cat enjoyer | ISTP | 25+
personal art and writing sideblog
writing contains dark themes;
expect noncon & toxic yaoi
I like putting my characters in
nice outfits & emotional distress
follow & like from @vampurr
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art and writing sideblog 🌟 follow and reblog from @vampurr
Hi, welcome to my personal art and writing sideblog! While my drawing is cute, my writing is not. I write dark topics like stockholm syndrome, erotic horror, and whump
You may block #tw noncon #tw dubcon and #whump tags if that’s not your cup of tea. If that’s ❀ exactly your cup of tea ❀, then kindly check out my writing masterlist
Feel free to request specific prompts on my askbox and I will write it with my OCs. Have a lovely day and stay hydrated ✨ 🥛
🍓 WRITING MASTERLIST 🍊 ART 🍋 TAGGING 🥝 WORLDBUILDING 🫐
INTERESTS!
📚 Language learning, worldbuilding, Russian literature, WW II history
📖 Anime/manga (currently very into Golden Kamuy and Orb)
🎨 Drawing, collecting art prints & doujinshis
📺 DCU Peacemaker, B-list horror movies
💑 Hydra Trash Party, Thramsay, YuuO, Tsurumi's 7th Division harem
🎮 Mouthwashing, old school Digimon games
🎵 Rammstein, The Band Ghost, Sleep Token
FAVORITE TROPES!
transgressive themes like age gap, power imbalance, master/slave, manipulation, codependence, noncon, whumper/whumpee, slow burn stockholm syndrome, pet whump, conditioning, drugging, sickfic, lab whump, psychological horror, bittersweet endings, enemies with benefits, and found family who bang each other
┈─★ ON WHUMP I’m not here to police how people enjoy my work. If my writing scares you then I’m doing a good job. If you find my nsfwhump hot and want to compliment it, cool! ദ്ദി *´꒳`*)
┈─★ ON COMMUNITY We need community and connection more than ever. Do not hesitate to send an ask about anything; your day, your research subject, your prompts! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance
┈─★ ON OC X CANON I have OC x canon/yumeshipping pairings with Thomas Andre (Solo Leveling), Dispater (DnD), and Crossbones (Marvel). Feel free to mute #SealOfConquest #FerrumSerpens and #calicross if you don't want to see them on your dash
🍓 COMMISSION: OPEN
🍊 ART TRADE: OPEN (DM me)
🥝 WRITING TAGLIST: join here
🫐 AO3: vodkasplash
art and writing sideblog 🌟 follow and reblog from @vampurr
Hi, welcome to my personal art and writing sideblog! While my drawing is cute, my writing is not. I write dark topics like stockholm syndrome, erotic horror, and whump
You may block #tw noncon #tw dubcon and #whump tags if that’s not your cup of tea. If that’s ❀ exactly your cup of tea ❀, then kindly check out my writing masterlist
Feel free to request specific prompts on my askbox and I will write it with my OCs. Have a lovely day and stay hydrated ✨ 🥛
🍓 WRITING MASTERLIST 🍊 ART 🍋 TAGGING 🥝 WORLDBUILDING 🫐
INTERESTS!
📚 Language learning, worldbuilding, Russian literature, WW II history
📖 Anime/manga (currently very into Golden Kamuy and Orb)
🎨 Drawing, collecting art prints & doujinshis
📺 DCU Peacemaker, B-list horror movies
💑 Hydra Trash Party, Thramsay, YuuO, Tsurumi's 7th Division harem
🎮 Mouthwashing, old school Digimon games
🎵 Rammstein, The Band Ghost, Sleep Token
FAVORITE TROPES!
transgressive themes like age gap, power imbalance, master/slave, manipulation, codependence, noncon, whumper/whumpee, slow burn stockholm syndrome, pet whump, conditioning, drugging, sickfic, lab whump, psychological horror, bittersweet endings, enemies with benefits, and found family who bang each other
┈─★ ON WHUMP I’m not here to police how people enjoy my work. If my writing scares you then I’m doing a good job. If you find my nsfwhump hot and want to compliment it, cool! ദ്ദി *´꒳`*)
┈─★ ON COMMUNITY We need community and connection more than ever. Do not hesitate to send an ask about anything; your day, your research subject, your prompts! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance
┈─★ ON OC X CANON I have OC x canon/yumeshipping pairings with Thomas Andre (Solo Leveling), Dispater (DnD), and Crossbones (Marvel). Feel free to mute #SealOfConquest #FerrumSerpens and #calicross if you don't want to see them on your dash
🍓 COMMISSION: OPEN
🍊 ART TRADE: OPEN (DM me)
🥝 WRITING TAGLIST: join here
🫐 AO3: vodkasplash
Summary; If dreams were the window to the subconscious, then Victor didn’t know what it said about him
⚠️ content advisory: religious guilt, nightmare, obsessive behavior from whumpee, slow pace/slow burn (there will be kidnapping in later chapters)
Fandom: original work | WRITING MASTERLIST
notes: this series already reaches chapter 18 on ao3, I think I'll update the chapters everyday here
But all in all, Victor considered his talk with Reverend Hopkins as a success. The priest didn’t pry far and some weight had been lifted from his chest. It wasn’t much but it did help.
