#only the sexy vampires survived
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notfernintheslighest · 7 months ago
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holy trinity of plot amor
(also i love how in My Babysitters a Vampire they give Erica a truck load of blood, and yet she still eats that wrestler three episodes later; Hannibal wishes he served food as well as Erica serves cunt.)
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ladicsa · 1 year ago
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people focus so much on kisa being this bad bitch (which she ofc is) but forget that the reason she was cursed is because she was trying to prevent the spilling of innocent blood
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And over in this corner we have
Daniel
"took one look at all his fellow human beings and said: oh yeah fuck you all Ima absolutely slit every one your throats if it means I get what I want and I will dedicate a decade plus and either become that horrific monster or die trying"
Molloy.
Ain't nobody in the VC more a inhuman selfish monster than my darling boy :D
The insane thing is like. Sybelle and Benjamin chose to be serial killers forever. And they love it.
They're more culpable than someone like Lestat or Claudia or even Louis. There is never a whiff of regret there. Anne help
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stjohnstarling · 5 months ago
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I've been astonished by how much people seem to love my weird and experimental project held together by duct tape and string, especially since so much of it flies in the face of the way I've been taught publishing is supposed to work. The conventional way authors survive online is to release books for sale as frequently as possible - whereas I've been focusing on giving each project as much time as I can, and releasing them slowly (so far I've done a Dracula-inspired novel.) I’ve been making the sort of transgressive queer writing that mainstream publishing is too nervous to touch right now, and I've been giving it away in my newsletter for free.
I want to keep telling stories for free, forever. Only there's one problem: I'm going to need A Lot more subscribers to my newsletter. I have just under 5000 readers right now - I’m going to need at least double that.
Conventional wisdom also says that Tumblr is a dead end, but I'm convinced that this is one of the last places on the internet that capable of fostering real, counter-cultural queer expression - precisely because we are so often left out and forgotten by the mainstream. Half the reason I'm on this website is because of the culture of absolute resistance to advertising. Unfortunately, that also makes my job here rather hard. If things continue to go well, between Patreon, sales of special editions, and a couple small ads, I think I can just about get away with doing this. But I need your help.
If you're someone who's hungry for good stories and:
❧ You're sick of being sold superficial, safe, and sanitized queer stories that shy away from genuine expressions of socially unacceptable desire
❧ You see sexual freedom as inseparable from queer liberation, and you want to see that explored in metaphor via a vampire seducing a priest
❧ You want to read modern queer fiction that's aware of the deep and rich history of queer culture
❧ You want to help foster a project that would create new avenues for underground and transgressive forms of queer expression
Then you should subscribe to What Manner of Man! It's sexy and boundary-pushing and kinky, with fire in its veins.
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If this works, I'll be able to take on bigger and more ambitious projects than I ever have before (it's mad scientists next, and I have some pretty mad ideas!)
Thank you for your time! Reblogs deeply appreciated.
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orcboxer · 7 months ago
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vampires gotta drink blood to survive but prion disease is still a risk. their bodies and minds may be immortal, but not immutable. you encounter a vampire estimated to be fourteen hundred years old, and there's just...so little left of them.
they live in abandoned sheds, dusty attics, dilapidated sewer tunnels, anywhere that won't expose them directly to the sunlight. peering out from the shadows you can see the gaunt face filled with needle-like fangs, and those hollow, twitching eyes searching your features, trying to determine if you are Prey or Not Prey. the only thing they can still recognize. technically they're still alive, yes, but the person they once were died a slow, painful death trapped in that skull.
it takes your balance first, makes your gait unsteady and erratic. then comes the emotional instability, the sudden fits of laughter as common as the bursts of anger. then come the tremors, a constant uneven rumbling that you can feel even now as the ancient vampire rattles the floorboards in the other room. you've seen an old one hunt before. there's no grace to it, no deadly efficiency, it's a frantic, messy affair, all flailing, crawling limbs and gnashing teeth.
when you were turned, you were excited to live forever young and beautiful and sexy and mysterious but in this moment, staring at the withered hand slithering out from the darkness behind the cracked doorway, you remember why they call it a curse
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inkedtae · 4 days ago
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elixir of the damned ⇾ bgc. [M]
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⎡sun bright, sun light burns the flesh of those that bite. moon’s gleam, night’s scream as shadows linger in lonely blight. but in the dark where spirits wail, a witch will rise— her power prevails⎦
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⌁ pairing; vampire!chan x witch!reader (f.)
⌁ genre; vampire au, s2l, some angst, smut, 18+
⌁ word count; 19.5k
⌁ summary; leech, nightcrawler, monster— chris is a vampire aching for sunlight. when he swims to a witch’s hidden island, badly burned, she offers him a secret remedy to survive daylight; he must drink her blood during her cycle, unleashing her true power and binding them for life.
⌁ warnings; graphic depictions and consumption of blood, graphic depictions of severe wounds, dom!chan, sub!reader, masturbation (f.), voyeurism, degradation, slight humiliation, rough sex, period sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, rough oral (f. receiving), body worship, spanking, teasing, slight edging, cum eating, blood play
⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 prefer ao3? keep reading here
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a special thanks to dee ( @awrkives ) for making this sexy banner for me, and to my ride or die beta reader, jen ( @anobodyslove ) for consistently supporting me and reading over all the nonsense i write. i am nothing without you.
𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪  please enjoy this final Chantober fic!
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On the brink of winter, Elderwood is a haze of greys. Roads are bleak black. Sidewalks are cracked and chipped. Streetlights illuminate no more than five inches in diameter, dim and distant. Seemingly void of life, the little town exhales a puff of condensation as it inches towards November. In a matter of days, the saturated warmth of autumn reds will wither, the cold air frosting  over every morning, until all pigment completely fades.
It’s depressing to watch the world around him drain of colour as he wanders the streets. Still, Chris is grateful for the consistency. One thing he can always count on is the changing seasons. He may not be getting older, but the world is.
The wind whips against his muscular frame. It should make him shiver, but he can barely feel the chill, only aware of the wind because of its force. The only time he ever felt the cold was midnight on a particularly wet February two years ago. It was pouring down on him as he walked back to Jisung’s house from the shore. The wind was knocking down street signs. The earth was drenched and cold. Chris felt the chills on his skin, the faint prickle of goosebumps. He inhaled and pretended his lungs worked, filling up with oxygen. Pulling his shirt off, he exhaled and pretended a cloud of air was breathed out. The chills running down his spine made it easy to pretend he was alive.
Now, Chris pretends he can feel the breeze blowing through his muscle tee, still exhilarated by the memory.
There are only two moments when he forgets he’s a vampire. One is when he can feel the cold, and the other is when he’s feeding. The taste of bitter iron and copper staining his tongue makes him feel real . With every gulp, Chris can feel the consumed blood run through his veins, drenching his heart and organs. There is the lightest hue of pink in his skin once he’s done. It lasts for a few hours before it fades and he grows hungry again. As much as it annoys him, Chris looks forward to every meal.
In a matter of days, he will be closing in on eight years as a vampire.
Leech, nightcrawler, monster— Chris cannot block out the voices that chime in every time he thinks about that word. They loop in slow circles around his mind on a daily basis and taunt him between his insecurities and mistakes.
He’s not sure how it happened. He stopped sleeping. It was hard to keep things down. He didn’t like to eat much before swim practise anyways. Even a bite of food would sit like a rock in his stomach. He’d have to excuse himself five minutes into his laps to empty his stomach in the nearest trash can.
“Knocked up?” one of his teammates teased from the pool.
Chris wiped his chin with the back of his wrist. He glared at the diver, eyes wet and red, before clearing his throat, swallowing thickly, and diving back in himself.
Hand on his stomach now, Chris yearns for that disgusting feeling that burned his chest and scratched at his throat. He hates throwing up, but it seems so humane now to get sick, to feel sick.
Once he attempted to starve himself in hopes of emulating something similar to an illness. All it did was make him irritable, almost rabid. He thought it would at least be similar to sleep deprivation but it instead sharpened his supernatural senses for blood.
More than anything though, Chris misses the sun. Every morning, he senses its warmth against the boarded windows of Jisung’s basement. For a handful of minutes, he can bypass his inherent fear of the sun to imagine beams of light cascading over him. He imagines the heat kissing his flesh, returning his admiration, and basks in the feign brightness.
Sand invades his shoes.
Chris opens his eyes to find the sea before him. The waves crash against the shore, inches away from his toes. He inhales sharply. Salt and seaweed plague his tongue. He swallows breathfuls of the scent anyway, chasing nostalgia.
He took his first steps here, had his first kiss by the rocks at thirteen, learned to swim, to build extravagant sandcastles and raced along the shoreline with Jisung and Changbin. How many summers had he guarded the lives of beachgoers? How many bonfire bashes had he patrolled?
Chris gazes out at the horizon. His enhanced vampiric senses have sharpened his sight, refining the mesmerising image of the serene scenery. Even the far island of Crow’s Nest looks clearer. It has been bogged down by heavy fog for as long as he can remember. Sometimes the island seems so hazy, Chris is only reminded of its presence by the crows circling around it. He smiles to himself as he recalls the countless times he, Changbin and Jisung dared each other to swim towards it, each one boasting about how they would be the one to swim the closest only to rush back to shore.
Fuck— it all feels like a life time ago.
The ocean laps closer to Chris’s feet. He surveys his surroundings. Fog settles over the quiet town. Silence replies to his inquisitive stare. He turns back to the sea and considers the horizon. It must be nearing four or five in the morning, dawn slowly approaching. The sky is mostly cloudy too.
He wonders if— No.
His vampiric instincts shudder at the thought. Chris fights through it, resisting the urge to turn around and hurry back to Jisung’s basement.
I have time , he mentally hisses.
The sun won’t be up for another hour or so, and given how considerably cloudy it is, he might have an extra fifteen minutes to collect his clothes and rush back into the safe darkness of the basement. His enhanced speed would get him there within ten minutes anyway.
Chris tugs at the hem of his shirt while kicking off his shoes. He feels the wind push around his muscular torso. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, swallowing the scent of the salty sea, and resists the urge to gag. Determined not to let the suppressed reaction discourage him, he unzips his jeans and pulls them down along with his briefs. For a second, he braces himself, expecting a chill upon his full nudity.
Then the reality of his being sets in.
He huffs an annoyed groan and marches into the water. He’s so frustrated he doesn’t feel it at first. However, as he continues to wade further into the ocean, the water now lapping just above his waist, Chris shivers .
Cold— ice cold. The sea welcomes him home.
Chris chuckles, relief blossoming in his chest. He caresses the surface of the water as another chuckle tumbles out of his full lips. If he was still human, tears would prick his eyes from the sheer relief of finally feeling something. Embracing the biting chill, he dives in.
Under deep blue darkness, the world muffles around him. He points his hands in front of him, the same way he was training eight years ago, and propels further into the ocean. Seaweed dances beneath his feet, the current moves around him. Being undead gives him an advantage as he can remain submerged for longer now.
Twirling, swirling, he swims and swims— faster than he could before his shift. The rush of the waves propel him further into the water, caressing his toned body. Chris suppresses a smile as he watches fish dart and algae float around him.
When he finally surfaces, he lets out a heavy breath on instinct, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his hair back and wipes his nose, heaving anyway because in this still moment, Chris is teetering on the edge of humanity for the very first time in eight years.
Looking back to the shore, he finds that he may have gotten carried away. The mainland is almost a figment of his imagination with the amount of distance he has created.
And Crow’s Nest is completely visible.
Chris looks between the shore and the island, then lets out a full bellied laugh, one he hasn’t been able to muster in years. Changbin and Jisung are never going to believe him when he tells them he got this close to Crow’s Nest .
Not only is it far, but most believe the island is haunted. Townies for years have claimed to witness figures lurking between the trees and flickering lights throughout the night. Someone once swore they saw a figure flying over the island on a broomstick amongst the crows. Throughout the years, many sceptics have tried to travel to the island, only to be deterred by the current and pushed back to shore. Changbin once told him that one person did make it onto the island but was never heard from again.
Chris was not completely convinced by the tall-tales of Crow’s Nest, but he still constantly felt unsettled by its presence.
However, surveying the island now, he cannot remember why he was so scared. Sure, the myths were strange, but they were myths in the end.
Vampires were once a myth , a little voice murmurs.
Stifling the sinister voice, Chris looks to the sky and finds it’s still a swirl of charcoal grey and slated blue. His smile returns before another chuckle bubbles from his eased chest. Floating upon the surface, he lays back, allowing the current to guide him for a moment. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the fading sensation of the cold upon his pale skin.
While Chris knows he has more time to revel in this rare human moment, he cannot help the anxiety festering in the base of his stomach. What if he never feels this way again? What if he has to wait another eight years to feel something, anything again? And yes, this has been a cathartic experience by himself, but some of his favourite human memories are shared with his loud, chaotic friends. He can imagine Changbin complaining about how deep the water is and Jisung making jokily suggestive comments about how naked they all are. He would never be able to convince them to go skinny dipping in the middle of October at dawn. Changbin is too much of a whiny baby to handle the cold and Jisung sleeps as deep as the dead— Chris would know being undead himself.
So, while he may feel a fraction of his humanity again, he cannot forget that he is still alone.
A sense of deep danger surges through him, silver eyes snapping open. Amber light spills across the once frosty charcoal-blue sky.
The sun is rising.
His vampiric instincts rage in his chest, as if scolding him for being so reckless.
Chris internally curses at himself. He’s about to swim back to shore when he notices rays of light shining against the sand, inching towards his clothes.
Fuck .
How long had he been floating? When did time start to move this quickly? The last eight years have felt like eternity, but it’s as though the last two hours flew by within twenty minutes.
Chris lets out a shaky sigh and considers his options. He can try to make it back to shore and sprint home, grabbing his clothes later (if the current doesn’t swallow them). He can try to dive deep enough in the water to evade the sun, but risk drowning over and over for the next twelve hours. Or…
A murder of crows circle the island to his right.
Crow’s Nest.
“ Shit ,” he mutters under his breath.
Chris dives. He uses all his strength to fight against the current. The closer he’s gets to the island, the harsher the ocean becomes. The waves are not forceful, simply persistent with their suggestion to turn back. It’s as if the sea is warning him against reaching the island.
He fights through it still, pushing himself to swim faster.
Though he does not have a pulse, Chris is heaving by the time he can walk onto the shore. He runs a hand through his hair and spits the excess seawater out of his mouth. Leaning on his knees, he takes a moment, for the first time in eight years, to catch his breath.
Vision blurring, hands shaking, Chris mutters a string of vulgar curses. The swim has depleted his energy. Thirst— No, hunger gnaws at his chest, his gut, his very being, tearing through his innate instincts to find shade. His senses instead sharpen for a hunt. The scent of crow, frail and small, immediately overwhelms him. He can nearly taste the thick blood that pumps under their onyx feathers.
“ Ah!” Chris hisses, jolting forwards as the light nips at his ankles.
The sun .
Using the last bit of his strength, Chris dashes towards the trees. However, as he’s about to cross into the safety of the shade, the sun strikes, scorching his skin.
Chris screams, collapsing to his knees. His back stings with a relentless hiss. Scurrying forward, he manages to make it into the shade with only a few more minimal, yet painful welts on his thighs and calves. He chokes back more groans as his pale skin bubbles and burns from the intense heat.
He shifts further into what he thinks is the shade, trembling and whimpering, when the breeze kicks in and rattles the already loose leaves from the trees. Chris looks up, watching a gap form and give way for another attack from the sun.
Bright rays blaze his face. Another fraught scream tears through his throat and he tries to shield his eyes with his arm. Only one eye could be saved, the other feels as though it is melting into his skull.
Pain, pain— aching pain. Chris screams, his voice cracking as he channels that last of his strength and throws himself against the tree stump with unnatural speed.
Hiccuped moans tumble from his wounded, cracked lips. He heaves, voice nothing more than a wheezing shattered mess. His flesh deteriorates, once eternal body now crumbling under the bright light. The rotting smell of his dead body simmers around him, brewing nausea deep in his gut.The sand bites into his burnt skin, like salt on a fresh wound. Whimpering, he grits his teeth and attempts to bear the pain.
It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. It’s not tha—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, the pain overtaking his mind. He tries to repeat the phase again but can barely get past the first syllable.
Chris knows he can’t stay here. The sun will move, the light will shift, the fucking wind will betray him. He is not guaranteed safety if more leaves fall and the light seeps through again. Yet, he cannot move. Without blood to sustain his movements or renew his vampiric healing abilities, he might just die anyway.
So, Chris simply stares at the clutter of copper and gold leaves around him and suppresses whimpers. Is this the sickness he was previously craving to feel? Is this the humanistic pain he so badly yearned for? Chris cannot help but curse at himself over and over as his vision slowly blurs.
Is this really how it ends , he wonders. Wet from the sea, hot from the sun, eight years of demonic hell inch to this painful end.
Coughing up bile, he spits it over his shoulder and exhales deeply. Well, at least, he was able to experience a final moment of humanity, even if it was alone. And when he sees Changbin and Jisung again, he’ll tell them all about how he swam to Crow’s Nest and wasn’t immediately devoured by the monsters that they believe lurk within.
And if nothing else , he thinks as the darkness slowly closes in on him, I had one last moment in the sun.
