Hey, I'm Seb (he/him or they). This is my blog of random reblogs and arts (I try to upload at least once a week.) I tend to ramble and be confused alot. And sometimes(alot of the time) I get over-excited about things.
Occasionally I post/reblog 18+ things!
|| My art tag! || DeviantArt || FurAffinity || Instagram || Ko-Fi || Toyhouse ||
I just wanted everything I offer in one place instead of like 3 lol.
Generally speaking, I'm happy to try my hand at all sorts of art, so feel free to send me a message if there's something you'd like me to draw!
Don't hesitate to let me know if there's any piece I've done before that caught your eye or if there's a particular vibe you'd like me to capture. <:
Turnaround is around a week or so/a couple of days if not much else is going on.
For the Artistic Freedom type Commissions, I'm happy to take theme suggestions or full freedom, either way the turnaround for these is usually a couple of days.
For Custom Designs I take theme suggestions, moodboards or any other references you'd like me to use!
I can design anthro or regular animals, fantasy creatures, monsters or humanoids - you can have a look through my Adoptables folder to get an idea or shop around for what I have on offer over there!
If there's anything else you'd like to know, go ahead and leave a comment or DM me! Thanks for taking a look <3
You know what? Forget the discourse. This is no longer my hill to die on.
You wanna ship canonically aspec characters because “aro/ace people can still date/have sex”? Okay, then. LET’S DO IT.
I wanna see an aromantic character with an alloromantic love interest. I wanna see that confession of undying love and the moment when the aro character says they will never feel the same way—not romantically.
I wanna see the asexual character with their allosexual partner. I wanna see that moment when the ace characters tries sex with their partner for the first time because they want to make them happy only to realize that they are 100% sex repulsed.
I wanna see the two demiromantics who don’t even know if what they feel is romantic attraction, but they adore each other and just want to make healthy snacks together and destroy each other at Mario Kart.
I wanna see the two aces who love sensual affection and are figuring out what they define as sexual or not.
I wanna see the romance + sex neutral aroace who happily and consensually does whatever makes their partner happy…but their partner still struggles with feeling undesired.
Oh, babe. You thought shipping an aspec character would be just like shipping an allo character?
Author's Note: June 3 @unwholesomeocweek - Necrophilia. AO3 Link
Every now and then, Wynter desires something more than blood to satiate her thirst.
Content Warnings: Necrophilia, murder, strangulation, smut, references to Night Road, Elena Prodan, Aila mention.
It was time again. She could feel it in her Blood. That strange calling, that lustful yearning for something more than satiating her thirst. She wondered if part of this was Aila’s doing, and that her body which housed the elder’s soul was infested. Was her Blood thickening quicker, so that soon she would no longer be able to stomach bagged blood and blood let? Yet she knew that this hunger had always been within her, tamed by her uncle, then let loose again into the wild when she had turned. My god, if only he could see her now, what would he think?
Wynter stirred from her dreamless sleep, making out the various silhouettes in the dark that she had grown accustomed to. Elena’s arms wrapped and legs locked around hers. She turned to her side, pressing her cold, inanimate lips against her ghoul’s, stealing her warmth, the slickness of her saliva, and feeling the buck of her hips as she squeezed her nipple between her fingers.
“Fuck, babe,” Elena sighed. “Any plans for tonight, or could we lay in?”
She hissed as Wynter stroked her sensitive spot through the damp fabric of her panties, her touch chilled as ice.
“Hunting season,” she murmured between kisses, hearing Elena groan with disappointment at her reply.
“Ugh, come on, girl…” her ghoul whined. “Quit being a fucking clam jam!”
By now, the gusset of Elena’s underwear was soaked. A pity, really, but it had to be done. Tonguing Elena’s lip piercing, Wynter gave her bud a light pinch, causing her to jolt in response. Then, she sat up on her bed and tugged her clothes on.
“Fucking tease,” Elena grumbled, languorously following suit.
Still, Wynter never apologized.
Was it fair? No.
Did she like her? Maybe.
Was she using her? Yes.
Shrugging, she stated, “There'll be plenty of time for that later. Tonight, I need you to clean up for me.”
Elena huffed, but nodded, ruffling the wispy, platinum blonde strands of her pixie cut before she stretched her arms out and yawned.
Cruising along the streets in her ghoul’s Datsun, they parked at the start of a predefined route that Wynter had mapped out previously like a fairground. A route that she knew like the back of her hand. She had memorized the layout with its entrances and exits, the choke points and open areas that gave the illusion of breathing space.
What was the point of hunting if she did not prepare for it? People often blamed bad weather, bad timing, bad setups, bad aim, when really, all of it could have been prevented by rolling up their sleeves and putting in the ground work. Work that she knew all too well when she had cut her teeth as a courier, including her much-illustrious stint in Tucson. To leave it to fate was to watch every golden opportunity fade into the wind.
With a little more color and vigor to her now, Wynter stepped out of the car, allowing her body to acclimatize itself to the imitation of being human. As she swung the door shut, Elena saluted her before circling around the block, keeping an eye out until she would be needed again.
