warm baked goods are insane. something so beautiful and almost maddening about absolutely tearing into them when they’re fresh. feeling warm all over after. I really do get vampires for real
people still regularly jumping on this post like “ummmm…” “what was that last part???” “not where i expected this to go AT ALL” what’s not clicking. Something is wrong with YOU. not me.
There is something so beautiful about reaching out to the monstrous with intent to touch it gently. To risk the sharp teeth and the lethal claws, to defy fear and revulsion, and choose to be delicate with something that can be, and often is, incredibly brutal.
How vampires function in a story (diet, powers, vulnerabilities, creation process, societal roles, all that jazz) is going to depend on what the author is trying to achieve with their story. We could be writing about: death, transformation, power, wealth, poverty, hunger, eating disorders, addiction, health, sickness, parasites, plagues, bigotry, marginalization, sexuality, assault, abuse, cruelty, dehumanization, cults, possession, obsession, love, and many other potential subjects.
Now, that being said, I do find some vampire stories in which animal blood works just fine for them to be a little funny in their setups, especially if money isn't a concern or anything. It's not like it's that weird for a person to have a remarkably carnivorous diet! Humans are already enthusiastic meat-eaters! Whole goat roasts have been going on probably since the first human-shaped animal met the first goat-shaped animal, and people still do 'em.
You can just BUY animal hearts and livers and tongues and eyeballs if you want to. Get this vamp to a good butcher. A farmer's market. A meat processing plant. There's got to be someone somewhere who's not going to think much about the goth who's apparently super into very raw steaks and making their own blood sausage: "Yeah, he's a private chef for some meat-focused dinner club or something, idk." Let's get this vamp into some beef sharing programs at some local farms.
It's also very common for people to hunt for food? Either for pleasure or because it's all that their family can afford to eat (poverty and/or food desert). Let's get this vamp a deep freezer and out there during deer hunting season. If they don't want to do it themselves (and again, all of this is if money isn't an issue), they can pay hunters, who probably have better things to worry about than what's up with the guy who apparently really likes fresh venison.
Like, yeah, you can absolutely come up with reasons why butchers and farmers and hunters are somehow not a viable option for your vampire. (You could, perhaps, use vampires to write about how expensive, exhausting, and isolating it is to have an extremely restricted diet for a health condition.) But there are some stories where it's just not clear to me why these options are off the table.
A vampire could claim they make their own special food mixes for their cat and people might just be like, "Sure."
honestly we should really remake that whole "you're doing multiple rows of teeth Extremely Noticeably Wrong" post that we made once and got deleted (it was technically a reblog of someone else's post and it must've been deleted). it's still happening and it's still so prominent every time it happens.
okay this has annoyed me enough that i'm making this full post again
so, basic physics.
if you are exerting force down onto an object, then it is spread out along the contacting surface area. this is how a knife or a sword works — you are putting force down onto a long, thin line, and thus, all that force is focused down onto that long, thin line. if you have something like, say, a bat or a club, then you are putting that force down along the rounder and wider edge of that object, making it a blunt force object, yeah?
the same applies if you have multiple edges. for instance, this is how a bed of nails works. sure, if you step on a single nail, then all of your weight is pushing down onto that point. but, if you lay on many nails, maybe even fairly close together, then each one takes your weight equally, and they don't have that same ability to puncture the skin. you're putting the same force down onto multiple points, but even though there's space between the surface of each point, that force is getting divided between all of them like it's all just one surface.
this is pretty bad if we're talking about weapons. for example, if you put too many nails into a spiked bat, then you may as well have basically added none. it might inflict some scrapes and surface wounds, but you won't do any more damage than the bat itself would do.
here's a pretty good video for a demonstration, and you can see how, by spreading out that force exerted, you can even restrict your own ability to pierce.
(behold, an image that looks like someone being injured, but, by definition, is someone showing how uninjured they are)
the same applies for teeth.
if you have multiple rows of teeth, and you exert force down onto them to bite, that force is being spread out and divided over every point of every tooth.
this is not a very good setup if, say, you are a macropredator trying to eat large prey. you require teeth that can shear into and cut flesh, even break bone, and adding additional rows means that you no longer have a cutting edge through which to push through flesh or bone, but instead, many objects forming one larger surface to push through flesh or bone together, something which requires exponentially more force for much worse results, and is likely to instead end up breaking your own teeth.
think about knives for a moment. the reason a knife is good at cutting is because that force is being exerted down onto a very thin edge, making it hard to resist. knives get dull when they lose this thin edge, and have to have the thinness of that edge restored in order to regain cutting ability.
adding multiple points is, effectively, intentionally dulling this edge. to add a point of comparison, seeing multiple tooth rows in designs intended to have high bite force or ability to cut through flesh, is a lot like seeing overdesigned anime swords. animals have one, shearing edge to their teeth for the same reason that, on the surface, all real swords tend to look the same (with similar vast differences in the details).
"but!" you may say, "sharks have multiple rows of teeth! and they bite hard!"
which is where i point to how white sharks' (and other, similar macropredatory sharks') dentition actually works.
this is the lower jaw of a white shark. you can see that they do have multiple rows of teeth — but only the frontmost row is actually being used. you might see doubles, like in the front, but they occur when the shark is actively in the process of replacing that tooth with another (the same reason that humans might appear to have a double tooth, when a baby tooth is being lost and the adult replacement is coming up underneath). the other rows are pressed flat towards the back of the mouth, like a switchblade, ready to spring up and replace that outermost tooth.
although these sharks might have multiple rows of teeth, only one row is actually being used at any given time.
you can also see how this functions in another known bone-crusher, the spotted hyena. the teeth are very thick and massive, but each individual tooth still comes up to a point after the previous tooth's point, forming a singular shearing edge, the carnassial, that pushes down on bone in a singular, cutting edge.
so, what good are multiple rows of teeth? why do animals have them?
well, one, because they can operate more like barbed wire.
caecilians are one group of animals with well-developed multiple rows of teeth, and this is because they are primarily insectivores. they are very good at gripping onto soft bodied prey, much like barbed wire or burrs catching onto exposed flesh, and shredding it. these teeth would not survive contact with plentiful resistance, so mostly, they don't.
