Let This Heart Not Beat In Vain (part i)
Title: Let This Heart Not Beat In Vain (part i)
Author: enigmaxempress
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin, others
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “What does it matter if, by chance, a little vile blood be spilled?”
A/N: the long awaited sequel to Blood Siren and Heart Burn. Also, Vaguelynormal’s bday fic for last year. Yes, I am aware I suck that bad :/ Also, locked to the comm and for members only for now, as a token of my appreciation for the current 200+ members we now have. You guys are awesome♥
EDIT: This part unlocked, but all subsequent parts will remain as they are. Must join the comm to read.
“What does it matter if, by chance, a little vile blood be spilled?”
- Jean Racine
His feet echoed upon the stone floors as he traversed the lonely corridor towards the ancient doors at the end of the hall. His loud footfalls added to his unease, a sense of foreboding that grew with each step. Woven pictures lined the walls, intricate tapestries with life like quality depicted in thread by skilled hands and a clever needle. They would have been beautiful if not for the horror they portrayed.
People dominated the long stretch of embroidery, bodies broken and bleeding, torn limb from limb bathed in red-so much red he wondered where they could have found enough thread-a red as dark as blood and so close to the real thing he wouldn’t be surprised if it was. And in every picture a darkness huddled, some black stain amidst the dizzying scarlet, with bright eyes and jagged teeth lying in wait or delighting in the carnage.
As he walked closer and closer to his destination, the pictures changed and the darkness evolved. Out of the black, a shape began to form. Little by little a body emerged: arms and legs, hands and feet, and finally a face. A face no longer shadowed but stark and bare-striking, pale, and coldly beautiful despite being nothing but a face hung on a wall. It followed him down the hall, men and women with the same red irises and fanged curl of mouth coupled with the same feral expression. It’s a familiar look, one he knew he wore on occasion though he did wonder about the intensity. He hadn’t torn anyone apart since his Turn and preferred not to remember those first few weeks at all.
The door opened seemingly on its own as he drew near, the slow swing silent and effortless despite the swirls of iron decorating the already thick and heavy wood. He didn’t linger at the door, knew it’d be misconstrued as a weakness he couldn’t afford to show.
The smell of fresh blood accosted him as he walked over the threshold, stirring him like it always did and hitting him like arousal low in his gut. His eyes strayed momentarily to the chalices filled with the warm, sticky stuff but immediately tampered down the bolt of hunger that coursed through him at the metallic scent. He fancied he had more control than that, not to mention royalty waiting to be greeted before he could even think of feeding.
His host for the evening flashed fang upon seeing him, a wide grin taking over the handsome planes of his face. He sat ensconced in a cushioned high backed chair mimicking a throne with a petite, blonde haired woman cocking a hip against the chair’s arm. A long legged man with dark winged brows and garbed in servant’s robes curled at his feet, a temple resting against his host’s knee.
He made his way to the trio and bowed deeply, extending his arm and exposing his wrist, palm face up before offering it to the seated man. The long fingers were warm on his cool skin indicating his host had fed. The man held him by the wrist and as he brought the hand to his lips, their gazes locked and although breathing wasn’t a necessity, the power he emanated was suffocating. He laid a kiss against his palm and another on to the inside of his wrist, trailing a pointed canine along the way. He pushed power into him through their contact in a display of dominance as was custom, though by the man’s very nature the submission was surely relished more than most.
The woman was next and he resisted the invasion of his senses easily even if she was more persistent, trying to trap him with her gaze. She failed of course, but she took pleasure in knowing he had to work harder to resist. He was no weakling, certainly not a Slave or a Servant and just as pure of blood as she. Only an accident of birth put her higher on the rungs in the ladder of rank and she made a point to flaunt the fact as often as possible.
“My lady,” he murmured with an inclination of his head, eyes downcast to hide his aversion.
“You’re late. We’ve been waiting.” She said, voice lilting, playful, deceiving.
“My apologies,” he replied, offering no explanation and making it a point to direct the words at his host. He really was sorry to some degree, even if it was more a taunt for her than an actual apology. It showed his lack of complete subservience and he knew it didn’t sit well with her. His host bid him to sit and he caught her eye as he did, flashing him a look of irritation she let him see-a warning-and it was all he could do not to give her one of his own.
An attendant appeared at his elbow to offer him a goblet and he gladly accepted after commandeering a seat on a small chaise. He’d fed only a few hours ago, but these days the hunger couldn’t be appeased. Alarming of course, but not something he dared to ponder in present company.
