“Okay, so to start off: the vampirism isn't a sex thing for me. No judgement for people who are into… that, but I literally just want to have dinner.”
“Alright.”
“You sure? Cause if you're about to leave the room and come back in with a white nightie and drape yourself romantically across my fainting couch with your neck and half your bosom exposed, then I'm going to ask you to leave.”
“It's fine.”
"Really. Cause again, it just isn't a thing for me. This is the way in which I eat, it would be like if every time you had a sandwich the sandwich awkwardly tried to have sex with you. Which, again, no judgement on the sandwich! Full respect for the sandwich! But I. don’t. Want. To fuck. The sandwich.”
“… I solemnly swear that both slices of bread will stay on at all times, and I won't even try to show you my mayonnaise.”
“Phew. Okay. Can I ask why you're doing this then?”
“You live in a giant fuck off mansion with like a bajillion rooms and servants. During the cost of living crisis. Give me some rooms rent free and a stipend for food and entertainment and you can drain me fuckin' dry for all I care.”
“Sure, I can work with that. You want the East Wing?”
