felix vladimir adrik nabokov
demonically possessed vampire / psychotic + clinically insane / husband + father / nightclub owner & tattooist.
“𝒏𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒊’𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒍 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒓”
i read this quote last week and it’s been in my mind ever since, it feels as if nothing could ever describe and ‘fit’ us more perfectly.
no matter what comes our way, i’ll always come back home to you.
my dearest beloved. i’ve spent hours trying to find the right words to tell you how much i love you. it turns out there just isn’t enough. you mean more to me than you could ever know and there’s not a day that goes by that i find myself falling even deeper than the day before. it’s endless. infinite. eternal.
from the top of your head and down to the tips of your toes. your laughter, your smile. every part of you is pure perfection - even when you’re in one of your world famous moods. they bloody terrify me sometimes but i’d be lying if i didn’t say there’s a spark to them that lies down low… even when scared you’re about to rip my throat out i’m craving you, simply wanting to hold you in my arms, burrow you against my chest and tell you everything’s going to be alright… whilst risking loosing a limb or two in the process.
you’ve enchanted me with your goddess-level beauty and bewitched me with your smarts. you’re the cleverest being i’ve ever had to joy of meeting. true, things started out rocky and heads-butted but i’ll admit now that despite our early days of wanting to kill each other, i loved you from the second i saw you. i didn’t want to see it for what it was - but it was love. my heart feels full and happy having found it’s other half in you.
we’re soulmates in the truest, purest form of the word. trying to imagine living a life without you in it is simply inconceivable. i lay down at your feet, committed solely to you and your happiness.
we’ve been on and off throughout time - shits been well… shit. but regardless, to me you’re my wife. you’ve always been my wife and you’ll always will be; even on those days when you wish you could be rid of me!
so i’ll leave you with this small gesture of my love for you, mrs. kisa nabokov. thankyou for being you. thankyou for everything. for our precious little family. for being my best friend.
i’m not going anywhere in case you read this and worry, just wanted to say how much i treasure you. looking forwards to the rest of our immortality together.
𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎.
Felix had always been a creative soul in all manner of things. Even his despicable crimes held a certain level of artistry to them in their own macabre way. After endless years of co-owning The Temptation he was itching to branch out into an additional career path. Something that could be semi linked to the infamous nightclub but also sparked his artistic side.
It wasn’t until he was sat in the leather chair of his own go to artist that it hit him. His own tattoo studio. Small and independent enough to manage by himself with a single receptionist, conveniently within the empty shop next door to The Temptation had just become available the previous month. Having self taught himself over the years he knew he was more than capable to achieve such a dream.
The very next month Felix found himself booking his first paying customer — even if it was Kisa; however rather fitting given the lovesick male had proudly named the business in tribute to his spouse. And so 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒃𝒊𝒓𝒅 𝑻𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒐𝒐 was born.
The clientele was niche. Those who ran within the underground circles inhabited by the likes of the Mikhailov and Nabokov families were delighted at the prospect of one of their finest sons branching out on his newest business venture. Barely a week had come to pass that Nikolas Nabokov seated himself in his son’s tattoo chair, requesting what would become the crime lord’s new insignia to be etched into his forearm. A private means of identification to those within their ranks. It was also a hope to quickly single out intruders and spies. Any individual wanting to join were briskly sent to Felix to obtain their new art piece before initiation.
/ tw: alluding abuse. read at your own discretion — tbh this turned into something completely different from where it started. I also haven’t written a solo in monthsss for sorry if this is awful af. even before i moved to fb (lix started life on hp tumblr rp) i always imagined there was a dark history in regards to his childhood/views of women. he’s always been v untrusting & it took *a lot* of time+effort for him to fully trust kisa thanks to his past trauma. for reference the mentioned ‘history’ took place from the ages of 14/16. again pls read @ your own discression i fully accept this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but everything is alluded to and I haven’t included any gory details!
—
He’d been foolish enough to believe that the night terrors were a thing of the past. In fact Felix couldn’t recall the last time he’d been plagued by them, nor when their all too real trauma had torn him from what he’d assumed would be a peaceful night’s rest.