The blonde woman slipped off her perch and moved forward towards the middle of the room where a large round dais - much like the metal disks in the show rooms of the slave houses - had been positioned. It was covered in white silks and satins, the delicate fabrics shimmering in the bright, flickering candlelight.
“We can start now, can’t we darling?” Her voice tinkled throughout the room, commanding attention like nothing and no one else. It annoyed him that he couldn’t ignore it, her power calling out to his own like some glittering lure cast into dark waters. “He made us wait such a long while. I’m positively famished.”
“Well, I did say you should have some before dinner,” his host said, lifting his goblet of blood. “It’s even a good blend too: virile male and fertile female. It glides exquisitely down the throat.”
Her lips curled in obvious dislike. Signaling for attendant she said, “Oh, but sustenance tastes so much better when it comes straight from the source.”
With a silent whoosh that he felt more than saw, the great door from which he’d entered opened once more to reveal an attendant with a slave in tow. The slave was a pretty thing: high, round breasts and shapely thighs. Dark brown ringlets framed a heart shaped face while the rest was neatly coiffed at the back of her head to expose the long, smooth column of her neck. She was robed in the loose garb that was common to slaves, a long sheet of cotton fabric that was intricately draped to cover necessary parts of their bodies while allowing for easy access to the important ones. Only the dark color of the braided cords cinched at her waist belied her fate tonight.
He stared a bit, not quite used to seeing such a dark colored cord on a slave. White was the most common, used only by the newest and youngest of them. Once a slave was claimed the cords would be replaced by the master into some other material they preferred, but as the slave got older and was yet unclaimed, the white cords were exchanged for darker hues, the only indication of a slave’s age. It was rare to see a slave with dark cords. Most were lucky and claimed at an early age. The rest, like the slave before them, were taken care of. Her cords were nearly black though she wasn’t old in the literal sense or by any standard. She was just past her prime; on the shelf long enough to lose the starry-eyed wonder and naiveté that was preferable when shopping for a servant.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” his host said as the blonde woman beckoned the slave onto the dais.
He didn’t know if his host meant his lover or the slave, so he murmured noncommittally, “Quite.” He supposed the adjective could be used to describe them both.
They watched, riveted as the blonde caressed the slave’s face. Seduction was first - always first - to make the subsequent feeding faster, easier, and better tasting. Seduce first with the eyes then follow with touch, an age-old ritual that was private - personal - and rarely shared with outsiders. That he was given the privilege to watch tonight didn’t bode well.
He supposed she truly was famished because she cut right to the chase. She’d barely trapped the slave with her gaze before grabbing her by the shoulders and latching on to her neck.
And damn the woman, he thought as her teeth pierced skin and a sweet metallic scent permeated the air. No matter how much he despised her, she was right. Sustenance did taste better when straight from the source. The dark liquid his chalice held paled in comparison to the heady smell of warm, fresh blood that wafted in the closed quarters of the room. His teeth hurt, fangs aching to be let down - but he couldn’t. Not here. Not with these people.
“She can look so harmless and yet - ” his host’s words were interrupted by a loud cry from the slave as she and the blonde woman crumpled together on the floor. The blonde had pierced deep; they could smell the blood flow quick and hear it rush fast in the slave’s veins. “ - so feral.”
“How is the halfling?” his host said somewhat absentmindedly, still captivated by the scene in front of them. The question was sudden and out of the blue, but one he had anticipated. He scrambled a moment for a reply, equally immersed by the raw feeding against his better judgment.
“No longer a halfling,” he responded after a moment’s pause. “He made the Turn weeks ago.”
“Excellent,” his host replied. “Has he begun the rounds to the four houses yet?”
“No, not yet,” he answered slowly, warily. “He has yet to forget his stint in the human world and still retains bits and pieces of his… humanity.”
“But he feeds?” His host asked, managing to sound curious and concerned at the same time.
“Enthusiastically. He’s already taken a servant.”
He watched as his host idly stroked the hair of the servant at his feet. “Interesting. Retains his humanity but isn’t repulsed by feeding. And with a servant already! How truly… remarkable.”
“NO.” Both men returned their attention to the dais. It was soiled now, the pristine white silks and satin streaked with blood. “I know what you’re thinking and I refuse.”
