Wednesday Photo Prompt
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the_scent_of_lilacsFANDOM: Nosferatu 2024
CHARACTERS: Ellen/Orlock
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: 700
Her misfortune and his greatest triumph. She didn’t understand but she would. By the sin of the devil, she would soon enough.
He had accomplished it. Brought back his child bride three hundred years after she had flung herself off the battlements. She was the flame. His flame. He her thirsty driven mad lover. He the tattered canker, the sore inflicted, the moth souled creature.
And the infernal tome? That fool had found it, or perhaps it had found the diseased solicitor as commanded, and the wee man had put it to some dark use that even he, solomonari, couldn’t have imagined. Abjection? Making of himself a servant? All the power within its skin covers and Knock could only grovel and offer up his paltry existence? Sickening yet deliciously applicable to the need, the hunger he existed with, for her.
Across the mountains, across the valleys, across the sea he had been woken and called by this wormy little man.
And somewhere Belial had cackled, all the demons in hell laughing maniacally because it was as though ordained, spell cast. Knock was in proximity to her. Knock would be throttled and smashed to bone shard for such a privilege but first. The man possessed the grimoire that had alerted him that she was embodied once again. She was alive, awaiting their death.
The book he had inked with his own blood, her blood, too, had finally accomplished its task.
Although had she really known his purpose, when they were young and wed. From her veins, the letting tools cold and heavy in his palms, her obedience. Lie still, my child. This will hurt, just there see, a nick, catching the dark fluid in a small bowl made of a wolf’s heart dried and hollowed. But then, here drink of this chilled wine, soon, you will feel a lightness and exultation that will lift you as though bodily off this shared wedding bed of ours. Lift you just as high as the arched ceiling there. Close your eyes and let go.
And then the monthly menses, this time caught in both his cupped hands. Kneeling between her thighs, his eyes rolled in their sockets just remembering her allowance of such an intimate trespass.
All that blood caught and stored, dried and pumiced and then rehydrated with his own vein drips and the quill dipped again and again and yet again.
The foolish church and the ridiculous body politic. His own mother and brother. All believed some lie foisted that it was he who had destroyed them, but it had been her. Because of her. Who was she? Original succubus to drain his heart of all the love he could possibly bestow and still want more. Demand it? Her hunger was insatiable. She would have him; body and soul and kingdom. And he would open himself groin to clavicle and let her feast if she had asked him to. Wrap her in his arms and embrace her. The viscera that she had spilt drying between their bodies. Why could they not get closer. Why did the fleshy skin and organs separate them.
He had been blinded by her gentle fingers upon his brow, he had been reduced by her presence. She had wielded such diabolical control over him. She had wrested him to his very knees and there forced him to worship her. Through the aeons. It was she whose hand he took and followed her deep deep deep into the forest until there was no light left by which to see his way, his ears muffled by her whispers and the howls of the beasts, and then the stone cottage.
This time, when he found her again, through the dark dark shadows of time, he would be the one to control. It would be his hand demanding her to take it and follow him. The things he could show her, the feast with which he could nourish her.
Until the moment he would beg of her to enfold him, hold him fast, to encourage him to crawl inside her very skin.
And who was really to say if this was the first time in the three centuries since he had buried her body himself. Broken by her death? Centuries without her had driven him insane.
CHARACTERS: Ellen/Orlock
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: 700
Her misfortune and his greatest triumph. She didn’t understand but she would. By the sin of the devil, she would soon enough.
He had accomplished it. Brought back his child bride three hundred years after she had flung herself off the battlements. She was the flame. His flame. He her thirsty driven mad lover. He the tattered canker, the sore inflicted, the moth souled creature.
And the infernal tome? That fool had found it, or perhaps it had found the diseased solicitor as commanded, and the wee man had put it to some dark use that even he, solomonari, couldn’t have imagined. Abjection? Making of himself a servant? All the power within its skin covers and Knock could only grovel and offer up his paltry existence? Sickening yet deliciously applicable to the need, the hunger he existed with, for her.
Across the mountains, across the valleys, across the sea he had been woken and called by this wormy little man.
And somewhere Belial had cackled, all the demons in hell laughing maniacally because it was as though ordained, spell cast. Knock was in proximity to her. Knock would be throttled and smashed to bone shard for such a privilege but first. The man possessed the grimoire that had alerted him that she was embodied once again. She was alive, awaiting their death.
The book he had inked with his own blood, her blood, too, had finally accomplished its task.
Although had she really known his purpose, when they were young and wed. From her veins, the letting tools cold and heavy in his palms, her obedience. Lie still, my child. This will hurt, just there see, a nick, catching the dark fluid in a small bowl made of a wolf’s heart dried and hollowed. But then, here drink of this chilled wine, soon, you will feel a lightness and exultation that will lift you as though bodily off this shared wedding bed of ours. Lift you just as high as the arched ceiling there. Close your eyes and let go.
And then the monthly menses, this time caught in both his cupped hands. Kneeling between her thighs, his eyes rolled in their sockets just remembering her allowance of such an intimate trespass.
All that blood caught and stored, dried and pumiced and then rehydrated with his own vein drips and the quill dipped again and again and yet again.
The foolish church and the ridiculous body politic. His own mother and brother. All believed some lie foisted that it was he who had destroyed them, but it had been her. Because of her. Who was she? Original succubus to drain his heart of all the love he could possibly bestow and still want more. Demand it? Her hunger was insatiable. She would have him; body and soul and kingdom. And he would open himself groin to clavicle and let her feast if she had asked him to. Wrap her in his arms and embrace her. The viscera that she had spilt drying between their bodies. Why could they not get closer. Why did the fleshy skin and organs separate them.
He had been blinded by her gentle fingers upon his brow, he had been reduced by her presence. She had wielded such diabolical control over him. She had wrested him to his very knees and there forced him to worship her. Through the aeons. It was she whose hand he took and followed her deep deep deep into the forest until there was no light left by which to see his way, his ears muffled by her whispers and the howls of the beasts, and then the stone cottage.
This time, when he found her again, through the dark dark shadows of time, he would be the one to control. It would be his hand demanding her to take it and follow him. The things he could show her, the feast with which he could nourish her.
Until the moment he would beg of her to enfold him, hold him fast, to encourage him to crawl inside her very skin.
And who was really to say if this was the first time in the three centuries since he had buried her body himself. Broken by her death? Centuries without her had driven him insane.