“What have you done to yourself?”
A soft flowery voice caresses him. Chris mentally leans into the feminine allure of the voice, allowing himself to be wrapped in her gentle tone.
Then, the voice suddenly solidifies shattering the warm cocoon Chris found himself giving into, as she repeats, tone firmer now, “Are you insane?”
Chris tilts his head, choking on more bile as a surge of pain ripples through him. A curvy figure dressed in a thin, white sundress rushes towards him. He can barely make out her face, his sight almost completely gone, but her scent— fresh rain, lavender and sage— overwhelms him. For a second, he sees himself strolling through a field of wildflowers after a rainstorm, following the full figured beauty into the warmth of the light.
“Wow, you’re really naked,” she suddenly mumbles under her breath.
Voice raspy, Chris asks, “Are… you an angel?”
Soft hands cup his face; delicate, sweet, and gentle. Chris tries to regain some semblance of his sight, eager to take in her ethereal features but the pain hinders his focus.
And then, all at once, darkness claims him.
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Dawn is still. While the sun peeks through clusters of clouds, the sky shifts from pale blue to rose-gold. The wind, once flowing through the small cottage through the open windows, disappears. Even the crows, who often guard your little hideaway, fall silent.
You freeze mid-chop and turn towards the backdoor. A murder of crows still lingers around your backyard, but they seem rigid, as if they are not sure how to react.
Furrowing your brows, you set down your knife and abandon your half-chopped eggplant. You wipe your hands on your apron, making your way to the door.
A loud buzzing rings through your ears, stopping you mid-stride. You furrow your brows, senses finally flaring.
Abandoning the back door, you move towards the front instead. The moment you pull it open, you feel it— the shift in the air, swirling with panic, fear and… pain ?
A loud scream suddenly echoes through the morning fog, taut and sharp.
Chills run down your spine.
You’ve found many injured animals while hiding in Crow’s Nest within the last decade. You’ve repaired broken bones, mended mangled wings and even helped beached sea creatures find their way back into the ocean. However, nothing you have encountered has ever sounded so huge.
Shaking off your nerves, you step out and shut the door behind you. The wind picks up, colder than before. It ruffles through your white sundress, forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself. Another frail scream echoes, this time starling the crows back into motion. Hawthorne, your clingiest crow, lands on your front porch with a concerned tilt of his head, as if coming to check on you. Your face deadpans as more crows settle on the rickety, oak wood and peer up at you.
“You literally saw me from the garden,” you sigh. Stepping around them, you ask, “Do you know where that sound came from?”
Poe squawks before fluttering into flight, and a few other crows follow after him as well. You trail behind them, pulling your wand out from between your breasts. You assume that whatever washed up on your island must be harmless enough for your wards not to alert you upon its arrival. Still, you keep your twelve-inch mahogany wand, the polished ebony wood twisted and glittering like silver stars, steady before you.
Rotten vanilla and burnt, parched oak intoxicate your next breath. The scent envelopes you in despair, as you draw closer to the source. Heaving, whimpering, coughing, the broken sounds of pain become clearer with every step.
And then you see him— extremely pale and teetering consciousness. His face, which might have once been a handsome blend of soft masculinity, is grey and blistering. Arm, shoulder, ribs; the left side of his body is peeling skin, almost as if dusting and rotting all at once. The edges of the wounds are lined with black. It’s as though he’d been charred under open flames.
“What have you done to yourself?” you whisper under your breath.
You draw nearer, trying to make sense of this… being? You’re not quite sure what he is. He most definitely cannot be a human. He should be bleeding and the welts would be blistering, eager to reverse the damage.
His eyes squint open and you almost miss it. The right one is a rich chocolate, purely humanistic and warming. The left, however, is a blinding silver. Swimming with thirst and desperation, even exhausted, that gleaming grey eye conveys more threats than promises.
Vampire .
Dawn, light, burns, it all starts to make sense.
“Are you insane?”
He chokes on bile, resting his head back against the tree trunk.
As he tries to find his voice, you take a moment to scan his frame, looking for more wounds. It’s then that you notice just how naked he is. Guilt and shame fester in your chest at the realisation that, despite the wounds, he does not look so bad, perhaps even… attractive.
Your attention lingers below his waist. The sight heats your face. “Wow, you’re really naked,” you whisper more to yourself than him.
“Are…” he starts, summoning your attention back to his mismatched eyes, “you an angel?”
The question startles you. After a few blinks, you swallow thickly and clear your throat.
Wraith, nightshader, monster— you’ve been called many names throughout your life as a blood-witch. Your previous coven conjured most of the insults, but the mundane town of Elderwood has never been a friend to the supernatural either, despite its mythical origins. Ridiculed for your magic, banished by family and supposed friends, you didn’t think you’d ever meet another paranormal being, let alone be confused for an angel.
Cupping his face, you decide that he’s delirious. Scorched by the sun, thirsty for blood (if his nearly translucent skin is any indication), he probably took one look at your white dress and assumed he was dying.
You gasp as he suddenly falls limp in your hands. You’re about to check his pulse when you remember he’s a vampire. Muttering curses, you stand up.
“Create some shade,” you order the crows. As they cluster overhead, you add, “We need it dark enough to move him.”
More crows fly in to help, clouding over the wounded vampire to shield him from the rising sun.
Deep breath in and out, you centre yourself. Your lungs carry his festering scent, the faint notes of sweet vanilla and sturdy, dry oak soothing your erratic heart.
You open your eyes with a heavy, steady exhale. Holding out your wand, you dig your heels into the ground. Magic flickers from your fingertips and warps into the wand, waiting for your direction. Only, you’re not sure if you’re making the right choice.
Healing animals, saving helpless lives is much of what you do on this little island, besides tending to your magical garden, brewing potions and crafting talismans. You’ve always felt grounded when you’re able to help someone, anyone . The only other time you feel as accomplished and useful is when you update your journal. Keeping a detailed grimoire of new spells, potions, thoughts, and observations has been your only other source of stabilising your sanity amidst such a solitary life.
But, a vampire is not some other helpless animal. You don’t know a lot about the blood-demons, only that they have been damned upon their own moment of desperation. He clearly made naive deals without much consideration of the consequences. And the fact that he wandered out in daylight does not help his case.
He could be recently turned or just simply stupid and desperate. Either way, you wonder if this is a good idea. Moving him would mean inviting him into your home. Is that really the wisest decision? It would mean that he would have access to the little cottage without your permission, even if you reinforce your wards. Your invitation would be enough to welcome him in every time.
Still, you know you cannot heal him out here. The sun will shift and only shine brighter throughout the day. The crows can only fly for so long as well. And while your magic is malleable, it is not infinite. It will not be able to sustain a shield weaved of your powers without an anchor like the hearth of your cottage to truly ground and replenish your strength. The only way to save him would be to bring him into your sanctuary.
Or, a little voice mutters, you can just let him die.
You recognise that internal voice as your mother’s. It carries the same sharpness and disdain for your intuitive decisions. You’re not surprised it has reared its ugly head in a moment of uncertainty and distress. It often has a habit of kicking you while you’re down, or coaxing the worst out of you.
Shoving the vile voice back to the farthest corner of your mind, you wave your wand. The handsome vampire levitates under the allure of your magic.
“We move as one,” you order. “And, be careful.”
The crows mutter amongst themselves, but follow your commands. Together, you slowly move further into the forest.
Once you step foot onto the porch, the cottage anticipates your needs. The windows and curtains shut and candles flicker to life along with the hearth. You push open both front doors to accommodate his broad frame. Guiding him into your living room, you wonder if he was an athlete or swimmer prior to turning. His lean yet muscular figure indicates one or both hobbies.
Shame rises in your chest again. You have no idea what has gotten into you. When did you become so perverted and disgusting? How could you check out a wounded man so casually like that, like he’s not unconscious and on the brink of death? 
Swallowing your shame away, you lay him down on your soft, velvet green sofa. He sinks into the comfortable cushions, still and frail. Draping a handknitted, midnight black blanket over him, you notice his skin becoming grey. And even the parts that have not been touched by the sun begin to peel. 
You mutter a curse and rush to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, you look between jars of carefully crafted salves and mud masks. Aloe, honey, shea butter, coconut– what the fuck would heal the undead flesh of a vampire? If he was conscious, you’d give him a jar of blood from your preserves and hope that with enough consumption, he’d eventually heal himself. 
The cottage attempts to help you. It pushes open drawers of loose ingredients. Even a few stray crows, who managed to sneak in before the house could shut the door behind you, fly from book to book, trying to inspire you to just look up the information you need. You wave off the house and ignore the crows. You need something quick and complete. You don’t have time to brew something or search through old pages. 
Shifting its approaches, the cottage offers salves you’ve already made and saved from different cabinets around the kitchen. It hovers the jars before you, continuously suggesting a variety of creams as you wave them off. 
You’re about to wave off the next suggestion when the name catches your eye: Sunveil Balm . Golden yarrow and rosemary oil, lunar lilac extract, white ash bark powder, dewdrop resin, the essence of morning fog and the rare but potent dust of golden pearls, you remember crafting the balm for a bat with scorched wings. It stayed out in the sun for much too long one blistering summer and received several burns. A few generous swipes of the salve repaired the damage within ten minutes.
You snatch the gold-shimmering cream, darting back to the living room. With a wave of your hand, the jar twists open. You dip into the pot and scoop out a good amount before gently tilting his face and slathering the soft, creamy balm over his left cheekbone and temple. 
Mismatched eyes of brown and grey snap open. A loud scream tears through his throat as the wound hisses under the golden salve. He instinctively brings a hand up to his face to wipe it off, only for the salve to burn his fingers. 
“Shit,” you murmur before shouting, “Get me blood, now!”
The cottage complies, hovering various jars of animal blood in front of you. It’s the human blood that catches your eye, though. You know that if you want him to recover quickly, you have to supply him with your best stocks. Human blood, however, is rare for you. Without a coven of well-connected witches, harvesting human blood from your remote little island has proved to be a difficult and daunting task. You only have about five large jars left. 
He trembles into the sofa, choking on his own bile. 
You sigh, realising you’ve made it this far. You have already invited him into your home and made the decision to save him. If that weren’t enough, you’ve just deepened his pain with fresh burns.
With another wave of your hand, you twist the jar of human blood open, then snatch it from the air. “Shh, shh,” you calmly whisper, snaking your arm under his head to support the lift of his neck. He tries to swallow thickly, but chokes on the smell of fresh, cold blood. You bring the lip of the jar closer to his mouth and administer small, careful sips.
You watch as his eyes roll back from the taste. Arousal pools between your thighs. You curse yourself three times over for the way your body reacts. It’s been ten years of using your wand as a vibrator or making do with your fingers. You tell yourself that it’s simply pathetic desperation, a chronic need for human interaction that triggers this sort of reaction to him. Shame and regret still tighten in your chest, encouraging the continuation of your internal insults and curses.
A croaky groan echoes within the jar, pulling you out of your thoughts. The vampire sits himself up and takes the jar from you. He starts to down the blood in large gulps. His chest heaves, throat bobs and rogue trails of blood leak from the corner of his lips. 
You stand and turn away from him, much too aroused by the animalistic sight. Trying to ground yourself, you take shaky breaths in and out, and focus on the length of your breaths, the sound of the exhale. You don’t realise he’s done until you hear him clear his throat. 
Turning back to face him, you find his skin has solidified back to its normal pale, white colour. The black soot around his wounds remains along with a few remaining welts, however life (or lack thereof) has returned to his undead body. 
“More?” He quietly asks, voice deep and husky. 
You nod and hold a hand towards the kitchen. Another large jar of human blood shoots into your grasp. The vampire blinks as you wave the lid open, and lower the glass down to him. He trades you the empty one, letting his attention drift up and down your frame. 
Your shoulders roll back, chest puffing forward under his curious gaze. 
You are pathetic , you think to yourself.
Embarrassed by your actions, you leave him in the living room with his meal and return to the kitchen. Hawthorne and Poe perch on the counter by your recipe books. They cast disapproving stares in the dim candlelight as you enter.
You roll your eyes and whisper, “He was dying.” When they continue to silently judge, you add, “I happen to recall a time when two little birdies got into a fight for the fourth time and begged me to help them even when they promised not to let it happen again. So, maybe we shouldn’t be so judgemental.”
Both crows tilt their heads downwards in shame. 
“Who are you talking to?”
You squeal, jolting as you turn to face the vampire. He stands in the archway of your kitchen, blanket wrapped around his waist. He clutches the soft fabric with one hand by his hip and the empty jar with the other. You resist the urge to look at his fully healed chest, knowing it will only further arouse you, and fixate your attention on his face. 
While the blood has completely reversed the damage of the sun on his skin, his eyes still remain discoloured. You draw closer to examine it, getting within a hand’s reach before remembering that you two are still strangers, he’s still naked and there’s still steaks of blood staining his chin. 
He raises a brow at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 
Does he think I’m into him , you wonder as panic fills your chest. You clear your throat and take a step back. 
“Your eye,” you start, pointing to your left one, “It’s still silver.”
He reaches up to touch it. Understanding shifts his features from arrogance to self-caution. 
“Do you need more blood?” you ask, wondering if perhaps more consumption would help.
He shakes his head. “I’m full,” he replies. Stepping into the kitchen, he holds the empty jar out for you. 
You take it and place it on the counter by the other one he finished. You turn back to face him, regrettably letting your gaze flicker down his defined chest again. It’s buff and broad, the perfect addition to his strong shoulders. His waist is slim, toned and narrows down to delicate hips that you are sure have some unforgiving moments. Internally cursing yourself for your lack of self-control, you note that, at least this time, you’re lusting after him while he’s conscious and not in active pain. 
He suddenly clears his throat, beckoning your attention back to his face. A shy smile settles on his lip and he raises a brow. 
Great , you sarcastically think, now he’s going to think I only helped him because I think he’s hot . 
“I’m Chris,” he introduces, holding out his hand. “And I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”
You bite your lip. Maybe he was tired before or you were just too preoccupied by the gravity of the situation to catch it the first few times he spoke, but he has a thick, lazy accent that comforts your reclusive soul in ways it probably shouldn’t.
You offer your name, accepting his hand. The chill from his skin is all encompassing and it takes everything in you not to shiver. After a couple of good shakes, you release his hand to reach back and grab a clean tea towel. You hand it to him and gesture to your chin. “You’ve got a bit of blood,” you carefully inform. 
Chris scrubs his face harshly. You thought the knotting brows and darkening eyes were an indication  of embarrassment upon the mention of the little mess he made of himself. However, from the way he drags the tea towel over his newly healed skin, you wonder if he is upset, perhaps hateful. 
“Thanks,” he mutters again, catching your lingering gaze. 
You take the tea towel back when he’s done and toss it to Poe. The little crow catches the stained cloth and flies it over to the dirty pile. A little amused smile plays on your lips as you watch Chris look between you and the crow. He parts his lips to ask something, but he cannot find his words.
“Let’s have a seat,” you softly suggest, nodding towards the archway. “You must be exhausted.”
Chris nods, letting out a heavy breath. He steps to the side to let you weave around him and lead the way back to the living room. His steps are so light and gentle as he follows. You probably wouldn’t have heard them if you weren’t paying such close attention, sneaking a look behind you. 
His gaze focuses around your hips, or rather the sway of them. You catch him biting his lip before turning to face the front again. Letting out a shaky sigh, you try not to let the little gesture go straight to your head. You’ve received quite a few stares when you lived with your coven once upon a time ago. Most would either linger around your breasts or rear. Sometimes it was due to the sheer size of your voluptuous body and very rarely was it done in admiration when it came to staring at your arms or stomach or thighs. Your backside, however, always received that same carefully longing attention. 
So, he doesn’t like you , you tell yourself. He just likes what he sees .
You take a seat on the black leather armchair by the fireplace, sinking into the comfortable cushions, and nod to the emerald couch he previously laid on. 
Chris sits across from you. Shifting in his seat, he adjusts the blanket to properly cover his hips and crotch. Your eyes meet and, for a brief second, you swear you catch the lightest, faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. 
Shifting uncomfortably in your own seat, you offer an apologetic smile and say, “I don’t think I have any clothes for you.”
He returns the gentle gesture with a small grin of his own and shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can try to get the ones I left on the beach later tonight.”
You raise your brows at the new information. Leaning over one of the arms on your chair, you attempt to peek into the kitchen. “Hawthorne?” You shout. 
Chris looks back at the archway only for Hawthrone to dart out. He flies over head, startling Chirs as he ducks his head to avoid the fast bird. 
“Go to the mainland and see if you can find some clothes on the shore for me,” you order once he lands on the arm of your chair. “And take Tenny and Poe with you.” 
Hawthorne squawks. He takes flight again, heading to the front door when you tsk at him. He returns to your side, waiting for instructions. 
“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask then nod to the back of the cottage, “We have a sun sensitive visitor. Take the back door.”
He caws again and zooms right over Chris’s head. There is a ruffle of feathers, followed by more cawing before the slam of an open and shut window sounds. 
Chris swallows thickly, sitting back into the couch. “So you talk to birds,” he says as a way to break the silence. 
“Yup,” you nod. 
He nods along with you, rubbing the back of his neck. 
