#vtm jw

[thewhumpcaretaker]

vinny being silly and drawing ‘bast in his army clothes eudhshdhddhdh (sorry im locked in my room and im spiraling)

Oooops Femquis! Just imagine Vincent fantasizing about this heheheheheee AND THEN SEBASTIAN FINDS IT!!!

[marquisedegramont]

WHO WANTS GANGREL!JOHN WICK

[kavalyera]

i drew the adjudicator from john wick as a lasombra because,,,,,,,,, uhhhhhhhh,,,,,,,,, leave me alone :(

[ventruevitae]

Do you like LaCroix/Nines? jw

lmao short answer No

long answer is i will generally always prefer mine/a friend's oc/canon ship if given the opportunity (@tellings' lacroix ship is a fun little addition to my own personal canon which slots in nicely alongside what i've got going on). i also just have a generally hard time looking and nines' character and going 'yeah this is a plausible relationship without altering good portions of his core personality.' likewise, lacroix would Never, especially where we meet him at. like the rising popularity of a m/m ship that usually fits into the 'rivals' energy doesn't surprise me one bit lmao it's just not my thing. tbh i have the tag blocked bc for a while i couldn't find a vtm blog that wasn't putting it on my dash dfghhgh. there are some characters i'm down for multishipping, but these two aren't in that category.

i also still have. negative feelings towards a couple spaces that were Supposed to be oc centric but then took a sharp dive into that ship & if you didn't like it or even just didn't actively ship it, there wasn't going to be a whole lot to offer to the conversations. so that definitely soured it from the jump gfhjk

so yeah! if you like it that's whatever i won't tell you how to consume fan content but it's something i'll never personally enjoy & im probably definitely going to avoid following you if you do fghh

[canyoncoral-blog1]

Hiểm Họa Khôn Lường Khi Tự Ý Tẩy Nốt Ruồi Tại Nhà

Hiểm Họa Khôn Lường Khi Tự Ý Tẩy Nốt Ruồi Tại Nhà

Để loại bỏ những nốt ruồi kém thẩm mỹ, khá nhiều người lựa chọn dịch vụ tẩy nốt ruồi công nghệ cao.  Trong đó có những khách hàng mới chỉ qua tư vấn, cũng có khách hàng đã qua các thủ thuật cắt gọt. Với những vấn đề hiện bạn đang thắc mắc liên quan đến dung dịch metronidazole sau tẩy nốt ruồi, đội ngũ tư vấn viên Thu Cúc sẽ liên hệ trực tiếp để tư vấn cụ thể, bạn vui lòng chờ máy nhé! Hien tai em dang bi benh seo loi vung nguc va em da dieu tri benh vien da lieu cần thơ hon hai nam bang nito long nhung chua het hoan toan …Em co nghe noi la tiem kcort se nhanh hon nhung cung co tac dung phu ….Em muon hoi la hien tai benh vien co phuong phap dieu tri nao hieu qua hon ko…Em rat mong duoc phuc dap cua qui bac si …em rat cam on !! Hơn nữa công nghệ tẩy nốt ruồi tại Thu Cúc chỉ can thiệp đến vùng nhỏ không xâm lấn đến vùng xung quanh nên rất an toàn bạn nhé! Không chỉ vậy, bác sĩ da liễu và điều dưỡng viên tại Thu Cúc Clinics sẽ hướng dẫn bạn cách chăm sóc và bảo vệ da tốt nhất, hạn chế tối đa tình trạng tái phát. Tỏi chứa khá nhiều vitamin và khoáng chất có tính sát khuẩn giúp xóa mờ và loại bỏ các đốm mụn ruồi hiệu quả nhất. Đồng thời thúc đẩy quá trình tăng sinh colagen trong lớp bì làm đầy dần các vết lõm trên da. Những nốt mụn ửng đỏ, sưng tấy xuất hiện trên mặt gây đau nhức, ngứa ngáy khiến bạn cảm thấy khó chịu. Hơn thế, thời gian qua có rất nhiều các trường hợp các cơ sở thẩm mỹ nhỏ lẻ đã bị phạt vì cơ sở vật chất tệ không đạt tiêu chuẩn an toàn, khi khám chữa bệnh dễ gây những hậu quả nghiêm trọng như nhiễm trùng da…Vì thế, Thẩm mỹ viện Thanh Quỳnh với tư cách một trong những đơn vị hàng đầu Việt Nam chúng tôi khuyên bạn chỉ nên lựa chọn tại những cơ sở thẩm mỹ uy tín nhằm bảo vệ chính quyền lợi và sức khỏe của chính bạn.

Địa chỉ của Dr.Spiller Skinlab tại Hải Phòng: Số 145 Quang Trung - Hồng Bàng - Tp. Hải Phòng. Không có dấu vết và vết sẹo nào sau khi tôi sử dụng gel Super chistotelo” này để tẩy mụn! Tuy nhiên, do đặc tính chống chữa bệnh do vi khuẩn chúng có thể giúp loại bỏ một cách an toàn các nốt ruồi từ làn da của bạn. Công nghệ Laser Co2 cũng là công nghệ giúp tẩy nốt ruồi hiệu quả, không để lại sẹo do được kích thích tăng sinh chuỗi collagen và elastin tự nhiên. Chi phí tẩy nốt ruồi tại Thu Cúc là từ 150 - 300 nghìn đồng 1 nốt tùy tình trạng bạn nhé. Quá phẫn nộ trước sự thất bại của ca phẫu thuật dẫn đến những thiệt thòi về thể chất và đời sống tinh thần của mình, cuối năm 2008, chị L. quay lại Việt Nam đề nghị bác sĩ H. bồi thường. Bên cạnh đó, quy trình tẩy nốt ruồi tại Thu Cúc được thực hiện an toàn, khoa học nên bạn có thể yên tâm không cần lo lắng nhé! C��� lúc nào rảnh thì sát, khi sát được nửa tháng không khỏi chị ấy nản không sát nữa và quên đi ,sau một thời gian nhìn lại ,giờ mụn biến hết rồi. Là một trong những trung tâm chuyên mang đến cho khách hàng dịch vụ làm đẹp hàng đầu tại Thành phố Hồ Chí Minh.

Những đường cắt chuẩn xác và thao tác khâu thẩm mỹ sẽ được thực hiện dưới bàn tay khéo léo của các chuyên gia, để tránh tối đa tình trạng tổn thương da. Bên cạnh đó, phương pháp này sẽ giúp loại bỏ tối ưu nốt ruồi, ngăn chặn việc mọc mới ở cùng vị trí. Mình cũng mới đi tẩy tuần trước, nốt của m mụn lồi to ở ngay trên mũi, m cũng phẫu thuật khâu 5 mũi liền. Các mẹ chỉ giúp địa chỉ ở Sài Gòn đi. Mình cũng có 1 cái dưới mắt, trông khó xem lắm, nhưng trước giờ chưa dám đi tẩy. Nguyên nhân gây bệnh là do rối loạn chuyển hóa dưới da (sự giãn nở của ống bài tiết mồ hôi) tạo nên mụn thịt, lúc đầu mụn nhỏ trắng về sau to dần nếu không điều trị sớm mụn thịt mới đầu cư trú ở mí mắt sau đó lan dần khắp mặt như trán, thái dương, ria mép, cằm. Nếu như đốt lần đầu mà ko hết thì sau lần tái khám có phải trả thêm chi phí tẩy lần 2ko ak.e cam ơn ak. Hiện nay phương pháp Tẩy nốt ruồi tàn nhang an toàn với Lasez Co2Fractional được xem là hiện đại nhất được các bác sỹ tại VTM Nguyễn Du áp dụng cho tất cả cách khách hàng. Rất nhiều nơi quảng cáo bằng các phương pháp khác nhau như lấy cồi mụn... nhưng thực chất chưa hiểu rõ căn nguyên cơ chế của bệnh. Chính vì thế khi lựa chọn địa chỉ trị sẹo, chị em cũng cần chọn mặt gửi vàng, chọn bác sĩ - những người có trình độ tay nghề cao và khả năng sử dụng laser thành thạo để trực tiếp điều trị cho mình. Thẩm Mỹ Viện Đông Âu không chỉ là địa chỉ chăm sóc sắc đẹp mà còn mang đến cho bạn một thế giới bình yên, thư giãn. Cho e hỏi.đến bệnh viện tẩy nốt ruồi có phải hẹn lịch trước ko ak.e đã đi tẩy nốt ruồi 1 lần nhưng ko hết.

