I need you," Anselm purrs into your ear and cants his hips upwards, helping you grind down on him. You hold tightly onto his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh as he proceeds to fuck into your willing entrance. His hands travel across your body, one hand resting at the back of your neck pulling you in once again. His lips find the space where your shoulder meets your neck, his sharp teeth sinking into your veins. Your blood gushes into his eager mouth anew as he drinks down the red liquid, his other hand resting on your hips.
You move together frantically, skin meeting skin, his cock driving into you hard and fast. Both the pleasure combined with the blood loss make your head dizzy, keeping you struggling to speak. You communicate in moans and whimpers, chasing your bliss, teetering on the edge of orgasm.
"Come for me," Anselm pleads, his lips and beard painted with your blood, "Please, I need to feel you come on my cock."
You let yourself sink down on his throbbing length one final time, hitting that spot deep inside that has you see stars, and reach your peak. Your walls contract around his cock, milking him as he spills his seed inside of you.
You collapse on top of Anselm, feeling drained both of blood and energy, yet so very satisfied, unable and unwilling to move. You feel Anselm chuckle as you curl into him, your face hidden in the crook of his neck and your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You could stay like this forever, holding and being held by Anselm with his cock softening inside of you.
Before you can drift off to sleep, the position too comfortable not to, Anselm gets you off of his lap. You make yourself presentable again and already dread watching Anselm leave again. Before he does he turns to you and places a soft kiss to your lips.
"I will visit you again when I have arranged everything for your transformation," his voice rumbles through his chest, "Wait for me, mein Schatz."
And so you wait.
Your days feel gray and monotonous without Anselm. You eat, sleep, practice and perform on stage but you feel listless. The time apart makes your decision clearer each day. You want to be with Anselm, not just until the end of your mortal life but forever. It's difficult even imagining your life without him now.
The days go by and with every performance you look for the familiar figure of your lover in the crowd. Day by day, night by night you are disappointed until one evening a stagehand slips you a note during the final act of the opera. You recognize Anselm's handwriting immediately.
Mein Schatz,
Wait for me in your dressing room tonight. Eternity awaits.
-A
Your heart pounds heavily in your chest but there is no time for anxiety or anticipation. You have a show to finish.
When the opera has ended you wait anxiously in your dressing room. You pace back and forth, your stomach tied into a knot, until you hear a knock on your door.
“Enter," you call out and the door opens.
You're surprised when Anselm doesn't enter alone. Behind him walks in a stranger, his eyes shifting around the room as if he expects somebody to jump out of the shadows and stab a dagger through his heart at any moment.
You look at Anselm in confusion, tilting your head in a silent question. He simply smiles calmly at you. The stranger meets your gaze and quickly turns his attention back to Anselm.
"Is this-"
"Indeed," Anselm interrupts him sharply, "this is the one you will turn. And afterwards your debt is paid. A simple matter, yes?"
The stranger shifts nervously in place before slowly approaching you. You take a step back from him.
"Anselm, who is this?“
Anselm steps forward, catching your hand and rubbing soothing circles on the back of it.
"Do not fret, mein Schatz. I told you I had everything planned out, didn't I?" he replies in hushed tones, "This man owes me quite a lot of money and is of a rather high pedigree for my kind. I decided he will get the honor of turning you in exchange for his debt being paid."
There is a glint in his eyes that you can't quite place but you're sure Anselm is only telling you half the truth. He leans forward, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.
"You will stand as my equal. I will not have you share eternity with me because you are bound to me by blood but of your own free will," he whispers, making the hair at the back of your neck stand up, "I will always be your most devoted lover." You shudder, anxiety and arousal fighting for dominance. He squeezes your hand, trying to soothe your fraying nerves. "Trust me," he urges you in a low voice.
When he holds you like this, imploring you to follow his plan in such gentle tones, fear has a hard time keeping hold of your heart. His words coat your worries like a soothing balm, his mere presence compelling you to follow his directions without much resistance. Taking a few deep breaths you nod your head and give him a shaky smile. "I trust you," you reply, squeezing his hand gently in return.
Anselm's gaze turns to the stranger he has brought with him, the softness he regards you with turning to ice.
"Be gentle. And if I see your hands roaming where they shouldn't I'll shoot you before you can even think of running," he threatens him, "You're not the only one indebted to me."
The stranger nods vehemently, clearly intimidated. This is a new side to Anselm that you hadn't witnessed before. He has always been so sweet to you, a gentleman focused solely on your comfort and desires. To see him so frightening for your sake sends a pleasant thrill down your spine.