Tuning into her keen senses, she assessed her surroundings. It was a little far out from the center of town, which meant that the neighborhood was not too lively, but not entirely desolate either. Surrounded by oak and maple trees, there was a gas station built in the ’50s with a late night diner attached, serving dishwater coffee and greasy fast food. Beside it was a dingy bar that had seen better days, but its cheap drinks and pool tables made it a relatively popular haunt for students. Outside of this were a bunch of small buildings, both owned and empty, that scattered across the main road. Further up was a dirt road with a secluded graveyard and long, flat plains.
It was still early in the evening that she could see vehicles passing by, unloading then driving off, guests trickling in and out of the establishments, loitering around to smoke and enjoy the cool breeze, or heading onward to other destinations. So many places to be, so many sights to see. There was plenty of time to take her pick of the litter. Wynter hummed, smelling the corn sweat and sour decay of the season’s leaves in the air. Then, overlapping it, the distinct aromas of those standing closest to her. They were malleable, shaping and shifting as she drew nearer.
It was always a gamble with what would set her off. The scent of cologne, the smoke from a cigarette, a lock of lustrous hair, toughened, wizened hands, the pout of a Cupid’s bow. The list went on. There was an unpredictability and randomness to it. Something she couldn’t exactly plan for. It kept her on her toes—she liked that.
This time, it’s the color of his eyes. Electric blue, like a flash of lightning in a tornadic storm. A look that could pierce her whole. He’s young, even younger than when she had been Embraced. Someone with the rest of his life ahead of him. Arriving on his own, he stumbled over his feet like a newborn duckling as he shuffled into the bar. She trailed behind him, keeping her distance and avoiding the uneasy stares of the patrons around her.
Shy and awkward in his mannerisms, he couldn’t even look the bartender in the eye when he ordered a drink. He glanced around the room as if he were waiting for a date, but recognized nobody. There wasn’t a reason to check his phone, Wynter knew, because he didn’t have anyone. He exuded a quiet sensitivity that made her debate whether he sketched portraits or scribbled poems under the covers when everyone had gone to sleep. She tracked his patterns, how long it took him to finish his drink, whether he would order another, and the intervals when he used the restroom.
Just as he was fidgeting with a restlessness that indicated he might leave, she swanned over, casually brushing against his shoulder as if it were an accident. It was enough to catch his startled gaze as she burrowed under, branching into all of his senses, his extremities, feeling the nakedness of his conscience merge into her own. In a split second, his eyes darted away, the fear of intimacy making him blush.
Wynter gave him a smirk as she continued past nonchalantly, letting the sensations he experienced wash over hers in a shared bond. There was the taste of bitter hops on her tongue, and a sudden lurch in her gut, as if she were free falling. She had marked him, and now he was hers.
It didn’t take long for him to wrap it up for the night, paying for his tab before walking out the front door. She followed his tracks, but went off in the opposite direction, and waited at a point further along the road. When she saw him reach into his pocket for his phone, possibly to get a ride, she whistled softly, like a call she had learned for hunting game.
When he peered up in her direction, she had gone, causing him to frown and scratch his head, as if he had imagined it. Only then did she reappear, like a ghost flicking under the street lamp. Coyly, she placed one foot directly in front of the other, heel-to-toe, and then again, repeating the process before shifting her weight and twisting her body with the sway of her hips. He heard the sliver of a giggle as she beckoned him, and he swallowed hard, intrigued by this strange apparition.
As he moved toward her, Wynter pivoted on her heel and strode off briskly. Each time he picked up the pace, she matched it, and soon, he gave chase, yelling after her, “Hey, wait!”
He was so absorbed in catching up that he didn’t realize she had vanished. When he came to halt, crouching over with his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath, he found himself completely alone on a narrow and unknown footpath. Sweat poured down his brow and he could feel the burn in his legs. He fished out his phone again, the screen light illuminating his anxious face, but before he could find his bearings, a petrifying growl erupted from behind him.
He caught sight of Wynter, harrowing and grotesque in her true monstrosity. Her jaw was extended into an uncanny position, as if the slit of her mouth had ripped at the sides, and froth dribbled down her elongated fangs. Without a second thought, he screamed and bolted forward, sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him.
She pursued him, gaining in speed, but held back to a nominal degree, just to grant him the false hope that he might escape. Like this, she toyed with her victim, enclosing in upon him, driving him to the spot where he needed to be. At last, she saw it nearing, the metal gates of the cemetery that had been serendipitously left open, inviting them into its arms.
A cry rang out as the man tripped over the slab of a gravestone, and he tumbled face flat onto the ground. As he tried to scramble to his feet, she spun him around and pounced on top of him, before winding a wire rope around his neck. He struggled against her grasp, and although she was of a smaller physique, his exhaustion coupled with the element of surprise put him at a disadvantage.
With all her strength, Wynter tightened the garrote, causing him to sputter and choke. She watched in fascination as his eyes bulged, and his face changed shades like fall leaves. First red, then purple, then blue. Tears streaked down his puffy cheeks and saliva drooled from his swollen lips. She lived through his fear, his anger, his sadness, his confusion, as a series of questions arose. Of—Why? Why? Why?