The blonde woman flung the slave’s limp body from her own and rose from the bloodied sheets, truly feral in her own scarlet-stained dress and glowing red eyes. She looked nothing like the delicate beauty she’d been when he’d walked in. Now she resembled the faces on the brocade outside: beautiful in a horrible, terrifying way. A dangerous way. A way that still managed to appeal to him no matter how hard he tried to resist.
“He isn’t pure of blood. He’s a halfling. Tainted. He will ruin our house.”
“Now, now, my sweet,” his host said in a placating tone. The servant at his feet lifted his head to let his master stand. “Don’t be so quick to judge. Given the right… direction, he could very well become an asset to us.”
“He’s tainted,” she insisted, the look in her eyes angry and wild.
“We need new blood,” his host said quietly, coming to stand in front of her. He caught a drop of blood at her chin with a finger and pressed it to her mouth. “To revive the Southern bloodlines. There is nothing good about being pure of blood if it means we are weak.”
“Blasphemy,” she hissed, swiping at his hands.
“Maybe.” His host agreed. “But an unfortunate truth. If we want to restore the Southern House to its former glory - if we are to rule like we are meant to - then we must be powerful.”
“You risk our whole House for glory.” She snarled, the drying blood around her mouth cracking as she spoke.
“If not for glory, then what do we live for?”
No one spoke, his host and his blonde lover engaged in a silent battle of wills he didn’t dare try to comprehend. Other evils afoot required his attention than a mere lover’s quarrel. Like his presence here. He was only beginning to comprehend why he was summoned at all when his suspicions were confirmed.
“You are close with the halfling. Friends.” It wasn’t a question.
“I suppose,” he answered vaguely. “If one chooses to view our acquaintance in that light.” His answer was ignored. His host didn’t even bother to look at him when continuing.
“Further your acquaintance. You must do everything within your power to make sure that when he aligns himself, he does so with the Southern House. Do I make myself clear?”
Crystal, unfortunately.
A/N: My first post of the New Year! Granted this is a long time coming and really much, much MUCH too late, considering it was for last year’s bday fic, but…well here we are LOL it can’t be helped now. Anyway, long fic is long, currently 10k+ and running. And while I don’t hope to be forgiven for the top!Ho I last posted, this fic is in its way, also repentance!fic LOLOL.
As always, comments are ♥
Author: enigmaxempress
Pairing: Yunho/Changmin, others
Rating: NC-17
Summary: “What does it matter if, by chance, a little vile blood be spilled?”
A/N: the long awaited sequel to Blood Siren and Heart Burn. Also, Vaguelynormal’s bday fic for last year. Yes, I am aware I suck that bad :/ Also, locked to the comm and for members only for now, as a token of my appreciation for the current 200+ members we now have. You guys are awesome♥
EDIT: This part unlocked, but all subsequent parts will remain as they are. Must join the comm to read.
“What does it matter if, by chance, a little vile blood be spilled?”
- Jean Racine
His feet echoed upon the stone floors as he traversed the lonely corridor towards the ancient doors at the end of the hall. His loud footfalls added to his unease, a sense of foreboding that grew with each step. Woven pictures lined the walls, intricate tapestries with life like quality depicted in thread by skilled hands and a clever needle. They would have been beautiful if not for the horror they portrayed.
People dominated the long stretch of embroidery, bodies broken and bleeding, torn limb from limb bathed in red-so much red he wondered where they could have found enough thread-a red as dark as blood and so close to the real thing he wouldn’t be surprised if it was. And in every picture a darkness huddled, some black stain amidst the dizzying scarlet, with bright eyes and jagged teeth lying in wait or delighting in the carnage.
As he walked closer and closer to his destination, the pictures changed and the darkness evolved. Out of the black, a shape began to form. Little by little a body emerged: arms and legs, hands and feet, and finally a face. A face no longer shadowed but stark and bare-striking, pale, and coldly beautiful despite being nothing but a face hung on a wall. It followed him down the hall, men and women with the same red irises and fanged curl of mouth coupled with the same feral expression. It’s a familiar look, one he knew he wore on occasion though he did wonder about the intensity. He hadn’t torn anyone apart since his Turn and preferred not to remember those first few weeks at all.
The door opened seemingly on its own as he drew near, the slow swing silent and effortless despite the swirls of iron decorating the already thick and heavy wood. He didn’t linger at the door, knew it’d be misconstrued as a weakness he couldn’t afford to show.