this is also why other species of sharks, like sand tiger sharks (or ragged tooth sharks), do have multiple rows of teeth — they are much more useful for holding onto slippery prey, like fish or cephalopods, and shredding flesh. these teeth are much thinner, so that they can fit more into the mouth, and each one has a longer profile than the nearly square frame of a white shark's tooth. they might not be hunting marine mammals, but this is quite handy as a generalist in the ocean.
alternatively, if multiple teeth are spreading out that force anyways and working as blunt force weapons, then you could lean into it. you could make your teeth massive and thick, to sustain such forces, but flatten them, and turn them into a crushing battery like these stingrays, better for cracking apart hard-shelled animals like crustaceans and mollusks. in our metaphor, this might be closer to a nutcracker, or a hydraulic press. not very useful at cutting flesh, but good at getting through objects that no one else can.
so, yes. please consider this at least a little, before i start thinking your cool monster design has teeth that don't work.
i know tumblr likes violent man eating mermaids but i fuck p heavy with pretty playful pretty scaled mermaids in warm sorts of waters keeping the tide gentle when lil toddlers are learning to swim and kissing the breath into good sailors because they have someone waiting on a cliff by the sea for them to come home and cutting seals and turtles out of netting and plastic bags
but maybe being from hawaii just made me think of the ocean of a safe cradley sort of place i know its scary i know it’ll kick your ass but sometimes its ten types of turquoise and and sometimes sea foam sticks to your eyelashes sometimes the sun hits your face even when you’re twenty feet under and i have a hard time forgetting its first and foremost a womb
so mermaids who watch the triple crown and scare sharks away from the surfers
Cheerleader mermaids, whooping it up, yelling encouragement to their fave surfers at competitions.
Skinny, giggly teen mermaids helping jittery new surfers get used to the water, and helping them back on the board when they fall off.
Mermaid moms holding swimming lessons for human kids along with their own babies.
Older mermaids helping elderly and disabled folks swim for physiotherapy.
Delicate, koi-like mermaids falling in love with pretty pearl-diving girls in Asia.
Chubby, blubbery cold water mermaids who are built to deal with ice cold waters, watching out for ships around ice bergs and signalling them safely around the danger.
Cold water mermaids tossing fish to Inuit hunters who’ve had a bad day so they don’t have to go home without food.
Dark skinned swamp mermaids who blend into the murky bayou water, rescuing people who slip and fall into the muck so they don’t sink or drown.
Swamp mermaids chatting up cute Cajun boys and showing them where to fish the best crawdads.
Fancy-finned tropical mermaids posing for pictures with excited snorkeling tourists.
Clever, dolphin-like mermaids helping scientists track fish migratory patterns and catching sample for them to study.
Large, fierce shark-like mermaids helping the coast guard capture poachers, pirates, and smugglers.
I've been astonished by how much people seem to love my weird and experimental project held together by duct tape and string, especially since so much of it flies in the face of the way I've been taught publishing is supposed to work. The conventional way authors survive online is to release books for sale as frequently as possible - whereas I've been focusing on giving each project as much time as I can, and releasing them slowly (so far I've done a Dracula-inspired novel.) I’ve been making the sort of transgressive queer writing that mainstream publishing is too nervous to touch right now, and I've been giving it away in my newsletter for free.
I want to keep telling stories for free, forever. Only there's one problem: I'm going to need A Lot more subscribers to my newsletter. I have just under 5000 readers right now - I’m going to need at least double that.
Conventional wisdom also says that Tumblr is a dead end, but I'm convinced that this is one of the last places on the internet that capable of fostering real, counter-cultural queer expression - precisely because we are so often left out and forgotten by the mainstream. Half the reason I'm on this website is because of the culture of absolute resistance to advertising. Unfortunately, that also makes my job here rather hard. If things continue to go well, between Patreon, sales of special editions, and a couple small ads, I think I can just about get away with doing this. But I need your help.
If you're someone who's hungry for good stories and:
❧ You're sick of being sold superficial, safe, and sanitized queer stories that shy away from genuine expressions of socially unacceptable desire
❧ You see sexual freedom as inseparable from queer liberation, and you want to see that explored in metaphor via a vampire seducing a priest
❧ You want to read modern queer fiction that's aware of the deep and rich history of queer culture
❧ You want to help foster a project that would create new avenues for underground and transgressive forms of queer expression
Then you should subscribe to What Manner of Man! It's sexy and boundary-pushing and kinky, with fire in its veins.
If this works, I'll be able to take on bigger and more ambitious projects than I ever have before (it's mad scientists next, and I have some pretty mad ideas!)
Thank you for your time! Reblogs deeply appreciated.
After a dangerous and illegal experiment ends in disaster, a young man finds himself tangled deep in webs of conspiracy and corruption as he searches for the man he loves - a man he brought back from the dead.
Can his love survive the strange and frightening transformation the doctor has undergone?
Not all venom fans are monster fuckers 😞 some of us are just aroace disasters who like the idea of a platonic soulmate who likes to murder annoying people for you, is that so bad?
For the prompt submissions a vampire that feels guilty after feeding/attacking someone so they leave obscenely valuable ancient artifacts as payment/an apology?
When I sat down to write this, I didn't anticipate it becoming a 4.5k story.
I'm also dabbling in 2nd person, so enjoy!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 - Vagina Version | Part 15 - Penis Version | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 (coming soon)
---
You wake up late that morning with a groan, sunlight trying to force its way in through your closed blinds.
Everything hurts. Your legs, your arms, your back, your head, your neck, everything throbs. Still groggy, you try to remember what happened last night. You’re still dressed in what you remember wearing yesterday. You’re even still in your shoes.
Thankfully, you're in your own bed as well, you eventually realize as you push yourself upright. The sight of your familiar rumpled comforter and room eases some initial concerns warbling about your brain. But there's still more to have.
Partying or anything strenuous hadn't been on your calendar last night, so what hap-
Your fingertips graze over something on your neck. Something that feels suspiciously like a bandage. Narrowing your eyes, you force your wobbly legs from the bed and duck into your darkened bathroom.
The lights buzz overhead after you hit the switch. An anticipatory horror swells in your chest as your eyes settle on your reflection in the mirror. A bandage is wrapped around your throat. The image reminds you of an urban legend about a woman whose head falls off after the removal of a lifelong bandage.