He sat down with the bowl cradled in both hands. The soup's steam carried the savory smell of salmon and herbs. Victor ate the carrots first. They were cooked just right, leaving earthy aftertaste on his tongue.
When Victor turned to the potatoes, they broke apart in his mouth with minimal pressure. He lingered over them longer than necessary.
Potatoes. It just occurred to him that this might be the last decent batch for the year. Autumn was nearing its peak. Once winter set in, donations would become less generous. He swallowed and let the thought pass.
The salmon he saved for last, as always. The best part. He ate it slowly, aware of its richness. For a brief moment, with the warmth blooming into his stomach, Victor thought his life was comfortable.
After finishing the last of the broth, Victor wiped the spoon clean against the bowl’s rim and set it aside. Warmth lingered and he felt much better. He lifted his head and scanned the room, eyes moving instinctively toward the corner where he and Reverend Hopkins had spoken.
Empty.
The reverend was no longer there. Victor’s gaze swept wider as he traced the movement of volunteers and the shuffle of people finding seats. Nothing.
Huh? An unease stirred. Had Reverend Hopkins stepped away? Called to something urgent? Victor replayed their last exchange, the way the priest had said we’ll talk again after, not if. Their conversation wasn't finished.
Maybe he'd gone outside. Reverend Hopkins sometimes stepped out for air, especially after the serving rush. Victor pushed his chair back and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The noise of the shelter faded slightly as he moved toward the exit. His brand new shoes stuck to the floor where something had been spilled earlier.
Cold air seeped through the cracks around the door. Victor reached for the handle—
"Vicky!"
The voice stopped him mid-motion. His spine stiffened before he turned. Of course he knew that voice.
His mother stood a few steps away, near the edge of the room where the light was dimmer. She looked more tired than he remembered, wrapped in a coat that had once been a decent one but now dulled with wear. Her hair was pulled back too tightly, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her eyes were fixed on him.
“Mom,” Victor's throat felt dry. "Where were you last night?"
"Where were I?" His mother repeated the question. Her voice rose as she studied him, "Where were you, young man?"
Victor’s fingers curled reflexively around his bag strap, "Fuck it, mom, I was worried about you!" The words burst out before he could filter them.
"Language!" She snapped immediately.
"I overslept somewhere, okay?" That wasn't technically a lie. "And what about you? I didn't see you yesterday."
"I covered my coworker's shift," she answered, crossing her arms. "And what do you mean you goddamn overslept? I was worried sick, and what—"
“Shh!” someone hissed from a nearby table.
“Keep it down,” another voice muttered, irritated.
Jesus Christ. Why, why couldn’t he and his mom have an argument without people telling them to be quiet? They didn’t act this way when it was Mr. Morris and Mr. Swanson’s turn to argue. Was it because they’re just a frail woman and a high school student?
Fuck them. Fuck them sideways.
Victor swallowed the rest of the words burning at the back of his throat and lowered his voice, “I overslept at some dinner, okay? I’m fine.”
This time it’s his mother who lowered his voice, “Alright, but what about… you know what I mean.”
She stepped closer and gently but firmly steered him toward the door, one hand at his elbow. “Come on,” she murmured. “Outside.”
The door thudded shut behind them, muting the clatter of bowls and low voices inside. Cold air rushed in. For a moment, she didn’t say anything.
His mother then carried on, “Where did you get those? Did you steal them?”
“What? Mom!” Victor knew exactly what his mom was talking about: it’s about the coat and canned food he had stuffed into her duffel bag. “Do I look like a thief to you?”
Her eyes slid down to his feet. They lingered on his shoes; new and clean. Those shoes didn't look like they belonged to someone who slept in a community shelter.
“No, I just thought I needed to ask,” she replied as she nodded toward Victor’s shoes. “And those too.”
For a moment he considered telling everything to her.
“Yearly bonus from Mr. Juarez, okay?” His fists clenched as his ears rang. Act normal, act normal.
Her brows knit together, “Yearly bonus?”
“Yeah,” Victor rushed on, forcing a laugh that sounded wrong. “I’ve been a good employee and shit…” Well, shit. The word felt blasphemous in his mouth. Why did he end up lying? His chest tightened. He was really not made for lying, wasn’t he? His heart thudded hard enough to hurt.
His mom whispered but he could see the light on her eyes, “So are there still some left?” She didn’t want other shelter occupants to hear them.
“Not much but it’s enough,” Victor answered truthfully. He knew he was going to do more to convince her mother.
She leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a whisper, but her eyes were bright now. “So there are still some left?” she asked as she glanced back at the shelter door, making sure no one was close enough to overhear.
Victor hesitated, then nodded. “Not much,” he said, this part at least true. “But it’s enough.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. She studied him again. Victor could feel her doubt and worry. He knew there was an unspoken question of what aren't you telling me? hanging between them.
His mother inhaled and her posture loosened. Suspicion still lingered on her eyes but it came paired with relief.
