#catmilla

𝖆/𝖓: i kept to my promise 😼😼 starting off my new schedule with a lil carmilla oneshot because MY GOD i love natasha negovanlis and elise baumen as much as the next vampire simp but the novel is so underrated 😭

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: being rather rudely jostled awake by an all too hyper estella far too early, your morning consisted of a haphazard breakfast and, unsurprisingly, playing. unbeknownst to you, as well as your daughter, a set of dark eyes had been watching from the cottage porch.

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: living!au, fluff, mentions of depressive episodes, physically abusive relationships, implied smut, and brief mentions of death/blood (do carmilla's eyes count as a warning themselves?? she's like this 👁👁)

"come on, come on, come on!"

you stumbled over the snow-white fabric of your nightgown, nearly plummeting face-first into the damp grass that was tickling your bare feet. "estella, darling, slow down—"

the eight-year-old indiligently decided to ignore your rushed whisper-shout in favour of racing down the field, a little chubby hand clasped in your own.

and despite the tiredness stubbornly lapping at the edges of your eyes, your knotted hair, even more knotted by the breeze whistling through the foliage off the outskirts of your stretching field of emerald grass, and how you would have much preferred to be tucked under a patterned duvet right now, burrowed beneath carmilla's arm like a slumbering bunny hidden away from an unforgiving winter, you couldn't help the tick of your lips.

you had estella eight years ago, though it felt as if it was mere months ago. after carmilla was staked, your tear-clouded eyes rooted to the horrific scene, her coffin overflowing with crimson, pale, porcelain skin a sickly white, the axe looming over her like the blade before the guillotine slices through the trapped skin of your neck, you died with her in that dust-coated, bloodied tomb.

after that, you were ruined. you had returned back to the estate as if nothing had happened, despite the fact that the incident had shrouded the estate in a cloud of perpetual darkness. and still, you moved on. you didn't. you pretended you did. scale the gardens on your morning walks. dance your fingers across the piano keys. brush your quill over the paper. it was all the same. endure father's talks of a new suitor and dorian's harsh knuckles months later. act like you were having the absolute time of your life while cracked, rough lips shoved against your neck, teeth nipping, hands ripping. spend an hour each morning basting your face to cover the blossoming bruises.

you still saw her everywhere. in the corner of your eye, when the schloss was too eerily quiet and your thoughts drummed incessantly in your head.

and, then, one day, you didn't just see her, looming delusionally by your ajar window. you felt her. and you sobbed. you sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed, and carmilla did not, and you told her you were with dorian's child and sobbed, and she did not. instead, she kissed you. softer than dorian, hungry all the same. she murmured against your skin between kisses as gowns were discarded carelessly what had happened.

how could one slay an already dead being, after all?

you had never seen carmilla look at someone like they had just risen the stars in the dark navy sky for her until estella was born, wailing under the watchful eye of the moon from the cottage carmilla had taken up residence in. you knew she was ruined by the time she cradled the small babe to her chest. unsurprisingly, you were right.

and, hypocritically, how could you possibly blame her? you realised you could not as you toppled down the grassy hill, laughing breathlessly as estella briskly followed, barely managing to gasp out some sort of passing comment about the state of your hair between cackles.

had you looked up from where you were, in fact, face-planted on the ground, you would have noticed the set of pitch-black eyes staring unflinchingly at the both of you from the porch. her sharp-edged appearance was abolished by the quirk of her pretty lips. pretty enough, apparently, that by the time you had caught sight of the set of eyes staring at you, you were bounding up the hill, nightgown muddied and stained, and kissing her under the porch, lest she move away from her perch and burn up under the unforgiving glare of the morning sun. the arms locked snuggly around your waist were as grounding as a weighted blanket.

and, oh, how you adored carmilla's lips. everything about her, actually. how badly you wanted to—

"mama, you're being gross again!"

divider: @chrisssiren

It’s a super stormy day out this afternoon, and since I’m home from work I’m listening to The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe on audiobook. BUT, once that’s done, later this evening, I’ll be sitting down with some pizza and starting on my reread of catmilla(on Ao3)’s “Your Mom Called, You Left Your Game At Home” for this weekend’s review and rec of what is absolutely a classic fandom novel.  Send me a message, or an ask, with your thoughts, favorite moments, fan art, favorite quotes, etc.!

Read it HERE.

ENTER THE KITTEN CUDDLE VORTEX