Anonymous said:Do you feel like writing more vampire snippets? I really liked reading all your vamp/hunter ones!// Anonymous said:Hiii, could you write a snippet about a human being kept by a group of vampires who use them for feeding? I’ve been trying to write about that, but I’m having trouble capturing the emotion in it, and an example would be helpful. If you don’t want to, that’s alright tho!!
Realistically, they knew that ‘guests’ never lasted for more than a few months. Some more, some less. It was science, wasn’t it? Humans didn’t cope well with blood loss.
The protagonist was not treated unkindly, but that was the truth of it all the same.
It was a slow process that had them paler and paler with each feeding, as if the very image and body of them was being blotted out and scrubbed from the world. One day, perhaps, it seemed likely that they would quietly fade out completely in the whiteness of it, into bright lights. Maybe that was what it was. A whisper of a death.
The blood loss left them sleeping, most of the time. Lightheaded. Like the world had already become a dream more unfamiliar to them than dreaming itself was, some distant and foggy thing. Life slipped into fragments, sensations, montage.
The slide of silk against their back, the hot press of lips against their throat, the sharp needling sting of teeth. A smile. Words against their ear, fingers stroking their hair.
Food. Warm, hearty broths that seemed like they were the only warm things in the world except the vampires’ hands, which seemed to grow warmer and more pleasant the chillier that their own got.
After drinking their fill, the always felt the most alive. Softer. Flushed. Fond.
Dying was a study of coldness. It was, perhaps, not entirely different to how being a vampire felt.
“Is it,” they asked once, “that you would just do anything to feel warm again?”
The vampire in question had paused, cradling them close.
“Life is warmth,” the creature agreed, and caressed their cheek. “Without it, the world is unbearable. Would you like another blanket?”
The protagonist was angry at first. Who wouldn’t be? But rage was an exhausting thing. Passion, too. Love. They had loved, first. All of the guests had loved, first. Everything was exhausted in the end.
“Is it,” they asked another, “that you keep us like picked flowers? For the colour?” Human lives were short, emotions new and fierce, and yet they were universally the same. Some thread, perhaps, some mirror to cast a reflection when no glass would ever do so again.
The vampire in question gripped their head tighter, eyes as cool as slate when they first met, but brighter now. “Dying makes you morbid,” the creature said.
“I was always morbid. Inbuilt character flaw, I’m afraid.”
The vampire laughed, scooped them up, and took them out into the greenhouse to look at the flowers. They got dizzy these days.
Looking at the newest guest made them feel hungry. They wanted to lick up the vibrancy, envious of brightness and energy, starving for the stories and the hopes and the future plans. They didn’t want to feel hungry, looking at her, yet the hunger for life burned impossibly in their throat.
“I don’t want to die,” they told the vampires. Not a question anymore. “I won’t tell.”
“Is it,” the creatures asked, “that you would like to live forever?”
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