Sau nhiều lần quay lại phòng khám đề nghị chỉnh sửa nhưng không gặp được bác sĩ Thắng nên anh buộc phải đến một phòng khám nha khác để chỉnh sửa để chấm dứt những cơn đau. Duoi mat em co nhung not mun thit trong rat xau,truoc day em da di dot tia laze benh vien, nhung lai thay co seo,va no moc tro muon hoi bac si la co cach nao chua cho het mun thit ma k de lai seo k. Em xin cam on! Anh Cường, chồng chị Thương mắng vợ: Tôi có mấy cái nốt ruồi ở cằm, ở ngực, để mấy chục năm nay chả làm sao. Nó cũng góp phần giúp Bệnh viện Da liễu Hà Nội - Cơ sở 1 để tăng chất lượng dịch vụ. Tôi muốn tẩy nốt ruồi vùng kín, nhưng sợ bị ảnh hưởng và cũng ngại vì vùng da nhạy cảm. Laser CO2 có thể điều trị được nốt ruồi ở mọi vị trí (ngay cả ở những vị trí khó như bờ mi mắt và cả những nốt ruồi có kích thước lớn tới gần 1 cm với kết quả tốt, điều mà các phương pháp cũ không thể làm được. Từ khi tẩy nốt ruồi tại Thu Cúc Sài Gòn, em tự tin hơn hẳn, và rất hãnh diện mỗi khi có ai đó khen mình duyên dáng hơn. Từ lâu tỏi đã được sử dụng là một nguyên liệu chăm sóc da an toàn và có công dụng tẩy nốt ruồi hiệu quả.

Khi sử dụng công nghệ này bạn hoàn toàn không cần phải lo lắng đến vấn đề trị mụn thịt có đau không hay trị mụn thịt có nguy hiểm không Bởi vì các tia laser vi phân vô cùng nhỏ chỉ tác động vào vùng da cần điều trị mụn thịt và sẽ giữ lại được nguyên vẹn những mô da xung quanh vị trí bắn nên rất an toàn cho da. Để việc điều trị đạt kết quả cao, trước khi điều trị bác sĩ sẽ làm sạch vùng da mụn tại mặt hay quang mắt trước khi sử dụng liệu trình điều trị hiệu quả. Sự phát triển vượt bậc của JW thể hiện qua kết quả thẩm mỹ khuôn mặt toàn diện - Gọt Cằm - Độn Cằm - Phẫu thuật Gọt Mặt V line - Chỉnh hàm với thành tích hơn 1.000 ca Phẫu Thuật Hàm Hô , Phẫu Thuật Hàm Móm thành công vang dội toàn Quốc. Nốt ruồi (melanocytic nevi) là một dạng sắc tố ở da. Nó có thể xuất hiện từ nhỏ nhưng cũng có khi chúng ta lớn lên mới xuất hiện. Ngay cả chúng tôi nhiều trường hợp cũng không dám can thiệp vì phương tiện máy móc còn thiếu nên sợ gây nguy hiểm cho bệnh nhân”, bác sĩ Trương Linh nhấn mạnh. Tiếp theo khách hàng sẽ được bôi tê để khách hàng hoàn toàn thư giãn, thoải mái trong suốt quá trình điều trị mụn thịt, nốt ruồi. Em không nhớ rõ nhưng hình như nó to hơn trước, xung quanh không thấy bất thường gì.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. I - Lucky Find

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @evrensadwrn! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: On a visit to his home country, Sebastian LaCroix has the good fortune to find a beautiful and powerful Marquis dying of a bullet wound. Why not take him home as a ghoul?

Author's Note: Okay, um...remember when I said this was a one-shot? Excuse me while I spit out another enemies-to-lovers slowburn because I can't help myself. I may or may not finish it, but I'd rather give the story plenty of room to breathe than rush through it, even if I don't get to the end. I'm excited to see where it goes!

TW: hallucination, kidnapping, religious imagery, vampires doing vampire stuff

If you have a century or two to wait, sometimes the world delivers gifts, just lying there, ready to be pocketed. A seashell, pearlescent and only a little chipped at the edges. A shiny new quarter forgotten on the sidewalk. Los Angeles.

It even might deliver what Sebastian LaCroix would have called, in his day, a “dandy”, freshly dying, on the steps of the Sacré-Coeur Basilica.

Only minutes remained until sunrise. LaCroix’s heart, though it had no need to beat, contracted in terror at the nearness of sunlight, at the piercing golden glow already illuminating that beautiful creature’s parted, breathless lips. This was risky business, swooping in like a vulture at such a time. A little longer, and they might never have met. Sebastian thought of that too often in the days and years and centuries that followed.

Only minutes remained until the bullet in his brain would have laid waste to the most vigorous life force Sebastian had ever encountered.

But as matters stood, he watched from the shadowy columns where he had chosen to shelter during the daylight hours of his visit to France, and clung to the sound of a distant pulse. It persisted (though feebly) even once its scent exploded into open air.

A great bulk of a man in a dark overcoat bowed down his head and sighed. He lifted Vincent’s body with the solemnity of one who knows what death means, and carried it within, into the shadow where Sebastian waited, under those forgotten awnings just beyond the pews. The carnival of stained-glass light pouring through the windows did not penetrate there.

As they passed, the man halted, overcome with a sudden unease, and could not move his feet. Sebastian smiled on him, an open hand outstretched. “Would you allow me to bless this man before he passes on?”

The man had, of course, no choice, and he would not remember laying his charge at Sebastian’s feet, or saying, “Who are you, sir? A man of God?”

“Think of me as a healing angel.”

He stared, knowing quite frankly that this was bullshit. He could see a barely restrained urge to devour flaring up within Sebastian even now, not so different from the look his own superior had worn on occasion, equally recognizable on both kindred and kine. “If you are an angel, then so is he.”

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

There was never total certainty that it would work. A headshot was unfortunate to say the least, and even with a truly massive outpouring of vitae, the bullet still had to be pushed out of Vincent’s brain, dragging on the neurons as it went.

There wasn’t physical pain, exactly. No nerves are to be found in the grey matter. Inside the brain itself, the only pain is mental.

Time and place fragmented themselves, breaking apart in front of Vincent to form a dazzling kaleidoscope. He was drifting on his back, through a flooded Château de Versailles. The water must have been deep, because he was lifted so high, close to the frescoed ceiling where angels leaned down over him amongst the roiling clouds. Why was the palace full of water? No…not water. Blood. Of course. He was being carried up to judgement on the tide of blood he’d spilt, that was it. He could hear his own music coming from another room, the reveries he used to play at the piano, but it was wildly distorted, devolving into devils’ trills. The angels crawled down over the mountains of clouds, over the ledge of the upper moulding, down the columns on all fours to descend on him, snarling as angels never snarl, with fangs at their lips. Their unnatural motions sparked a total horror in him but he could not flee, could only float paralyzed on the sea of blood that was starting to seep into his mouth, into his eyes. They were upon him, someone was bending over him, a face that flickered and distorted and jeered. A devil. His father. Then John Wick. His heart strained with wild terror.

“Your heartbeat is growing stronger. Good. It took long enough.”

And the face resolved. It was, at least, none of the faces he had feared a few moments ago. And it wasn’t unpleasant to look at, with strikingly high cheekbones and full lips, with a strawberry blond slick of hair and eyes like pools of pale honey. It had a magnetism about it, deeper than its inherent charm and beauty. He had trouble looking away from that face – it was in focus even though the rest of the world remained blurred, and it made something sickly sweet well up inside of him. He could have forgiven the cruel satisfaction painted all over it, but that sweet magnetism, tugging on his heartstrings…he could not forgive that. He decided that whoever this was, he disliked them very, very much.

For a few moments, Vincent tried to speak, but his brain had not yet made contact with his tongue, it seemed. He just gasped and gasped until the man laughed and held up the bullet, coated in blood. “Can you believe this little scrap of metal was all it took to put you into a state of such total confusion? And you would be far worse off if I hadn’t taken a liking to you. Life is so fragile.” And the man…well, there was no getting around it. He popped the bullet into his mouth like a candy and licked his fingers, apparently savoring the taste, before pulling it out of his mouth again, sucked clean of blood. He swallowed and grinned widely, this time baring fangs.

Okay. So he was still hallucinating, then. Good good, nothing to worry about. Just slowly breathing his last breaths on the steps of the Basilica, hallucinating violently while John Wick probably gloated over his body. It was fine! Everything was fine. The world started to go fuzzy and dark at the edges as his wild gasping continued.

“Oh no no no, you’re not passing out again just yet. Solo jet rides are interminably dull. We ought to use our time wisely and get to know each other.” The man slapped lightly at his cheek, trying to keep him conscious. Vincent felt his brows furrow, and couldn’t control his muscles enough to wipe that affronted look off his face.