Your attention falls on his cleanly shaved armpits, the flex of his bicep. You cross your legs and press your thighs tightly together at the thought of being caught in a headlock, or cuddling under his arm and inhaling his thick, sickly sweet scent.
“Um,” he starts, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blink at him upon meeting his gaze. There is a knowing look in his mismatched eyes, and the faintest flicker between your own and your tense thighs. But he does not comment on your suddenly rigid posture. Gesturing to his face instead, he asks, “What was the–”
“Sunburn cream,” you answer, cutting him off. “It’s called Sunveil Balm. I guess it doesn’t work on vampires.”
He tentatively nods. “And what are you?” He registers the bluntness of his question the moment it leaves his full lips, and panic floods his eyes. Quickly, he adds, “No offence. It’s just– the magic–” he cuts himself off, pointing to your hands. 
A little smile plays on your lips with a slip of a chuckle. “I’m not offended,” you reassure, shaking your head. “I’m a witch. A blood-witch.”
“What makes a blood-witch different from a witch?”
“What makes a vampire different from a demon?”
Your voice is light and teasing but your playfulness falters at the sight of his concerned features.
“I-I’m a demon?” he asks, confusion creasing between his brows. He looks so lost, you’d think he’d never seen one before. It’s as if he didn’t conjure darkness to trade his soul away. 
Perplexed yourself, you nod. “Well, yes. How did you not– No,” you shake your head with a few blinks, then look back at him, starting again, “How long have you been a vampire?”
“About eight years.”
“Eight?”
He confirms with a nod. 
What the fuck?
Now, demons are tricky and conniving. They always make a deal that falls more in their favour than their summoner’s, but they have some decorum, especially towards each other. Upon their summoner’s shift into a vampire, the demon must have visited and informed him of his new, undead state. You recall reading about countless accounts of demons shadowing their newest additions and teaching them how to hunt, run and hide in the shadows. It’s common practice.
But more than that, you wonder how a vampire of eight years would miscalculate the rise of the sun and self-inflict such terrible wounds. Given the fact that he used his last bits of strength to find shade, you have to assume it wasn’t done on purpose. But, you also have a hard time believing that he’s naive enough to not know when the sun will rise during this time of year, especially after eight years of being undead. From the few books you’ve read on vampires during your studies as an apprentice, you know that they have a biological clock, an inherent instinct to not only avoid the sun, but fear it. 
Chris, pretty eyes round and youthful face uncertain, looks like he woke up one day, never went to sleep again, and was never told why.
“Am I missing something?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” you reply. “This doesn’t make sense. How did you turn? And why were you out this late, anyway?”
He bites on the inside of his cheeks and averts his gaze. “It’s complicated.”
Furrowing your brows, you’re not sure which question that was supposed to answer. You decide to take it one step at a time, asking, “Did you want to get burned?”
“No,” he immediately replies, meeting your gaze. 
Had it not been for the firm eye contact, you might have doubted him. 
“So, what is it then?”
“It’s just…” he trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “Complicated.”
You raise a brow, lingering your attention on his head. Recalling your thoughts about his physic earlier, you wonder if he really is a swimmer. If he perhaps ventured too far out into the sea and exhausted himself in the process. However, noting the way he nervously averts his gaze, you decide to redirect the conversation to something that’s hopefully less complicated.
“You don’t need to tell me why you summoned the demon,” you start, knowing the reason must have been dire for him to turn to the darkness for help. “I just don’t understand how you didn’t know that you, technically, are one.”
His face scrunches in concentrated confusion. He thumbs his nose and tilts his head at your words, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s been cursed or simply a pretty face. 
“I didn’t summon a demon. I just…” he trails off, averting his gaze as he searches for the best way to word his transition, “ became a vampire.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s what happened.”
“Explain the process,” you order, sitting back in your seat. “How did you know you were a vampire if no one told you?”
There is a twinge of challenge in his narrowing eyes. He flits his gaze up and down your relaxed frame and tongues his cheek. He then leans his elbows on his knees, broad shoulders now on full, flexed display under the warm glow of flickering candle lights. 
You swallow thickly and force yourself to maintain eye contact. 
“Do you always use that tone?” He suddenly asks, voice low and deep.
Barely above a whisper, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He smirks as newfound understanding glimmers in his silver eye. “That’s better,” he says before sitting back into his seat. 
You’re not sure what’s more lethal, the way he leans forward, every curve of his muscles contrasted perfectly in the shadows of the dim lights, or the way he leans back, legs spread and chest open. Both are equally as inviting, enticing you to shed your inhibitions and completely lose yourself against him. 
“I wasn’t sleeping,” he starts, shattering your focus on his sprawl body. “I was feeling sick for weeks. I could barely keep up with my training, and–”
“Training?”
“I was a swimmer.”
Knew it – Your eyes flicker to his shoulders for a split second.
“I was the fastest on the team. I even had a scholarship,” he says. A faint smile hovers over his plush lips at the memory. “I stopped drinking. I stopped eating. And on the day of the championship, I was terrified to leave my dorm. I nailed wood and bedsheets over my window and hid under the bed. My friends found me at one point, much later in the night, and I…” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “I attacked them.”
You remain still, expression neutral. He watches you closely, as if waiting for a gasp or blink of acknowledgement. 
“I just remember being really, really thirsty. I chased them through the courtyard until they talked me out of ripping them apart. And–” he cuts himself off with a little laugh. 
You raise your brown trying to fight off your own smile at the sweet, deep rumble emitting from his buff chest.
“Sorry, I just remembered one of my friends’ screams– Changbin. He’s a complete wimp and was squealing the whole time. You’d like him. Everyone likes him,” he explains. When you return his sweet smile, he continues, “Anyway, they talked me out of killing them, helped me hunt a rabbit, which took too fucking long for three grown men, and then made fun of me while I drank it’s blood.”
“They sound like idiots,” you joke, fighting your own laughter at the image he crafted for you. 
“They are,” he nods, voice thick with nostalgia. Then, he clears his throat and adds, “Anyway, there weren’t any demons or witches or anyone else. Just us and the internet.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “While that sounds like a terrible disaster,” you tease, much to his amusement, “that’s not really how vampires are made.”
“I wasn’t bitten either.”
“That’s misinformation,” you dismiss. “No one gets bitten to turn. Anyone who has been bitten by a vampire and survived merely experiences more drastic symptoms of rabies then dies. They are bats after all.”
Judging by the constantly confused expression on his face, you deduce he has not discovered he can turn into a bat yet. You hold off on that nugget of information for now, returning to your explanation, “Vampires are the result of humans making deals with some sort of demon. While possessions are common, demons do not want your body. They are always after your soul. Whatever remains is the demonic shift from humanity to deviance. You may still have your body, but your connection to the supernatural is your only thread to the living.”
Chris nods, sitting up in his seat. You regret to find that it doesn’t make you want to straddle him any less than before. 
 “I can understand that, I just don’t know what that has to do with me. I swear I had no reason to summon anyone from any realm or world or wherever the fuck these things come from.” His voice wavers with sincerity, eyes distressed with confusion. He takes a second to breathe in deeply, trying to ground himself, only to clench his jaw, never exhaling. “I just want my life back,” he mutters. 
Me too , you think as you gnaw on your bottom lip.
While your mother discouraged you from being yourself, and so-called friends betrayed you, there was a life back between the Mountains of Cleo that was waiting for you to reach your full potential. Working alongside the greatest witches of the century, charting stars and researching the full scope of potential power within the moon, you were on track to finally securing a position within the Arcane Court , and earning the respect of your family for once. 
You wish to return to that moment before everything had shattered around you. Work was stolen, lies were told and reputations were ruined. You never thought you'd be forced to defend yourself against people you loved, people you considered your found family. However, you did expect your biological family to believe the worst about you. 
Looking back at Chris, you notice he seems lost in his own thoughts too, gazing at the polished hardwood floors aimlessly. His explanation seems genuine and you really do believe him. He seemed to have the world at his fingertips, on the cusp of achieving all his dreams, before his life ended. 
He suddenly meets your gaze. The angle of his head blends his brown eye into the darkness, the silver one gleaming brightly in contrast. You know you should be scared, and you try to find a reason to feel that way, looking for even the faintest hint of danger. Instead, honesty greets you. If you hadn’t known he was a vampire, you would have assumed he was human from that look alone. 
“I want to help you figure out what happened,” you announce. 
Chris blinks at you. “What?”
“Vampires are made by demons,” you repeat. “If you are a vampire, then you were made. And if you didn’t bind yourself into a contract, someone else must have done so on your behalf. You could be in danger, could even be hexed. I want to help you find out what’s going on.”
His throat bobs, brows knit and he licks his lips before asking, “Why would you help me again?”
“I’m curious,” you shrug. And when his stare does not waver, you add, “And this is the longest I have spoken to someone other than a bird in the last ten years, so I might as well make the most of it before sundown.”
At that, Chris smiles. You notice he has a way of making it look so easy, that gentle, boyish smile. It’s full of intrigue and amusement and even admiration as his mismatched eyes twinkle with delicate notions of mischief. 
“I’m going to look into making another salve for some of your scars,”you say, standing from your seat. “The crows will be back with your clothes soon. You can go up to the bathroom and shower in the meantime, if you’d like I mean.”
Chris stands with you, glancing at the stairs. “Thanks,” he murmurs as if he doesn’t trust his voice. 
You ignore the heavy emotion laced in his tone, to save him the embarrassment, and continue, “It’s the third door on the right. The house will lead you.” 
As if on cue, you hear the soft echo of shutting doors and the whispering squeak of a single door opening. 
Chris’s ears twitch at the sound. He swallows thickly and gives you another nod of gratitude before heading up the stairs. You watch his back flex as he rolls his shoulders back. Now that you are going to help him, you really need to stop practically panting after him. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable in a tiny house he can’t leave for the next twelve hours. 
Letting out a heavy breath, you make your way to the kitchen and wave all your relevant books on burns, salves and blood-beings towards you. But the distant spray of the shower rattles your focus, plaguing you with images of his naked body caught between water and steam. Shaking your head, you force him out of your thoughts.
You have work to do– a purpose to finally follow.  And you won’t be deterred.
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Despite the brightness of your flowy white dress, which cinches at your waist and beautifully accentuates your curves, your little cottage is a sanctuary of moody shades and warm textures. Chris surveys the polished dark wood floors, adorned with a large, red rug that captivates his attention, on his way towards the stairs. A piece of onyx fur casually drapes over the exotic rug, adding an extra layer of softness beneath his cold feet. Leafy green plants cascade from the ceiling and trail their long vines over the edges of the shelves. They bring a subtle sense of  life to the space, even in such dim lighting. The deep violet walls bring out the vivid colours of the flowers—magenta, indigo, and plum. He assumes, based on your determined personality, that each bundle of petals serves some sort of purpose. Between flickering candles, well-worn books, and vials of mysterious substances, you've crafted a harmonious blend of oak table sets and plush, comfortable seating, creating an inviting atmosphere that feels entirely your own– warm and beautiful.
As Chris enters your bathroom, he finds that it is no different. Only, instead of a cosy ambiance of lived-in comfort, you’ve created a refreshing forest oasis. Dark green tiles line the walls, casting the room in deep, earthy hues. The floor is a mosaic of midnight green and jade patterns that seem to shift with the light, an intricate dance of natural tones underfoot. From above, more plants with long, draping vines hang over the obsidian sink, suspended in delicate macrame nets that sway gently with each movement in the room. Chris’s throat dries at the swan faucet poised elegantly above the sink, its neck curved in a graceful arc. In the corner, the shower nestles like a hidden grotto, glossy tiles and rainfall shower head turning it into a misty forest retreat, with aged brass fixtures catching the light. And finally, his gaze drifts to the grand, black bear claw tub—a magnificent centrepiece that seems plucked from a woodland dream.
He swallows thickly, inhaling the subtle scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Upon his exhale, the shower head turns on. He peers around the bathroom again, wondering if the house is watching him. When only the steady spray of the shower echoes against the dimly candlelit walls, Chris rolls his shoulders back and takes a step further into the room. 
The door clicks shut on its own.
Chris shakes off his uneasiness and drops the blanket from his waist. He’s not sure why, but his hands shake as he steps under the shower. A part of him hopes to feel stark cold, just as the ocean was a couple of hours ago. But the water is…water– Chris cannot feel much of a temperature, even with litres of human blood spreading through his body. Still, the strong pressure beating down his head, shoulders and back ease the tension in his once wounded muscles. 
Suddenly, the water stings with the faintest hint of coolness. It gets colder and colder, nearly replicating the frostiness of the morning sea, before Chris realises that the house is adjusting the temperature for him.
“This is good,” he mutters, tipping his head back. 
The house slightly warms the water, silently asking if he’s sure. 
“I like it cold,” Chris reassures. A ghost of a smile hovers over his full lips. He wonders if you put the house up to this or if it is simply trying to make him feel welcome. Either way, he’s grateful for the consideration. 
Consideration . Chris ponders over the word, mulling over every syllable, every decision you’ve made while he was unconscious. You’re a witch with angelic intentions, that much seems to be clear.  But he still cannot help wondering what it was that made you consider saving him? He’s just a stranger, afterall. No, he’s a demon . And yet, you brought him into your home, created salves and offered him jars of blood. 
Why do you have stores of human blood, anyway? Is it part of your practice as a blood-witch? Do you conjure spells that include elements of blood? Or do you merely harvest litres of it like a collector of sorts?
Questions lap round and round his mind as he reaches for your honey-infused shampoo. It smells faintly of your wild, flowery scent. Chris cannot help his smirk at subtle notions of rainfall and sage amidst that lavender. With a playful smile and inquisitive, bold eyes, you are the epitome of life and purity– and you smell like it too. 
He leans into the faint scent as he lathers his seasalt drenched hair with the silky, sweet soap. After rinsing the suds out, he grabs the matching conditioner and finds it is heavily imprinted with your scent. Perhaps you use it more often, or in larger quantities than the shampoo, but Chris is not all that curious why. He continues to lean into it, moaning softly as he combs it through his slightly curled strands. 
You’re incredibly enchanting, and Chris wonders if you’re aware of that. From the sway of your hips to the glint of intrigue in your alluring gaze, you are a vision of beauty. You radiate confidence, even when you’re perplexed and unsure. You stand in your own light, take control of a room and demand answers. Had Chris met you in college, between frat parties or music classes, he is certain he would have pursued you. Bossy, bratty, brazen, you command attention within a few words and a firm tone. And when he tested your limits, correcting your ordering tone with him in the living room, and you yielded to his tug of power, he swears his cock twitched. 
Maybe eight years of solitude has made him desperate, or the near-death experience has renewed his connection to the living, but Chris cannot deny that he wants you. He scrubs his body now and imagines your hands over his chest, along the width of his shoulders and trailing down his arms. He imagines your face inches from his and your warm breath fanning over his lips. He imagines your naked body, smirking when he recalls the way your gaze lingered over his in the kitchen. 
Do you like him too? Is that the real reason why you’re helping him?
A series of gentle taps rap at the door. 
Chris snaps his attention to the black wood. He focuses his enhanced hearing, hoping to pick up your heartbeat in the hall. Instead, a pair of rapid pumps and fluttering wings greet him. He assumes it’s the crows with his clothes and quickly rinses away the soap. 
The water shuts off as he steps back out into the bathroom. A soft, grey towel hovers in front of him. 
Chris smiles at the ceiling. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his waist. As he makes his way to the door, another smaller towel gently lands on his head. Chris chuckles and ruffles the soft cotton through his clean hair. 
The door opens for him as he approaches it. 
I can get used to this . 
His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, wet and littered with sand. Looking up at the house, Chris asks, “Um, can you do me a quick favour?” 
The candles momentarily shine brighter in reply. 
Chris bites his lip. He glances back at the shower, realising that the house has already done so much for him. He might be pushing his luck with another request. But then the lights shine again, as if reassuring him that it’s okay to ask for more. 
Throat bobbing, Chris asks, “Could you help me clean my clothes?” 
A wicker basket emerges from a door down the hall. It hops over to Chris from side to side, in a manner he can only describe as gleeful. Once in front of him, it shakes as though it is asking him to drop his clothes into the hamper. Chris tentatively bends down and tosses the sandy clothes in. The basket returns to its spot, disappearing behind its door, cheerful and almost giddy. 
Chris smiles to himself. The house must have your personality, or perhaps just aspects of it– playful, helpful, thoughtful. You bleed into every crevice of the warm cottage and Chris, for the first time since turning, is delighted. 
A quiet chirp from the crows pulls his attention back to them. They caw a couple more times before flying over to the edge of the stairs. 
Chris wonders if they are asking him to follow them, looking between them and the cold bathroom behind him. 
They caw again, hopping in place. 
He glances down at his towel and raises a brow. “I’m not really–” he starts, only for the crows to cut him off. 
One of them, Poe perhaps, lets out a long, almost exasperated squawk that leaves no room for refusal.
With a roll of his eyes, Chris follows after the birds. “Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Stop nagging me.”
The crows fly down the stairs and into the kitchen. Chris takes his time, following the scent of wild lavender and sage. He barely makes it to the archway when he sees your dress flowing around you with every step around the kitchen.