Your shaking fingers touch it as the faintest memories shift in your mind. Last night, you went to see a movie! It was an old black-and-white movie at the vintage theater a few blocks away. While your friends had all declined to go with you, there had been quite a few bodies in the theater seats last night. And on your walk home…
Your eyebrows furrow. On your walk home, it had been dark. Strangely dark. Like the streetlights had failed to come on well into the evening dark.
And you had been walking.
Then running. You remember the sound of your sneakers scuffing desperately on pavement.
And the echoes of something behind you.
Movement behind you startles you. It takes a short second to realize it’s the bathroom door that caught your attention. It’s not even moving!
Well… until it does begin to swing.
Your eyes widen, stomach dropping, as a clawed hand reaches around the edge of the bathroom door. Survival instincts spin you around, hands fumbling for anything nearby, as the door latches closed.
Everything in your floundering mind stills as the thing behind the door is revealed.
It looks like a person. It is distinctly person-shaped. A tall and lanky person, dressed in layers of musty-smelling disintegrating fabric; the cloth so ruined, you couldn’t discern its original color. Over everything, it wore a large and far more well-kept trench coat that barely hit its knees.
But its spindly fingers are still inhumanly long, still tipped with curving claws that you remember grappling against. And how easily it restrained you. And you remember - you remember - its face shifting in the dark. Its mouth widening, its teeth growing into vicious little points, its nose becoming flatter and ears growing large and pointy and its eyes glowing red.
The sudden rush of memories nearly topples you over. This had been the thing you’d been running from last night! Your heart races just remembering it.
Oh, you had no clue when you started to run. Of course not. You thought someone was stalking you, intent to mug or sexually assault you.
“Many apologies. This mus-” The thing reaches a hand toward you, spindly fingers and claws crooked.
You scream, grabbing the nearest items from the bathroom sink to wing at the creature. Empty and full bottles of a number of toiletries hurtles in the air at it. It doesn’t even budge. Even as a toothbrush and a hefty bottle of mouthwash and a stick of deodorant and more come flying at it. The most it moves is a wince as a hairbrush smashes into its face.
Your chest heaves with panting breaths as you look wildly around, your potential projectiles now depleted.
“As I was saying,” the thing continued again, though this time they made a concerted effort to not move toward you. “Many, many apologies for this intrusion.”
Sense finally broke into your chaotic swirl of thoughts. Even with near-hyperventilating gasps, you yell, “What do you want? What did you do to me? How did we get back here?”
“I’m very sorry! I just awoke from a very long sleep and was a bit disoriented.” Its face creases with concern and misery as their hands, those fingers, grasp at one another. It tugs and fidgets with its own digits, its pathetic red gaze nothing but wretched. “I saw you at the moving picture and something just…”
It trails off and attempts to find the appropriate word by raising its hands. Its fingers wiggle, the claws catching the light of the bathroom.
At your uncomprehending look, its hands fall and its shoulders hunch near its pointed ears. “I just got very hungry.”
“And how are we here?” You demand, motioning toward the bathroom and implying your apartment at large.
“I’m assuming you’re asking how I know this is your home,” the thing mumbles, pointed ears drooping as it returns to fidgeting with its fingers. Your expression hardens as you nod, making a gesture for it to continue. It radiates wretchedness as it answers, “The blood, you see, carries memories and-”
You groan, running your hands down your face with crooked fingers pushing against your cheeks. This couldn’t be real! This was some sort of hallucination or even a dream! You couldn’t imagine why you’d be hallucinating, though, and you knew you weren’t asleep.
You weren’t ready to accept what this thing was telling you. You weren’t even ready to accept it actually being a physical entity! If you did, then you’d have to come to terms with a blood-sucking, bat-like creature existing in this reality and you- Nope! Your brain shut down the line of thought, like steel doors shutting out an invasion.
“I left penitence at your bedside,” they mumble, their red gaze once more on their own hands. With as high as their shoulders hunch, they look about ready to fold in on themselves.
You throw the creature a glare, which it seems to feel - even without looking at you - as it flinches.
Better than being terrified, you clung to the annoyance as you edged to the bathroom door. Being irritated was better than breaking down into tears as the world you knew suddenly fractured as fictitious things became reality.
Opening the door and ducking into your bedroom, your eyes scan the area. It was mostly as you left it. At least the thing hadn’t rummaged through your belongings. Then again, if what it said about blood and memories was true, it wouldn’t have to.
With a savage shake of your head, you dislodged the thought. No, it wasn’t real. It was fictional. You were hallucinating and your brain was just giving you too much to work with! That was it. Yep.
Your attention finally lands on what must be the thing’s penitence. With narrowing eyes, you slowly approach the small box on your nightstand. It appears to be made of discreet metal, dingy and old. With a careful hand, you flip the lid open. It opens easily and you stare at the offering.
Inside, a small fortune of gold coins sits in the velvet-lined box. As you sift through the coins, a small carved statue catches between your fingers. You stare at it, eyebrows raising as it reminds you of those fertility figurines you’ve seen in museums.
Pensive, you glance back over your shoulder, to the bathroom. The creature hovers in the doorway, half behind the door. Skepticism tints your voice as you ask, “You’re giving me all this for one meal of blood?”
They give an awkward cringe of a smile. You try your best to not be distracted by their interlocking rows of sharp teeth as they sheepishly answer, “I was hoping to stay until the sun goes down.”
You narrow your eyes, giving a hum of disbelief. The weight of the possibly ancient fertility statue shifts in your hand as your thumb grazes its curves.
“And maybe another meal?” They squeak, ducking further behind the door. Shame radiates from them, as if just asking for a meal with a room was the height of disgraceful. Given how they ate, you supposed it could very well be.
At that thought, your hand goes to your throat. You press your fingertips against the bandage and an injury aches beneath the pressure. Your stomach twists as foggy memories of teeth sinking into your skin as you struggle lights up in your head. Of blood dripping, tickling your skin. Of the creature giving a contented deep-chested rumble as they held you tight. Conflicting sensations knot your insides up.
“I need to do some things,” you suddenly inform the creature as you pocket the statute and heft the box into your hands. A sudden thought blooms in your head and you turn to glare at the creature, who still looks at you with doleful eyes from behind the bathroom door. “You stay there. I’m opening all the blinds before I leave, so fair warning.”