“Who…who…” do you think you are, that had been his intention for the sentence. But he couldn’t quite get there, and the man answered just the same.

“Sebastian LaCroix, Camarilla Prince of Los Angeles and your new regnant.” The man took his hand and shook it. “Of course, none of that means anything to you just yet, but it will very soon.”

It didn’t, except for “Los Angeles.” Vincent was still catching up to the part about “jet rides,” and noticing that the ceiling above them was curved in the manner of an aircraft cabin. Where the hell was he? Was he…kidnapped? A feeling set in then. Whether it was made of greater parts relief or sinking dread, he couldn’t tell. But he had the feeling that this was far too vivid to be a hallucination.

He wasn’t dead after all, and Sebastian LaCroix, whatever he may be, was real.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. 2 - Domination

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @evrensadwrn! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: LaCroix briefs Vincent on the new world he has just entered into, with the expectation that he will be an obedient ghoul. But Vincent is still struggling to gain the upper hand.

Author's Note: I made myself sad writing this - I want Sebastian to turn from Whumper to Caretaker already!

TW: mind control, emotional manipulation, strangulation, kidnapping

It was not LaCroix’s habit to keep his subordinates close to him. If it was wise to keep enemies close, then it was wiser to keep envious inferiors at such a distance that they had no opportunity to become enemies. Ghouls ought to have no knowledge of their master’s weaknesses, and no importance as anything other than pawns. They ought to view him as a solitary, impenetrable figure, above even their understanding. But Vincent Bisset de Gramont proved himself an enemy from the start, and therefore, an exception.

LaCroix repeated that name in his head and smiled, rolling it and playing with it, along with the bullet in his palm which he had decided to keep as a souvenir. Vincent had become so incensed when LaCroix refused to use his title that he determined on the spot never to use it again. The man had to be taught a lesson. “You are no Marquis any longer, let alone an ‘Autem Imperator,’ Vincent. Those titles have no meaning here. You will learn new titles. ‘Prince.’ ‘Regnant.’ ‘Domitor.’ And they will belong to me, not to you - as do all things where we’re going. Know your place.” He leaned back into the quilted suede of his seat, letting starlight and the dimmed glow of the cabin play across his features to what he hoped was a mysterious and intimidating effect.

“Your hubris knows no bounds, Prince,” Vincent spat back, clutching the arms of his seat as if his wrists were lashed to them. “They’re looking for me even now. Do you think you can walk into a High Table duel and make off with the highest ranking –“

“No one is looking for you, because no one knows you’re missing. Everyone who saw me believes they saw a kindly priest who said his respects over your body before helping that fellow – The Harbinger, I believe you call him – lay you to rest in a casket for your mortician to carry away. Tomorrow, that empty casket will be buried.”

A flash of panic before his pretty green eyes lit up again. “The mortician will – “

“The mortician wasn��t your man. He was mine. I sent a local friend to take his place, and to oversee the proceedings. You’re as good as dead, Vincent. I’m dreadfully sorry.”

He went as ghostly white as his travelling companion then. He remained very quiet while Sebastian explained to him the meanings of those important titles he’d mentioned, as well as other relevant words such as “Masquerade” and “Camarilla” and “Ventrue.”

LaCroix’s hope of entertainment during the flight was very much fulfilled. Vincent made for a captivating (if pitiful) image, with blood still smeared across his forehead and wetness sparkling in his eyes. LaCroix couldn’t stop staring at him and wondering whether he’d really cry or not. It filled him with a strange mix of sadism and sympathy that kept the Prince continuously in suspense. It sent him inexplicably trembling to hear Vincent say, “You’ll have to forgive me, Sebastian, I’m just so confused. Please…help me understand everything.”

He was coherent enough to ask intelligent questions though, and always seemed to latch onto those subjects that were a little too top-secret for a first conversation with a ghoul, whilst sighing that he was just so confused and scared. Clearly, he knew his way around a syndicate like the Camarilla and went straight for the vital information. When at last the Prince tired of this game and started to inquire about Vincent’s own organization, he refused to divulge anything.

It confused Sebastian a little. Every other ghoul he’d ever created had hung on his words in an ecstasy that totally drowned out the loss of their former life. They typically begged to repay him for saving them and fell over themselves to please him until he was either amused or disgusted. They certainly didn’t issue desperate pleas and threats about returning to their old life, or try to ply information out of him, or protect their old secrets. But Vincent? Well…there was no doubt that Vincent was affected by Sebastian. Sometimes his eyes lingered on LaCroix as if he wasn’t quite able to look away. But the look there wasn’t puppy love, it was…horror. Hatred. As if Vincent was looking at an old grudge who had wronged him grievously. Something wasn’t right.

He wasn’t in deep enough, that was all. He’d only taken the first sip of vitae – two still remained to form a full blood bond. And he was hardly a pliant individual, that much was evident. For now, Sebastian supposed he’d have to secure the ghoul’s cooperation via commands. “Vincent. When I ask you a question about the High Table, you will answer me directly, honestly, and without embellishments. Do you understand?”

A glazed, vacant look replaced the pitiful one. “I understand.”

There, good. Sebastian let out a breath, only just realizing how tense he had become, and began his inquisition.

He knew a little about the High Table already. It was not so different from the Giovanni, but even larger by membership the Camarilla, and impressive for a human construction. It was difficult to be anyone significant in either the human or kindred underworld without running across the High Table’s activities at some point. But the Autem Imperator (Sebastian might not call him by his title out loud, but he wasn’t forgetting it for an instant in his own mind) offered a unique view of its proceedings. Within minutes, LaCroix knew who held each seat, how communications passed between members, how those communications might be intercepted, into which countries their influence had spread (it was most of them), and even where the Elder resided.

It had been no idle tip, he realized, that suggested he should pay a visit to his home country and rest in the basilica that day. It had been, in fact, pure gold in the form of an anonymous email. He almost passed it up as an attempted ruse or ambush, even with all the power promised by the stranger on the other end. But it also spoke to a Masquerade violation, and even the Nosferatu could not trace it. The sender must have had a contact, someone who could encrypt on their level. So he went personally, just for 24 hours, with the resolution that he would return to the safety of LA as soon as possible.

Remembering at last to the original purpose of his visit, LaCroix asked his ghoul one final question, shortly before landing.

“Do you have an associate who would go by the initial ‘C’?”

Even under domination, he rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Sebastian held out the message on his phone. “Who could this have been?”

“Is it true that you can help someone live beyond death? If you really are I’ve been told you are, then come at once, to Paris. Come to the Sacré-Coeur Basilica just before dawn. If you’re lucky and I’m unlucky, you will find a man there who cannot escape death any other way. If you keep him alive, he will offer you knowledge and power equal to your own, pertaining to a human organization you may know as the High Table. Take him away from me, change him, disappear him, I don’t care. Only save his life and make him happy, and you will have my eternal thanks. He does not know, and will never know, what he means to me.”

- C”

“My bodyguard, Chidi.” His voice was strained almost to the breaking point, and his eyes still fixed on Sebastian’s phone even after the email was closed. Sebastian had no questions about whether he was faking his tearfulness this time.

“A ghoul of your very own, of sorts! Where can I find him?”

Vincent closed his eyes for a moment before mustering an answer. “…He’s dead.”

“Ah, splendid. That saves me a great deal of trouble.”

And then Vincent did what no ghoul, whether on one sip of vitae or three, should have been capable of doing. He sprung forward and closed hands around his domitor’s neck.

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

It took Vincent much longer than it should have to recall that Sebastian didn’t need to breathe. By that time, he was already being dragged off by the enormous, visibly supernatural thing that Sebastian had introduced as “The Sheriff.”

“Get this brainless lump off of me!”

“Hey,” The Sheriff grunted. Vincent paid him no mind, and continued addressing LaCroix with exactly as much civility as he deserved, all the while straining against the boulder-heavy hands holding him back.

“You will not SPEAK to me that way and you will not – “ Fuck, he hated the way his voice was shaking… “You will not speak of my bodyguard’s death as – as ‘splendid!’”

“And you will not speak to me at all until you can behave yourself!” LaCroix retorted. “SILENCE!”

The voice seemed to go out of Vincent’s throat. All his resistance had been used up in the outburst and he sunk numbly back into his seat.

LaCroix was panting, a shaking hand against his neck. He adjusted his tie and recovered himself enough to laugh. “Imagine trying to strangle a vampire! And the one holding your life in his hands, no less. You’re one to talk of brainlessness. And just when I was beginning to respect your cunning.” Vincent opened his mouth and nothing came out, so he spat in LaCroix’s face instead.