Three hundred and sixty-five days had come and gone, his once frantic and unsettled mind had savoured the joy of living in blissful ignorance. His all too complex personal history shoved unceremoniously behind a heavily locked door within the depths of his subconscious, forgotten and pushed aside in favour of creating a happier, healthier new path in his life.
Until without warning that invisible barrier broke and the torrent of ugly memories wrapped their unforgiving cold hands around Felix, jolting through the male as if he were suffering a great shock. The scream that ripped forth from his lips was that which could only be described as that of a tortured soul. All of his demons descending upon him to collectively torture the already fragile man.
Doused in cold sweat his body jolted upright as stiff as a board. Dazed and confused, his chapped lips still parted in a perfectly circular ‘O’ as for a second he failed to realise that the banshee-like wail was coming from himself. Rhythmically blinking until the blurriness faded from his eyes and he became adjusted to the heavy darkness of the room, the Nabokov male shakily rolled over upon now sodden bed sheets. Large hands instantly reaching out to seek his constant one source of comfort.
Silently hoping she’d forgive him for this unfavourable wake up call at — he chanced a glance towards the clock on the nightstand; 3am — Felix wrapped both arms securely around the brunette at his side. Face nuzzling into the crook of her neck in an act of childlike reassurance. In his whole life, Kisa was his one constant source of comfort. Her familiar scent usually enough to edge him away from toppling off the precipice of insanity.
“Night terror…” his heavily panted explanation summarising the sudden need to entrap his wife against his chest in a vice-like grip. If his heart could beat it’d surely be off the scale.
Before Kisa, before all his romantic interests and one night stands that predated his commitment to his beloved wife there had been another.
The Nabokov siblings had long since viewed Abigail Ricci as their mother’s closest friend. It had been her suggestion that had prompted their move from Russia to Italy thanks to Emilé Nabokov’s business dealings with the blonde Italian. Why the brood had quickly given her the affectionate nickname of ‘Aunt Abi’ thanks in part to Abigail spending almost every other day with their mother. Emilé and Abigail were as close as friends could be. Best friends.
But beneath the oh so charming and bubbly exterior lay a grotesque side to the blonde immortal. Felix had only twice spoken of what he’d dubbed ‘affair’ with the married blonde that’d also seen him hooked on a cocktail of drugs to suppress the trauma. The first was to inform his horrified and sicken mother. The agony and confusion aged sixteen that had rattled his mind for years until he’d found the strength to speak up, to confront the grim realities that the lie he’d been fed to believe was love was something far more sinister.
The second was to Kisa. He’d spared her from the more grotesque details, all too aware of her own complex childhood but then again he couldn’t in good faith not tell his soulmate of the horrors he’d once endured and why perhaps on occasion he’d wake up screaming… or of his distaste and aversion to blondes. He trusted her to understand, and thankfully understood she had.
And yet it had been a whole complete year that his buried trauma had stayed safely tucked away, letting him enjoy the peace he’d long since craved. Why now? Nothing significant had occurred to conjure up such unwelcome memories. As far as he was aware Abigail was off living her life in the south of France doing god knows what with god knows who. She was of no concern to the Nabokov male anymore. In fact he’d long since suspected should the blonde ever dare return there’d be a long queue of people – himself included – all too keen to take a swing for her and her depraved ways.
But now he had Kisa, the other half of his soul. He knew he could trust her implicitly with his heart. If only he could currently regulate his now shocked nerves and focus on the brunette he was clinging to for dear life.
He was forever mentally scarred of course. Completely deranged and retained a highly psychotic bloodlust, even for a vampire but for now, as the last scream of terror slowly dulled down into that of a mewling whimper and the usually tough exterior that Felix Nabokov portrayed to the world vanished to reveal the anxious, overly complex but desperately love craving soul, he gave the raven-haired beauty a small and delicate kiss against her forehead. Her presence was enough to soothe him as he gradually drifted back off to sleep, resolved to comfort his inner demons when the sun rose but forever thankful that now he wouldn’t be facing that prospect alone. Not when he had her by his side.
The one he could trust.
