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oliolioxenfreewrites · 21 hours ago

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osi’s midnight masquerade; a theatre troupe of queer vampires who play by their own rules. Would you be able to tell us a bit more about the vampires who make up this theatre troupe? 👀

I couldn't begin to understand the lives of these salacious vamps, so, I'll let Osi provide clarity ;)

a mini wip intro for chirstmas?? i think yes

WIP INTRO - Osi's Midnight Masquerade (narrated by Osirys himself)

Being a vampire isn’t a blessing. Let’s start there. It’s not the romanticized eternal youth nonsense you read about in books or see on glossy screens. It’s not the allure of satin sheets or the thrill of moonlit hunts. It’s a tightrope walk, every step one miscalculation away from falling into something dark, sharp, and impossible to climb out of. I would know—I’ve been walking that line for centuries.

To most, we’re the fantasies they want to believe in: seductive silhouettes cutting through smoke and shadows, predators with a touch of tragedy. People want us to be beautiful and dangerous, the ultimate contradiction. They want the dream of immortality wrapped in silk and sharpened by fangs. And we let them believe it. We have to. The truth? The truth is too messy, too raw for their imaginations to handle. Without connection—without others to keep us tethered—we lose ourselves. The hunger takes over. The walls of who we are collapse. That’s why I built the Masquerade in the late 70s. Not just for the performances or the power, but for the people. For the family.

And what a family it is. Deeply flawed, creative, brilliant, infuriating—but mine. Each of them brings their chaos, their hunger, their fight. Every single one of them keeps me grounded in ways I can’t always explain.

Milo is the heartbeat of the Masquerade, the one who keeps us moving even when everything else threatens to fall apart. Her music isn’t just accompaniment—it’s a command, shaping the energy of every performance, holding the audience in her grip. She doesn’t simply compose; she controls, her hands always in motion, her mind consistently several tempos ahead. Small-framed, but impossible to miss, Milo has a presence that feels like gravity, the kind that steadies the room while reminding everyone who’s really in charge.

Her sharp, hazel eyes don’t miss a thing, and her voice—measured but biting when necessary—can cut through the noise like a conductor silencing an unruly orchestra. She thrives on precision, on keeping chaos at bay, but she’s just as willing to unleash it if she thinks we’ve earned it. Milo doesn’t deal in softness, but when you’re spinning out, she’s the one who holds you steady, unyielding and certain, even if she’ll never admit that’s what she’s doing.

Still, Milo isn’t easy to know. For all her command, she keeps most of herself locked away behind a wall of sharp wit and sharper boundaries. You’ll catch glimpses sometimes—in the way her fingers drift over the piano keys during a rare moment alone, or in the weight of her gaze when she thinks no one’s looking. But the second she realizes you’ve noticed, she shuts it down, turning back into the unflinching architect of the Masquerade’s rhythm.

Vinscint is her constant, the foundation beneath her intensity. Tall, broad, and deliberate, he moves as if he's never rushed a day in his life. His calmness steadies the surrounding storm, and his strength quietly holds the Masquerade together when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. They create a balance—Milo’s sharp drive is softened by Vinscint’s patience, while the weight of his silence is anchored by her commanding presence.

Together, they’re the reason we’ve even lasted this long, the ones we all look to even when we won’t admit it. Milo keeps the rhythm, Vinscint keeps the ground beneath our feet, and between the two of them, we manage to survive.

René? René is my star, the one who steps into the spotlight and makes you forget the world existed before he arrived. He doesn’t just perform—he commands. When René moves, it’s with a grace that doesn’t feel learned, as though the stage itself bends to accommodate him. His voice has a richness that fills every corner with the theater, every word an invitation laced with danger, every glance a challenge you know you’ll lose but can’t help but accept.

His presence is magnetic and intoxicating in a way that feels unfair, like the universe cheated by putting that much beauty, talent, and raw hunger into one person. He burns so brightly it’s a miracle he hasn’t engulfed himself entirely, and yet there’s always the sense that he might. He leans into it though, weaponizing the tension, the risk, and the inevitability of his self-destruction. He thrives on it, and the audience does too. They adore him, worship him even, and René takes that adoration like it’s owed. Because to him, it is.

Tof is something else entirely. He doesn’t just stir up chaos; he is chaos, wearing it like a tailored suit, all sharp smiles and sharper edges. He steps onto the stage with a kind of careless confidence, like he owns it—and, in a way, he does. Rules mean nothing to Tof. He doesn’t just break them; he obliterates them, scattering the pieces for everyone else to trip over while he watches from the sidelines with a grin that could cut glass. He likes to see how far someone is pushed before they snap, and when they do, he’s there, ready to offer a smirk or a sharp quip that makes you wonder if he planned the whole thing.

But here’s the thing about Tof: he’s not as reckless as he wants you to think. Beneath all that chaos, there’s a mind that’s always working, always calculating. Every sharp word, every sly grin, every rule he shatters—it’s all deliberate. He’s not just ahead of the game; he’s the one running it, even when it looks like he’s spiraling out of control. That’s his brilliance. He’ll make you think he’s falling apart, but the truth is, he’s the one pulling the strings.

Now, of course, Tof does have one glaring flaw—or maybe it’s just part of his charm. He can’t keep his dick in his pants. It’s not just the sex, though that’s certainly part of it. For Tof, it’s about the game, the thrill of pursuit, the power of knowing he can have anyone he wants—mortal or immortal. It’s the tension, the chase, the way seduction gives him the upper hand before the other person even realizes they’re playing.

Moving on to Xaviyr, my baby. My soft spot. My reminder of what it was like to feel alive before the hunger sank its teeth into me. Xaviyr is young by our standards, still carrying a kind of softness the rest of us can’t afford anymore. His face, round and open, hasn’t yet been hardened by centuries of survival, and his wide, dark eyes still hold questions instead of answers. There’s a quietness to him, a gentleness that stands in stark contrast to the sharp edges of the rest of us.