“Oh for god’s sake - You don’t speak AND you don’t move!” Vincent smiled as he watched LaCroix wipe at his face with a handkerchief, scowling. But another wave of terrible compulsion spread through his limbs, and then he was paralyzed.

It was such a strange feeling, being “dominated.” It was the same magnetism that drew him to LaCroix when he first laid eyes on him (that must be the “vitae” he had spoken about), but stronger, and more concentrated. Making him capable of magnificent feats, making him motivated, drawing his focus, making things important to him. As if a power was bursting out from inside of Vincent. It wasn’t so unlike being high, and not wholly unpleasant. But it was not his to control, not a part of him. It was LaCroix’s, and he hated it for that, and he hated LaCroix for that too. Maybe, if he just held onto that hatred…

But LaCroix’s conversation with his Sheriff broke his concentration. “No, I don’t want him in a cell, much less his own apartment. He’s not fully dominated and it’s a security risk. I don’t understand it, but I need to maintain a tight hold over him even if I have to do it by manual override. He stays in the penthouse, with me.”

If The Sheriff understood that, he conveyed it only by grunting.

Damn it. Any chance to get out of LaCroix’s grasp was slipping away. Again, he struggled to protest, but it was useless. He couldn’t speak. His own body was refusing him. It felt traitorous and alien and there was no one to help him, no one looking for him, no Chidi ever again and absolutely nothing he could do. If he had a voice, he would probably be screaming, he realized. But instead, for the second time that day, he floated on a sea of bloody misery, gasping worse and worse by the second. As the jet went into final descent, its weightlessness hit him in the stomach and drove home a second wave of fear.

LaCroix was watching him, leaning over him, speaking to him, in much the same way one might speak to a broken printer shortly before kicking it. He lay a hand on Vincent’s chest to feel his shallow heartbeat and the very core of Vincent’s being rebelled against the way that it soothed him.

“Why are you not calm? You shouldn’t be feeling this way, I don’t understand why it’s not working…” He fixed LaCroix with the most hateful stare he could manage without moving his facial muscles. Why do you think, you useless fils de pute? He felt tears rolling silently down his cheeks. Fine. Good, even.

Again, LaCroix’s magnetic voice overpowered his will with a rush, even more hideously blissful than before. Perhaps it was more in harmony with him than the last had been... “Be calm, Marquis. I command you. Don’t be so afraid.”

And all the wild contents of his heart slipped away into a soft, empty, merciful void.

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[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. 4 - Not Like This

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @evrensadwrn! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: Vincent tries to flee Venture Tower, but instead finds himself in an even worse position...and gets confirmation that no one is looking for him.

TW: severe injuries being healed by vampire magic, vampire bite against Vincent's will, passing out, tied up, grief, funeral and heavy discussion of death

Not like this. Not from being thrown down his own damn stairwell by his own out-of-control ghoul. No thank you.

Fate seemed willing to oblige. Sebastian was lucky to have been dropped face-first, and to be able to throw out his arms on the way down, catching on the passing railings and bracing for final impact against the ground with his arms and legs which, unlike his brain, were sure to heal. So he landed on all fours with all the agility of a cat - and none of its grace.

The nerves in his crushed limbs flickered in and out of functionality, each flicker bringing a stab of searing pain. They were approaching full, excruciating functionality as the last drop of blood in his body burned away into vital energy. He could feel his empty veins collapsing in the same rhythm that his bones snapped back into place, and then he was spent, though still not fully healed.

He just lay on the floor and screamed, “VINCENT!”

Somewhere overhead, he could swear there was an echo of a giggle. It was drowned out in more inadvertent screams. He hardly knew what sounds he was making, only that they tore at his throat on the way out. God that hurt. Rarely had LaCroix felt another person’s power overwhelm him so directly. How long had it been since his life was in any real danger – not the paranoia and risky politics that constantly attended him, but immediate danger? He’d almost forgotten how visceral it was, how it dragged him back to Waterloo, how it rendered time and space meaningless, how small it made him feel. And Vincent, by contrast, felt enormous, towering over him in the echoing heights.

But Vincent was out of the stairwell and no doubt in the elevator, descending. He was trying to get out, to get away. Sebastian mustered what little command he could over his muscles and starting crawling towards the lobby door.

He stumbled out just as the elevator doors opened, collapsed to the floor again, and kept crawling. “He is not allowed to pass!” LaCroix bellowed hoarsely at the security guard.

Chunk stepped into his path. “My apologies Mister, but uh – “ Vincent’s answer was a punch that sent him reeling. There were only paces between Vincent and the Venture Tower doors.

No matter. LaCroix had him. His hands closed around Vincent’s ankle, trembling in a mix of pain and desperate fury. “Give back the blood you forced me to waste, you ingrate!”

It was good that the Venture Tower doors were frosted, because any passerby would have had the pleasure of seeing the rich eat each other. With no power to spare for any attempt at domination, LaCroix simply sunk his teeth into the Marquis’ ankle like a small but rabid chihuahua. Vincent, in his turn, toppled over screaming and kicking his feet to try to shake him off.

So it happened that Sebastian LaCroix fed on the Marquis Vincent de Gramont for the first time, too frenzied even to taste him, until the Marquis, already weakened from lack of food and sleep, blacked out on the floor of his lobby.

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

Vincent awoke being carried, with thousands of tiny pins pricking at his fingertips and a horrible wooziness dulling out every other sensation. But what did it matter – his body was being cradled so gently that he hardly minded how bloodless he felt. He moaned into the folds of the overcoat that his savior was wearing. It answered him silently with a sweet but dark scent, magnolia and bergamot pulled down by something heavier…leather probably. And in the distance, iron…

Vincent’s eyes shot open. Sebastian. Sebastian was carrying him. He had not gotten away, and his ankle was bleeding, and they were reentering the same dazzling suite he had just left. He was too miserable to speak.

Sebastian had no such problem. He carried Vincent into a side room, some kind of parlor with chairs and a sofa arranged around a coffee table, and talked the whole while. “You cannot be trusted to roam free, it seems. I have given you every opportunity to cooperate, and this is how I am rewarded: with attempted regicide.” He pulled a rope from a nearby chest of drawers and started winded it around Vincent’s torso, strapping him to the chair. Around his wrists it went, too, and his ankles, irritating the fresh wound. Vincent’s heart was going wild but he was too weak to struggle. The tirade continued. “Do you have any idea the impact your actions would have had on your own future? I am your sole protector. I made the decision, at great personal risk, to cross an ocean and save your life, and to shepherd you through an unfamiliar world. I could have drained you of every High Table secret, and then your blood, and then left you to die, but I – “

He cut himself short, continuing a moment later. “You’re very fortunate that leadership has taught me not to negotiate when my temper is running too hot. We will discuss your future later. I’m going out to finish feeding, and to attend to business. Let us both pray that by the time I return, we can stand the sight of each other.”

The room spun as Vincent turned his head towards his captor in alarm. “No! Wait!” But he was already slamming the door. “Stop! You can’t leave me here! I – I’m still bleeding! I could die! You want me alive, don’t you?” That was the elevator doors opening. And closing.

Damn you, LaCroix. He could still smell magnolias.

The first half hour was the hardest. It was spent fighting down panic and slipping into half-consciousness every time he succeeded. At some point, he fainted a second time and only came back to himself to find The Sheriff untying him. “Le patron m'a envoyé pour te nourrir. [Boss sent me to feed you.]”

“Pour que tu puisses parler après tout. [So you can talk after all],” he replied blearily.

“Bien sûr que je peux. J'ai juste un peu peur d'utiliser mon anglais. Le prince LaCroix a la gentillesse de me parler français quand il le peut. [Of course I can. I am just a little shy of using my English. Prince LaCroix is kind enough to speak French with me when he can.]”

“Le « Prince LaCroix » n’a jamais été gentil, qu’il soit mort ou vivant. [’Prince LaCroix’ has never been kind whether dead or alive],” he muttered. But the hearty meal and wine that were laid out in front of him suggested otherwise. There was even a dessert of cherry cheesecake drizzled with syrup. He asked, hesitantly, whether it had been the Sheriff’s decision to give him such a delicious spread.

“Non, c'était le Prince. Il a dit que vous deviez restaurer votre glycémie et ne ménager aucune dépense. [No, sir, it was the Prince. He said you needed to restore your blood sugar, and to spare no expense.]”

“Hmm.” He averted his eyes from the Sheriff and turned on the television to fill the silence, before starting on the cheesecake. Why did the slightest mention of LaCroix make him feel so…so…much? Stupid vitae. He hoped LaCroix was off somewhere thinking about what he’d done.