After the creature nods in acquiescence and closes the bathroom door, you go about your promise of opening all the blinds. Light floods your bedroom and the parts of your apartment that the windows’ light reaches. Thankfully, the creature didn’t acknowledge or realize your small home had pockets of forever-shadow, where no natural light hit.
Hastily, you shake the thought from your head. You don’t know what else this thing can do, like read minds or sense intent. You try to keep your mind blank as you place the box in a bag, with your keys and wallet. After a quick Internet search, you shove your cellphone into the bag and head out, locking your apartment behind you.
You try not to think about how you possibly just locked a vampire into your home, as you head toward the nearest certified appraiser’s office.
x x x
When you return, afternoon daylight is still forcefully streaming into your apartment. You check that the bathroom door in your bedroom is still securely shut, before sitting down at your computer.
Eyebrows raised at the appraiser’s office, when you brought in the coins and statute. The former appeared to be a particular mint, lost at sea to some tragic shipwreck. The latter was harder to pinpoint and required higher specialty to assess.
You’d left the office with not only recompense for about a third of the coins - the other two-thirds still in your possession, along with the statue - but a URL to a particular forum. You’d visited it via the bus’s wi-fi while en route to another destination. From the forum, you were given a list of further necessities. Whether you raised suspicions, you weren’t sure.
Hell, part of you wasn’t even sure what you were up to. The shock still hadn’t worn off. Nor had you completely accepted the fact you locked a vampire into your bathroom.
Even with the support of the Monster Research Forum, the facts refused to sink in. You thought, maybe, when you picked up the garlic from the grocer or the wooden stakes from the hardware store or even the silver from the thrift store or the holy water from the church, you’d feel more secure accepting the knowledge.
But, no. You still felt like it was all a farce.
Even signing into the highly secure, invitation-only forum felt like a joke.
Something just refused to click and you were afraid only one thing would cement the realization into place.
Sitting at your computer desk, the webcam on but not connected to any app, you unwound the bandage from your throat. Another piece of gauze stuck to where the injury had dully throbbed earlier. You stared at it through your computer screen, taking a deep breath.
There was no point in dawdling. Reaching your hand to the square of gauze, you gently peeled it away, bracing yourself for whatever you saw beneath it.
There were no blood, no scabs, no bruising.
Only two circular scars graced your throat.
The world sways under you as you slap your hand over the scars, your brain unable to understand why an injury received just hours ago was now a scar. You breathe through your nose, staring blankly at your keyboard, trying to still the panic in your head.
Fear-fueled anger rushes to your head again. Your eyes fall on the bag of accumulated safety measures; the stakes, the holy water, the garlic, the silver cross. With a shaking hand, you snatch up the bag and storm to your room, to your bathroom.
You pause only long enough to grab a stake, douse it in holy water, before yanking the bathroom door open. The thought to stop, to think, to consider was ignored by the panicked hate in your head.
It was easier to strike in anger, than wallow in fear as your understanding of the world shattered.
Thoughts of the fight to come, the tussle for survival, the shrieks and possible pain frothed in your head. But this had to be done. You wanted normalcy back. Not this knowledge.
The only thing that finally stopped you was the sight of it, hanging upside down by the curve of their feet hooked on your shower curtain rod.
Its eyes were closed and its sleeping features held a solemn expression, hands crossed over its chest. While marveling at their dignified face, you almost missed the way their trench coat ridiculously bunched up around their shoulders, the excess fabric pulled by gravity. The rest of their clothes didn’t fare much better. Ragged, dirty cloth bunched up, showing off ragged sneakers and socks and ankles previously hidden by trousers. Not to mention the way the shirt drooped toward its chest, leaving their stomach on display.
All of this detail only had the barest of seconds to register. As the bathroom door slammed open, the startled creature’s eyes flew wide. They jolted and the force of their movement made the flimsy tension curtain rod wobble.
With a cacophonous clatter, the creature and rod and shower curtain crashed into the tub.
You dropped the stake as all vicious thoughts dissipated. Without thinking, you neared the creature, alarm and concern taking control of you. “Are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine,” they groan, raising into a sitting position. There was further rustling as they freed themselves from the tangle of the shower curtain. When they finally managed to free themselves and set the rod aside, they looked ruefully up at where you stood. “Bit odd of you to ask, considering the stake and all.”
They nodded behind you and you looked, your eyes catching the forgotten stake on the floor, the wood still dark with the holy water.
You bristled, realizing they knew what you were up to. Your body tensed, bracing for retaliation, as you looked back at them. “What of it?”
“Just odd,” they shrugged. The creature still didn’t move to stand. They simply sat, legs crossed but knees awkwardly folded up awkwardly to fit the small tub, as they stared up at you. You got the impression they were simply resigned.
“You’re not angry?” Uncertainty hedged into your words, your eyebrows furrowing with confusion.
“No,” their voice was soft as a sad smile teased at their lips. There was the briefest parting of lips, the smallest sight of their sharp teeth, before they caught themself. Their attention went to their hands, resting between their awkwardly squished cross-legged position. “Being irate with you would be highly hypocritical of me. I cannot be angry with you choosing survival.”
You tilt your head, comprehension settling into your thoughts. “Because that’s what you were doing.”
The creature doesn’t look up as they nod.
Silence stretches between you two as you struggle to figure out what to do with this information. It doesn’t fit neatly with your fear or anger. It hits on something else that’s been dwelling in your synapses. A quiet sort of curiosity. Which is met with a grudging sort of understanding.
“Do not get me wrong, I am not trying to excuse my actions.” Misreading your quiet as further agitation, the creature suddenly looks up at you. It raises its hands, its spindly fingers splayed but lacking its claws from earlier. “I was slumbering for such a long time and, as I said, disoriented. When I scented you in that theater I-”
Before it could babble further, your surprise makes you blurt out, “You scented me?”
“I, I…” Panic paints itself across the creature’s face, their eyes wide. Their ears droop as you stare at them and their shoulders hunch. Their eyes avert from your face. “Yes. You were the most tantalizing scent I came across, since waking weeks ago.”
You narrow your eyes, curiosity taking the reins fully from shock and fear and rage. “Why didn’t you feed for weeks?”