You’ve pulled your hair up, neck on full display. Moving around the dark kitchen, you trade your attention between a hovering book and your breakfast on the stove, all while sneaking sips from your steaming cup of tea. Chris detects notes of chai, cinnamon and anise stars amongst hearty eggs, and fresh tomatoes and chives. 
It takes you a minute, but you soon notice his tall figure entering the small space. Your eyes don’t remain on his for too long before trailing down his chest and lingering around his waist. He’s starting to realise that you seem to have a habit of that and it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he finds himself puffing out his chest and tightening the tension around his stomach under your watchful gaze. 
“They haven’t returned with your clothes?” 
Fuck, that voice– light, airy and sweet. Chris averts his gaze and bites on the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan. 
Clearing his throat, he replies,“No, they did. They’re just dirty. The house is cleaning them for me.”
You flash him a knowing smile and Chris swears his breath would hitch if he would breathe. “Yeah, it likes feeling useful,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your tea. You then nod at one of the indigo stools before your gleaming marble-topped island in the centre of the kitchen. 
Chris takes a seat, ensuring his towel stays put as he adjusts it around his spreading legs. As you turn back to your black iron stove, Chris takes a moment to really take in the kitchen. 
With deep crimson walls that cradle the space in a comforting embrace, the space excludes warmth. The soft candlelights that hover above cast playful shadows on the deep charcoal countertops, almost mirroring the crackle and pop of the hearth in the living room. Hanging between the candles are clusters of copper pots and pans, adding notions of rustic charm. Chris then realises that this might be the first room in the cottage without plants dangling from the ceiling or over surfaces. Instead, the shelves are lined with jars of spices and herbs and… body parts. He catches pickled eyeballs, dusty toes, fingers–some with matted fur–, and about three cases of teeth. 
“They were donated,” you clarify. 
Chris blinks his attention back to you, finding a guilty smile playing on your lips. 
“Well,” you start again, “ Most of it was donated.”
He teasingly raises his brows at you, suppressing his own smile. “I suppose that makes it okay then,” he jokes, subtly testing your boundaries again. 
There is a flicker of surprised intrigue in your gaze. “It seemed okay when it was saving your life,” you shoot back with the same level of teasing wit. 
Chris cannot help the excitement in his chest. Do you know how exhilarating you are? Is that why you keep staring at him with those enchantingly mischievous eyes?
He bites his lip, conceding to your wit. “Learn anything new,” he asks, nodding to the levitating book.  
You plate your breakfast with a sigh. The stove shuts off on its own as you round the island and take a seat next to him. Chris stiffen, adjusting his towel around his crotch. The once floating book rests on the countertop between the both of you. 
“See for yourself,” you reply before eating.
Chris notes the title: Origins of Vampires, Bloodsuckers, and Incubi , then scans the first few paragraphs. Besides accounts for the first sighting of vampires and the fact that they are apparently extremely lustful beings, it does not inform Chris of anything he does not already know from you. A deal needs to be made with the devil, his soul must have had to be traded as payment, and his body begins to reject all things human.
Furrowing his brows and sucking in his cheeks with a little hiss, Chris shifts forward in his seat to get a better look at the book. There is an extremely long passage about consistent erections, and the next page is filled with a list of the best hideouts to escape the sun during the day.  Chris is more concerned with the inconsistency of the author than the fact that he has yet to get an erection since he turned years ago.
“Nothing new,” you finally reply after a few bites of your food. “Nothing useful either.”
“May I?” Chris asks, reaching for the edge of the page. 
He flips the page when you nod. The list of hideouts takes up the next three pages and Chris resists the urge to roll his eyes. Information about vampiric cycles, peak slumber and feasting times, and tips on how to hunt fill the remaining pages on vampires before moving onto bloodsuckers and incubi. Again, the information is not anything Chris is not already aware of from the sheer experience of being undead for nearly a decade. He knows that around noon, his body tends to shut down and he seeks the darkest, coldest part of the basement to lay still and close his eyes. He’s not exactly asleep but he’s also not exactly awake either. The stuff about peak feasting times does not really apply to him. Just like when he was human, Chris is always hungry and ready to consume something. 
With a heavy sigh, he shuts the book. “That was a waste of time,” he mumbles as you finish your breakfast. 
You wave your empty plate and cup off to the sink, then shrug at him. “Well, we now know this book is useless,” you say, voice light with hope. “We can cross it off our list.” 
Chris raises a brow. “How many more books are on this list of yours?”
Your gaze is shifty and Chris starts to get nervous. He murmurs your name carefully, merely trying to get you to be honest, but then he notices the way you tremble at the sound of his low, deep voice. He can’t help the smirk tugging on his lips. 
“Cold?” he teases before he can stop himself.
Your eyes meet his with careful conviction. You lick your lips, as if debating how sharp your response should be. Attention flitting down to his chest momentarily, you finally reply, “Not at all.” 
With that, you wave off the useless book and summon two more. One is for salves and creams, the other is an encyclopaedia of vampiric traits and rituals. It sounds just as useless as the last one but if it’s on your list, Chris is willing to indulge. 
“You can get started on this,” you push the encyclopaedia towards him, “while I look into treating those scars.” 
“I don’t mind the scars,” he shrugs. “They kinda make me feel human.”
When you meet his eyes this time, your gaze is not filled with caution or calculated intrigue, instead they round with empathy. The sincere reaction triggers another pressing question Chris cannot seem to shake.
 “Why are you here?” 
Your face folds in confusion. “What?”
“You’re here on this haunted island all alone. Why? Don’t you have a coven or something?”
You pause for longer than usual and Chris worries if he used the wrong term, or perhaps merely asked a more personal question than you’re willing to answer. 
But then you clear your throat and adjust your posture in your seat. Staring down at the counter, you let out a heavy sigh and say, “I did and now I don’t.” Again, you take a beat lick your lips. “I wasn’t wanted there, so I needed to go.”
Chris scoffs. He doesn’t register the bluntness of his gestures until you glare at him.
“Have something to add?” you question, that usually sweet voice of yours now sharpened. 
It really shouldn’t but the sharpness makes his body buzz with excitement. Chris is fascinated by your darker edges. They contrast so beautifully against your usual lightness, enchanting him with supple seduction. 
“I think that’s bullshit,” he replies. 
“I think the fact that you just so happened to lose track of time is bullshit,” you remark. “But I have the common courtesy to keep my rude opinions to myself.”
“And you’re doing a great job,” Chris can’t help but tease. “But I was referring to the fact that you would ever be unwanted. If you weren’t such a little…” Chris trails off just to watch your nostrils flare and smirks, “ witch , you would have known that.”
A flicker of regret flashes in your gaze, but it doesn’t take long to harden again with a clench of your jaw.
“Maybe you should’ve added that sooner.”
“Maybe you should’ve given me the chance to.”
“How is any of this my fault?” you ask, voice still irritated but a chuckle manages to slip past your sweet lips. 
Chris smiles at the girly sound, suddenly feeling… warm?  
“I never said it was,” he answers. He keeps his voice tempered and gentle, watching as you bite your lip again. 
There is a shift in the air. Chris catches the sudden thickness of your scent, the newfound depth it carries and you shift in your seat again. Furrowing his brows, he leans forward to hold your gaze and asks, “You okay?” 
You nod, yet shoot up from your seat. You push that book towards him again and point to the living room. “The house made you a little nook by the fire. Try reading as much as you can. The sooner we find out about you, the sooner you can return home.” Your voice sounds as sweet as it normally does, but carries a certain weight to it. Chris has trouble placing it as you continue, “If you get thirsty or need anything else, just ask the house. It’s happiest when it can provide.”
Inhaling sharply, Chris collects the book and stands. He holds his towel in place with his other hand, the same way he did with the blanket not too long ago, and starts to make his way to the living room. When he gets to the archway, he pauses to glance over his shoulder.
You’re still watching him, captivated by the broadness of his back. 
“I think the house takes after you,” he says, turning to face you. “You seem content providing as well. So, I really can’t imagine anyone not wanting you around.”
You shift your weight and clench your jaw. With a thick swallow, you shake your head. “You don’t know me,” you mutter, face contorting with shame.
“And you don’t know me,” he shrugs. “But here we are, a vampire and a blood-witch. Is that a common pair amongst the supernatural?”
You shake your head. 
Chris smiles. “And yet you saved me. And you continue to help me. And I might not know you the way the house or crows do,” he chuckles, watching a smile play on your lips, “but I know that I can comfortably go into the next room and not have to worry about you suddenly opening the window and burning me alive. And I think that’s a good sign when you’re getting to know someone, yeah?”
With a roll of your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. Chris does his best to ignore the way they press together and jut out. “Your bar is way too low for strangers, Christopher.”
He tongues his cheek. “ Chris ,” he corrects. 
A mischievous smile spreads across your soft features and Chris wonders if he may have given you some ammunition to tease him later.
“Happy reading, Chris ,” you say. 
The way you emphasise his name almost makes him shiver. 
“Happy conjuring, little witch.”
A renewed sense of pride blooms in his still chest at the way you shyly avert your gaze upon hearing your new nickname. Chris thinks it has a nice ring to it, and you look absolutely adorable when you’re flustered. He allows himself one last once over of your curves, then pulls himself towards the living room.
True to your words, the house has provided a long, wide chaise of midnight blue velvet. It sits before the fireplace with a soft amber blanket draped over the back. Chris settles into the plush cushions, sinking into comfort and props his feet up. He throws the blanket over his waist to replace his towel and asks the house to dim the fire. 
Flipping open the book, Chris starts to learn more about himself, pushing every tempting thought of you out of his mind.
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Two weeks go by in a blur and you find that you are no less infatuated by Chris than when you first met him.
 He has such an easy way about him, smiling effortlessly. His eyes are still mismatched as if the sun had burned the vampiric silver of his left iris into his retina. No amount of blood has reversed the damage. However, you don’t mind. In fact, you find yourself feeling relieved when his eyes remain the same pair of brown and grey every time he takes a sip of animal blood. You like the twinkle of mischief that seems to glow so brightly amongst the two colours. Its allure is deliciously dangerous with promises of subtle destruction. You especially enjoy how they squint when he laughs or smiles with his white teeth, still gleaming with joy and lightness. 
You’ve gotten used to his presence, and you think that maybe he has gotten used to yours too. Just two nights ago, he finally told you why he was out so late the night you met. You instantly empathised with him, knowing all too well how powerful the yearning for connection can be. It’s the reason you promised to help again, desperate for a semblance of real, tangible interactions too. 
“And your parents?” you asked, after he told you all about how he hides out in his friends’ basements. “Do they know?”
His jaw set. “They think I died,” he sighs. “Well, they think I’m missing, but it’s been eight years and they bought a headstone so…”
Regret tightened in your chest. “I’m so–”
“My little brother took my old room,” he continued, cutting you off . “I snuck in one night, just to… see, I guess? He still has some of my stuff there, all dusty and untouched. He’s so big now, almost as tall as me,” he chuckled, a small smile settling on his lips. “He plays baseball though. I don’t think I’ve seen any of them go near a swimming pool in years. ”
You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You wanted to just swallow your previous words, the regret of mentioning his parents wrapping tighter around your heart. 
“My mum saw me once,” he said, finally meeting your gaze. A muted sadness greets you, but his little smile remains on those pink-stained lips. “She was bringing groceries in one night and caught me staring behind some tree. She dropped the bag and called out to my dad. I ran before either of them could see me again,” he paused to swallow.“ I still can’t get the sound of her sobs out of my head.”
You blink the memory away, pulling your dusky plum coloured comforter up to your chin. A part of you wishes you had asked him why he never went back to his parents or let them believe he’d gone missing. Clearly, the thought of them moving on without him still weighs heavy on his heart. But you couldn’t find your word at the time, blinking back tears as he hung his head and spoke so quietly. Besides, you are sure, based on his caring, selfless personality, he likely thought he was doing them a favour by shielding them from his new reality. He was practically brimming with self hatred when you met. 
And you realised, in that vulnerable moment, it was never about feeling the sun or the cold or even the sensation of swimming again. It has always been about being human . Chris craves his humanity more than he values his life. You both know that he was well aware of when the sun would rise, that he fought through his inherent fear of it for the chance to feel near-human again. He even keeps his remaining sun-scars and winks his mismatched eyes because they are consequences of feeling that pain. And as you read more and more about vampires together, the hindrance of potentially accessing his full abilities does not surprise you. To his core, Chris is human, so he is constantly rejecting his vampiric turn. 
That realisation shifted your focus last night. You moved from books about vampires to those about demons. Flipping through pages and pages of information, you found multiple passages about soul-trading. You discovered that some demons demand pure souls in addition to the ones they have already swindled from their summors. This detail, likely lost in the fine-print of most deals, implements a vampiric gene into the summors’ genetics. The variant remains dormant, passing through the bloodline until it finally finds a pure soul to claim.
Chris still can’t believe that one of his ancestors would stoop so low, but you find that reaction in itself is just another testament of his purity.
Smiling to yourself at the thought of him, you stare at your star-speckled ceiling. You enchanted it to reflect the night sky on your first night at Crow’s Nest . Actually, you had enchanted the ceiling of the living room, having slept down there until you were able to slowly build your little cottage and refine your new sanctuary. You were terrified of being found and snatched back for sentencing by the Arcane Court. You’re well aware that blood-witches don’t simply break blood bonds and live to tell the tale. You remember using whatever magic you had at the time to unshackle yourself from the bounds of your coven, hop on your broom with your life magically crammed into a knapsack, and escape into the same dark night.
And as you lie here now, sinking into your silky sheets, you find that staring at a shimmering night sky can still ease your nerves all the same. You try to identify constellations and search for the moon between the clouds. You curse under your breath when you finally catch a glimpse of its glow– waxing gibbous . 
Tomorrow is the full moon. 
You let out a shaky breath, attempting to get lost in the stars again, but it’s no use. All you can think about is that damned elixir. 
“I found something,” you muttered to Chris.
He laid in his little nook by the dimmed fire, one hand clutching a book and the other folded behind his head. Peering over at you, a little smirk tugs on his lips. “A new blood recipe?” he asked, knowing you have been testing out some new blends of spices in his blood. 
You shake your head and reply, “A solution . ”
You feel your skin grow hot from the memory of having to explain to him what this solution entails.
At its core, it is simply a recipe for vampiric vitality. And after hearing about his parents and how they have tried to move on from losing him, how he had tried to move on, you remember feeling hopeful. Maybe this could be the key to reclaim his life, to possibly see them again without shame.
However, the summary still gives you pause. It reads:
“The Elixir of the Damned is a rare, potent potion crafted to primarily shield vampires, and other sun-sensitive creatures, from the deadly effects of daylight. By harnessing the mystical properties of a blood-witch's full-moon blood, the elixir enables these creatures to walk under the sun without harm, preserving their strength and powers. Beyond sunlight protection, the elixir grants a surge of energy, reduces the need for frequent feeding, shortens sleep cycles, and reverses their natural nocturnal schedule.
The thick, midnight violet elixir is a luminescent liquid concoction of moonlight essence, ground sage, sunroot and the dust of two diamonds: obsidian and sunstone. The mixture must be thoroughly stirred and refrigerated for a minimum of twelve hours before use. Upon a full-moon, the elixir must be mixed with the menstrual blood of a blood-witch and consumed immediately. For best results, pour and harvest the menstrual blood directly from the source.”
You have the stupid thing memorised, having read it countless times, before finally telling Chris. Though he can’t breathe, you’re certain his breath hitched at the explanation. You remember parting your lips to further explain when he suddenly agreed. 
“It’s only weird if we make it weird,” he argued. “I’m willing to keep it strictly professional if you are.”
You swallowed thickly, nodding. “Yeah,” you found yourself replying. “I can do the same.”
And yet you lay here, naked and squirming at the thought of his mouth between your legs because he insisted, and you quote, “If we’re gonna do it, we might as well do it right.”
Do me right , you wanted to reply. Just bend me over the couch and do me right now . 
Instead, you continuously agree and nod and pretend that your arousal isn’t sticking between your thighs as your clit throbs for attention. 
You cup your crotch now, unable to take it anymore. He’s fucking hot– so fucking hot . You have been trying not to stare but he wears these tight tank tops that showcase his muscular arms all the fucking time. You mentally curse his stupid friends for sending such revealing clothes through the crows. He sent them a letter with Poe a day after you agreed to help them and you wonder if he specifically requested these pieces or if this is his usual style. 
Either way, you cannot stop staring. Every ridge and crevices of his buff chest and toned stomach is outlined, completely captivating your attention. You are constantly trying to maintain eye contact, but even that feels too much sometimes. He is always teasing and joking with you, gazing at you with such consuming warmth, you cannot help but feel hot . 
A little gasp escapes you as you spread your legs and drench your fingers with your arousal. Sticky, wet, you need him. Maybe it’s been too long without a good fuck, or you are simply obsessed, but it really doesn’t matter. You need a release right now or you might not make it through the night. 
You start slow, rubbing circles over your needy clit. It doesn’t take long for you to overheat, however. So you pause your movements to shove your blanket off.  Now fully naked and exposed to your cold room, you return your hand between your legs. 
A wet squelching sounds as you rub and rub your fingers round and round. You test out rhythms, squirming under your desperate touch–slow–fast–slow–fast, and bite back a whimper. 
What would Chris do, you cannot help wondering. 