After that, Vincent was tied up again, but at least he didn’t feel on the verge of death. Even the bite mark on his leg felt slightly better. He recalled something Sebastian had mentioned about faster healing for ghouls, somewhere between a vampire and a human. Things weren’t so bad – he was in a beautiful room, in a comfortable chair (perhaps against his will, but that was beside the point), and he’d succeeded in irritating Sebastian to the extent that he had to go off raging somewhere.

And vampires were real.

That was starting to sink in for him. Vampires were real, and he was the only person who knew about it. He could use this to his advantage. How, he wasn’t sure just yet, but it was the kind of secret people risked their lives to learn, and it had fallen into his lap. Could LaCroix be extorted or blackmailed somehow? Were there trade deals possible between the Table and the Camarilla? What it could mean for him, for the High Table…he let himself think of that for hours.

The next time he woke up slumped against his ropes, it was from a long, dreamless, much-needed sleep. Even through the tightly drawn curtains, he could see that it was well into the day. And it sounded as if someone had been saying his name.

“Le marquis a été enterré il y a à peine une heure lors d'un service restreint mais extravagant… [The Marquis was laid to rest just a few hours ago in a small but extravagant service…]”

He had left the TV tuned to a French news channel, half-hoping to hear something about his disappearance. And there on the screen was a sight so surreal he thought he was still dreaming for a moment. There was his family’s crypt, resplendent in solemn, white marble under a sky that was far too blue for the occasion. And a black-clad procession bore a casket into its depths, dripping in white lilies and roses. His casket.

It suddenly hit him that he was thousands of miles away, in the power of something greater than himself. That yesterday, he had, for all intents and purposes, died. He swallowed, trying so hard not to feel anything, but his throat still ached with tightness. The procession wouldn’t stop walking, forward and forward, without him.

“Le marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont périt prématurément à l'âge de 35 ans, après avoir perdu un duel pour une affaire personnelle. Les duels sont bien sûr illégaux en France… [The Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont perished at the untimely young age of 35, after losing a duel over a personal matter. Dueling has, of course, been illegal in France…]” He felt himself flushing. A personal matter? And the admission that it was a duel? Was he to die in disgrace? It slipped his mind for a moment that he was, of course, still breathing. The drama of the thing took over with a visceral, burning frustration. How badly he wanted to take charge of what was happening, tell someone how he had lived, that it hadn’t happened like that… He watched the image blur and dance as the camera followed the procession into the claustrophobic space of the vault where his mother and father already lay side by side.

“Son héritage reste incertain, car le marquis est décédé sans aucun parent proche vivant et avec une ligne de succession peu claire. [His legacy remains uncertain, as the Marquis died with no close living relatives and an unclear line of succession.]”

There were so few people, he realized, with a sinking in his chest. Where were the crowds who adored him? Where were the socialites he had danced with at every ball or even taken to bed? The admirers he had toyed with and spurned, the false friends he had outwitted, the enemies he had so respectably bested? Even his own household staff – where were they? Where was the High Table, for that matter!? His fellow seat holders, didn’t they at least hate him enough to care? But almost no one had shown. Only The Harbinger, and Winston, who looked a little too smug. And…

…and Jude! There was The Adjudicator. He resisted the urge to shout at the screen, and found a strange, strangled noise escaping him instead. Jude! PLEASE! I’M NOT IN THERE! Do you know? Please tell me you know. It had been them that he called, them who heard silence and maybe muffled shouting on the other end of the line. There was a shot of Jude’s gloved hand laying a rose over the top of the casket, where his chest should be. And then they turned right to the camera, as if they could see him on the other side. A flash of hope that they knew, that they would signal to him somehow…and then Jude, who never cried at anything, hid their face in their hands and broke down for him.

They didn’t know it, but they and Vincent were crying together. He was alone, a ghost in his own body, with no one beyond these thick concrete walls who could hear him, and apparently almost no one in the world who cared about him. So what did it matter? He let himself make the kind of broken, anguished sounds that he hadn’t made since he was a child locked in his room alone, until he felt lightheaded all over again.

And then, suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder and the scent of magnolias. “Vincent.”

He gasped – as if he hadn’t already been gasping enough - and turned away in a fruitless attempt to hide his mess of a face. With his hands bound, he couldn’t even wipe away the evidence of his outburst. “Have I – have I been tortured - enough now? Are you back to gloat?” He put as much venom as possible into the words but it hardly mattered between sobs.

There was no answer, just small, deft hands undoing the knots around his wrists and putting a silk handkerchief into his palm. “Clean yourself up.” The words held some pretense of authority, but they were so gentle that it made him imagine things. It almost felt like an allowance – “you may clean yourself up” instead of “you must, you’re disgusting.” He realized Sebastian’s hand was resting on his back now, stroking in circles, and broke down further for a moment before finally regaining control of himself.

Sebastian turned the TV off and it was suddenly very quiet, the only sound that of his own forced breathing. Sebastian, it seemed, wasn’t breathing at the moment. “…Thank you.” He should say something lighthearted or cruel, something to deflect, but he simply…couldn’t. He could only say true things right now, and it put him at Sebastian’s mercy. The best he could do was, “You know, I’ve sort of always wanted to watch my own funeral anyway. I think that’s something everyone fantasizes about, no?”

Sebastian’s hand on his back went still, and then moved over the front of his shoulder. It felt so damn comforting, almost like an embrace. “…I can’t say I do. I’ve died once, and watched my funeral, and I don’t care to repeat it.”

“…Oh,” said Vincent lamely.

“Did you choose the casket, in your will?”

“Yes. I did.”

“I thought it seemed…to your tastes.” After a moment, he added, “It was beautiful.” And after another moment, “I’m sorry, Vincent.” The way one says “I’m sorry” at a funeral – with a combination of unbearable shallowness and unbearable weight, inadequate to convey what must be conveyed and yet so, so valuable for at least trying.

He looked at Sebastian’s hand, still resting on his chest. “It’s not…really your fault. At least not that part. I would be dead in one sense or another either way. I lost.” He exhaled in something between humor and total despair. “I lost,” he repeated.

“By the standards of kine,” said Sebastian. “But someone loved you enough to reach beyond the natural world to save you. And you have so much more to gain now. I don’t offer a place in my court to just anyone. It’s a high honor in this city. There is so much you could achieve as my protégé, far beyond human politics. There are kinds of safety and power and vitality that the masses will never know.”

“As your protégé…” Vincent echoed mockingly. “Your precious pageboy.” But he took a deep breath, finally calm, finally considering. “I would be very foolish to agree to that without conditions.”

He could feel Sebastian’s tension relax. Now they were in negotiations, something both of them could handle. “And what are your conditions, ghoul?”

“Ghoul, cute.” A patronizing smile. “You do not call me a ghoul, and you do not treat me as a ghoul. If it comforts you to have some pretense of control over me, I will accept your vitae.” He couldn’t help licking his lips already at the thought of more, in fact… “But we both know you cannot control me, so don’t treat me like I’m anything less than you. You will show me respect.”

“I suppose…I hardly have a choice about that.”

“Very good. Only one more condition.”

“Which is?”

Vincent tipped back his head to look up at him, to see the look on his face when he heard this one. “Say you’re sorry.”

It was a very, very satisfying look. “For what!?”

“If you don’t know, I can’t be bothered to explain.” Sebastian sucked in a breath, fighting with his temper again.

“I…” It seemed to come with enormous difficulty. “I…am…sorry, Vincent.”

“For?”

“For…gnawing on your ankle rather more unexpectedly than is customary.”

“Do go on.”

“…And for dominating you, which it seems you did not enjoy even though that’s not the typical response of a ghoul and I can’t have known. I’m sorry I tied you up alone in such a stressful situation and…made you cry. And I’m sorry for saying that your bodyguard’s death was splendid when I know what a bodyguard means to a person in a position like yours or mine. And I’m sorry for treating you like livestock when you are in fact quite bright and capable and may go farther in this organization than either of us yet know. And I’m sorry about your old life and about your funeral and – “

“Stop, that’s – that’s quite enough.” Vincent found that handkerchief was once again useful. He took a deep breath and said, “We have a deal.”

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[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Sweetblood Moodboard

Sebastian LaCroix x Vincent de Gramont moodboard for @evrensadwrn made from things I photographed while thrift store hopping with friends!

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. 5 - French Nights

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @kavalyera! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: Vincent has started cooperating as a ghoul, performing tasks for Sebastian at night and sleeping by day. But neither he nor Sebastian can rest peacefully.