“I didn’t need to, at first. Then I didn’t want to,” the creature shrugs, their nose wrinkling. “Nothing smelled good.”
“Until me.” Your words bring back their shame.
Once more, their shoulders hunch, their fingers twisting and eyes watching them. The creature makes a strangled sound in their throat, not really wanting to answer but affirming your words.
Awkward fully settles over them as you think. In your pocket, the weight of the statue lingers.
“A third of the coins you gave me covers a year of rent,” you begin to say as you crouch beside the bathtub. The thought is not fully settled in your own head, so you feel it out, glancing from a blank spot on the wall to the creature. If this thing could provide you money to live off of, while you pursued more fulfilling careers, perhaps they weren’t so bad of an opportunity. “I have no clue how much the little fertility goddess is worth, but it could be a lot.”
Something in your voice must prompt the creature to look at you. You find yourself pinned by their red eyes, an uncertain hope threatening to shine in them. Their fidgeting fingers still, giving you their full attention.
“I’m not making any promises,” you say suddenly, leaning back a little from their attentive gaze. A strange warmth creeps up your body and you try to mentally shove it away. “But if you want to overpay for room and board, who am I to stop you?”
Their eyes narrow and what they must think is a shrewd expression crosses their features. “And meals?”
The place they last fed, where their lips and teeth last touched, throbs. A tingle traces down your spine and spreads into your veins. There is a thought, a realization, you can’t quite latch onto. Perhaps a memory from last night that was locked away, whether by your own shock or the creatures yet known abilities.
“Provided on the contingency they stop indefinitely when I say so.” Even as you say it, you feel it’s against your better judgment. The creature’s eyes light up, forcing you to anxiously add, “And that you don’t suck me dry. And if you do anything that makes me fear for my life, you accept I’ll end you.”
“Agreed.” They sit up so straight so fast, you nearly fall backward, forgetting how tall they are when not in a perpetual slump. An awkward hopeful smile pulls across their lips and, with their fingers twiddling once more in their lap, they ask, “I’m hungry now, if that is acceptable.”
You shoot them a withering look, but apparently they have gotten over their initial reticence. They smile, partly cheek and partly awkward, as their shoulders arch.
With a resigned sigh, you scoot closer to the bathtub and their ears perk up. They, too, situate themselves a little closer, turning at their waist to better access you.
“Do you need to feed as often as humans?” The words come out laughably calm, despite the mounting anxiety in your chest. As if you had this conversation a million times before.
“No,” they replied, just as conversationally. Faintly, you wonder if they have had this conversation before. You try not to stiffen as their hands grab your shoulders, turning you so they can see your neck better. “I think I am just particularly hungry after my long slumber and following fast.”
“I see,” you mumble, trying to shove away the feelings of being little more than a prime cut for this thing.
Whether they sense your frustration or simply ignore it, you don’t know. Perhaps they are already lost in hunger, as their lips skirt your throat and they inhale deeply. A delighted sound comes from their throat.
You shiver, biting down a whimper and wrenching your eyes shut as their lips find the same spot as last night. Their mouth and tongue are warmer than you expected, making your stomach flip. Their fingers tighten on your shoulders, those curved claws forming at their fingertips and biting into the fabric of your shirt.
They pull you closer, a hiss escaping their mouth as their teeth sink into your neck. First it’s just a prick of pain, then a hot agony as their fangs sink deeper. Instinctively, your body tries to jerk away, but they growl and hold your shoulders tighter. Against the cool lip of the tub, your fingers tremble.
Then you feel your blood being sucked from your body. A strange sensation of pressure and suction that pulls the hemoglobin from your vein. Not altogether painful or unpleasant, but unnerving.
Despite agreeing to it, despite the relatively certain comfort they weren’t going to kill you, tears still leak from the corner of your eyes. Your hands drift from the tub to their arms, your own fingers mimicking their hold on you. You don’t know if you’re trying to push them away or pull them closer as your head presses against their shoulder, exposing your throat more to their hungry mouth.
Something disintegrates in you. The pain still echoes in your body, but it’s joined by a sense of pleasure.
Pleasure that sends sights and smells and sounds and sensations all through your brain.
Grappling togas and spilled wine and wanton excitement. A litany of smiling faces, of desire-glazed eyes, of lips stained with red. Powdered wigs and skirts made of miles of fabric and sinful sweet scents. Heeled shoes clacking and full bodied laughter. The scent of the sea, the sound of a storm. The smell of gunpowder, of graveyards, of spicy-sweet smoke. Familiar and unfamiliar touches all over your body. Nails dragging across every inch of your body.
“Please, Tabaeus,” you gasp, not entirely sure what you’re asking for. All you know is now you’re pulling them closer, wanting to drown yourself in these sensations and these images. A million lifetimes of experiences, of delight and desire and pain and death and uncertainty and success.
Your words force them to yank away from your throat. They stare down at you, their chest heaving with excited breaths and eyes wide. You stare blearily back at them, confused. Your attention focuses on the red coating their lips and their chin.
The plethora of feelings flooding your head, your body, drains away. Leaving you feeling cold and hollow and more than a little confused. Despite the feeling of cotton in your head, you push your face from their shoulder. As you move, your throat twinges with pain and you feel the blood ooze down your neck.
“I-I am sorry.” Tabaeus’s fingers flex against your shoulders, as if they want to simultaneously release you while dragging you closer. “That is something that happens on occasion.”
“What was that?” The question comes out confused and perhaps a little harsher than you meant.
“The best I can guess is my past,” they release you as they answer, their shoulders once more hunching. “Or maybe the lives of those I’ve… feasted on.”
You stare at them, eye tracing along their shamed features as curiosity - more so than disgust - toys at their words. “You don’t know?”
“No. This whole thing is very confusing.” They heave a heavy sigh, unable to meet your gaze. Their hands move as they speak, putting their frustration into actions. “Despite what I am, memories do get lost to time and I never was fully, truly, orientated.”
“I see,” is all you can manage to say as your inquisitive mind fights against a sudden fatigue.
Then turn back to your abruptly, their red eyes earnest as they grip at the lip of the tub. “If this alters your offer, I understand. I-”
Without thinking, you cover their mouth with your hand, your eyes closing. A desire for quiet settles on your overstimulated brain. You miss how their eyes widen and their shoulders slump at your touch.