The smell of fresh blood accosted him as he walked over the threshold, stirring him like it always did and hitting him like arousal low in his gut. His eyes strayed momentarily to the chalices filled with the warm, sticky stuff but immediately tampered down the bolt of hunger that coursed through him at the metallic scent. He fancied he had more control than that, not to mention royalty waiting to be greeted before he could even think of feeding.
His host for the evening flashed fang upon seeing him, a wide grin taking over the handsome planes of his face. He sat ensconced in a cushioned high backed chair mimicking a throne with a petite, blonde haired woman cocking a hip against the chair’s arm. A long legged man with dark winged brows and garbed in servant’s robes curled at his feet, a temple resting against his host’s knee.
He made his way to the trio and bowed deeply, extending his arm and exposing his wrist, palm face up before offering it to the seated man. The long fingers were warm on his cool skin indicating his host had fed. The man held him by the wrist and as he brought the hand to his lips, their gazes locked and although breathing wasn’t a necessity, the power he emanated was suffocating. He laid a kiss against his palm and another on to the inside of his wrist, trailing a pointed canine along the way. He pushed power into him through their contact in a display of dominance as was custom, though by the man’s very nature the submission was surely relished more than most.
The woman was next and he resisted the invasion of his senses easily even if she was more persistent, trying to trap him with her gaze. She failed of course, but she took pleasure in knowing he had to work harder to resist. He was no weakling, certainly not a Slave or a Servant and just as pure of blood as she. Only an accident of birth put her higher on the rungs in the ladder of rank and she made a point to flaunt the fact as often as possible.
“My lady,” he murmured with an inclination of his head, eyes downcast to hide his aversion.
“You’re late. We’ve been waiting.” She said, voice lilting, playful, deceiving.
“My apologies,” he replied, offering no explanation and making it a point to direct the words at his host. He really was sorry to some degree, even if it was more a taunt for her than an actual apology. It showed his lack of complete subservience and he knew it didn’t sit well with her. His host bid him to sit and he caught her eye as he did, flashing him a look of irritation she let him see-a warning-and it was all he could do not to give her one of his own.
An attendant appeared at his elbow to offer him a goblet and he gladly accepted after commandeering a seat on a small chaise. He’d fed only a few hours ago, but these days the hunger couldn’t be appeased. Alarming of course, but not something he dared to ponder in present company.
The blonde woman slipped off her perch and moved forward towards the middle of the room where a large round dais - much like the metal disks in the show rooms of the slave houses - had been positioned. It was covered in white silks and satins, the delicate fabrics shimmering in the bright, flickering candlelight.
“We can start now, can’t we darling?” Her voice tinkled throughout the room, commanding attention like nothing and no one else. It annoyed him that he couldn’t ignore it, her power calling out to his own like some glittering lure cast into dark waters. “He made us wait such a long while. I’m positively famished.”
“Well, I did say you should have some before dinner,” his host said, lifting his goblet of blood. “It’s even a good blend too: virile male and fertile female. It glides exquisitely down the throat.”
Her lips curled in obvious dislike. Signaling for attendant she said, “Oh, but sustenance tastes so much better when it comes straight from the source.”
With a silent whoosh that he felt more than saw, the great door from which he’d entered opened once more to reveal an attendant with a slave in tow. The slave was a pretty thing: high, round breasts and shapely thighs. Dark brown ringlets framed a heart shaped face while the rest was neatly coiffed at the back of her head to expose the long, smooth column of her neck. She was robed in the loose garb that was common to slaves, a long sheet of cotton fabric that was intricately draped to cover necessary parts of their bodies while allowing for easy access to the important ones. Only the dark color of the braided cords cinched at her waist belied her fate tonight.
He stared a bit, not quite used to seeing such a dark colored cord on a slave. White was the most common, used only by the newest and youngest of them. Once a slave was claimed the cords would be replaced by the master into some other material they preferred, but as the slave got older and was yet unclaimed, the white cords were exchanged for darker hues, the only indication of a slave’s age. It was rare to see a slave with dark cords. Most were lucky and claimed at an early age. The rest, like the slave before them, were taken care of. Her cords were nearly black though she wasn’t old in the literal sense or by any standard. She was just past her prime; on the shelf long enough to lose the starry-eyed wonder and naiveté that was preferable when shopping for a servant.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” his host said as the blonde woman beckoned the slave onto the dais.
He didn’t know if his host meant his lover or the slave, so he murmured noncommittally, “Quite.” He supposed the adjective could be used to describe them both.