TW: nightmares, mind control, war PTSD

The California days were only the French nights. Vincent’s body recognized them instantly as the time for sleeping, for what would have been an early bedtime in Versailles. A depression bedtime, maybe, but so much the better. After all, he had just lost everything.

He came home at each sunrise so exhausted and haggard by LaCroix’s tasks. He went from end to end of the city, delivering inscrutable messages that he himself didn’t fully understand, stumbling through social interactions in an underworld whose alliances he had yet to master, being poked at and at times outright attacked by anyone who might wish to test what LaCroix’s latest plaything could do. What hurt the most was that he wanted so badly to do LaCroix’s work effectively and he didn’t even know why. His long-term plans (to gain vampiric power and undo LaCroix completely, of course), had little to do with these daily tasks. Yet he came home miserable over every inconvenience and misstep.

The sight of LaCroix overwhelmed him. His night built towards it in anticipation, and not because of the many gifts LaCroix tried to use to buy his affection. No, it was something about the look on the man’s face, an eagerness. As if it weren’t enough to wear full lips and strong nose and glimmering eyes (all of which he loved to picture bruised and bloody and humbled), those features arranged themselves in such a gloriously domineering way. All his attention fixed on Vincent with a desperate possessiveness, an expectation of performance, and such a pride whenever he did well. Vincent wanted more of that. But the encounter itself always proved too much for him, too nerve wracking. He would snap at LaCroix until LaCroix snapped right back, and run to his room wanting nothing more than to be unconscious.

And so, vampiric sleeping hours suited Vincent immediately, as did his new sleeping quarters in the guest bedroom down the hall from his regnant.

That very first night, LaCroix informed him that it was a great honor to be given this bedroom, that it was not ordinarily meant for ghouls, only for the few diplomats significant enough to be offered a day’s stay so close to his own resting place. Here was the respect Vincent had been promised. “Come to me if you need something,” LaCroix said, “Though I’ll appreciate it if you try Sheriff first. His is the last door, on left. You will note that one must pass by his room before reaching the elevator. So if you try to run away – “

Vincent rolled his eyes. “I won’t.”

“Yes. Well.” They nodded at each other awkwardly until Vincent had the good sense to close the door on LaCroix (finding, to his disappointment, that it did not lock), and began exploring his new cage.

A fine layer of dust told him that it was rarely used. The gilded writing desk in the corner had perhaps never been opened at all, and contained nothing. Neither did the dresser - LaCroix had no nightclothes large enough for him, but he’d promised to buy him something tomorrow. Everything was a mere shell in the style of a hotel room – made to look like a home but to usher the guest onward before it could become truly lived-in. Vincent would bet money that the Prince didn’t like having guests.

With nothing to see, he switched off the electric chandelier and the sun became his nightlight, creeping almost imperceptibly around the edge of the blackout curtains. He tried to open them, to look out at the city by day, but found that they were pinned tightly against the wall at each corner. In a rush of rebellion against his situation, he tore them free, and looked out from the dizzying height of Venture Tower. His hands toyed absently with the edge of the curtain as he lost himself in contemplation. Below, the people rushed through their morning commute, pulsing through the veins of the city at a steady beat. LaCroix’s people, LaCroix’s blood rivers. And his perhaps, one day, if he could wrench them away from his master. The sun played on his skin, kissing it. He was warm, and alive. He could make the best of this. Put him above any city and he would rule it. Yes, everything would be fine, and he’d just sleep with the curtains wide open so he felt a bit safer. He exhaled shakily and sunk back onto the bed.

Vincent set about making himself at home in his lavish, canopied four poster with tasseled pillows and a mountain of gold-embroidered comforters. He pulled them around himself into a plush nest, covering all but the top of his head, and tried to cuddle away the profound sense of trauma that was settling into his bones. After all that had passed in the previous days, he'd needed this so badly: to be somewhere warm and soft and bright and soon to be unconscious. He rubbed at his wrists, where the rope had pressed into them, and his puffy eyes, and curled in on himself to fall asleep.

He was being carried, as he had once been as a child.

He was being carried to bed in the middle of the day, and he didn’t trust the thing that was carrying him at all. It was a gory, demonic figure, which he might have recognized as his father by its face if it had a head. But it didn’t, and he recognized it instead by the way it sent his heart slamming into his ribcage, the way he struggled against its touch in instant panic.

Abruptly, it dropped him. Somehow, that was worse. Vividly, so vividly that it must be real, he felt himself slam into his bed and sat up screaming in his Versailles bedroom. He threw off the tangled covers, dashed to the door to be in the presence of someone human, anyone, just the guard who stood by his room at night – and the guard was headless, gore trailing over the collar of his suit.

“Oh - bordel de merde...oh mon dieu... [Oh – holy shit…oh my god…]” He backed away trembling beyond all control, terror hitting him over and over in waves as the thing turned its headless body towards him. He couldn’t tell if he was more afraid to keep looking at it, or to turn his back on it in order to run. Tripping over his feet, he tore his eyes away and sprinted down the staircase and into the grand entrance, past headless maids and headless Myrmidons and headless butlers who all reached slowly towards him, mindless and uncaring. Was there anyone in the house who wasn’t headless? In the whole world? Or was he completely alone in some hell dimension? No one could speak to him. No one could see him or listen to him. They could only hurt him if they got to him, and he was screaming, he realized. He was screaming so much and –

And someone else was screaming too.

In the depths of the palace, someone was near him, screaming in the same agonized fear. Someone else must have a head on their shoulders. No, for once, in the clutches of his worst dreams, he was not alone.

Vincent did not stop screaming, did not stop tearing through the halls, fighting to escape. But someone was there, and he felt a mysterious kinship with them. He did not know where this poor, pitiful friend had come from, or where to look for them, but they became his constant companion. For every French night and California day that followed, the screaming of a fellow sufferer would visit him again, and whenever it did, he immediately started searching, trying to reach them.

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

The Los Angeles night was sunless and cold and it suited LaCroix just fine. As much as he missed the sun, he feared it more. Besides, night was clear, it was silent. Free of distractions…that was, until Vincent arrived.

Beautiful terror of a creature, Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont. LaCroix caught himself repeating his name in his head and repeating his face behind his eyes. In the midst of long meetings or bent over his desk at midnight, he glanced out the window at the blackness as if he half expected to see Vincent on the sidewalk below. Where in the city was he at any given time? And why exactly did LaCroix care?

Vincent made him crazy, made him do the most absurd things. The ghoul obeyed him, but barely. He asked too many questions. He deviated from his assignments to talk to people he shouldn’t be bothering, to chase information and probably freedom. And worst of all, he seemed so heartbreakingly miserable. So LaCroix bought new suits, and strawberry cakes, and antique books of poetry, all for Vincent. All to try to appease him. He could never seem to do the thing that would bring Vincent to heel, couldn’t win his loyalty and it unsettled him greatly. He had never felt so protective over a ghoul or so challenged by one. Every day was a struggle for control, a playfight that was more than just play. It made him invested, it made him want to break Vincent’s mind like a cinnamon stick, and at some particularly baffling moments, it made him want to break himself. To give up and just wring his hands and plead, “Why won’t you listen to me? Why do you hate me? What am I doing wrong?”

He felt nerves building in his body twenty minutes before Vincent was due for his daily report each morning at 4 AM, anticipating another chance to win him over. If he didn’t know better, he would have called those nerves exhilaration. Even joy. But he did know better, because it always ended badly, with Vincent slipping through his fingers yet again.

So he would retreat to his chambers after Vincent had stormed off, left with a dull anxiety and the inexplicable wish that someone was in the room to watch over him. To chase away the feeling that he would be shot in his sleep and never wake up.

Yes, shot. That was the real fear, even though he ran a finger along the edges of the curtains before lying down to ensure they were still securely pinned. That was what he dreamed of – the Russian invasion, Waterloo. The bayonets, the muskets, the canons. The deafening explosions that had once ended his life. Even the dreaded fire of the sun, when he dreamed of that, was a kind of gunshot, a piercing gold blaze that tore a hole in the curtains and struck him through the heart in audible thunder. Bullets went everywhere, through everything. One day, they would find him.

How absurd it was, how irrational. He would never die that way. He couldn’t understand why his mind kept suggesting it.

But lately, something cut through the thunder. A scream, somewhere close to him. And even while he bled out, wailing hopelessly, he felt some consolation in the knowledge that there was a fellow sufferer near him and they were at least screaming out together. That he was not alone.