Administering featherlight touches, you know he’d play with you to start. He’d keep his pressure light and quick, wanting to watch you chase after his hand after every fleeting touch. Then, you push down harshly on your clit and bite into your lip harder to hold back a moan. You just know he’d be rough too, forcefully pressing down until he hears you whine his name. 
“Chris,” you let yourself whisper. “Right there, baby.”
A quiet moan slips out with your words and you’re not completely mad about it. It was silent enough and you’re certain he’s too busy sipping on the warmed seven herb spiced blood you left out for him to pay much attention to you right now. 
As much as you enjoy imagining him playing with you, you cannot stand the anticipation anymore. Your needy hole clenches repeatedly, aching to be filled. You shakily gasp and decide to fully give into your desire. Grabbing your wand, you place the handle against your clit and will it to vibrate. You use your other hand to finger yourself, shoving three ambitious digits in. 
“ Oh!”  
You bite your lip, panic sprouting in your chest at the sudden spike in volume. Glancing at the door, you’re relieved to find it still shut. You lay back against your pillow and pick up your pace. He’d be unforgiving. He’d be rough and reckless.
Your body trembles at the thought. 
“Chris,” you whisper into the room. “Please don’t stop fucking me like that.”
Eyes fluttering shut, you imagine him leering over you, smirking and groaning. You imagine his strong frame ramming into you, his relentless grip keeping you in place. Would he want you to hold his gaze? Or would he bury his face in the crook of your neck to kiss and nibble on?
The pleasure only increases. You tense up. The vibrations rumbling from the hilt of your mahogany wand intensifies. Your fingers eagerly move in and out, tight walls closing in on them. 
“ You’re gonna make me cum,” you mutter, breathless and whiny. 
Cum for me , baby , a whisper of a voice orders. Be a good little witch and cum all over my fingers .
The sound is so deep and husky, but also murmurous and hazy. If you had time to focus on it, you wouldn’t have automatically assumed it was internal and perhaps investigated. But the constant pleasure is all too consuming. Working you closer and closer to your release, you cannot register the source of any sound besides that of your fast fingers and vibrating wand.
That pretty pussy looks so delicious . 
Your orgasm catches you off guard, suddenly rippling through you. You squeal lifting your head from your pillow to almost hunch inwards and cum. 
“Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris,” you whisper between whimpers and you rapidly draw every last surge of arousal out. “Oh my god ,” you heave, tossing your wand aside. The stimulation is nearly agonising when paired with your still moving fingers. 
After a few more thrusts, you lay back into your bed, heaving. Your hand slides out and up towards your clit. A single brush of contact makes your body tremble. You retract your hand all together, swallowing a moan. Your legs come together, eyes droop from exhaustion and fatigue. 
You have no idea how you’re going to remain “professional” tomorrow. The sheer thought of him down there coaxed one of your most powerful orgasms. How will you be able to keep your moans at bay, or your body from rolling into his mouth? 
Click.
You snap your attention to your door. It’s shut. Holding your breath, you try to listen for footsteps. When that proves useless, you squint at the gap between the door and floor for movements of shadow. Still, silent, the hallway is empty. 
With a shake of your head, you rest back into your pillow and wave yourself clean. You then tug your comforter back over your spent body and shut your eyes. You just need to get through tomorrow. Once the elixir and ritual is complete, he can return home and you won’t have to see him until your next cycle. 
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Chris stands in your room, arms crossed over his chest. It looks warmer under candlelights than it did last night beneath glimmering stars. Unlike the darkness of the bathroom, or warmth of the living room and kitchen, your room is a collection of cool tones, invoking quiet serenity. The walls are a hazy blue, trimmed with crown moulding around the baseboards and ceiling. One wall of the room is lined with shelves upon shelves of books, plants and a plethora of magical objects, like stones, crystal balls, and the occasional skull. A chestnut vanity, large wardrobe and oval mirror sit on his left side by an open window. Sheer violet curtains dance with the gentle wind. 
Underfoot, a thick, handknitted rug of pewter, amethyst and onyx yarn stretches over polished, dark walnut floors. Chris curls his toes into it, attempting to ground himself, as his eyes follow you towards your four-poster bed. It must be a queen– rather fitting for you– since it takes up a substantial amount of space in the centre of the room. The gauzy mauve curtains surrounding your bed part as you approach it. Your matching greyish-plum comforter pulls back, as if welcoming you to silky starlight silver sheets. You wave it back into place then turn to him.  
“It’s almost time,” you say. 
The slight tremor in your voice draws Chris back to the events he witnessed last night. You keep talking now, gesturing to your bed with one hand, while clutching onto the small vial of a deep, inky violet elixir in the other. He sees your pretty mouth moving, but does not register your words. All he hears are your delicate, fragile moans. 
Chris didn’t mean to linger or leer last night. He doesn’t usually go to the second floor when you go to bed, not wanting to disturb you. But he had just come back from collecting some ingredients for the elixir around the island, heard you calling his name and got curious. Once he realised what you were doing, he just couldn’t tear himself away. He remembers the way you squirmed and begged. He remembers the way you worked your fingers in and out of your perfect, needy pussy. He remembers how you held your wand, the one laying on your nightstand right now, and wonders how often you use it for that purpose. How often do you use it thinking about him ?
“Did you hear me?” you ask.
Chris’s eyes widen. “What?”
You tilt your head and give him a serious look. “Chris, do you still want to do this?” 
“Of course.”
“Listen, if you’re having second thoug–”
Chris quickly cuts you off with an urgent shake of his head. “No, no, I want this,” he quickly reassures. The eagerness of his statement dawns on him the moment the words leave his lips. Chris immediately tries to save himself from further embarrassment, adding,  “I want to feel normal again.”
You nod, inhaling deeply.
Chris’s attention flickers down to your full chest, watching it rise under your silky black robe then fall as you exhale. He meant to meet your gaze again, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking in your frame. From the curves of your waist to the roundness of your stomach and thickness of your thighs, you are a vision of temptation. 
Your fingers trace the ribbon of your robe, drawing his focus back to your face. You bite on your lips, nervous eyes peering at him cautiously. 
“Are you okay with this?” Chris asks. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”
You swallow thickly. “I want you to feel normal too,” you replied, lips slighting relaxing into a soft smile. “It’s not about changing my mind. I just…” you trail off with a sigh. 
Chris remains silent, giving you the space to collect your thoughts. 
Rolling your shoulders back, you hold his gaze and confess,“I just haven’t been naked in front of someone else in a really long time.”
One of the things Chris has come to find so admirable about you is how unapologetically honest you are about yourself. You do not mince words or circle difficult topics. You stand your ground and say what you mean, uttering every syllable like you are reciting a declaration of love, sincere and unwavering. He catches the way you fist your hands to keep them from trembling and he finds that defiance all the more endearing. 
He tries to bite back a smile at how strong and cute you’re being. Fuck, he’s wholeheartly ready to devour you and show you just how wonderful you are. 
Without another word, he tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He can’t help smirking when you gasp at his bare chest. He’s caught you staring enough time to know you like what you see. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulls them down with his briefs and steps out of them, fully naked in front of you. 
“Now, you’re not alone,” he smiles. 
Eyes widen, mouth slightly agape, you slowly drag your gaze down his frame. You shift your weight and he catches the way your legs press tightly together. The image of them spread and glistening with your arousal flashes between blinks. 
You take another deep breath then untie the knot of your robe. The delicate silk slips off your shoulders, revealing the epitome of supple seduction and plump perfection. 
Chris, already salivating, swallows. Your gaze trails back down to his crotch and he’s certain you are seeing exactly how he truly feels. His cock hardened last night the moment he saw you all needy and whiny. He tried to jerk himself off, hoping to soften again but failed– even after cumming three times.
“Does it bother you?” He gently asks, not moving to hide his erection yet. 
You shake your head. 
“I can put something back on if it does,” he tries again, wanting to be sure you know he is not ashamed of his desire. You’re incredibly hot and you must know it too with the way you constantly tease him with low-cut, form-fitting dresses. It’s partially why he asked Jisung to send him tank-tops and sweatpants when crafting a letter for Poe to send. 
“It’s fine, Chris,” you whisper.
His jaw clenches at the memory of your whiny voice saying his name. 
A little smile plays on your lips as you toss him half a shrug and add, “It was bound to happen at some point tonight. Might as well get over the awkwardness now.”
Chris glares, but the smirk on his face does not hint towards conviction. “Oh, yeah? Get this kinda reaction often, little witch?” 
You bite your lip then teasingly quirk a brow. “Why,” you shoot back. “Jealous?”
He tongues his cheek. “I just wanna know how many members are part of your little fan club.”
You turn towards the bed, displaying your round rear, and reply, “There’s room for one more.”
Chirs suppresses a groan. He tightens his jaw and follows after you. As you lie back into your propped, plush pillows, Chris meets your eyes. All notions of uncertainty have been replaced by carefree mischief. He sits on his knees in front of your legs and offers a small smile. 
“I already recited the spell,” you say, holding out the vial. “All you have to do now is pour it over me and… harvest the blood.”
Chris takes the tiny glass bottle, nodding. “If you ever need me to stop–” he starts, only for you to cut him off with the spread of your legs. 
A richer, more musky aroma of your usual rainwater, sage and wild lavender scent instantly overwhelms his senses. Laced with your menstrual blood, it evokes the earthiness of damp soil and the sweetness of blooming flowers. 
His jaw goes slack, eyes darkening. He can feel his fangs poke out and involuntarily takes a long, slow breath. His lungs do not work, heart still and cold, but he swears he feels them filling from the sheer smell of you. 
Your soft voice cuts through his primal desires, as you whisper,“I trust you.”
With that, Chris uncorks the vial. His free hand settles on your thigh. He smiles to himself at the softness, having only imagined the feeling of it for the last two weeks. He knew you’d feel so delicate, rubbing his hand up and down your warm skin. 
He looks back at you and meets your confident gaze with a little nod, confirming that he’s ready too. Then, he brings the tiny glass bottle to your blood-glistening lips and pours the elixir. It looks a lot like violet-coloured lube and feels that way too as he uses his thumb to rub it around your pussy. 
Your hips stiffen, core clenches at the sudden sensation and Chris darts his attention up to your face again, concerned. However, tentative notions of pleasure greet him. Your brows furrows, and eyes flicker with shy delight. You bite your lip, and that’s when Chris catches the rapid pounding of your heart. 
As he continues to rub the elixir over your clit then drag it down to circle your needy hole, Chris wonders if this is what you imagined him doing to you last night. 
“I think it’s good now,” you say, voice wavering. “We don’t have all night, you know?”
Chris smirks at your little joke. You have a tendency to be rather bossy and he’s been trying to subtly reign in your sassiness with challenging looks and sharper words every now and again. But then you go and test his patience with shit like this– speaking to him like he works for you. It excites and enrages him all at once. 
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be taking that tone with me, little witch,” he warns, applying pressure with his thumb against your clit. 
Your breath hitches before you clamp a hand to your mouth. 
Chris stifles his laughter. You’re a good girl down to your core. You just need the right person to remind you of that sometimes. 
Now that you are behaving, Chris lowers himself towards your delicious pussy. You smell divine, leaking of blood and drenched in the glow of the elixir. He cannot hold back any longer upon another strong whiff. Tongue flat, he drags it between your lips with a deep, full-chested groan. He repeats the slow action again and again, lowering himself further against the bed until he’s lying down on his stomach. 
He pulls back to loop his arms under your thighs. Pulling the top part of your pussy up, he dives back in. You taste like the ocean breeze on a sweltering summer day, purely refreshing. His tongue circles around your lips and clit, gathering all the leaked blood, which adds a metalicy sweetness to your arousal. A part of him wishes he was able to taste you without the juicy influence of the elixir, wondering how the flavour of your blood would change. 
Chris tongues the entrance of your hole, hoping to ease you into the–what did you call it?– harvest?  
However, upon the first real sip of your menstrual blood, something profoundly primal snaps in the depths of his chest. Unbound by his inhibitions, he growls against your core and shoves his long, wet tongue deep into you. 
A tiny whimper cuts through the loud sound of his slurps, but Chris pays it no mind. He laps and laps tongue-fulls of your blood, swallowing with eager delight. His fingers press into your soft skin, still Chris does not worry about bruising you. Instead, he shakes his head and lets out a series of pleased groans. 
Your hips roll into his mouth and he welcomes the gesture with another slurp of your blood. He can feel the magical substance rush through his body, warming his once cold skin. Every swallow fills another organ and Chris is addicted to that rush of awakening nerves. 
Your fingers tangle in his hair, shoving his face further into your sex. Legs wrapping around his head, Chris is only just realising that you’ve been whining and moaning this entire time. He focuses his enhanced hearing on your fragile voice, humming approving groans. 
“Give it to me just like that,” you whimper. “Please, please , Chris.”
Again with those little demands , Chris thinks. At least you remembered to say please this time. 
A mixture of your arousal and blood pools at your entrance, drawing Chris back to his task. His vampiric senses igniting all over again, he does not attempt to hold back. In and out, he shoves his tongue between your tightening walls, gathering as much blood as he can. 
But, it’s not enough. His tongue is only collecting sips. Chris needs gulps . 
He adjusts his grip on your hips, now pressing you firmly into the mattress and latches his lips over your entrance. With a deep breath, Chris begins to suck. He suctions his mouth and siphones your blood out. He swallows mouthfuls of elixir tainted blood and arousal, mismatched eyes rolling back at the satisfaction of such unholy hunger. 
The more he draws, the darker you taste. Chris cannot describe it well, but he thinks it’s the taste of magic, fizzing on his tongue like sparkling water.
“ Oh, fuck ,” you cry, voice breaking as you cum.
A hint of lightness settles on his tongue upon sucking out your orgasm as well. Chris moans in delight, gulping down two more mouthfuls before finally pulling away with a wet pop .
Your legs are hyper-extended, trembling over his shoulders.
Chris glances up at you, curious to see if you’ll own the fact that you just came on his face or if you’ll get all shy and bashful. Your pleased features are laced with exhaustion as you pant. Tired eyes meeting his lustful ones, you quirk a brow. Chris licks his lips, taking the gesture as a silent question of if he is satisfied. 
Physically, Chris is full. He is not sure he can down even the tiniest of sips. Sexually, however, he is just getting started.
“You alright?” he asks, sitting himself up on his knees again. 
You nod, but Chris shakes his head. You know better than to respond like that , he thinks. 
“Talk to me, baby.”
The term of endearment was not intentional, but Chris also does not hate the way it sounds. It slipped out last night too as he talked you through your orgasm. He can tell from the way your lips part and eyes slightly widen that you’re waiting for him to correct himself, but he refuses to. Instead, he holds your eyes without a notion of panic or regret. 
“I’m okay,” you finally mutter between heavy breaths. “I…” you hesitate, attention flickering down to his crotch momentarily. “I need more.”
Chris smirks. “What do you say?”
“Please.”
“Please what?”
Your lips quiver, desperation seeping into your gaze. “Please fuck me, Chris. No– don’t look at me like that. I know you want this too.”
Chris was trying to hide his smug smile, but upon your demand, he lets it take over his features. You’re a fucking brat, and he has extended the last of his generous patience. Before he can think twice, Chris smacks your sensitive pussy. 
“When,” he smacks it again, “are you,” smack , “going to fucking” smack , “learn?”
Your hips jolt up with every hit, moans trembling as they tumble from your beautiful lips. Your face is a crumpled mess of pleasure and pain, desperate eyes boring into his.
Cupping you with one hand and harshly rubbing, Chris places his other by your head and hovers over your shaking body. “Listen to me, little witch,” he whispers, nudging his bloody nose against yours. “If you talk to me like that again, like I’m your little pet , I will fuck you even after the sun comes up, do you understand?”
You nod eagerly. 
Chris tightens his grip on your crotch, baring his teeth with an annoyed growl. “Use your fucking words,” he orders. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“I’m sorry,” you reply, voice quiet and meek. 
The little whimpers you subsequently let out don’t do much to ease the throb of his cock. In fact, they only intensify it. You sound like wounded prey and he’s tired of fighting against his instincts. He’s been stifling the beast inside for the last eight years, filling himself with self-loathing instead. He’s done hating the power, fully embracing his new supernatural form. 
Releasing his hold on your crotch, Chris immediately aligns and shoves himself between your walls. A loud hiss escapes his blood-dripping lips, fangs on full display, at the tight pressure around him. Fuck, if he hadn’t seen you skillfully fingering yourself last night, he would have believed you were a virgin.
You moan with him, clutching on his shoulders. “Oh, god ,” you groan, enchanting eyes fluttering shut. “ Fuck, fuck– Chris, you’re h-huge. What the actual fuck?”
Chris’s previously irritated resolve wavers upon your squealing voice. He pauses his shallow thrusts to give you time to adjust. 
“I’m sorry,” you repeat as your nails dig into his warming flesh. “I-I know you need this too.”
Shifting down to his forearms, Chris buries his face in the crook of your neck, and fondly inhales your scent. “Don’t be sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I waited two weeks for this. Another minute won’t make a difference.”
You let out a breathless giggle, wrapping your arms around his head. A delighted hum sounds from your lips and Chris feels the vibrations of it against his face. He smiles to himself before licking and kissing your delicate skin. 