“Give me time to process this,” you say quietly, cracking your eyes open to gauge their reaction.
They nod behind your hand, concern prickling in their eyes. Their attention flicks to something on your face and you realize there’s still dampness on your cheeks from your tears. With your free hand, you hastily wipe at the tears stains.
“For now, we should get cleaned up,” you say even while your brain is still preoccupied with what just happened. You had finally accepted the reality of vampires, only to find the one you know may have limited answers.
Despite your preoccupation, Tabaeus seems to have more direction. They rise from the tub and tend to your wound, albeit after cleaning their bloody face. You still sit on the floor, leaning against the tub, until they are finished.
It is only when they softly say your name, you realize you’ve nodded off. Obviously, blood loss does that to one. But your brain latches onto another curious realization. “How do you know my name?”
Once more, Tabaeus gives their awkward-shy smile, the one that is more reminiscent of a cringe than a grin. “I told you, there’s memories in blood.”
“Oh,” you say weakly. You glance toward the door, the thought of your bed sounding very good at the moment. Without a word, Tabaeus gathers you up in their arms. You don’t even have the wits to fret, before you find them depositing you on your mattress.
You’re a little shocked to realize how dark it is outside. Where did the time go?
As Tabaeus moves to straighten up, likely to leave you to rest, your hand catches them by the front of their shirt. Startled red eyes stare down at you. Sleepily, your tone takes on a playful lilt as your lips pucker, “Don’t go skipping out on rent now.”
For the first time since you met them, Tabaeus chuckles. It’s soft and gentle. Just like their manner of speaking, you realize.
“On my word, I will not skip out on rent,” they reassure you, as they gently remove your hand from their tattered shirt. They press their lips to your knuckles and, though it sends a flare of heat through you, you tiredly chalk it up to sealing their promise.
You close your eyes once more, hand dropping to our bed. Tabaeus’s footfalls punctuate the air as you feel sleep dragging you further and further down.
Before the darkness completely swallows you up, part of you is alarmed to realize something.
You desperately hope Tabaeus is still there when you awake.
For the prompt submissions a vampire that feels guilty after feeding/attacking someone so they leave obscenely valuable ancient artifacts as payment/an apology?
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The shock of the run-in with Lachlan runs out by the time the three of you get home, the sun already beginning to set. Not even five minutes through the door, your brain is already churning with ideas, ways to fight back, ways to save Tabaeus. As you kick off your shoes and stride further into the living room, turning on lights, you turn to your two companions, “Alright, he gave us a day. We should plan what to do.”
“What do you mean?” Ewan shoots you a curious look as he flops down on the couch. There’s something wilted about his posture, as if he was a dog exhaustedly returning home after being dumped elsewhere.
Eager to get planning, your feet propel you into a back and forth pace as your hands gesticulate. “We could booby trap the house. If it’s all anti-vampire stuff, Tabaeus would need to stay somewhere safe, but-”
“No. There’s no way to defeat Lachlan.” Tabaeus suddenly steps between you and Ewan, casting a desperate expression between the two of you. Their movement has halted your pacing.
Your eyebrows furrow, confusion dampening your verve as your hands fall to yoru sides. “But-”
“There is no way,” Tabaeus hisses, that desperation in their eyes tinged with miserable fear. Their pointed ears droop a little as they step away, turning their back on you and Ewan. Removing his hat and setting it on a nearby hat rack, Tabaeus’s voice softens and cracks, “He always finds me, always drags me back.”
Ewan sits a little straighter, his concern piquing. You and the werewolf share a worried look, but say nothing. With the appearance of Lachlan, you’re not surprised that memories have finally triggered in Tabaeus.
Lachlan had been… a lot to take in. Intimidating and powerful, affecting a whole library with some sort of enthrallment. An icy sort of vileness in his movements and words. The promise of danger.
But you and Ewan don’t have the experience, the traumatic memories, that Tabaeus undoubtedly holds in reference to the other vampire. It’s a bit disheartening that, after so long trying to figure out Tabaeus’s amnesia, Lachlan is there to sully the recollections.
“What did he mean by punishments?” The words come out of you before you can consider them. Tabaeus’s back stiffens at the question, but they remain turned away. Licking your lips, you take a step forward and softly push, “Tabaeus?”
At the creak of the floorboard beneath your foot, the vampire half-turns to you. They don’t look at you and you get the feeling they can’t bring their gaze to you. Too ashamed or miserable to catch your eye.
After a long moment, Tabaeus sighs and turns around fully. “He killed Kieran and… others. The ones I sheltered with in all of my escape attempts.”
Conflict scrunches Tabaeus’s features further as their hand presses to their own chest. “If the people I am with have other ideas that could be construed as a punishment, Lachlan sits back and observes.”
Your lips thin, eyes narrow as you remember the autopsy scars marring Tabaeus’s torso. You don’t want to imagine what other torture Lachlan sat back and watched. It’s hard not to let your brain feed you awful scenarios.
“There has to be some way,” you say with soft earnestness as you touch Tabaeus’s arm. Their attention flicks to you, quick as a flinch, and your eyes flick over their face, tallying all the anguish crimping their features.
“No, nothing.” Shaking their head, Tabaeus dislodges your touch gently. They swallow heavily again, fighting down discomfort to continue speaking, “I suspect Lachlan can track me, hear me. Peek into where I am at. If not him, then others perhaps.”
Ewan has pushed himself off the couch by now and stands behind you, dallying at the edges of whatever is happening between you and Tabaeus. But at Tabaeus’s words, he presses, “Others?”
“Anyone who has used my… services.” The words sound bitter on Tabaeus’s lips, mixed with shame and frustration.
“For memories?” You’re still not entirely sure what that meant. The worrier in you thinks it’s something sexual or perhaps meant for a litany of experiences. Like a sex worker that will allow anything to happen to them, despite how they feel about it and despite little compensation. But you don’t think that’s all there is to it, even if a lot of vampire media loves the thought of bloodsucking debauchery and parties.
“Yes,” Tabaeus hisses, their lips puckering and eyes narrowing. “For memories.”
Lachlan had said something about making the memory of himself fresh in Tabaeus’s head, before they did a forced feeding. Something clanks in your thoughts, trying to piece together the meaning. Whenever Tabaeus fed on you, you saw things, hadn’t you? And there were moments where Tabaeus didn’t seem like themselves.