He was dreaming of the sun as a bullet when it happened. His chest was torn open, with fire catching at the edges of the hole, spreading and spreading, slowly consuming his body. He was screaming. And, as so often happened these days, he heard someone else screaming nearby. Oftentimes, this second scream guided him, giving him something to hold onto while he lay dying. But this time, it suddenly stopped.

His own crying got worse, much worse. Whoever they were, they were dead, or had left him. He was dying alone, burning from the inside out with the flames of the sun and the desperation to be held one more time. “No! Please don’t die, please don’t leave me, come back, please, please…” He gasped uncontrollably even though his lungs were gone by now, burned to ash -

“LaCroix.”

He scrambled back against the headboard. The lights were already on, casting Vincent in a stark, washed out white before his eyes could adjust. He realized too late that his chest was shuddering violently with gasps and his face was covered in tears. He couldn’t possibly hide what had just happened to him. “What-what the hell do you want? What are you doing here?”

Vincent stared at him in silence for a few beats, breathing almost as fast. Sebastian could hear his heartbeat flying. The man must have run to his room. “It was you.” He just about winced as he spoke, as if he regretted those words. “That is – what I mean is that you were screaming.”

LaCroix wiped at his face and arranged his body into a pose that didn’t involve being flat against the headboard in terror. “Don’t be stupid. Why would I be screaming?”

“Oh, come on.” Vincent’s eyes narrowed, thoroughly unwilling to entertain his act.

“No, I will not ‘come on.’ This is entirely untoward. If you don’t have anything intelligible to say, you will vacate my room. At once.” Don’t resist me this time, please, he thought frantically. He put all his effort into the command. Just get Vincent out. Pretend this never happened. He was still so damn rattled, all he wanted was to lie down and shake.

Vincent swore at him but turned on his heels. He was halfway to the door before the implication hit LaCroix. “Wait.”

He turned back, glaring now. “Do you want me out, or not?”

Now it was Sebastian’s turn to stare at Vincent in a mix of pity and wild anxiety, and to blurt out, “My god, it was you. I heard you. From all the way down the hall…you must have been in absolute horror.”

Vincent lifted his chin, although his lips had gone very tight. “Yes. At least I can admit it.”

“But why? What on Earth could…I mean, you’ve had a peaceful life, or at least I thought – “

Vincent just flinched away from his gaze.

“…Am I wrong about that?”

“No! No. I have nothing to complain about, I have no reason to be so...” He continued to stare at the floor, flushed and breathing too fast. In another moment, he blurted out, “Please don’t compel me. Not right now. Don’t make me say this.”

“I would not, Vincent. I won’t.” The look on his face was pulling something tender out of LaCroix that he had thought was long dead. “It’s not for…times like this.”

“…Thank you.” He shifted uncomfortably. “May I go?”

“If you…if you want to, yes.” God, why did everything have to be so awkward between them?

But Vincent stopped at the door, and tipped back his head, cursing quietly. “Damn it, this is going to bother me, you’ll be in here upset and it bothers me, you always bother me and I hate it, I hate hearing you, I hate looking at you, I hate feeling like a fire alarm is going off in my gut whenever you’re not perfectly pleased, and it’s MADDENING, and I HATE it, and we’re both stuck with it, so let’s just get this over with…” And he rushed back across the room and dove onto the bed and…and…

LaCroix had not been hugged in at least two hundred years.

Not by anyone. Not his sire. Not any of the ghouls he kept at a distance. Certainly not by any of his associates. And who else was in his life? No one.

It was warm, and tight around his middle, and full of Vincent’s tip-tap-tip-tap pulse and his silken softness and his porcelain cheek and his vivacious, passionate being. It made him feel like his ribcage was cracking in half and his lungs were all over the floor. It made his brain flicker out of all functionality. It made him fucking cry. Again. A lot. And he hadn’t done that in front of another person in almost as long.

Get the fuck off of me, he was trying to say, but it didn’t work for two reasons. Firstly, he couldn’t form coherent words of any kind. And secondly, he didn’t want that at all.

He didn’t manage to say a single word before Vincent ran out of the room.

The nightmare was the farthest thing from his mind as he stared at the ceiling, his face slack with shock, waiting for something to make sense. He clutched the blanket against himself, trying to fill the space where Vincent had been. What was this longing that had been reawakened, this vacancy? To be sure, there was no gaping hole or a sunbeam bullet at the center of his body. But still, he had been shot, that much was certain. He felt pierced by a warm, burning, human sort of light.

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Image Sources: One | Two

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Ch. 3 - A Manageable Situation

ཐི♡ཋྀ Thank you for the beta-read, @evrensadwrn! ཐི♡ཋྀ

Summary: As LaCroix brings Vincent home to Venture Tower, each one has a very simple plan. Surely all will go well.

TW: mind control, emotional manipulation, kidnapping

Vincent drifted through the city of angels, a prisoner in his own body. Bars and restaurants and strip clubs flashed past in neon and chain link and rain-drenched concrete. The downpour did nothing to stifle the city stench, but rather enhanced it. The air was too warm, too humid, the look of palms and alien plants more unfamiliar than it should have been, given that he’d watched American movies. But everything looked different in person. He had been to the states before, but never the west coast. It occurred to him, in fact, that he was probably farther from Versailles than he’d ever been.

By the clock on the dash, it was just past 8 PM local time. The whole night lay ahead of them. And LaCroix was just getting started, taking his “early” business calls in the front seat as the city’s nightlife shook itself awake. Meanwhile, Vincent fought against the hunger and exhaustion that had not been properly addressed for days even before he was taken.

With Sebastian’s concentration slipping to other concerns, Vincent’s numbed emotions were slipping back into the pit of his stomach, where they tied themselves into an aching knot. Horror was there, in nightmarish quantity, but so was hope - a feverish, desperate kind of hope. This was not the time to panic, but to plan. This was really a very manageable situation, all things considered. “No one is looking for you because no one knows you are missing.” He kept repeating those words to himself. LaCroix was quite right. All he had to do was contact someone. Even being seen alive in public might be enough. And then everyone would be looking for him. And they’d take him away. And LaCroix would be so devastated…pictures of him kept intruding into Vincent’s mind, crying over Vincent, losing him, missing him. There was some overwhelming desire to see LaCroix utterly pathetic on his account. It wasn’t ideal to be so fixated on LaCroix, but…better to hate him than to love him. In the midst of this feeling, it was possible to dream of escape, and so he clung to it.

He’d been directly commanded not to jump out of the vehicle, but he rested his forehead against the glass, hoping to be seen as the streetlamps passed over him in cycling flashes of yellow. But they were, of course, moving too quickly for anyone to recognize him, even if any of the passersby somehow knew who he was. Without any incident, the car came to a stop in front of an enormous skyscraper which LaCroix announced as Venture Tower.

The building itself seemed hostile, designed for intimidation. What kind of a man flanked his doorway with these god-awful Modernist figures of what Vincent could only describe as emaciated shadow people? It was chilling, but in such an unsophisticated way, like hoisting up a head on a pike for all to see. He wondered if they were meant to represent those Sebastian had drained of blood. He tried to play off his shudder of body horror as mere aesthetic disgust. “How is it that you lived through Romanticism without absorbing a single one of its artistic principles? It was wasted on you.”

LaCroix’s eyes widened and Vincent realized too late that he’d given himself away. Until now, the Prince probably thought he was still under full domination. “Already running your mouth again? Extraordinary, how you break free. So much so, in fact, that I’ll indulge you.” He gestured to the dismal grey lobby that would have been better suited to a penitentiary. “I change with the times and the requirements of leadership. It’s called branding, Vincent, and it saves lives. You’ll find the penthouse better suited to your tastes, but there’s no reason for the masses to see how I furnish my own living space. They have a tendency to start lopping off heads when they see too much open gaudiness…or firing bullets through skulls, as the case may be.” The Prince eyed Vincent’s embroidered greatcoat pointedly, as if that had been the sole reason for Wick’s dispute with him.

But he hadn’t stolen Vincent’s voice again, and that was something. Better try for a compliment, keep him talking.

“It does make for a brutal spectacle, at least, which is its own sort of…functionality.” His eyes were fixed on the elevator’s emergency call button, and his mind on the phone at the front desk of the lobby. His own cell phone had been confiscated at some point in his unconsciousness. Who was carrying it? LaCroix, or the Sheriff?

LaCroix nodded, no doubt pleased with his own advice. That confident smile, the way his mouth curled back against his fangs…Vincent suddenly felt like he had lost command of himself again. It was so difficult to look at this man without wanting to crush him to pieces. “You’ll learn a great deal with me, Vincent. I’m offering you an opportunity, to serve the interests of the Camarilla, to rule over LA at my side…and eventually much more than that, as your regnant’s hold expands.”