Your heart is beating so fast. He can feel the thumping pounds against his tongue and can’t help but chuckle. Your skin suddenly grows hot and he realises he has embarrassed you. Yet, instead of pushing him off, you clench tighter around him. 
“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whine. 
Chris smirks at your tone and wording, glad to see you’re finally following his orders. Still, he decides to test it again, wondering if it’s just a fluke. 
“I’m not laughing at you, little witch,” he lies.
Instead of calling him out, you remain silent.
Chris pulls back to gauge your features. Though pouting, you refrain from glaring at him too hard. Filled with pride, Chris kisses your cheek, down to your jaw then up to your chin again. 
“Good girl,” he mutters once his lips are hovering over your mouth. 
Your gaze flits between his eyes and blood-stained lips. Chris makes the conscious choice not to kiss you, unsure if the taste of your menstrual blood will be as delicious to you as it is to him. For a second, he thinks you might kiss him anyway, panting beneath him even when he remains motionless inside you.
But then you simply arch your back, pushing your full breasts against him, and mutter, “I’m ready now.”
Chris dips his head back down to your neck. He kisses and sucks on your hot skin, gently thrusting into you. He takes his time, with his hips and lips, dragging the process out only to forcefully shove it back in. 
You’re already trembling, sweet voice hiccuping moans. Chris scratches his fangs over your collarbone just to hear you whimper his name. 
“Please, Chris,” you cry. 
He kisses the slightly wounded area and quietly chuckles to himself. “Do you need something, little witch?” he teasingly asks.
“F-faster, please?” you quickly ask. “I’m not telling. I’m asking– begging! Please, please , Chris!”
His cock twitches. He groans at the sound of your desperate, whiny voice, physically incapable of torturing you any longer. With supernatural speed, Chris’s hips snap into action. He thrusts harshly, fisting the sheets beneath you. The bed creaks and slams against the walls over and over again, overtaking the slapping sound of his hips meeting yours.
Your body shakes and jiggles under him, and he is obsessed with how amazing your skin feels rubbing against his. Your nails scratch at his back, before finally sinking into his shoulders. You brace yourself against him, the sounds of your broken, sobbing moans encouraging him to continue.
"You have no idea what your voice does to me,” Chris groans, lips smothered under your jaw. “I could listen to you all fucking night.”
Your legs wrap around his waist. Chris groans even louder, addicted to the way you’re clinging onto him. 
“Only you can make me sound like this,” you whimper then warn a thrust later, “I’m gonna cum!”
Chris lets out a low, satisfied growl, relentless with his speed and power. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers in a deep, breathless voice, “ Cum for me, sweet girl. ” 
He can feel the erratic beat of your heart against his chest. Your pussy tightly clenches around him, gripping harshly onto his cock. As you cum, squealing his name like a practised spell, he chokes on his own moans. His hips push deep inside you, tensing as he finally unloads himself. Ropes and ropes of his cum fill you up as he growls in response to your meek moans.
Chris thrusts a few more times, wanting to ensure you’ve exhausted your orgasm. Then, in two swift motions, he lifts, pulls himself out, and rolls off you. He lands on the bed with a little bounce and content sigh. He expects to see the night sky on the ceiling, like it was last night, but instead finds the sea. And there, between the lapping waves, Chris catches your reflection.
Raising a brow, he tongues his cheek and looks at you. “Enjoy the show,” he teases. 
You roll your eyes, heat crawling up your neck to spread across your cheeks. “I did, actually,” you definitely reply as a last ditch effort to save a semblance of your self-respect. “You have a great butt, by the way.”
Chris laughs. He throws his head back and lets out a full-chested roar of a laugh. He can’t remember that last time he did that without you around. The last two weeks have made him feel more human than he probably ever had in his life. You’re absolutely remarkable and he’s lucky to have met you, even if it means he had to lose his soul.
Lifting his arm, Chris nods at you, silently ordering you to lean into him. You shift closer and hug his waist without another word, much to his surprise.
“You’re so pretty when you're doing as you're told,” Chris praises.  
“I’m pretty always,” you retort. 
Chris rolls his eyes. “Just take the compliment,” he chuckles.
“You’re not fucking me,” you practically whine. “You can’t tell me what to do.” 
“You’re impossible,” Chris mutters under his breath. But he still holds you close, tracing soothing circles around your shoulder.
You both bask in the silence while he gives you a second to catch your breath. Once he hears your heart beat normally again, Chris asks, “Does it work right away?”
You hum with uncertainty, waving your hand to summon the book. It flies towards you then hovers over your faces. After flipping through the pages, it lands on the recipe for the elixir.
Chris tilts his eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this the right book?” he asks, as he skims through the paragraphs. 
You flip the page, mumbling, “Yeah.” 
There are only a few books in your personal library that Chris cannot read, having been written in an ancient language he has tried and failed to understand. However, as he stares longer at the page, Chris finds that he can read every word. 
You gasp, sitting up. The book moves with you, hoving in front of you instead of on top of you now. Not that it even matters, since you grab the book from mid-air and pull it into your lap.
Chris sits up beside you. He brushes your hair off your shoulder and asks, “What’s wrong? Did we do it wrong?”
You bring a hand to your mouth as if you cannot believe what you’re reading. “We fucked up,” you whisper. 
A smirk plays on his lips. “Does that mean we get to do this again?” 
Setting the book down, you rub your face and choke back a chuckle. “No, I mean,” you start, turning to face him. “We really fucked up.”
Chris’s smile falters. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, gently running his hand up and down your bicep. “It’s alright, little witch. Take a breath,” he whispers, making sure to keep his voice light. “What happened?”
Your eyes shut, brows knotting, and lean into him. “There is a disclaimer at the end of every spell, recipe, ritual– Whatever it is, there is always a disclaimer that outlines the side effects or possible consequences to alterations.”
Chris nods, urging you to continue. 
“The magic we were using is called sex magic. It usually uses the sexual energy created between the participating parties to harness power. In our case, we were only meant to use it to make you sun-proof, for lack of a better word.”
“I can think of three better words,” Chris can’t help but tease. 
You fight off a smile, glaring at him. “Keep them to yourself,” you demand. 
Chris pauses, wanting to tell you to behave but he can’t move his lips. His voice has diminished too, like his body is physically incapable of ordering you around. 
Guilt flashes in your eyes. “When we had sex, with the elixir and spell tangled in the initial act of harvesting my blood, the purpose of the ritual shifted,” you continue, shoulders tensing. “It may have bound you to me.”
“What?” Chris asks, trying and failing not to sound annoyed. “What does that mean?”
“Witches often have familiars and demons are often serving creatures. They get summoned and must fulfil the summoner's request to be released. The spell has been documented to intertwine the two when more than the required act was performed,” you explain.
What about the crows , Chris wants to ask. He thought they held the role of a familiar. 
You shake your head. “They’re more like co-inhibitors. It is their island afterall.”
Chris retracts his arm from you, setting his jaw. He knows he did not say that out loud so how the–
Shit, did I just read his mind?  
Your voice is clear in his head. Blinking, Chris swallows thickly. “Is that normal?”
You hesitate. “I’ll look into it.”
“How could you have missed this?”
“I was a little busy trying to find all the ingredients,” you argue. 
Chris deadpans. “ I found the ingredients,” he corrects. 
You bite your lip, face crumbling with remorse. “I’m sorry, I–” you cut yourself off with a sigh then start again. “Honestly, I was too busy thinking about you eating me out. It’s why I made you go out and get those ingredients last night. I wanted the house to myself to just let out some of my–”
“Temptations?”
“ Frustrations ,” you correct with a playful glare. “I did not mean for this to happen.”
Chris sighs. He rubs his face and slumps back against your pillows. 
This may not have been what he wanted, however while he wants to be upset, he cannot find it in him to be disappointed. You’re a great friend, a better lover and he’d be insane to reject you. The only real downside about this newfound connection is his inability to put you in your place. You tend to get a bit too cocky and mouth off when he lets one too many sassy comments slide. 
“I don’t want this going to your head, little witch,” he warns, meeting your gaze again. 
You try to hide that mischievous smile and not being able to correct it is already driving him crazy.
“No promises,” you tease. Leaning over him, you stroke his chest and add, “But you have permission to keep me in check whenever you please.”
Chris tongues his cheek. “You had to have known that I would hate the way you said that.”
Your little smile is enough confirmation. 
Chris shoves you back into the bed with a gentle push of your shoulder. “You clearly haven’t had enough,” he murmurs, stationing himself between your legs again. 
“But the elix–”
“To hell with the fucking elixir,” he growls. “I’ll be damned if I don’t fuck your mouth clean.”
The way you shiver at the sound of his voice arouses him all over again. Shifting off the bed, Chris stands at the edge and gestures for you to adjust yourself so your head is hanging off the mattress. 
And with a simple tug of your chin, he’s determined to stay true to his words.
You eagerly oblige him. 
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note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.
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hotvintagepoll · 8 months ago
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Propaganda
Lilian Bond (The Old Dark House)—no propaganda submitted
Fay Wray (King Kong)— the original scream queen!! she started acting in silent comedies as a teenager and got her first big break when erich von stroheim cast her as the lead in the wedding march. her career started to take off starring in silent movies at paramount, and she survived the transition to sound smoothly - josef von sternberg’s weird proto-noir thunderbolt was one of her first sound films. she began to make horror movies in the early 1930s, such as doctor x and mystery of the wax museum, both filmed in beautiful two-strip technicolor (which looked like this if you're curious. i just think it's neat!), as well as the vampire bat, the most dangerous game, and of course the boy himself, king kong. a little on how she worked with her most famous costar: “Although Kong appeared huge, the full figure was a model covered with rabbit hair, standing only 18 inches tall, that was filmed one frame at a time by stop-motion photography artist Willis O'Brien and his crew. The 5ft 3in Wray only knew one part of the ape's body when she was grasped in an articulated 8ft long hand. Hence the title of her 1989 autobiography, On The Other Hand. ‘I would stand on the floor,’ she recalled, ‘and they would bring this arm down and cinch it around my waist, then pull me up in the air. Every time I moved, one of the fingers would loosen, so it would look like I was trying to get away. Actually, I was trying not to slip through his hand.’” (link)
This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.
[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]
Fay Wray:
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Actress prominently known for starring in horror, she was one of cinema's original "scream queens". She knocks it out of the park whenever she's with the horror genre, bringing a depth and likability to characters that would other be flat and boring characters.
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An early scream queen, name me another woman who could look so beautiful while so disheveled and scared for her life
She was name-dropped not once but TWICE in the Rocky Horror Picture Show. She's arguably the original Scream Queen.
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nightcolorz · 4 months ago
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Very very excited and curious to see how in the amc iwtv show the inevitable conversation between lestat and Armand will go regarding the “yeah ahah so basically right after I broke up with u after u told me u loved me cuz I took ur virginity in our deluxe theater seats I basically met ur maker ahah. Yeah lol he’s alive, yeah lol ik u saw him violently die b4 ur eyes yeah lol I’ll get to that ahah calm down sexy it’s ok, so basically I was rlly sad 💔💔 so I wanted to take a rlly long nap, but ur maker heard my cries 🥹 yeah haha ur maker/adoptive father/ the love of ur life/the man who has been having sex with u since u were a child/ur master who owns u as his slave/the only person who u felt ever cared for u, yeah lol, he has been alive this entire time and he knew about all that horrific suffering u were going through and how u were like crying out for him as u mourned his death as u were being violently tortured by a death cult, and yeah haha he just kinda like ignored that 🥺💔 sorry bro he was rlly busy, but thankfully not too busy for me 🥰🥰 like I said I was rlllyyy sad 🥺💔💔 and he saved me from my nap 🥰 and he took me to his house and he told me about his whole life because he loves me so so much and wants to teach me everything 🥺 and then he took me to his secret basement and showed me the secret origins of our kind that he is not supposed to tell anyone about and refused to tell u even tho u begged him to bcus he just yknow haha didn’t like u as much as me 🙏💔 ahahah whoops, to his credit tho I am white and blonde. Anyways lol so he revealed to me all the secrets of our kind and then he gave me very specific instructions on how to survive and live happily as a vampire 🥰 oh? That is exactly what u need and r looking for from everyone that u try and fail to connect with? Oh wow lol, kinda sad. Anyways so like obviously I ignored his instructions cuz I’m a rebel haha, and since ur maker is so nice and kind he didn’t even get mad he just playfully scolded me and gave me a silly nickname 🥰❤️ …oh wait, when u were a child he used to violently beat u until u bled out and screamed for mercy when u disobeyed him? Oh ahah, tbh that doesn’t sound like him….anyways just thought u should know! 🥰🥰” massive fucking elephant in the room 💀 cuz Armand is going to find out about this shit somehow someway and I’m rlly excited to see how bad his reaction is on a scale from 10000000 to ♾️♾️
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ladykailitha · 3 months ago
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Well Met By Moonlight Part 20
When I first started this story a year ago the only goal in mind was to get a sexy blood drinking scene between Steve and Eddie. Which yay! I achieved TWICE!
But then the story began to grow and twist and things kept getting more and more interesting. Plot deepened, twists turned sharper and characters began to take shape.
I'm grateful to everyone who held on this one even as interest for it waned. I'm happy that it started to gain more interest again at the end, because that's what kept me going all the way to the end.
I'm currently having someone read it (not in the ST fandom) to see if they think it has the potential to be an original fiction that could be published. I know she loved the story, but I have gotten back all her notes yet. So we'll see.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19
~
“It’s good thing that worked,” Brian said scratching the back his neck sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure my song worked on werewolves.”
“It doesn’t work on selkies?” Nancy asked.
Brian just shrugged.
“We were under water,” Barb explained, “we didn’t hear the song.”
Nancy eyed her suspiciously, but wisely said nothing to her friend.
“So now that everyone’s lives are no longer in danger,” Wayne said dryly. “You want to explain the whole ‘they don’t belong here’ statement?”
Nancy jumped at suddenly be addressed. “Oh, right! I knew there had to be more to the story than what the newspaper and the VHS report said.”
“Video Home System?” Jeff asked in confusion.
Wayne snorted and Eddie badly hid his grin.
“That’s what I said!” Eddie crowed.
Nancy rolled her eyes and decided to ignore the idiot vampires. “Van Helsing Society. They’re a secret police force that investigates these types of things.”
Alexei slowly inched out of the boathouse and everyone kept their eye on him.
“Dr. Brenner was doing a lot of experiments and not just on werewolves. He was looking into other dimensions as well.”
“What was the point of it all?” Steve asked.
Chrissy landed on the beach and said, “He was trying to create the perfect supernatural being. One without any limitations at all. But he didn’t want keep using people from our world to do it because it would raise too many questions. So he was opening worlds and pulling out test subjects. But always werewolves.”
“That’s insane!” Steve cried. “You have to see how insane that is, right?”
Chrissy nodded. “When the cat sìth arrived at the Creel House to tell us of our Dominus’s death, I started looking into the previous Dominus’s experiments thinking it had answers to what was going on in this town. I was right and disgusted.”
Nancy nodded. “They,” she jutted her chin at Alexei and Murray, “are the ones that survived because at the same time they were brought over, Dr. Brenner was being investigated by VHS and had to stop temporarily, so they slipped into the wide world accidentally. This world’s Dr. Oborin killed those kids because they were teasing this world’s Mr. Bauman’s baldness. But when they saw the two that looked exactly them, they hatched a plan to use them as scapegoats and are currently on the run in Mexico.”
“Who told you all this?” Jonathan asked, speaking for the first time.
“I did,” and final person emerged from the tree line.
“Sam...” Wayne said warningly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“That’s actually a funny story,” Sam said sheepishly. “So apparently our investigations did overlap?”
“Sam...”
“Right,” Sam said with a grimace. “Do you mind if I take over the story from here?” he asked Nancy.
She waved her hand at him. “Go ahead. I’m interested to hear what more you may have gleaned.”
“So my original investigation was whether or not there was a descendant of the original Karl Van Helsing from the female line was in the Harrington pack,” he said with a wince.
Steve frowned. “What does ‘female line’ mean?”
“There is the male line,” Sam explained, “where you keep the last name. Harrington for example. You are a descendant of the original pack leader, Clarence Harrington. That is the male line. The female line is when, let’s continue using Harrington as an example, say Clarence had two sons and a daughter. The daughter marries and has children. Those children are still related to Clarence but their last name has changed.”
“You think Greta had children?” Wayne asked incredulously. “Because like hell she did.”
Sam shook his head. “No, not Greta. Her aunt Vanessa, who married Peter Kincade.”
Dread pooled in Wayne’s stomach. He knew that name because he had been trying to find out why Murray would murder a non-werewolf. Not that he knew it was Murray at the time. Peter Kincade was Allison Harrington’s great, great, great, great, great however many it was grandfather.
“When Benjamin Kincade was murdered and subsequently his daughter and husband,” Sam continued, “the blood was sent to our lab by an anonymous source, a source we now believe to Dr. Alexei Oborin.”
The assembled turned to the doctor who was now cradling his mate to his chest. He stroked Murray’s head. “I didn’t like all the murder. I found a neater way to get Harrington out of the pack. Show the VHS that he was their missing link and he’d be whisked away and have experiments done on him so they can strengthen their ranks. Then you’d be alpha, my love.”
