#ash echoes

You recognize the tension in him immediately. His shoulders taut beneath his coat, his lips parted just enough to catch breath he doesn’t need. You know the signs.

He’s starving.

And he’s ashamed of it.

“You haven’t had blood in years,” you murmur. You watch him closely. “It’s starting to show.”

He exhales softly, nose flaring. “You’ve been reading again.”

“I don’t need a book to see you’re unraveling.”

There’s a silence between you. The flicker of candlelight dances in his eyes, but the shadows around his feet grow deeper. Restless.

He says, too slowly, “You think it’s that easy to tempt me?”

You rise from your chair and walk toward him, unhurried. The heavy velvet of your gown brushes the floor like water pooling at your feet. Solbyrd doesn’t move. He simply watches you approach with a predator’s stillness, like he already knows you intend to sit in his lap — and lets you.

And you do.

You straddle him without asking, arms wrapping loosely around his neck. Your weight is a claim. And still, he stays motionless, his fingers hovering just a breath from your hips. His composure is a fragile thing — too fragile to be real.

“I think,” you murmur, your lips ghosting his jaw, “you’re tired of pretending.”

“Pretending to be what?”

“Human.”

His jaw flexes beneath your touch. “I’ve never hurt you.”

“You never will.”

He still doesn’t breathe. But his hands finally find your waist. And when you tilt your head, baring your neck to him like an offering, he doesn’t lean in. Not yet.

“You would give me that?” he asks quietly. “So easily?”

You smile against his cheek. “Not freely.”

That makes him pause.

“What’s the price?”

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, not kissing — just letting him feel your heat. “You can have my blood,” you whisper. “But I get your body.”

His gold eyes widen, startled by the bluntness. You don’t let him speak.

“I want control, Solbyrd. All of you. Your hands. Your voice. The way your power coils around my ankles when you think I won’t notice. I want to burn you into memory. I want to devour.”

And still, he says nothing.

So you take.

Your mouth is on his throat before he can protest, lips trailing a slow, reverent path up the long column of his neck. Hickey after hickey  —  possessive, shameless. You kiss him like a sinner blessing an altar, tongue dancing over fresh bruises, dragging over pulse points you know he can feel thrumming with life.

Solbyrd forgets how to breathe.

He should stop this. He should slip into shadow, vanish like smoke, remind himself what he is and what he’s sworn to never be again. But your mouth burns hotter than sunlight, and the sound you make when you bite down just enough to sting — 

Gods. He nearly whimpers.

He doesn’t remember the last time he let someone this close. The last time he let himself be known, tasted, undone. But every kiss you leave is a brand. Every flick of your tongue writes your name deeper into his skin.

He’s not used to being wanted this way.

Not by someone who sees the monster beneath the glamour and touches him anyway.

Your weight on him is a throne. A mercy and a curse. And when you press your teeth to the swell of his collarbone and murmur, “You’re trembling,” he nearly breaks.

Because he is.

And it’s terrifying how much he wants this.

Wants you.

You lean back, cupping his jaw. “Did you think you were the only one hungry?”

And then your lips find his, and there’s no more pretending.

He kisses you like a confession. One hand threads into your hair, the other holds your waist like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane. His fangs graze your lower lip as he deepens the kiss — still holding back, still trying to pretend he’s in control.

But you feel it.

The wild edge of him. The centuries of restraint splitting at the seams.

“Now,” you whisper, against his mouth. “Take it. Take me. Let go.”

And when he bites — 

The world shatters into heat and darkness and divine, aching surrender.

His moan is muffled against your skin as he drinks, slow at first, then deeper, greedier, trembling from head to toe. You hold him to you like you’d never let him go — hands buried in his silken hair, thighs tightening around his waist, mouth at his ear whispering breathless vows of ownership.

“Mine,” you say, again and again, as he feeds from your throat.

ılıılıılıı AND SATISFACTION FEELS LIKE A DISTANT MEMORY

It started, as many disasters do, with you being just a little bit too smug.

Solbyrd had made the mistake of calling you "dear."

Not the soft, warm kind, either. Nor the kind that came from love poems and sleepy mornings. No, this was the “I’ve practiced aristocratic contempt for three hundred years” kind of "dear." Drawled, offhand, tossed over his shoulder while he reorganized tinctures in his too-tall apothecary cabinet.

You blinked.

Then smiled.

“Darling,” you said, sugary sweet.

He froze.

You tried again. Louder. “Sweetheart.”