"...Enough," She repeated Victor's answer. Her lips trembled before curving into a smile. “Enough might actually get us through.”
Victor watched her closely. She was smiling, but her gaze kept darting back to him.
“You didn’t tell me you were doing that well,” she said, voice lighter now, almost giddy despite herself. “I was already thinking about how we’d stretch things when the snow comes." Her mother let out a breathy laugh. "Good Lord, I was dreading it."
Her hand squeezed his arm, firm and warm, "This changes things, Vicky. We have new clothes for winter."
Victor's chest hurt. He nodded. Victor pictured the winter he’d been bracing for: the endless dark and the frozen doorknobs in the morning.
His mother looked up at the sky, where the aurora smeared bright color across the darkened sky. She crossed herself out of habit, then turned back to him and pulled him into a brief hug. “Whatever you did, Vic,” she said into his shoulder, “thank you.”
Victor closed his eyes. He felt both proud and disgusted. His mother was genuinely relieved and her gratitude made him sick with guilt. He wondered whether God counted his good intentions.
His eyes fluttered open again, the afterimage of the aurora still lingered. “Anyway, actually I was about to step outside, mom. Was looking for Reverend Hopkins.”
“He left,” She tilted her chin toward the door. “Not long ago. I saw him step out with one of the volunteers. I don’t think he’s coming back tonight.”
Disappointment sank on his chest. He’d been holding onto the idea of another conversation, another chance to say what he hadn’t said before. “Oh. Okay.” That was all he could say.
Perhaps it might be for the best. Who knew if Reverend Hopkins decided to press questions on him. Victor realized he’s relieved Reverend Hopkins is gone. He shouldn’t be.
—
Victor lay on his cot, staring up at the shelter’s low ceiling. The mattress sagged under his weight, springs pressing sharply into his back through layers of thin padding. The mechanic coughed again somewhere in the corner. A mother tried to calm her crying toddler. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily from a leaking pipe. Sleep should have come easily after the long day, yet it didn't.
His mind circled back, again and again, to the bloodsucker.
What was he doing now? The thought itched. He was probably out there somewhere. Probably preying on someone else, Victor thought, bitterness souring his mouth. He pictured an alley with wet pavement again. Heh, hopefully he carried cash this time. The thought was ugly even to himself.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. It struck him: he had called the bloodsucker King Midas before but never thought of the implication. The ring. That damned ring. Solid gold yet it was given away like it was nothing more than pocket change.
If someone could hand over something like that without blinking, then... then that man had money. The bloodsucker was loaded.
The thought spiraled. What kind of man lived like that? What kind of job paid so well? His mind grasped at images. A washed-up actor flashed through his head. Someone famous once, clinging to old wealth, but Victor dismissed the idea eventually.
An office job, then. He imagined glass buildings with lights still on late into the night. A lawyer, maybe. Or a top banker. Some white collar jobs that his teachers urged the student to get.
Or maybe something more professional. A surgeon? Someone who was so used to seeing people bled beneath his hands. The idea made Victor’s stomach twist.
He turned onto his side, pulling the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders. The shelter noises slowly became distant as he closed his eyes. Don’t think about him. Don’t. But somewhere out there, King Midas walked freely through the city, rich and untouchable. The thought spread like oil.
This is not normal. He hated that his mind kept circling on that bloodsucker. Normal people didn’t lie awake imagining what kind of life a murderer led. It felt almost sinful. Stupid, you know exactly why. No. Stop.
Victor tried to replace the image. Soup. Waffles. His mother’s relieved smile. His sister’s parting letter. He latched onto small, harmless things. Anything but the alley and the redhead.
His breathing slowed and the shelter faded further. The bloodsucker was the last thing on his mind before sleep claimed him.
—
And again, he was in the alley. The sky vast and wrong. The aurora writhed overhead, no longer green but thick ribbons of crimson, twisting and folding in on themselves. The light pulsed, casting the brick walls in an eerie red glow.
The smell of carcass permeated his nostrils. It filled his lungs with every breath. Just like the last dream. He tried to move, to step back, to do anything, but his body remained locked in place.
Ahead of him stood the redheaded bloodsucker. He was impossibly still, framed by the red glow. Victor’s pulse roared in his ears.
Run, run!
The command screamed through his mind, useless and loud. The bloodsucker turned then, slow and deliberate. Pale eyes met his, and Victor felt the world tilted. Those eyes were alive.
The distance between them vanished.
The bloodsucker was suddenly there, close enough that Victor could see the wrinkles near his mouth.
Victor’s hands shook at his sides. He knew what was supposed to come next. He remembered. Of course he remembered, he just didn’t want to. Trembling, he waited until the bloodsucker whispered in his ear again but the dreaded whisper never came.
Instead, the bloodsucker smiled. His pale eyes lit up with something like joy, and the sight of it sent a chill straight through Victor’s bones. Slowly, tenderly, the man lifted a hand. Long fingers brushed into Victor’s hair, cool against his scalp. His voice, when it came, was warm and intimate.