They watched, riveted as the blonde caressed the slave’s face. Seduction was first - always first - to make the subsequent feeding faster, easier, and better tasting. Seduce first with the eyes then follow with touch, an age-old ritual that was private - personal - and rarely shared with outsiders. That he was given the privilege to watch tonight didn’t bode well.
He supposed she truly was famished because she cut right to the chase. She’d barely trapped the slave with her gaze before grabbing her by the shoulders and latching on to her neck.
And damn the woman, he thought as her teeth pierced skin and a sweet metallic scent permeated the air. No matter how much he despised her, she was right. Sustenance did taste better when straight from the source. The dark liquid his chalice held paled in comparison to the heady smell of warm, fresh blood that wafted in the closed quarters of the room. His teeth hurt, fangs aching to be let down - but he couldn’t. Not here. Not with these people.
“She can look so harmless and yet - ” his host’s words were interrupted by a loud cry from the slave as she and the blonde woman crumpled together on the floor. The blonde had pierced deep; they could smell the blood flow quick and hear it rush fast in the slave’s veins. “ - so feral.”
“How is the halfling?” his host said somewhat absentmindedly, still captivated by the scene in front of them. The question was sudden and out of the blue, but one he had anticipated. He scrambled a moment for a reply, equally immersed by the raw feeding against his better judgment.
“No longer a halfling,” he responded after a moment’s pause. “He made the Turn weeks ago.”
“Excellent,” his host replied. “Has he begun the rounds to the four houses yet?”
“No, not yet,” he answered slowly, warily. “He has yet to forget his stint in the human world and still retains bits and pieces of his… humanity.”
“But he feeds?” His host asked, managing to sound curious and concerned at the same time.
“Enthusiastically. He’s already taken a servant.”
He watched as his host idly stroked the hair of the servant at his feet. “Interesting. Retains his humanity but isn’t repulsed by feeding. And with a servant already! How truly… remarkable.”
“NO.” Both men returned their attention to the dais. It was soiled now, the pristine white silks and satin streaked with blood. “I know what you’re thinking and I refuse.”
The blonde woman flung the slave’s limp body from her own and rose from the bloodied sheets, truly feral in her own scarlet-stained dress and glowing red eyes. She looked nothing like the delicate beauty she’d been when he’d walked in. Now she resembled the faces on the brocade outside: beautiful in a horrible, terrifying way. A dangerous way. A way that still managed to appeal to him no matter how hard he tried to resist.
“He isn’t pure of blood. He’s a halfling. Tainted. He will ruin our house.”
“Now, now, my sweet,” his host said in a placating tone. The servant at his feet lifted his head to let his master stand. “Don’t be so quick to judge. Given the right… direction, he could very well become an asset to us.”
“He’s tainted,” she insisted, the look in her eyes angry and wild.
“We need new blood,” his host said quietly, coming to stand in front of her. He caught a drop of blood at her chin with a finger and pressed it to her mouth. “To revive the Southern bloodlines. There is nothing good about being pure of blood if it means we are weak.”
“Blasphemy,” she hissed, swiping at his hands.
“Maybe.” His host agreed. “But an unfortunate truth. If we want to restore the Southern House to its former glory - if we are to rule like we are meant to - then we must be powerful.”
“You risk our whole House for glory.” She snarled, the drying blood around her mouth cracking as she spoke.
“If not for glory, then what do we live for?”
No one spoke, his host and his blonde lover engaged in a silent battle of wills he didn’t dare try to comprehend. Other evils afoot required his attention than a mere lover’s quarrel. Like his presence here. He was only beginning to comprehend why he was summoned at all when his suspicions were confirmed.
“You are close with the halfling. Friends.” It wasn’t a question.
“I suppose,” he answered vaguely. “If one chooses to view our acquaintance in that light.” His answer was ignored. His host didn’t even bother to look at him when continuing.
“Further your acquaintance. You must do everything within your power to make sure that when he aligns himself, he does so with the Southern House. Do I make myself clear?”
Crystal, unfortunately.
A/N: My first post of the New Year! Granted this is a long time coming and really much, much MUCH too late, considering it was for last year’s bday fic, but…well here we are LOL it can’t be helped now. Anyway, long fic is long, currently 10k+ and running. And while I don’t hope to be forgiven for the top!Ho I last posted, this fic is in its way, also repentance!fic LOLOL.
As always, comments are ♥