Did Lachlan mean that Tabaeus was used for memories in a more literal way?
“What does that mean exactly?” Ewan voices the question your brain suddenly churns over. He’s hovering behind your shoulder, his body heat warm. There’s a tingle along your back, as if you can feel the werewolf’s own anxiety.
“I am a vampire created to store the memories of other vampires.” Even as they answer, Tabaeus doesn’t bring their red eyes to your face or toward Ewan. They speak slowly, picking their words carefully as they explain something that, hours earlier, even they knew nothing about. “A receptacle for others to deposit or withdraw memories as they wish. As such, I am not supposed to make memories of my own, so they may utilize me to the fullest potential.”
Their explanation dips further into bitterness and frustration the longer they speak. Grim lines crease the corner of Tabaeus’s mouth.
“Why would they need that?” Ewan presses, eyebrows furrowed with confusion.
“Our brains are not meant to store centuries or millennia of memories," they explain, pressing fingers to their temple. As if the explanation causes some deep-seeded pain. “Remembrances deteriorate over time. Well, unless a coven has a Memory Keeper.”
Ewan voices the outrage that you feel, “Then let them make another Memory Keeper!”
“According to Lachlan’s memories, I am one of the last. He was not even my original owner,” they say, disgust radiating over the last word. “Ironic, the skills and ritual meant to create one of my own has faded from recollection.”
Driven by the unfairness of it all, you take a step closer and reach out to the vampire. “But we still have to try and stop-”
Before you can touch Tabaeus, they grab your hand in both of theirs. They clasp it tightly, the cool of their palms an unwanted balm against the heat of your adrenaline and determination. The fact Tabaeus is finally looking at you is a small consolation.
“Amata, I care for you. I love you. I do not want to risk you suffering Lachlan’s wrath.” The words come out rushed and watery as they give your hand a squeeze. Your heart stutters at their declaration, your mouth opening to say something but no words come. Their red eyes flicker to Ewan, continuing the earnest and pained timbre as they add, “Nor do I want that to happen to you. A werewolf would be tortured far worse than a human.”
A glance at Ewan tells you he agrees with Tabaeus’s words, his shoulders slumped and a discontented frown on their lips. From the way he holds himself, you can almost imagine wolfish ears drooping down and a sad sagging tail. Despite all this, Ewan quietly asks, “Then what do we do?”
“I will get my things in order and comply with Lachlan. It is the only way I can be sure neither of you are harmed.”
You can see where Tabaeus thinks the situation is unwinnable. A vile master of sorts that may be able to track or see through Tabaeus’s own eyes. If not Lachlan, perhaps others. Which made the situation worse, since even if they dispatched one enemy, more may come in their place. That wasn’t even considering the actual experience Tabaeus has.
However, you can’t help but want to fight. Rolling over and just letting Lachlan take Tabaeus sours your stomach. “But-”
“Please, this is hard enough as it is.” “Do not fight me on this. I do not wish to enthrall you and wipe your mind of me, but I will if I must.”
“Tabae-” They swoop forward, not letting you finish your plaintive dissent. Their desperate lips catch yours, their palms cradling the sides of your face. The force of the gesture makes you stumble backward into Ewan, whose warm hands catch you by the hips.
Uncertainty pulses from the werewolf, his fingers curling into you. “Tabaeus, I don’t think-”
Ewan’s disgruntled words cut off as the vampire breaks from you and lunges for him. The werewolf yelps as Tabaeus grabs him by the hair, dragging him into a kiss of their own. It has the same level of desperation as the kiss they bestowed on you.
When Tabaeus next pulls back, they hold you and Ewan closer, lowering their head between the two of you. Pained and miserable, Tabaeus sighs, “Please, allow me to have one more night, one more good memory, before it ends.”
Tension echoes along your body and you can feel similar uncertainty radiate from Ewan. Both of you are stiff, even as your arm reaches around Tabaeus and your hand brushes down their back. An ache throbs through your chest. You’d like nothing more than to comfort the vampire, give them another good night, but your heart won’t comply. “Ewan?”
“Yeah?” The werewolf’s reply nearly comes out as a whisper.
Hesitance causes you to pause for a beat, mentally struggling with your next words. Finally, you dismally ask, “How can we stop Tabaeus?”
The vampire tenses against you, an almost imperceptible whine keening from their throat. “Do not, amata.”
After his own beat of reluctance, Ewan finally answers you in a soft, sober tone, “I can go full wolf and wrestle him down into… whatever he sleeps in. Wrap it in chains, put it behind anti-vampire protections so Lachlan can’t get to them but they won’t be able to get out.”
Even as Ewan talks about the options, he doesn’t sound convinced. If you were truthful, you doubt either of you want to go that route. It was one thing to have Tabaeus’s cooperation, and another thing entirely to lock them down against their will.
“Enough!” The snarl lights fast from Tabaeus’s lips as they forcefully push you and Ewan away. The power of the shove sends you flying into the far wall, air knocked from your lungs. Across the room, you hear Ewan land against one of the end tables with a grunt of pain as wood splinters beneath him.
Sparing a short glance at Ewan, you can tell the werewolf is okay. Perhaps a little sore and shamed but overall alright. Your attention jumps back to Tabaeus, your eyes widening as you take in the vampire’s state.
They have ripped most of their outfit off, red tears streaming down their cheeks. Whatever fabric still clings to their body has darkened, moldered as if it has been in the ground for ages. Lights flicker around them as their hair plasters to them, becoming a layer of short fur that creeps over their body. Their pointed ears have grown large, wide, bat-like.
To your left, you hear the telltale cracks and snarls of Ewan shifting. You don’t even need to glance over to know he’s gone full lycan, a heady canine scent tinging the air.
“I have made my decision,” Tabaeus growls, their red eyes glowing behind the still intact sunglasses. Their eyes flicker from you to Ewan, their words taking a rougher edge, “Do not try me, either of you.”
Even with their shoulders hunched, it feels like they tower over you. Innate power crackles through the air, heavy and dark.
Recollections of your first night meeting Tabaeus careen through your head. This was what they looked like, except with different disintegrating clothing. Inhumanly tall and lanky, claws bursting from their fingertips, eyes glowing in a dark-purple complexion and dark fur.
