#my vampire child

[secretdazedragon]

His unwashed hair and dark undereye circles bewitched me

[in-kyblogs]

Doomed by the narrative - Doomed by her parents

[eyesforsaturn]

If you're in it for love, you ain't gonna get too far

[teethcritter]

tree house sleepover went well clearly

[sualne]

vampire terminology used wrong

[sentientsky]

Kristin Chang, "Churching"

on apotheosis. on rage that has nowhere to go

[fruitjuucy]

you carry him here 🫀

linktree

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[hanzajesthanza]

characters in the witcher: *don’t fit into their prescribed social categories and canonical archetypes, subvert all expectations, and then have to deal with the emotional pain and loneliness that comes from that ostracization, of not fitting in, and of being treated like freaks of nature*

people: *surprised that LGBT readers like this series*

[evelynismahnameboi]

Eddsworld drawings that I never posted because I didn’t like ‘em or I just chose not to!

Some are a repost, just different

[notfeelingthyaster]

a weird part of the fandom tries to make louis the victim of both armand and lestat, as if they aren't all mutually toxic and louis didn't spend years playing hot and cold in both of his relationships

[jaggedjot]

Foreshadowing is opening the season with the tale of a child vampire whose physical otherness causes it to be rejected by its kin, before being killed when they deem it unable to live independently, and how their parent, who is as culpable for their fate as they are grief stricken by it, decides to follow them into death.

[darcyolsson]

I CANNOT BELIEEEEEVEEVVEEREHHENEW😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[pachimation]

a sinner wakes up and finds himself trapped in eden.

announcement that i’ll be working on a long-ish (40+) page vampire/vampire hunter chscr comic and will therefore be on hiatus for about a month!!

spiderweb in paradiso will be debuting at comifuro18 this may, and i’ll (do my best to 🤞) have asia preorders open and up by next friday with intl orders opening date tbd

[lost-in-fandoms]

Don't ask me why, I don't know it just happened. Maxiel early morning sex with vampire!Daniel I guess

cw: slight somnophilia, blood drinking, tiny bit of praise kink, unprotected (but implied safe) sex

It's still early when Daniel nudges his nose against Max's throat, the sun barely starting to peak out of the horizon, the room still dark and quiet.

He doesn't need too much light to know how Max is looking, pale skin soft and warm with sleep under the sheets, mouth slightly open, messy hair tickling Daniel's forehead. Perfect round ass pressed snugly against Daniel's quickly hardening cock, just the thin layer of Max's boxers between them.

Daniel nudges Max's neck again, one of his hands tracing down Max's body, curling around his hip and squeezing slightly, just enough to alert Max, not enough to fully wake him up, perfectly balanced to elicit a change in his breathing.

He bares his teeth and drags them gently over Max's pulse point, feeling it pick up as Max shifts, pressing back against him with a soft sigh.

"Daniel?" he asks, letters slurring together, as if it could be anyone else. It makes Daniel smile and press his teeth a touch harder into his skin, feeling him shudder. "What time is it?"

"Still early," he murmurs, keeping his voice as soft as possible, not wanting Max to fully wake up.

Max hums, turning his face slightly towards Daniel, eyes still firmly closed, asking for a kiss Daniel is happy to give, trying to keep it sweet even as his hips kick against Max's ass when Max pushes it back again.

Max's lips curve into a smile against his, something small and pleased that Daniel wants to eat, the hunger in his body burning brighter.

"I want you," he says as if it wasn't already clear, their lips brushing together, the hand still on Max's hip traveling lover to his thigh, relishing in the way Max lets himself be moved, bending his knee to give Daniel's space, in the shudder that moves down Max's spine when his teeth find his throat again.

Max hums once more, lax and pliant in his hold, hips moving in lazy circles against Daniel, neck bared.

"Do you want me to be awake?" he murmurs, making Daniel laugh. They've done this often enough he knows he doesn't have to be, but he always asks anyway, always wants to make it good for Daniel, as if just having him here, warm and open in his arms isn't the best Daniel could ask for.

"I'll do the work," Daniel reassures him, already moving him to get rid of his underwear, trying his best to not disturb him too much as he leans over to grab the lube on the nightstand. "You just be good for me."

Max doesn't say anything more, already almost all the way back to sleep, even as Daniel lubes his fingers up and prods at his hole, still a little lose from the night before. He keeps it short but thorough, enjoying every one of Max's quiet sighs and moans, nose pressed on the soft spot just behind his ear, tongue lapping at his pulse point, barely keeping his teeth in check.

He gives in to the impulse of teasing, just a little bit, tugging on Max's rim, keeping his hips still to not allow him to fuck himself back on Daniel's fingers, but Max smells so sweet it's impossible to resist, especially when he starts begging so quickly.

"Please," he whines, sounding barely aware, tongue heavy in his mouth, limbs loose in Daniel's hands, his to take.

"I got you, I'm sorry," Daniel soothes, lining himself up, but stopping just before pushing in. "Can I?" he asks, lips brushing against Max's neck, feeling it move as Max nods.

"Good boy," he praises, steading his dick with one hand and Max's neck with the other.

And then, just as he presses in, he bites.

The tight heat of Max around him and the sweetness of his blood on his tongue make Daniel's head spin, as Max's moan reverberates through his whole body. He almost loses control, wanting nothing more than to snap his hips forward, fuck Max hard and fast until they both come panting, but it's not what this is about. He fights with himself, sucking slowly at Max's neck letting his blood pool on his tongue before swallowing, barely pulling back, grinding his hips against Max's ass in tight smooth circles.

He can feel Max clench around him even as his shoulders relax even more, his head lolling to the side, Daniel's hand the only thing keeping him pressed against his lips.

He listens to the way Max's breath itches, soft whines escaping from his parted lips, guiding his leg a little higher to be able to hit that sweet spot inside him that makes his back arch, his dick kick against his stomach.

"Come, baby," he slurs, a thin rivulet of blood escaping from the corner of his mouth, quickly chased by his greedy tongue.

He feels when Max comes untouched, not only in the change in the tension of his body, but in the way his blood seems to become sweeter and bolder in his mouth, almost too rich to swallow. It's that, and the way he's clenching and shivering through the aftershocks, that makes Daniel come too with a groan, muffled by the liquid in his mouth.

He doesn't move when he's done coming, staying pressed close inside as he dutifully tongues Max's skin until it stops bleeding, before pressing a kiss to the bruise that is already forming there, an apology for the effort he will have to put in to keep it hidden for the next few days.

Max stays still and pliant through it all, breathing deep and steady as if he had indeed gone back to sleep, not complaining even when Daniel finally pulls out, come trickling slowly out of his hole. On a different day, Daniel would want to move, get a closer look, get his mouth on it, but as it is, he just presses as close as he can, kissing Max's neck again. Soon he will get up to clean them both, get something for Max's breakfast, probably start packing for both of them, but for right now he can just enjoy his warmth and smell for a little longer, his blood singing inside him.

[kaitcake1289]

sunday vibe