An opportunity to serve. How enticing. Vincent physically bit his tongue until his irritation subsided before replying. “Do you take me for a fool, LaCroix? I know what it means to share power, and it does not interest me.”

“How unfortunate. Then you will have none. You’ve lost your privileges again.”

A violent jolt of compulsion followed, stronger than anything on the aircraft. He was a passenger in his body again for the remainder of the elevator ride. He drifted powerless into the heart of Sebastian’s domain, gliding past the collection of history paintings that had been missing from the art historical community for hundreds of years, past the gold filigree flickering with firelight and the white moon that flashed through driving rain to cast a sliver of halo against the Prince’s hair. Sebastian wasn’t joking – he was a man of taste after all, and to be at the epicenter of his power was to walk in a decadent dream.

Never had Vincent felt so completely in the power of another person. Never had he felt another person’s strength so directly, inside of his own body and surrounding him on every side with the fruits of his superior’s machinations. He was totally and completely in Sebastian’s hold, spurred to the point of some manic envy. Two centuries of power were concentrated in this room. It made him want to sing and scream out loud, to climb the walls and knife the cushions, to tear the curtains with his teeth, to fling himself at LaCroix and…and…

To outdo him. How good it would feel, to conquer the most magnificent man he had ever seen. An opportunity. Yes, an opportunity to conquer. To see you broken and wretched. To impress you, REALLY impress you, until you bow to me. You’ll look so pretty weeping on your knees when your new pet disappears back to France with all your secrets, Bast…shame I won’t be here to see it… He shook himself, trying to focus only on the return home, but the return home was tied up with a powerful vengefulness towards LaCroix. To live, to be himself, was to struggle against LaCroix. His blood was pounding wildly all through his body, livid with another man’s vital energy.

Then Sebastain’s hands were on him, guiding him gently into a chair. “Easy. It’s hitting you, isn’t it? You like my pretty things?”

Oh, Sebastian. You don’t understand at all. In a wrathful haze, he grinned. “…Oui.”

“Good then.” He straightened up and snapped his fingers at the Sheriff. “He’s coming under control. We should be alright.” They were whispering about some assignment, and the Sheriff was gone.

Vincent stared into the fire, half insensible and trembling. I’m going to devastate him. I’m going to make him hurt. I’m going to devour everything that’s his and make it MINE.

.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸. ཐི♡ཋྀ.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.*✧*.¸¸.

LaCroix opened his briefcase, removing the contents from his travels and settling in at his desk for the night. He was thoroughly relieved. It was really a very manageable situation. The Marquis just took a while to feel the full effects. Perhaps that made sense, given how long it had taken him to heal from the bullet wound. Regrowing a brain was such a long process. But the vitae had finally taken root, and he was completely entranced.

Sebastian’s eyes lingered on Vincent. He was shaking in some ecstasy of reverence or lust, his eyes fixed on a Ventrue crest above the fireplace. It was strangely…disappointing. To see him like this was such an insult to the Marquis who had been fighting for his freedom tooth and nail just minutes ago. The Prince couldn’t help the sense that he had crushed something irreplaceable, and that it wasn’t worth it. Brought to heel, Vincent was cute, but before he had been…

Well, anyway, he wasn’t just cute. He really was bright. It was only a matter of how best to use him. He’d make a uniquely opportune spy within the High Table if there was some way to send him back in without compromising the Masquerade. But that was doubtful, and besides, he’d make just as clever a spy within the underworld. It seemed a shame to waste him among the kine - a specimen such as this wasn’t meant for such a life.

Or he could be useful on the trail of the Sarcophagus…

“Join me for a moment.” It was somewhere between hilarious and painful, watching Vincent cross the room. He wasn’t unsteady exactly, but pulled taut as a violin string. He practically vibrated. Sebastian could hear his racing heart. Vincent’s wide eyes locked onto his face and could not turn away. There was still something terrifying in them, and he found himself wondering whether he hadn’t best calm him down before attempting conversation. “…Are you quite well now, Vincent?”

“I am…hungry.” It was said with all the strained desperation of a newborn vampire. “Please, Prince. I know you don’t need to eat, but it’s been all day and night for me. Won’t you get me something, anything?”

He smiled, indulgent. Vincent wasn’t just cute this way, he was adorable. Those pleading eyes. “Alright. One moment, and then we’ll have a talk over your breakfast.”

One moment, turned away to call the front desk. And Vincent had already retrieved his cell phone from the briefcase and run halfway across the room. It was ringing.

He swore and made after him. “Oh for - Just where do you think you’re going!?” Vincent only sped up and disappeared into the stairwell. For god’s sake, his legs were so long…

Down they spiraled, Sebastian shouting useless commands that only seemed to spur him onward. It was no use to take him by force, it would have to be old-fashioned reason. “WHOEVER THAT IS WILL DIE IF YOU SAY A WORD!” The words echoed down some twenty stories. More quietly, for Vincent’s ears only, “The Masquerade. Recall what I told you.”

Vincent went still. In the sudden silence, a voice could be heard on the other side, barely loud enough to filter out towards LaCroix. “Hello? Who is this? It’s not possible that this is the Marquis.”

Panting, staring up at LaCroix with unbridled hatred, Vincent hung up the phone. Why did that look cut him so deeply? He pushed the pain aside and continued his descent, slowly now. Vincent did not retreat any further. “Good boy. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But you have to understand that I couldn’t let you go now even if I wanted to. It’s a violation of all our laws. To save you, I had to take you away. Permanently. You cannot go back.” He came to the same step as Vincent, looking up at him now, their bodies inches apart. “And now that I have you, can you fault me for putting you to use? When you are such a sharpened tool that you frighten even me?”

Very softly, “I frighten you?”

“…Dreadfully.”

Vincent’s eyes had never looked softer, never more innocently pleased. “Merveilleux.” And he lifted Sebastian right off his feet, and hurled him over the railing.

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Image Sources: One (background) | One (Vincent) | Two

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ Marquis of Los Angeles: Masterlist

Sebastian LaCroix x Marquis de Gramont, A.K.A. "sweetblood", VTM and John Wick crossover, whumper turned caretaker

TW: canon-typical violence, lots of blood and vampire stuff, crying, panic attacks, mind control, toxic dynamics, smut, maybe more as I continue writing

Summary: Sebastian LaCroix has the good fortune to find a beautiful and powerful Marquis dying of a bullet wound. Why not take him home as a ghoul? But Vincent de Gramont proves to be the most uncontrollable, vicious ghoul Sebastian has ever encountered. They will both need to learn how to care for something other than power...or they're bound to destroy each other.

✮ Ch. 1 - Lucky Find

✮ Ch. 2 - Domination

✮ Ch. 3 - A Manageable Situation

✮ Ch. 4 - Not Like This

Sources: Banner Background | Sebastian | Vincent | Ventrue Divider made by @marquisedegramont

[thewhumpcaretaker]

sebastian having a good family but traumatized by war (hc) & vincent having a horrible family and turning towards violence

….excuse me as i cry in the corner

Hmmm I wonder if they can learn anything from each other? Perhaps Vincent can learn about the devastating consequences of violence and Sebastian can learn the importance of treating your loved ones well?? All in a situation where the stakes are so high and they HAVE to get better at controlling their more violent urges for each other's sake because they don't want to see their lover sad or hurt them??? And it's difficult and it's a long journey but the sight of someone genuinely trying to serve as a safe place to rest for their sake makes each of them feel genuinely loved for the first time (even though they still make mistakes at times because they are literally so mentally ill)??????????

[thewhumpcaretaker]

vtm jw

jude being vincent and sebastian’s third wheel LMAO they’re their referee when they argue/j

Yesssss they’ll need it honestly 😭 They have their work cut out for them. If only either of these people would consider couples’ counseling…but somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen lmaooo

[kavalyera]

get to know archer and ellie through albums and books <3

[kavalyera]

Alright what's Marcus' VTM class?

Marcus being a tremere would help him SO much and I think it also suits him. The tremere are basically blood mages, they were once wizards that tried to seek immortality but ultimately failed—becoming kindred of their own so they’re pretty much alone. Other clans don’t trust them quite as much because of their powers and the few that do, find them highly valuable (John trusting Marcus ending up saved by him hehe). Their shared bane is deficient blood, rendering their blood really weakened—no longer being able to bind other clans to them; hence why John trusts him so much!

You know what, I’m adding stuff too

Discipline: Auspex—Marcus is a sniper and the ability to see the truth amongst chaos would indeed help him. He can essentially communicate without being heard which is definitely so him

( vtm x jw )