The sight makes residual fear stumble through your thoughts, but care and concern for Tabaeus refuses to let you back down. “I’m not going to just let you walk back into Lachlan’s control!”
“It is not your decision,” they snarl, their claws flexing with agitation.
A sense of hopelessness descends through your thoughts as you blink back tears. Faintly, you wonder if Tabaeus is projecting or if it’s your own dreadful feelings. “Just because you don’t think you can fight him-”
“I said enough!” Tabaeus slices their hand through the air, the action silencing you as they take a step forward. Before you can line up an argument, a brown furry figure tackles the vampire with a growl of their own. All you can do is stare as a fully shifted Ewan grapples with the transformed Tabaeus, fur and obscenities and growls flying.
It takes you a few breaths before your brain kicks you into gear. Attempting to separate the two would only get yourself hurt. Instead, a thought blooms in your head: The vampire hunter box. Was there anything in there that would incapacitate Tabaeus without killing them? You can’t remember, can’t recall.
Where did you even put the blasted thing?
Your feet are moving before you even think, making a beeline for the stairs and up to your bedroom. That’s right. You left it on your dresser, before heading to the library.
As you clamber upstairs, you hear a gnarl of rage behind you. That had to be Tabaeus, realizing your destination in your noisy ascent. Which meant the following growl was Ewan, returning the vampire’s attention to him.
The sounds below become fiercer, with wood splintering and glass breaking. Shoving the worry aside, you focus on getting to your bedroom, getting to the box.
Your lungs ache as you get to the landing, bruises from Tabaeus’s earlier toss throbbing along your back. On auto-pilot, you fly to your room and slam open the door, scrambling wildly to your dresser.
The box sits there, innocent and ignorant to the chaos below. Grabbing it, you throw the lid open and riffle through the contents. It’s not until you hear a loud crash downstairs, followed by a whimper, that your fingers start trembling.
“Amata.” Tabaeus’s voice echoes up from the stairs, just before you hear the creak of the wood underfoot.
Each resounding footstep breaks your concentration further as you try to make sense of the items in the box. Glass vials of water, presumably of the holy variety. The stairs creaked. Silver trinkets. The footfalls got to the landing. A crucifix. Wooden stakes. Closer, the footfalls echoed along the hall. A jar of beans. Outside the door, the steps paused. A hand mirror. A shadow filled the doorway, bringing with it a sense of deeper darkness.
Wildly you look up, blinking back tears.
The clothes on Tabaeus’s form hung like rags now, but it didn’t matter much. Fur coated the rest of their body, their face morphed into something somewhere between a bat and a human. In the scuffle with Ewan, they have lost their sunglasses, leaving you staring into familiarly terrifying glowing red eyes. They took a step forward, into your room. Inky darkness trailed at their back, like they brought the night with them.
Without much thought, you grab the jar of beans and fling it at Tabaeus. You’re not even sure if the jar hits them when it explodes in a cloud glittering shrapnel, little dry beans scattering. As the beans clatter on the floor, Tabaeus takes another step in, ignoring the mess.
Vampires do not obsessively count beans. One bit of lore determined useless.
Grabbing the box, you stumble backward, trying to gain distance between you and Tabaeus. Your hand rummages around in the box, until you feel the silver crucifix. With a shaking hand, you bring it up, holding it in front of you. “What did you do to Ewan?”
“He will be fine,” Tabaeus simply states, cocking their head to the side. Their glowing red eyes narrow on the religious symbol and you briefly hope it’s working. They dash your momentary reprieve by stepping forward once. Twice. Undeterred by the cross.
“Tabaeus, please. Let us help,” you plead, your shaking hand abandoning the cross to the floor.
“No!” The vampire’s word shakes the window panes in your room and sends dust floating down from your ceiling fan. They close the distance on you, eyes burning with frustration and pain. Their eyes rimmed red with bloody tears. “You read what happened to Kieran.”
As you continue to back away and grapple for something of use in the box, your fingertips graze the wood of a stake. Your stomach lurches at the very thought. If the other bits of lore failed, however, maybe a wooden stake wouldn’t kill Tabaeus. Maybe it would simply incapacitate them until you could figure something out.
Clinging to that hope, you try to buy a little more time. “But we can-”
You don’t get a chance to finish your plea as Tabaeus, a dark smear in the air, suddenly pins you to the bed. The wooden stake in your hand falls to the bed, bounces, and clatters to the floor. A shriek rends from you as your arms and legs lash out.
“Please, let us help!” Hot tears stream from your eyes as you struggle against the vampire, but it’s no use. They’re too strong. Their clawed fingers wrap tight to your wrists as they peer down at you. The expression they give you makes that pain in your chest ripple again and the tears come harder.
“My apologies, amata,” Tabaeus quietly says as they move your wrists to one palm and lean close to your neck.
Your struggles increase in desperation as you arch and dip your back, writhe under their hold, trying to shake off the vampire. “No!”
The singular word is all you can shriek as you feel the prick of Tabaeus’s fangs sink into your throat. A fuzzy feeling swallows your thoughts quickly as that strange suckling latches to your neck, but you still feel the tears stream down your cheeks. Sensations fill your head, your chest. Confusion and delight and fondness and happiness. Brief snatches of your time together saturate your conscious thoughts, bringing more of your own tears to your eyes.
Nothing lasts forever. Good things always end. The foreign words echo in your head. Not yours, not Tabaeus’s. Perhaps something they were told long ago, something that resonates in this very moment.
Further heat trails down your neck, but you know the tears aren’t your own. They are Tabaeus’s tears, staining your throat with further red streaks. Through the haze, a harder sob bubbles up from your chest. But your struggles have lessened, fallen slack. The world, your thoughts, your senses are dimming, turning dark.
In your quickly fading consciousness, you realize Tabaeus has let go of your hands. Their own grip at your shoulders, long spindly fingers trembling. Turning your face toward the hand on your right, away from Tabaeus’s feasting mouth, you find your sight blurring.
Before unconsciousness claims you, you press a gentle kiss to the back of their palm. Driven to somehow comfort the vampire, even at such a discordant juncture. Their fingers flex, claws digging into your skin as something akin to another sob bubbles up from their mouth.
That’s the last thing you hear as darkness pulls you under.
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