His spine straightened like a funeral procession.

“Oh no,” he said flatly.

“Oh yes,” you replied.

—

Solbyrd, eternal vampire, shadow-walking doctor of dubious moral flexibility, had two known weaknesses:

1. Your blood.

2. And apparently — pet names. 

“I don’t understand why you’re blushing,” you teased, watching him retreat behind a stack of leatherbound tomes like they offered divine protection. “Surely you’ve been called worse.”

“That is precisely the problem,” he said, glaring with all the dignity of a bat that had accidentally flown into a chandelier.

You crossed the room with the kind of catlike grace that made him instinctively lean away.

“Darling,” you said again, deliberately saccharine.

“I will throw myself into a sunbeam.”

“Oh please, you haven’t even opened the curtains since the century turned.”

—

Of course, Solbyrd tried to retaliate.

The next evening, he dropped a very soft, very deadly “beloved” into casual conversation and watched you like a hawk.

Unfortunately, you melted instantly.

He blinked. “Wait. That works on you?”

“Say it again,” you whispered.

“Beloved.”

You made a noise that was part-swoon, part-squirrel.

He looked stricken. “This is unacceptable. You were supposed to squirm.”

“Too bad, my liege.”

—

It all came to an end in the bath.

(As many important things do.)

You were lounging in the steamy marble-tiled tub like some smug Roman tragedy. Solbyrd was across the room, casually brushing his hair — down to his waist, glossy as a raven’s wing, infuriatingly untangled.

You were thinking about shampooing it and never letting go.

“By the way,” you said sweetly, “I came up with a new one.”

He didn’t even turn around. “No.”

“But — ”

“I would rather murder my shadow.”

You sighed, kicking up a ripple of water. “You’re such a drama queen, my love.”

He was across the room in a blink, and you let out a startled little squeak as he climbed into the tub fully clothed.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, laughing.

“Ending this. Immediately.”

“You’re wet.”

“So are you.”

“Different context, Doctor.”

He was in your space now. Knees bracketing yours, water soaking through his shirt, the hem of his cravat floating like a ghost between you. His hair clung to his shoulders, dark and dripping, and he looked less like a doctor and more like a wrathful opera villain.

You adored it.

“You’re impossible,” he said.

“You like it.”

“I endure it.” His hand found your chin. Tilted it. “Say it again.”

You blinked. “Which one?”

“Whichever will make me bite you.”

That narrowed it down not at all. Though not a second later, it proved to be unnecessary.

The kiss was inevitable. And still, he didn’t bite.

You weren’t sure if you were disappointed or impressed with the restraint.

His lips ghosted over your throat. “One more nickname, and I’ll have no choice but to make you regret it.”

You grinned. “You promise?”

He did bite you that time.

ılıılıılıı WHY’D YOU ONLY CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE HIGH? 

You weren’t sure what you expected when dating a vampire doctor. Maybe a little mystery. A touch of the gothic.

Not this.

Not the loud THUMP echoing from down the hall. Not the startled yelp. Not the subsequent curse that sounded less like a creature of the night and more like a tired man who just tried to step out of existence and instead face-planted into an antique armor rack.

“Graceful,” you called sweetly from your seat in the lounge. “Like a swan, if it were drunk and half-blind.”

A beat of silence. Then: “I meant to do that.”

You smirked over your cup of tea, steam curling lazily above the porcelain. “You meant to teleport into a suit of armor and knock over two centuries of imperial military heritage?”

Solbyrd finally appeared — fully solid now — stepping out of the shadow along the grand fireplace like he hadn’t just battled an iron breastplate and lost. His high collar was askew, and there was an actual feather in his hair.

He plucked the feather out with a sigh. “Shadow teleportation is an art, not a utility.”

“Is it also performance art? I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an interpretive dance.”

Solbyrd gave you a withering look that would’ve made you flinch, had he not immediately misjudged his distance from the table and smacked his hip into it. Again.

You were starting to suspect the shadows didn’t like him either.

 — 

Teleportation, you soon learned, was his favorite method of leaving a conversation he didn’t like. One moment you'd be mid-banter, and the next, he was a mist, then a whisper, and then — gone. Ghosted in the most literal sense.

Which was fine, until he started reappearing in increasingly awkward locations.

There was the time he tried to vanish dramatically from a heated debate, only to re-materialize inside the wine cellar — specifically, inside the wine rack. You heard the sound of expensive glass shattering, followed by a strangled, “Not again.”