But don’t mistake that softness for weakness. Xaviyr may not burn like René or cut like Tof, but there’s a strength in his stillness that’s impossible to ignore. He draws people in without demanding their attention, makes them feel safe without ever promising safety. It’s a skill none of us could replicate even if we tried.

Still, I worry about him. Xaviyr’s softness is part of what makes him so vital to the Masquerade, but it’s also what makes him vulnerable. This world isn’t kind to people like him, and I can see the toll it’s already taking, even if he doesn’t admit it. He’s learning, though. Learning how to navigate the hunger, the power, the constant push and pull of what it means to be one of us.

Pandora, the silent watchdog of our darkest secrets, her gaze defined by the weighty burden of her knowledge. She is known for her clairvoyance, an ability that survived her transition into vampirism. Her eyes, like deep pools of wisdom, perceive the fragile fissures in our lives long before they expand, a subtle warning etched in her expression. She is the guardian who steps in when we teeter on the edge of self-destruction, gently guiding us back from the precipice when our blindness threatens to consume us.

And last, but certainly not least, there’s me. Osirys. Osi to those who’ve earned it. I’m the one who built all this, the one who keeps it standing when everything else threatens to fall apart. I’m not the star—that’s René. I’m not the heart—that’s Milo. I’m the centerpiece, the one who holds the pieces together even when they don’t want to fit.

I’m not proud of everything I’ve done to keep the Masquerade alive, but I don’t regret it either. Regret is a luxury vampires like us can’t afford. The stage is what matters. Our family is what matters. And as long as I’m here, as long as the lights still burn and the audience still comes, I’ll make sure the Masquerade survives.

When we come together, we create something special that’s bigger than just each of us alone. On stage, we become unstoppable. The crowd feeds us their amazement, their curiosity, and their willingness to be swept away, and we soak it all in. That’s the real desire—not just our good looks or charm, but the presence we bring. It’s about being able to look someone in the eye and make them feel truly seen, wanted, and alive. That’s what makes us what they call, 'seductive.' Once they experience that connection, they won't want to let it go.

Neither do we.

That’s what the Masquerade is. A lifeline. A purpose. It’s what keeps not just me, but all of us from falling apart; no matter how sharp the line my children and I walk. If holding on to the spotlight makes me a monster, so be it. I’ve learned to live with that. Because at the end of the night, when the audience is gone and the lights fade, I’m still here. And that has to count for something.

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oliolioxenfreewrites · 28 days ago

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🤎 HAPPY TURKEY DAY EVERYONE 🤎

I’ve been so busy writing and formatting my work; I wanted to pop on and give you all the fully realized synopsis of:

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In the hidden underbelly of Berlin, where the elite gather to indulge their darkest desires, Osi’s Midnight Masquerade is more than a theater troupe—it’s a force of seduction and power. Led by Osiris Codwell, a gay vampire whose androgynous charisma masks centuries of betrayal, the troupe balances on a knife’s edge between art and survival. Their performances are provocative, pushing the boundaries of intimacy and fear, but behind the curtain lies a world of unchecked ambitions, fractured loyalties, and the dangerous pull of sexual desire.

The troupe’s control begins to crack when Malcolm Lockhart, Osi’s former lover turned bitter rival, sets his sights on dismantling everything Osi has built. Malcolm doesn’t just want to destroy the Masquerade; he wants to own it, to take back the power Osi robbed him of decades ago.

He begins by targeting René, the troupe’s volatile, egomaniacal star, whose craving for attention makes him a very easy pawn. René’s growing sexual relationship with Sayre, Malcolm’s first turned vampire son, threatens to unravel the fragile unity holding the troupe together with their Romeo/Romeo(esque) romance, igniting rivalries and jealousy that Osi can no longer ignore.

As René spirals, Milo—the troupe’s composer and its quiet emotional core—struggles to keep the group from tearing itself apart. Her unwavering loyalty to Osi is tested by his obsession with control, which blinds him to the fractures forming around him. Vinscint, Milo’s husband and the troupe’s damn near omnipresent protector, finds himself drawn into a dangerous and heated connection with Hiliery, a former captive of Malcolm’s dominion. Hiliery’s presence becomes a lightning rod, a reminder of the past that none of them—especially Osi—can escape.

While Osi struggles to maintain the Masquerade’s dominance, Malcolm exploits the troupe’s insecurities by offering poisoned promises and fanning the flames of old grudges. Pandora, the troupe’s choreographer and oracle, uncovers secrets that threaten to disrupt the fragile truce between the Masquerade and their rivals. However, her own guilt and complicated history with Malcolm’s star actress, Celeste, leave her torn between prioritizing her own survival over her loyalty to the troupe. In the shadows, Tof, the troupe’s mischievous prankster and leading man, engages in a dangerous rivalry with Kieran, a Dominion troupe performer whose chaotic behavior mirrors his own.

The simmering and blatant tension eventually explodes during a particularly important gala performance, where Osi plans to make a cunningly orchestrated public display of dominance. But Malcolm’s schemes also come to a head, and the performance becomes a battlefield. Betrayals are laid bare, relationships shatter, and blood stains the stage.

As the lights dim, the Masquerade survives—but not without its scars. Osi, forced to confront the consequences of his ambition, is left questioning whether his legacy is worth the cost of the connections he’s lost.

In the story of sensuality turned fatal corroded by obsession, power and influence is the mask that fractures under pressure. The Midnight Masquerade rises from this corrosion with its foundation and troupe members forever changed.

In the end, survival isn’t just about outlasting your enemies…it’s about the troupe having to face what remains of themselves when the stage lights fade.

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