You gave me the most precious thing.


"I'm sorry,"

She chokes on heaven's nectar,

"I'm sorry,"

she cries with a tongue drenched in stolen property,

"I'm so so so sorry,"

her stomach is brimful, sated.

He stares at the ceiling while his gaze blackens with hate; now his eyes are a starless night sky. He's become cold ash, dropped from a dead fire.

He is tired of all her contrition without penance.

(And she is still only as sorry as she is thirsty.)

She wants to lap up the rest of the mess - a waste, she mourns as more blood slides out of his wound - but she knows she's had her fix, which is more than enough to hurt him. The dizziness has faded, her insides no longer burn. All that remains is a primal craving for his flavor.

His iron, his crimson, his sugar, his heat. His pain.

(All of it from his heart, which she wants more than anything in the world.)

Her quaking fingers sluice the red off of her chin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Forgive me."

She can't touch. It is hypocritical, yes, that she sprang upon him, and now she remembers that she has no right to him.

(At least that is the case by human standards - her adopted standards.)

"Get Dell," he croaks, still glaring away from her. He struggles to sit up, his essence dripping over the floorboards. He hisses through his teeth after the slightest motion.

Her heart thuds. "Please, I-"

"Get. Dell."

The girl rises, swaying as much as a plant in the wind. Bitter tears cut across her cheeks. He pays her no mind, busy with the trouble of his own body, and she goes. She wipes her hands on her dress while the nausea battles satisfaction in her.


I don't regret it at all, do you?


Miku peers around the corner, satisfying her curiosity from a generous distance.

Len is drowing in sleep, his throat swathed in gauze. Cold sweat stands on his deeply furrowed brow. He is still ash, burned white and left without a spark of fire afterwards. The smell that lingers on him is still tempting beyond temptation.

She winces for what she has done, but it's not enough to be abhorred. She must reform or else she's a beast with an unused conscience.

Dell watches her spying, wearing his disdain like a badge. He thinks the exact same thing as her, and he isn't afraid of saying so. The black bag waits on the desk while he saunters over to her, toying with a roll of bandages in one hand. "All this trouble," he clicks his tongue, "just eat him whole already."

Her flinch makes the older man chuckle. For a moment, he contemplates. She counts the stains on the hardwood. A bony finger hooks under her chin and lifts her face. Dell murmurs, "Don't make pets of your livestock in times of famine."

She snatches the roll, squishing it between clammy palms.

"He is not a cow, nor is he a dog," She seethes. Her skin tingles where the doctor touched her - he is empty of any warmth, any hunger, any color. Like a slab of stone, there is no sign of vitality in him; whereas her chest throbs with the life force that was never her own.


I wouldn't trade this for the world.


Len presses himself against the glass, relishing the buttery light and all its summer glory. According to the Dell, he should not be on his feet, but he is more restless than pained at this point. The anaemia cannot trump his homesickness. Try as he might, the slightest pain will drag him back to precious memories of life before the Hatsune clan. That hurts more than anything. In the garden down below, he imagines his little sisters, screaming, giggling, racing around as they admire the wildflowers, all thriving in the unkempt grass.

His eyes slide closed. The window is warm against his forehead.

A misstep in the distance causes the floor to squeak.

"What?" His head snaps up and she stops, hovering on the blue border between the dark and bright halves of the room. A delicate pink is spread over her face and lips. In a nervous rhythm, her chest shifts with the effort of her lungs. That is his living blood at work in another's veins, as miraculous as it is heinous.

She's not sorry for being a thief. He knows. What he doesn't know is if he hates her lies more, or her crime.

Miku bites her lip, fangs glittering as she does. "May I come in?" She whispers, gesturing to the plot of sunshine that he broods in.

He eyes her predatory teeth. "No." His throat aches more now than it did the first time he was bitten. Then again, her impulsive attack is bound to cause more damage than a purposeful one. Not knowing her own strength, she can kill him if she really loses control.

"Are you still hurting?" she asks softly. If she thinks he's afraid, she isn't wrong, but he is too human - proudly so - to let her call him out on the weakness.

"Go away." It's her room.

"You need to eat something..."

"It's not like you brought any food," Len scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Her hands dart behind her back. She is rightfully embarrassed that she doesn't know what to feed him. Not that she had much in the way of opportunities to learn. They avoided discussing their favorite foods, and in general their diets, as those have always been...sensitive topics. But it's more stupid than polite to avoid the issue, at this point. He's literally the fucking chew toy for a teething young vampiress.

"I'm not coming back before you fall asleep," she announces, picking at her black sleeve.

"Fascinating," he says.

"Is there something you need before I go?"

"Why are you even awake at this time?" His eyes narrow.

She flashes a bitter, closed-mouth smile. "I'd miss the sun if I waited too long."

Len feels all of the stony anger tremble as if in an Earthquake. The edges crumble. Cracks slither through his emotion and a dim ray of empathy bleeds through. She used to stare from the shadow-laden corner while he drank up the daylight. He used to stare back, into the abyss, a jab of fear meeting a twinge of pity deep inside him. He told himself that only the most vile creatures would hide like that, waiting for the cover of night. She was a demonic predator; she was a sinful appetite; she was...he knew she was...

...a powerful, clumsy girl. One who grew up without the blessings of Adam's children. Back when he was little, Len had thought that the most poignant aspect of a vampire's life was that hunters had to waste silver bullets on them.

She is a waste of silver. He hardens himself again.

"Come here," he grunts.

Her brows fly up in an arch. "Huh?"

He rolls his eyes and approaches, snatching her wrist. Her pulse thrums under his fingers. She is so warm, just like the sun. Her features are locked with hesitation and girlish panic. She fancies he is a threat to her safety. Although not unwarranted, her insecurity isn't fair.

He drags her into the golden glow pouring in from the window. She sucks in a breath, cringing as she is nearly blinded. Soon, though, she is persuaded to open her eyes, which flicker about as they well up with liquid. Specks of dust are like little pixies, dancing in the air. She raises up her palms and lets the warmth trickle over her small hands. A red glow falls through her translucent skin.

His blood at work. Blood of man. Blood of Adam. Not cursed or spoiled, tapped pure from the veins of a strapping young lad. It works wonders, and it fills her heart with the things that a person can't live without. This way, if he invites her, she can enjoy the light so reviled by her kind.

"Thank you," she says in a hitched breath. "I'm sorry - sorry."

Len pierces her with a look. "I don't forgive you." It's a lie.

She only nods quietly, picking up his hand in hers. He realizes, while her fingers lace through his, that he is cold as a stone slab. She presses her cheek against his palm, breath tickling him.


Even though I know I'm a petty criminal. I'm a devil.


He's going to cave if this keeps happening. When she is rich with life, he is cold and weak for a lack of it. One suffers when the other is even moderately healthy. It is unnatural, suspended by the aid of one mediocre doctor.

He doesn't want to take it away from her, though. Everything about her screams of humanity, even if it is borrowed from him, and he dreads the day he must steal it back with a silver vengeance. He believes it's the product of Stockholm Syndrome.


But how can I stop now when it's already "normal"?


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AHAHAHAHA ALL OF THIS IS ALLEGORICAL