Another time, you found him crouched in the linen closet, covered in velvet drapes and brooding like a cat who'd forgotten how doors worked.

At first, you were sympathetic. Navigating space through shadows wasn’t easy, you reasoned. Spatial mapping, focus, intent — it required precision.

And then he teleported into your bathtub. 

While you were in it.

“Ngh,” he groaned, soaking wet and very, very confused. “Why is it so… lavender?”

You blinked, dripping rose petals from your hair, trying to reconcile the horrifyingly elegant vampire in your bubble bath with the man who once compared surgery to conducting a waltz.

“You overshot,” you said flatly.

He looked around. Blinked once. Then, in what you had to admit was admirable commitment, sank slightly lower into the water like he belonged there. “Perhaps fate wished for us to bond.”

 — 

You tried to help. Really. You even drew a “safe shadow map” of the castle, complete with stickers.

“Why is there a glitter bat in the library?”

“Because last time you ended up wedged between the banisters.”

“I would like to remind you that it was of your volition to help with this.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I know. I just didn’t realize it would involve babysitting a teleporting Victorian with depth perception issues.”

“I do not have depth perception issues,” he sniffed. “I’m just... selective about where I emerge.”

“Mm. Like the west wing hallway where you scared the housemaid so badly she fainted?”

“She was already unstable.”

“How so?”

“She thinks the portraits are watching her.”

“…Then we’re agreed. She was unstable.”

 — 

Despite all the chaos, there was one thing you couldn’t deny: Solbyrd looked devastating every time he teleported — when he did it right.

A rush of wind, the shadows flickering along the walls. That spine-straight, high-collared silhouette stepping from a veil of darkness like sin incarnate, velvet coat flaring behind him. With his hair loose and eyes glowing faintly red, he looked like a painting come to life.

Once, you actually choked on your tea.

He raised a brow. “Too much sugar?”

“No,” you rasped. “Are you sure there’s no other way you can arrive?”

Solbyrd had the audacity to smile. “I’m afraid I was born that way.”

You covered your face with a groan. “Get out.”

He vanished. Immediately.

You swore. “I didn’t mean it! I — ugh, he’s going to end up in the bloody broom closet again.”

He did.

It took you twenty minutes to get him out, during which he claimed he was meditating, not sulking, and that shadows were simply “choosing to misbehave.”

Eventually, you sat him down.

“Have you considered... not teleporting?”

He looked offended. “I am a creature of shadow. I was forged in the liminal.”

“Right,” you drawled, tapping your chin. “How are you at portals?”

He muttered something in Latin that translated to “vile heresy.”

 — 

Despite all your teasing, there was something oddly charming about it all. The failed exits. And even the rare times when it worked and he preened like a cat catching its first mouse.

It wasn’t about ability. Solbyrd was terrifyingly powerful, and you both knew it. It was the stubborn pride that made it funny. That, and the fact that he refused —  refused  — to walk down stairs like a normal person when he could instead accidentally reappear halfway through the floorboards and shriek like a violin string snapping.

And yet, he didn’t mind the mockery your laughter.

Once, curled beside you on the velvet settee — his pride patched up, his teleportation boycotted for the day — he murmured, “You’ll never let me live it down, will you?”

You hummed against his shoulder. “Not even slightly.”

He smiled, shadows flickering like candlelight across his face. “Good. I think I rather like being mortal around you.”

ılıılıılıı THE HORIZEN TRIES BUT ITS JUST NOT AS KIND ON THE EYES

There was a very particular moment where you realized that dating a vampire — especially one who fancied himself composed, refined, and “very much over the urge to drink blood” — was exactly like dating a firecracker stuffed inside a silk glove.

It was the third time he kissed you and stopped just short of biting.

Because the thing about kissing Solbyrd was that it was never just kissing. It was teeth, always barely hidden. The lingering promise of something darker pressed against your lips, as though each kiss was a contract signed in restraint.

But tonight you wanted a signature in ink. Or maybe something warmer and far more red.

—

The two of you were supposed to be doing something innocent — curling up beside the hearth, reading, drinking spiced wine. There was a half-burned candle flickering lazily on the mantle and the slow hum of a string quartet from his gramophone, something heartbreakingly elegant.

Solbyrd was in a dressing shirt, shadows kissed the hollow of his throat and caught in his cuffs, and you didn’t even try to focus on the book.

He leaned back, ankles crossed, glancing at you with those wine-red eyes. “You’re staring.”