The stranger approaches you slowly, his eyes flickering towards Anselm every so often, terrified of making a wrong move. Anselm doesn't remove his hand from yours, determined to be by your side through your transformation. The stranger reaches out to free your neck but his hand freezes in place when Anselm makes a displeased noise. Instead he reaches for your other hand and when Anselm doesn't comment, takes it. He rolls up your sleeve to free your wrist.
"I am sure Herr Vogelweide has already explained this process to you," he starts nervously, "But I will drain you of your blood until you are in the process of dying and then feed you my own." He slowly raises your wrist up to his lips.
"The transformation will be painful-," he warns before Anselm cuts him off.
"I will be with you the whole time. You are not alone, mein Schatz. The pain will subside and you will be born anew as a creature of the night. Like you were always meant to be."
You're glad for Anselm's confidence in this matter. From the very first moment you met Anselm saw something in you that you never quite understood. Maybe after tonight you would.
The stranger gives you another quick warning, alerting you that he will begin now and bites the inside of your wrist. The stranger's bite couldn't be more different from Anselm's. Maybe it's the difference in intent,maybe a lack of practice but when the stranger's fangs pierce your skin there is only pain. Where Anselm's bite fills your body with pleasure the stranger's gives you unending torture. You feel your blood leaving your body, bleeding like an animal for slaughter.
Time distorts, your body feeling both heavy and feather light at the same time. The only sound you hear is your rapidly slowing heartbeat. Your legs give out under you but two strong arms catch you. Anselm is whispering soothingly in your ear but you can't make out the words. Your vision swims, shapes and colors dancing in front of your eyes like a fresh painting left in the rain.
Something presses against your lips, coating them in something wet and slick. You instinctively lick your lips, a metallic taste coating your tongue. It presses against your lips harder, forcing more and more of the metallic liquid down your throat.
The torture only worsens. Your body feels like it's being stretched apart, every organ, vein and artery lights up with excruciating pain. You feel every bone inside your body. It's too much. You're throat feels sore and dry from screaming. You feel like you're underwater, drowning in copper liquid until there is only darkness.
You're startled awake by three shots ringing out, followed by a dull thud. You strain your neck following the sounds, your mind still foggy. You see the stranger on the floor slowly turning to dust. Your confusion must read on your face when Anselm quickly answers your unvoiced question.
"I won't have some useless cheat have control over you. This man was already dead the moment he didn't pay his debt on time. He was lucky I allowed him to taste your divine blood and help grant you immortality before I got rid of him."
Anselm's words wash over you, your mind having a hard time grasping them. You feel drained. Your whole body hurts, a deep, gnawing sensation that you can't quite place. The only description that comes close is hunger.
You feel Anselm's eyes on you, a predator watching its newborn.
You clutch at your throat, sharp, claw-like nails scratching your skin. You can't speak, your throat dry as if all the moisture was stripped from you. Your weak body leans against Anselm as he holds you, the wood flooring beneath hard and cold. You try to ask for help but the only sound escaping your throat is a sickening, raspy screech.
You watch as Anselm rolls up the sleeves of his coat and shirt, displaying his naked wrist to you. Your eyes fixate on this single patch of skin before you feel a hand at the back of your neck. Anselm brings your head closer to his outstretched wrist. "Drink, mein Schatz," he asks, holding out his arm to you like a sacred offering, "You'll feel much better."
Your teeth ache to pierce his skin. Hesitantly you wrap your lips around his wrist, sucking on it. The taste of copper rises to the surface and without a second thought you bite down. Blood rushes into your mouth and the taste is like nothing you have ever drank or eaten. You moan against his skin as you gulp down the red liquid like you're dying of thirst. Every drop soothes your aching body, the pain subsiding steadily.
Your mind clears and you realize what you're doing. You struggle to stop gorging yourself on Anselm's blood, your hands pushing his arm away but your fangs refuse to remove themselves from your willing prey. Anselm's hand tightens at the back of your neck, gently pulling you away. You gasp, blood dripping from your open mouth. Your eyes find his and in an instant Anselm kisses you. You cling to him, your hands pulling him closer by his lapel, deepening your kiss. As your tongues meet all you taste is blood. It's delicious.
You feel strange, different, but this is familiar, this is right. You kiss and bite and taste each other like you're committing every inch and every ounce to memory. He drinks your blood and you drink his. His blood is yours and your blood is his.
I FEEL ALIVE!!!!! I LOVE THIS BEYOND BELIEF!!!!!!!
He has it all planned out and there's no resisting him!!!!! How generous he is how much he truly appreciates her talent and beauty, and how much he wants her to be like him so much it's probably gnawing at him. TOGETHER FOREVER!!!!! A blessing and a curse, but what a ride!!!!!!