Murray whimpered.
“I’m sorry,” Alexei whispered back. “They didn’t move fast enough.”
“So that’s how it intersects,” Eddie said. “If Murray hadn’t killed the Harringtons and Mr. Kincade, you’d never had been in town looking for Steve.”
“It would have been easier,” Sam agreed, “but there is some really power magic on Steve that prevents VHS agents from being able to detect him. And it is absolutely due to his Van Helsing blood. They were purported to have all sorts of abilities and immunities that made them perfect watchmen of the supernatural communities. The blood magic used to create the spells that will protect an agent makes it impossible to mate with supernatural creatures.” Wayne bristled, but Sam held up his hand. “Note I said mate, not couple. It’s the act of producing a child that is disastrous.”
“Why’s that?” Barb asked from the dock, still the only part of her that was human was her head. “Supernatural creatures mate with humans all the time. I mean some times it can have some pretty strange results, but no one would call them disastrous.”
“It’s the anti-magic of the spells used and the innate magic of the supernatural being mixing and slowly driving the poor child insane,” Sam said, looking side-long at Steve. “We actually had long suspected Steve might have some connection to the Helsings because–”
“Because he should have gone crazy twice!” Eddie said with a gasp. “The first time was when he changed for the first time at age eighteen. The Franklins were banking on him going off the rails so they could paint him some rabid beast that needed to be put down. But he was lucid.”
“And then again when the Hunters tried to kill him,” Nancy finished. “He should have gone mad from the amount of silver he had on him. Even for that short a time. Being alpha would have only protected him so much.”
Steve pointed to himself in shock. “What? Me? There’s no way, there has to be another explanation.”
Wayne shook his head. “Nope. You’re the descendant of two very powerful lines, Steve.”
“Back to the problem of Murray and Alexei,” Brian said, raising his hand. “Because Steve is cool and all, but all this new information doesn’t really change that. It just confirms what smart people have known for years.”
Steve blushed.
“They can’t be in this world anymore,” Sam said, sadly. “Their very presence is what’s causing the sharp increase in supernatural suspicion in the normal populous. The whole being just out of step is sending out shock waves across the world that they’re dangerous.”
“I understand,” Alexei said, “I always knew there was no place for us anywhere.” He leaned over to kiss Murray.
“Maybe we can–” Nancy began when two gunshots went off in quick succession.
Then Alexei slumped over Murray’s body. There was no doubt what had happened. Alexei must have picked up the gun when Chrissy landed. Then he shot Murray, finishing the job that Robin had started then turned the gun on himself.
BA-DUM! BA! DUM!
“Oh,” Robin said softly. “Now that they’re dead you can actually feel the difference.”
Nancy let out a frustrated whine and stomped her foot. “I was going to suggest finding a way to send them home. Not for them to die.”
Sam came over and put his hand on her shoulder. “This is was the best. Even though they were innocent of the original crime of killing the kids, Dr. Alexei Oborin killed the Hunters in his own universe and then all the deaths on Murray Bauman’s hands are far too many. To merely send them back would be a grave miscarriage of justice.”
Her lip quivered, but she nodded. It galled her. If they hadn’t been pulled here by Dr. Brenner than they would be lauded as heroes in their home world, only to be branded villains in this one. But they had caused so much harm.
Sam turned to Steve. “So about that linage...you are wasted here as a mere alpha. You could head the entire Van Helsing Society. You would be incandescent there.”
Steve shook his head. “No. This is where I want to be.”
Eddie let out a little whine of relief and even the golden wolf that was Robin looked relieved.
“I am making Robin Buckley my female alpha,” he continued. Nancy let out a breath of relief of her own. “I’m changing the name of the pack to the Roane County pack. No more Harrington crap. I am the last and it will end with me. Same goes with the Van Helsing line.”
Sam’s eyes nearly burst out of his head with that. “You can’t mean that, surely!”
Steve shook his head. “I can. I will donate a single vial of my blood to the Society and allow you to test the limits of my abilities for one week a year, but the rest of the time I will be here. Taking care of the people who matter most to me. On one condition.”
Sam’s hands were clenched in rage. “You dare to make even more demands?!”
“Yes,” Steve said coolly. “The Society will come out of the shadows. You lot being a secret society is precisely why there is rise in Hunters. If people knew there was an actual policing body that would bring rogue cryptids to heel, they would be less likely to want to take matters into their own hands.”
Wayne and Sam shared a look of shock between them.
“Oh.” Sam gulped heavily. “Deal.”
Steve shook his hand, then he turned to Chrissy. “I’m assuming you’re the new Dominus.”
Chrissy blinked. “Oh shit. I guess I am.”
“Good,” he said primly. “We’ll meet later in the week to find you a new home and to lay out a new treaty between the Coven and Pack.”
She nodded gravely. “It will be done, Alpha.” She turned to Jeff. “Come, we need to find places for our Coven in the mean time.”
Jeff nodded and they both transformed and flew off into the air.
“Robin,” Steve said, turning to his new alpha female. “Take the rest of the pack back to the compound and explain everything that has gone on. Let them know I will be back shortly to reassure them. I will mete out Tommy’s punishment when I get there.”
The golden wolf nodded solemnly. Nancy and Hopper changed back into wolves. Tommy climbed back on Hopper’s back and then looked behind him at Steve. He had misjudged everything and no he must pay the price. Then they followed her back to the compound, Jonathan bringing up the rear.
Steve walked up to Barb and Brian. “The Roane County Pack owes the sirens and selkies a debt of gratitude. Name it and if it’s in the power of this alpha it will be yours.”
Brian and Barb looked at each other and then they both shook their heads.
“You continuing to advocate for us will be a far great boon then any other thing you could do for us, alpha,” Barb said sternly.
Steve nodded.
Brian reach out and took Barb’s flipper in his hand. “Plus, there’s this, too.”
Gareth and Eddie let out wolf whistles.
Brian blushed, but Barb smiled softly.
“Yes, this is a good reward as well,” she murmured. She removed her hand from her skin and took his hand.
Brian smiled up at her. They both transformed again. She slipped under the water as Brian flew over it, humming to himself.
Steve turned back to the remaining four. He walked up to Gareth.
“What is it the gwyllgi want?” Steve asked, getting down on one knee so he could look the large black dog in the eye. No preamble. Just straight to the point. He knew the Graveyard dogs had a lot of grievances against his pack and he was going to change that starting now.
“Agree to meet with my father to work out restitution for our pack,” Gareth said seriously.
“Done,” Steve said, bowing his head. “I will make sure Robin contacts him for a meeting.”
Gareth shuffled forward and hugged Steve with his neck. “You’re a good alpha and a better man.”
Steve pinched his nose and then rubbed the end. “Thank you, Gareth.”
Gareth loped over to Eddie. “You take good care of him, won’t you? He tends to get caught up in his head sometimes.”
Eddie nodded, giving a watery chuckle. “Just whose friend are you, mine or his?”
Gareth tilted his head to the side.
“Both.”
The dog turned and vanished into the tree line.
Wayne turned to Steve. “I’m thinking of retiring from this whole supernatural guardianship. I’m going to let Eddie take over. I’m getting too old for this shit.”
Sam let out a sound that was combination between a whine and clearing his throat. “If I–I mean, if I haven’t completely ruined things between us. I–”
“Just spit it out, Sam,” Wayne growled.
“This was my last investigation for the Society,” Sam said, looking down at his feet. “I told them after our last meeting. I hate lying to you. It kills me every time. So I want to spend my time with you. If you’ll have me.”
Wayne huffed and then grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him in close. “You’ve got a lot grovelling to do. And I have a long list of ways you can start making it up to me.”
Sam eyes went wide at the low sultry tone. “Oh. I am very willing.”
Wayne transformed and flew off with his arm securely around his waist.
“Gross,” Eddie sniffed.
Steve pulled him into his embrace. “I too have a list of things, but mine is more about the lovely things I want you to do me.”
“Ooh, I do like the sound of that, big boy,” Eddie said with a feral grin. “And I’m pretty sure my uncle won’t be at the trailer for awhile.”
“I like the way you think,” Steve pulled him in for a long kiss. “I’ll meet you there. I just have make sure Robin hasn’t set the compound on fire and then I’ll be right there.”
“Are you sure you want her as your alpha?” Eddie asked with a chuckle.
“Yeah, she’ll be fine once she gets over her nerves,” he said with a smile. “Plus no one will be asking if we are going to mate. Having a lesbian best friend really does have its perks. You don't have to come with.”
Eddie through his head back and laughed. “Nah, I’ll come with. I want to see their faces.”
Steve smiled and took Eddie’s hand.
They walked past Lucas, who was on guard duty, hand in hand, a werewolf and a vampire. Both once outcasts even in their own communities, now leaders in their own right.
Steve smiled.
The future never looked brighter.
~
Tag List: COMPLETE
1- @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog
2- @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @goodolefashionedloverboi
3- @fullpoetrybread @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog
4- @bookworm0690 @littlewildflowerkitten @just-a-tiny-void @potato-of-the-lord @thelittleclare
5- @goosesister @tinyplanet95 @she-collects-smut @irregular-child @y4r3luv
6- @fairytalesreality @anaibis @papergrenade @ravenfrog @blondie1006
7- @thedragonsaunt @sadisticaltarts @kultiras @blackpanzy @disrespectedgoatman
8- @kal-ology @w1ll0wtr33 @townseleven @dreamercec
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thechekhov · 10 months ago
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Dungeon Meshi Quick Reacts
Monster Tidbits: 3 & 4
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Forgot to do this for some of them so I'm going back and getting the ones up through chapter 28
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I read this tidbit and immediately went 'how close ARE squid and octopus phylogenetically?' And it turns out they're kinda close, but also. Vampire squids are closely related to octopods! Moreso than to other squids. That's neat!
Anyway.
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The dungeon and its vast resources are really wasted on hack-n-slash adventurers. It feels like only Senshi really appreciates how much you can strip and use from such a large animal.
Though I suppose the ecosystem gets it in the end anyway so it's not a complete waste....
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I'd forgotten Laios hates kraken lmao.
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.................dude really pointed a sperm tube at his own face and shot a load at his forehead. Incredible. World's least sexy facial, confirmed. Congrats, Laios. That's the worst anyone's ever done it, buddy.
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Chillchuck, you only live to be like, 40. Maybe stop trying to reinvent the wheel capitalism in your lifetime....
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Meaning Chillchuck can live to be poor enough to travel with them another day! Hoorah!
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...can this translator just not ever spell the word tentacles?
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You don't need a brain to grow in good places. You just need to grow in good places and survive to have progeny that also favors good places to procreate and then-- ah, nevermind. Why am I explaining evolutionary pressure to a manga.
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You did your best, buddy.
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didn't you guys encounter mermaids? Or were those... sirens...?
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hang on, what do you mean they die?!! Just from being the first one to hear it?!
Oh, wait, you mean like, they hear it and jump in first? Damn.
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Ah, right, they're completely different species.
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go, girl, get your calories.
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.........how much mana can a dragon store, huh marcille. How much.
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no need to brag....
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need me that meme of a fat kitten that's full of milk, but make it Namari, full of mana.........
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I was gonna say 'fluffy pitbull' but then I saw 'clever'.... ah, bully breeds. Braincells are in short supply.
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GET. THAT. MAN. A. PUBBY.
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Listen, you. Laios is a treasure, you hear me? He's a treasure. He's also way too much of a freak for you to reason with. Just leave him alone with his warg plans.
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Bag of Holding MIGHT actually be the most broken thing there is. Hm.
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THE BULLYING! WHO IS IT FOR?! WHY ARE YOU GANGING UP ON HIM
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Laios: If I can't be THE MOST OBSESSED then what's even the point?
King shit. Absolutely pathetic meow meow. There is so much wrong with him.
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thiriann · 1 year ago
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The Ascension and the sexual implications of it
We all remember the post from a few weeks ago that circled here. I didn't go through with the Ascension from a purely game sense "this is clearly evil " standpoint. I didn't really understand why it's evil or even more why it's sexual. Some analyses have floated around here and tumblr that mentioned it's because "vampires are a sexy fantasy". Well, yes but you're getting a vampire either way, aren't you?
I didn't manage to connect the dots until I started looking into possible ways for him to walk in the sun. It seems the only reliable one is a “Wish” spell. But that seems to turn the vampire mortal again. Now, that didn't sit right with me. If Ascension was changing him, this was even more of an "I'll fix him" situation. But I thought, would he even agree? He's so power hungry probably giving up on being a vampire would be the last thing he'd agree on. But the more I thought about it, the more it became clear to me that he actually has a strong dislike for being a vampire. If you tell him his reflection is a small price to pay for vampire powers he answers "To you, maybe." He loves seeing the sun again, all the colors. He can't see or remember his eyes, which if we take into literary view, eyes being the windows to the soul we could say it shows his disconnect with his soul, with his humanity. He absolutely hates the hunger urges that come with vampirism, saying they make him pathetic and it's the worst version of himself. And of course, the sexual part. He hasn't actually seen any perks of vampirism, just that it makes you an object of desire, a thing used only for sex. That is the only side of vampirism he has managed to experience and that is what he connects it with.
The point in the story that clearly connects his vampire nature to sexuality is the talk with the blood merchant. She is a drow, her society already views men as slaves good for one thing. But she doesn't ask him for sex, she asks him for a bite yet it's just as sexual. It shows the player that vampires are sex objects yet again. But whatever is left of him, of his soul and humanity is very separated from his vampire form. He doesn't take being a vampire as an identity but separates himself from it, calling it an affliction, or condition. So why push him further into nature that he doesn't accept or enjoy?
At many points he mentions there's almost nothing left of the man he was, whatever little is left of his soul, etc. He believes he doesn't have much to offer, especially after sex is off the table. That is why it's so important to remove sex from your romantic relationship for him. While obviously, it's a time for healing, it's also a time to actually connect to the person behind the vampire. The person he used to be before he became a sex object.
And that is the same if you choose his spawn romance ending. You pick the man he managed to remain despite everything that happened. That's why his post-scene at the grave is basically a rebirth of him, of his humanity. While the romance post-scene of the Ascension is a rebirth of you. You chose to reduce him to a vampire, to an object, and even went as far as to objectify yourself as well by accepting the vampire nature. And ultimately, that's all that's left of him, the vampire. The person he was is gone completely.
I'd just like to add that a lot of people like to bring up that they let the other characters make their own choices but that's a weak point. Shadowheart's choice is very influenced by your choices/approval and let's not forget she would actually kill Lae'zel if you don't get involved, you literally have to choose if you sell Wyll's soul or not, and Lae'zel would kill you if you don't stop her.
Also, there is the argument that he wants this. And for that, I can only guess based on my speculations, that despite all the power hunger brought from whatever feelings, survival, fear, selfishness -until the very last moment he hadn't made up his mind. He even tells you this before you enter Cazador's chamber. He won't know what he'll do before he faces him. His turmoil is obvious. You can tell him this isn't him, not really. And he responds that it should be, he doesn't want to be pathetic.
The choice for the ascension never was his, as it never was for him. He himself saw no way out, just like when he was under Cazador. And the temptation that was obviously present at the idea of being just like Cazador. The choice there was for you.
For the player, whether it'd be as a lover or a friend.Do you want the man or the vampire?
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nalyra-dreaming · 4 months ago
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Are Louis and Lestat in an exclusive romantic relationship on the books? Show!stat likes 'variety' and the way I took it is as an open relationship, like they go out and have their fun, but the romantic attachment is exclusive and just the two of them, instead of a polyamorous relationship that has love among multiple people... Anyway, I'm asking because I'm trying to understand show!stat better lol. I don't think the show has been clear about it, but maybe they want us to be confused? That's their goal? Because I believe Lestat only goes to Antoinette after he gets the impression Louis is slipping away. And that he takes Louis' shame in vampirism as shame in being with him too? So I get him trying to find a distraction or whatever. But I struggle with understanding this, not because he's 'with' two partners, because I believe all relationship configurations are valid and well, if they live forever, maybe they need a more diverse sex life than us and sex doesn't equal love lol. But even in his 'non-exclusivity', Lestat is still... Exclusive? Like, he just seems to go to Antoinette. But he also doesn't seem to really care about her either, like, I know we only got Louis' POV and not his, but he let her lose a finger and kicked her out of her own home to have sex with Louis? If he was sleeping around it would've made more sense to me, like, yes, he needs diverse partners, scenarios, kinks etc to entertain his sex life. But this feels like having a side piece only because Louis is distant, but being ready to drop her as soon he feels like there isn't an obstacle anymore. Like, if Louis embraces vampirism, finds some peace with his existential crisis an grief and gets to a good, comfortable place in his life, maybe they can be fully together now. And if/when that happens, I'm not sure if Lestat would need more? Anyway, this makes me so confused, because he has this aura of an extroverted, social, sexy, life of the party etc kind of guy that you'd stereotype and associate with being eternally single, sleeping around etc. But he also took so long to try again after what happened between him and Nicky, then he was fell in love with Louis and stayed in NOLA because of him, they familial and domestic life with Claudia for years and were genuinely happy before everything... There are parts of him that feel pretty traditional and simple too. So I'm like that Oprah "what's the truth?' meme lol. Anyway, thank you and sorry this got so long.