“Yes. Because I can.”

He gave a low chuckle. “Charming.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t climbed into your lap and demanded eternal servitude.”

A dark brow rose. “Eternal servitude?”

“You heard me, Doctor.”

You expected another elegant jab. Instead, he tilted his head, considering. “Would that be before or after I ruin your throat?”

You blinked.

“Sorry?”

He blinked back. Innocent. Angelic. If angels had fangs and a bad attitude.

“I meant,” he said smoothly, “with kisses.”

“Sure you did.”

You leaned in, slow. Testing. Your lips found his with a warmth that bordered on smug.

The first kiss was soft.

The second had less mercy.

You kissed him until the book slipped from his lap and his hands came to your hips, grounding, firm. Until you could feel his breath start to hitch and his lips part just enough for — 

There.

Fangs.

Only the faintest scrape. But enough.

You pulled back slightly, letting your thumb brush the corner of his mouth.

“You always do that,” you murmured.

His lashes lowered. “Do what?”

“Get close. Kiss me like you’ll devour me. Then stop before you even try.”

Solbyrd’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t feed on the living. Regardless of your consent, I treat you as my spouse, not a blood bag.”

You tilted your head, mock-thoughtful. “I said bite, not feed. There’s a difference.”

His fingers tensed against your waist. “Is that so?”

You nodded, letting your lips graze his neck now, just lightly. “I think about it, you know. What it would feel like.”

“To be bitten?”

“To feel you lose control.”

That stopped him cold.

You drew back and looked him in the eye. “You’ve gone years without drinking. Decades maybe. But what if I wanted it?”

He looked at you like you’d cracked the moon open and drank the sky.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he said, voice hoarse.

You leaned forward, nose brushing his. “Then explain it. Show me. Take one drop. Just one.”

His fangs were out now, unhidden. You could feel the tremor in his hands.

You moved closer. Close enough to feel the restraint trembling in him. Close enough to tempt.

“And if I do lose control?” he whispered.

You smirked. “Then you’ll owe me.”

A slow pause.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, voice rough velvet. “Wicked little mortal.”

“And you’re scared,” you whispered, tilting your throat just enough. “Not of hurting me. But of how much you want to.”

He swallowed hard.

And then you kissed him again. You didn’t give him time to argue. Your lips moved to his throat, deliberately slow, tongue tracing heat over the cool skin just above his pulse.

He gasped softly, hands gripping your thighs, voice caught somewhere between pleasure and warning. His back hit the lounge chair with a soft thud, and still, you climbed into his lap, breath ghosting over his neck.

You left your first mark just below his ear.

Then another, lower.

Then another, on the collarbone, where his shirt gaped open like an invitation.

Hickey after hickey, purple blooming against marble. Possessive. Shameless. A chain of bruises that whispered mine.

And still — no bite from him.

You bit his shoulder instead.

He whined.

Actual, audible, and unintentional.

You pulled back, proud. “Didn’t know you made noises like that.”

He looked dazed. Unamused. Desperate.

You smiled sweetly. “What’s wrong, darling doctor? I thought vampires had more stamina.”

“You’re infuriating.”

You tilted your head, exposing your throat again. And whispered, “Your fangs, or my tongue. Choose quickly.”

Solbyrd moved before the last syllable.

He didn’t bite — not yet. But his hands found your hips again and dragged you flush against him as he kissed you like punishment. Like desperation. Like someone who hadn’t tasted blood or heaven in years and couldn’t tell which you were.

You felt his teeth graze you again. The smallest pressure.

He pulled back, panting. His voice cracked. “Say it again. That I can.”

You stroked his cheek, soft and earnest. “Take what you need. So long as I get what I want.”

“And that is?”

Your nails traced the line of his jaw. “More.”

The bite was careful. Only the faintest of stings.

And then warmth. The rush. You saw stars.

You clutched at him as if the sensation was pulling you under. His mouth was hot at your neck. Your skin sang. The ache of the bite was drowned by the drag of his lips as he fed — not a feast, but the closest thing to surrender either of you had allowed.

And when he pulled back, blood slick on his mouth, you kissed him like it was sacrament.

You pulled back and admired your handiwork — the trail of hickeys up his neck, and the blood-smeared lips.

You sighed. “Now that’s a look.”

He glared. “You are — ”

“Brilliant? Delicious?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Insatiable.”

You grinned.

“Guess we’re both a little cursed.”