:)) Lestat is… monogamous at heart. I think Sam said that at one point. He loves deeply, and fully, and fatally.
He loves Louis.
Their relationship is not the easiest. We have only seen an edited, distorted picture of it for now, we also know now that Louis (at least thinks) he made it awful for Lestat because he wanted to make Lestat suffer (as he was suffering).
Vampires have (what I call) feeding flings. What Louis does in SF. Fuck and kill. What Lestat obviously does, too, bc Louis expects Antoinette to burn when he comes back.
The problem is that she doesn’t. Because she’s more than a fling. She is a symptom of their problems. In the book Antoine later tells us (yes, in the book Antoine survives) that Lestat came to him to talk about what moved him, which he felt he couldn’t at home, because he felt he would be ridiculed. Lestat in the show alludes to that when he rants about Claudia in Antoinette‘s bed (in the hotel). Antoinette was a retreat.
As such she is both less and more than an affair, something that is made clear by her getting turned later. We are led to believe he only turned her out of convenience, but Lestat always only turns people from or for love.
The edited tale tries to play up the cheating and jealousy aspect, but that is not (all) there is to it. Louis‘ and Lestat‘s main problem came imho, when Louis stopped feeding properly and stopped biting Lestat - the vicious circle that came with the lack of intimacy and bridging of the maker/fledgling barrier.
I talked about that here:
So the truth… the truth is it’s not as simple as we are led to believe. In their good times Louis had no problems inviting prey into his brothel to (fuck and) kill. Or the soldiers in s1. Louis did not even comment on them being in their bedroom :).
I think I would put it: they’re as monogamous as vampires can be?^^
And we‘ll probably see more hints wrt s1 in s3 :)
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sepublic · 1 year ago
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Yes yes Drolta sexy dommy mommy but like can we talk about the implications of her backstory and dynamic with Erzsebet??? She's a black woman but she's happily deferring to this white woman. She was an Egyptian priestess and we have her white lady appropriating a major deity from her religion, and instead of having the most reason and background to know what a bastardization this is, Drolta just continues to unironically love Erzsebet... What's up with that??? Did Drolta's background as a priest translate to Erzsebet accessing Sekhmet's blood? Or did she choose to worship Erzsebet because she had Sekhmet's blood?
And like yeah we can play with the idea of Olrox and Drolta as besties but can we also talk about their duality and how they're both dark-skinned PoC vampires and yet one of them is distinctly aware of this fact while the other doesn't really seem to care? You'd think Drolta would be more equipped than anyone else to know what's going on in Olrox's mind and anticipate his resentment-turned-rebellion, but she doesn't seem all that prepared? Or at least just kinda impatiently brushes it off like eventually he's gonna learn his place like she did.
Drolta is obviously socially keen enough to figure out Emmanuel's fatherly connection to Maria from just a glance, and yet she seems oblivious to how Olrox’s background clearly fuels his skepticism towards this “new world” talk she speaks of; These are NOT the words to convince Olrox, the very opposite, but Drolta is far too confident in using them as an appeal.
Hell what does Annette think, as someone who was a black slave to Vaublanc? Vaublanc was kneeling to Drolta as she inducted him into the cult of Erzsebet. She has to realize what a lot of these white nobles around her are like, how they feel about PoC. Does Drolta just happily see herself as the exception, does she think she's 'above' race because she's ascended to vampirism and is beside a goddess? And/or is Erzsebet's status as a white woman revoked because she ascended to vampire and then ascended a second time to goddess?
What questions would Annette ask, as a black woman who is also very spiritual, who has a mentor in Cecile? Annette also has a connection to the gods of her own heritage, whom she respects. She's going to them to undo the establishment. Meanwhile Drolta is letting her own god be bastardized. Does she think that survival can only come around if people make their cultures and magic adapt to the new status quo and find their place in it, regardless of what might be lost in the transition? There's a lot to say about Drolta and Annette fighting each other beneath the abbey.
Did Erzsebet turn Drolta, like she did Tera? Is the control a vampire has over its thrall inform a good portion of their dynamic? Please tell me we're gonna get backstory for these two regarding the blood of Sekhmet that explains what's going on in Drolta's head. Does she consider these implications, what does she think about them, how would she have reacted if someone like Olrox or Annette brought them up? Maybe Drolta accepts her place by Bathory's side because there's always a hierarchy in her mind, and all she can do is focus on saving herself a place above all of the rich white people, even if that means leaving behind her fellow PoC, because she's that kind of person who seeks empowerment for herself alone but not for the rest of her demographic, maybe seeing it as 'unrealistic' and her own position as a miracle that barely worked out.
Ngl I hope that one day Bloodlines gets adapted, and Drolta is brought back alongside Erzsebet as the main antagonists. I think there's a lot of room to explore Drolta's devotion to Erzsebet lasting until even now, and maybe develop their relationship. In game canon, Drolta is the one driving a lot of the events, being the one to resurrect Erzsebet, siccing the Mecha Knight on our protagonists, etc. And Dracula's second phase may or may not be intended to represent Drolta herself, which would otherwise explain her absence as a boss fight despite her role in the lore; And that places Drolta after Erzsebet in terms of gameplay.
I'm just saying!!! I'd love to see Drolta have a Fawful epiphany where she realizes that Erzsebet really is dependent on her contributions, and Drolta is the one who actually makes things work, she's the true driving force and mastermind; Erzsebet would be nothing without her, but can the same be said for the other way around? Maybe Drolta just assumed she needed Erzsebet but then she realizes she does all this and Erzsebet still has to depend on her. Maybe she IS aware of how much she outclasses Erzsebet, but Drolta finds it more convenient and safe to let Erzsebet take the spotlight as a figurehead, while she operates safely in the shadows.
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sgtmickeyslaughter · 6 days ago
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👻🎃💀Weekly Tag Wednesday💀🎃👻
Thanks for the tag @gallapiech and @mybrainismelted
Name: Gigi 🧛‍♀️
Your... uhm.. ScAaAary age: Has anyone else seen that clip of Greta Gerwig talking about how 27 feels like the age where being a lost twenty something stops being charming and fun? Like not being sure or settled in your career and having messy relationships starts being concerning? Yeah, I'm 25 but 27 is my scary age
🎥🔪🩸 Do you like scary movies? I used to hate them except a select few, ut my friend has been doing a horror move club every Wednesday in October and I've found a new appreciation - I think the big thing has to be that there can only be practical effects for the most part.
If so, what's your favorite scary movie? The original Suspiria
If you were trapped in a slasher film, would you survive? if not; how & when would you die? I like horror movies that have a cult element, so I think I would survive but get sucked into the cult (think Midsomar or Rosemary's Baby)
Now that we got the scary questions out of the way. Let's get a little more light hearted! 💕
What is your greatest fear? Flying
What is your favorite supernatural creature? I love vampires they're so sexy, I love the inherent queerness and symbolism of desire that's reliant but also predatory
Ever had a paranormal encounter? Nope!
In a high stress situation; do you fight or are you more of a flight person? Flight? I guess? If I can't out run someone going running everyday was kind of a waste
What is your favorite part about Halloween? The costume and theater of it all
Thank you for entertaining me 🥰You may live for another day.
Bonus question What is your credit card number? count to pi
Tags are 6 feet under! 🪦
 @mmmichyyy @iansw0rld @jrooc @lingy910y
@creepkinginc @gallawitchxx @catgrassplantdad @blue-disco-lights
@atthedugouts @stocious @burninface @ian-galagher
@heymrspatel @solitarycreaturesthey @thepupperino @mickeym4ndy
@doshiart @em-harlsnow @softmick @francesrose3 @energievie
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hotvintagepoll · 8 months ago
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Propaganda
Mabel Normand (Mabel at the Wheel, Mabel's Blunder)—One of the best slapstick comedians of the silent era (who you've probably never heard of)! She wrote! She directed, in fact, she was Charlie Chaplin's first director! And of course she acted!
Theda Bara (Cleopatra)—One of cinema's first female sex symbols. Nicknamed "The Vamp" due to her looks. The OG Goth Girl. She would be HUGE on Tumblr if she were around today!
This is round 1 of the bracket. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.
[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]
Mabel Normand:
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can never let mabel normand go by without mentioning mack & mabel, a deeply flawed musical with a beautiful score about her and mack sennett. (find a good cover of 'i won't send roses' and cry a little.) also, according to wikipedia mabel was the first film star to receive a pie thrown in the face!
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Theda Bara:
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She was simply nicknamed "The Vamp". Her sex appeal and typecasting was so intense that people actually thought that she lounged around half-nacked and seduced men left and right in her free time.
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She is one of the most famous and enduring faces in silent film and yet only 6 of her 43 films survived the 1937 Fox Vault Fire! 6! Think about what we could have had!
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She's the original Vamp and first film sex symbol! She said: “The vampire that I play is the vengeance of my sex upon its exploiters. You see, I have the face of a vampire, but the heart of a feministe.” Many of her films were banned or severely cut by state and city censorship boards due to her revealing costumes and suggestive acting. She even sued the Chicago Funkhouser censorship board to let her film Cleopatra be shown in theaters. Riots broke out in theaters during showings of her film Kathleen Mavourneen. In contrast to her film persona, her private life was pretty quiet. She grew up in Cincinnati as Theodosia "Theda" Goodman, the Jewish daughter of immigrants, and had one happy marriage that lasted 30+ years until she died at age 69.
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*Theeee* celluloid blueprint for both goth chicks and sexually-manipulative women--her persona was that of a "vampire", in the sense that would eventually be shortened into "vamp", although in truth she blended both definitions beautifully. Alas, the prints of most of her back-catalogue were lost to a studio fire in 1937, but enough survives to clearly demonstrate the fantasy of enticing danger that she was so kind as to serve us.
my favorite goth icon i want her gender
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dairy-farmer · 8 months ago
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My Thought(tm) of the Day! A Do-Over Verse! (o.o ) oh?
Yes! Tim. Glorious, brave, sexy. Dies in battle. It's the Big One, ya'll. A doomed timeline. Worst case scenario. Falling cities, few struggling survivers. The works.
Thing is? For each of them? That worst case scenario is DIFFERENT. Maybe one gets zombies. Another an alien invasion. A hell gate. Regardless, they survive. Fight and live on. Find The Rewind Clock.
A stopwatch that ticks backwards. One use. They.... they have so many regrets. Enemies are closing in. Bloodloss getting to them. They just want to see their family again. Be... better. Nicer to Tim. Save the world.
Click.
Time Rewinds ⏪.
And suddenly? Bruce is... sore. Not burned, parched, and cornered by literal cackling demons as the world burns. Not on his last leg. The last Wayne. The last hope of humanity, a species soon to finally die.
No. He's... exhausted. Wearing clothes he never wanted to see again. Stubble on his face and the ache of recent weeping in his throat. These are his mourning clothes. He's sitting at the Batcomputer. And checking the security feeds?
There is a determined, baby faced, young Timothy Drake... walking himself up the drive. A folder of damning evidence under his little arm.
Jason is dead and soon won't be. And Tim... he... he can start over.
He gets up. This time, he answers the door, instead of Alfred. Is serious when Tim lays out his case. Nods at the right moments. Tells him he's right.
Makes him Robin.
He's better this time. Gives feedback. Doesn't play mind games. Nurtures his brilliance. And Tim? Soaks it up. It burns Bruce, how easy it all could have been. The WARMTH Tim so freely offers. After so many mistakes? Bruce craves it like an addict.
But nothing could ever just be free, could it?
That damn end of the world scenario. He finally tracks it down. Has a MONTH left before Jason should be back. Only to get dragged into literal Hell along side Constantine and have to fight his way out. They close the damn gate. Forever.
It takes two months.
He's in pieces. Injured and still reeling from the horrors he's seen. But he has to try. Try to go get his son. Tim stops him. Keeps him from killing himself, trying to invade the heart of the League while half dead. But after the fires... all the fires... he's so cold. They JEERED and mocked him with his failures.
Like an Addict.
He needs to be closer. Closer and closer. Needs to cherish and be kind and SHOW Tim how much he means to him. But he can't! A lifetime if words trapped, refuse to break free, even now. The only time he's EVER been so intimate and soft is when he...
Wires not so much cross as long ago corroded. He NEEDS. He's kissing Tim's neck. Hands gentle. See? He CAN be gentle. Be tender and good. Not even taking for himself, just massaging muscles loose. Stroking soft, soft skin. Pulling close to cuddle, warm and precious, as he rubs and rubs until Tim comes apart under his gentle hands.
Tim clings so tight. Is punchdrunk and twitching. A first.
His Robin trusts him. Loves him. Is a curious, insatiable, lad. What new, unexpected, and pleasant thing is THIS? Tim let's him have so many firsts.
But what of Dick? Brother and Protecter of Timmeryly Innocence? He faced Vampires. Because of course it had to be sexy, sexy, Vampires. Frankly, he half expected it. But as they close in? He stands atop the hoard of every explosive left he could salvage and wonders if his family would have proud.
If this stupid stop watch will even work.
Where, exactly, he would have taken Timmers for a "Yay We Won!" Celebration dinner if they had, indeed, actually won. He misses pizza. And his friends. But most of all? His family.
Eat several hundred tons of chemical reactions, fuckers.
Click.
He's just finished unlocking a door he is VERY certain he sent a vampiric Deathstroke face first through. The door swings open aaaaand.... yep, that's his old apartment. What day is-?
Tim squeezes by him to start poking around.
Oh.
Dick stops caring. Tim is ALIVE. Smiling at him and joking. Dick feels floaty and far away. Let's Tim do as he pleases. And just... let's himself breathe. Feeling like he's wound too tight beneath his skin. Like at any moment a vampire will crash through a wall and ruin this beautiful dream.
Eventually, Tim notices.
He climbs into Dicks lap to hug him. Ground him. And... and something in Dick snaps. That heartbeat. That beautiful, beautiful heartbeat. Alive, alive, ALIVE. He's rolling them before he can think about it. Tim melting into his kisses. Then jerking and grabbing hold for dear life as he slides of the couch to his knees.
All but ripping anything that keeps his mouth from its goal. Spreading legs and holding them tight, so he can't wiggle free too escape how overwhelming it feels. Dick couldn't hold back if he wanted too.
And he really, really doesn't want too.
Tasting and swirling, sucking and fucking his tounge as deep as it'll go. Pinching and rubbing at that cute little clit. Sliding fingers DEEP to fuck and find and rub mercilessly against all his good spots.
If the apartment wasn't soundproofed, his neighbors would think he was murdering someone. Slowly.
He's so hard it hurts and can't bring himself to care. It's so GOOD to see Timmy sobbing on his tounge. Writhing on the fucking of his fingers, incoherently begging. The only thing that convinces him to STOP is when Tim's whines start sounding the wrong kind of desperate.
Fumbling blindly with a wet hand he jerks his sweats down and crawls up. Bends his sweet boy in half. He slides in so easy, after all the fingerfucking and orgasms. Timmy is so WET. Gushing.
It's perfect. He's perfect. Doesn't have to do a thing. Dick can lift him up easy, still impaled all precious and perfect on his cock, and carry him to the bedroom. Lay him down and work his cock in and out, sweet and gentle, of that poor over toyed with hole, until it becomes too much and he spills DEEP.
You just doze off, Tim. Let your big brother take care of clean up.
And so it goes~ Jason? Zombies. The jokes got old REAL fast. He blinks awake one step into Titans Tower. Changes plans. Catches his successor masterbating. Changes plans AGAIN. Since when was Tim-Tam capable of being horny? Who cares. It's been years by his view point and this is Hot.
He Dramatically Unmasks and pounds Tim through the mattress. Exits stage left, pursued by drugged up Half-Kryptonian.
Damian? About to die in the cold vacuum of space. Took the fight to them. Invade HIS planet, will you? Well uno reverse card mother fuckers. He's gonna invade YOU. ALARMING successfully too, they might add. That was their entire battle fleet.
WAS.
But, well, all men must die... etc etc. Death soliloquy. Or... you know... this stupid magical watch Jon insisted he bring. Meh. Might as wel- Click.
Mother Fucker. Jon was RIGHT. He must never be informed.
And... he forgot how Competently Sexy his Rival was. Shit. He was caught loo-! But Tim just? Grins? Says something about him finally "deciding to get along, huh"? W-what? What's happening. Why is he being pushed down onto a bench? Is this hazing?
Tim rides him dry. He may be a changed man. He can't feel his toes. What in the name of all that is small and fluffy is GOING ON!? Wasn't this supposed to be time travel? And of course, that's when he clocks the others acting Clearly Off.
The fuckers Be-Hornied his RIVAL! He's... something about that! He'll tell you when he can move again. Contemplated the virtues of matrimony with his long time Rival. But rest assured! There will be yelling!
-🐼
😍😍😍😍!!!! them all going back in time at different points and making their moves on tim, treating him nicer, more tender, not letting themselves be held back because they've denied themselves for so long and lost their tim already!!! bruce being the first followed by dick, jason, and damian who indulge and fuck tim and love him! and tim!!! loving his family so much and loving them in every way, letting them make their moves on him because this time around they love him and aren't afraid to show it!! all these versions of the bats who have lived through the loss of everything in an apocalypse and getting to live peaceful and happy lives with their tim!!!😍
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