Why me? What do you want with me? Why did it have to be me?
I didn’t do anything wrong. So, why?
Oh god, I don’t want to die. Please, why?
There was a certain melancholy and thrill with taking away the life of someone so young. She didn’t even know his name, yet what she experienced through their uncanny connection was precious to her. Everything he felt while he was strangled to the point of death. The moment of asphyxiation. The way the light left his eyes. The ebb of violence ushering in the sublime. It filled her with such an immense joy, her cup was abundant and overflowing. And soon, her own crimson tears started to fall as she laughed through her sordid weeping, the sounds she made almost indistinguishable from an animal in distress to one in heat.
Wynter rubbed herself against him, the bittersweet arousal coming in thick and heady. Panting and moaning as she felt his muscles convulse before relaxing, the skin along his jaw sagging, making his cheekbones more pronounced. His mud-caked fingers had stopped their clawing and he lay on the tufts of grass beside the headstones, muted and serene, like a sleeping angel.
She wiped away the scarlet droplets that had spilled down her cheeks with the back of her hand, their cloyingly sweet fragrance lingering afoot. Caressing the waxen pallor of his neck, she traced the outline of the garrote which had dug in deep. Her body was moving on its own accord, still grinding against his hips as she leaned over, kissing his frigid gray lips with fervor and devotion.
It only made her hungrier, as she suckled his plump flesh, parting them before licking along his limp and bloated tongue. The bulge in his soiled pants gave her pause, until she vaguely recalled such a phenomenon that occurred after death. Ripping his clothes open, she found his hardened erection, wet with stink and fluids, and gasped wantonly into his mouth.
Lithely, Wynter shed off her undergarments and took him all the way in, hissing at the fullness of his girth. Wrapping her hands around his abused neck, she rocked her hips, riding him viciously and savagely, grunting and yowling as if she were in a frenzy. Within her crushing grip, she felt the spine of his neck crack, and a wave of euphoria flooded every fiber of her being, as she let out a broken wail into the stillborn night.
Shuddering, she lifted herself off him, drawing in rapid, shallow breaths like a remnant of a memory while she redressed. The sweat that oozed from her pores disgusted her, along with the moist patch on her back. The nefarious craving and desire that plagued her had dissipated and she was lucid again. Kindred she met often claimed that no other feeling could compare to the act of drinking, but secretly, she differed. An anomaly among anomalies. Even her diablerie of Aila hadn’t come close to what she felt in her brief incursions.
Kneeling by the corpse, she retrieved her set of syringes from her leg pouch and got to work, extracting it for what it’s worth, not wanting a good source of blood to go to waste. Up until today, she didn’t quite understand what made her so adverse to drinking straight from the tap. What was different from plunging her teeth into a vessel compared to her kind, which she could tolerate? Did she find it unclean? Uncouth? A reminder of a life she no longer had? It had confounded her sire, Chiara, who regarded her habit with disdain, but never once bothered to correct it.
As Wynter fed herself from the tools of her trade, allowing the tepid blood to splash past her throat, an ominous, dark shadow loomed over her. The hairs at the back of her neck stood on end as she stiffened and bristled, readying herself for an attack. Where the hell was Elena? Wasn’t she meant to be keeping watch?
Her ears pricked up as a voice spoke. A voice she knew through and through.
“Tsk tsk, you’re a fussy drinker, ain’t you, princess? You know… if I have to wean you off again, I will. And this time, you can bet your ass it's a promise, doll.”
It was husky, tired, and worn. It was intimate and familiar. It was home.
Incredibly violent take of mine but I actually don’t think you need to relate to a story in any way to enjoy it. You can enjoy a story even if you can’t point at a character and insert some aspect of your personality or identity into them. In fact I would argue the need for a character like that to be present in every single story you experience is a sign of stunted growth.
Author's Note: June 2 @unwholesomeocweek - Coercion. AO3 Link
This piece features Sasha, who belongs to my wonderful friend @rattenprince! Art and divider credits go to him too.
In exchange for information to avenge her uncle’s death, Wynter helps Cousin Sasha to take down his rival, Ricardo Giovanni.
Content Warnings: Coercion, sexism, internalized homophobia, non-consensual drug use, implied/referenced torture, violence, sexual assault.
“Told you I’d make it worth your while.” Sasha grinned, the headlights from Wynter’s car illuminating his yellow, nicotine-stained teeth as he chewed lazily on his toothpick.
He watched Wynter flip through the bundle of documents that he had acquired for her. She seemed impressed with his work, taking her time to scan through the paragraphs as a subtle smile crept across her lips.
Spitting the toothpick to the side, he tapped the trunk of his vehicle that he leaned on. “Got more of that in here, and a real juicy tip-off I’ll throw in for free, but you know how it is. Fifty up front and the rest on delivery.”
They had met in the middle of a desolate dirt road, as Cousins exchanging favors. Coming in recommended from a friend of a friend, yada yada. Two young neonate upstarts, one looking to take over his father’s empire, the other seeking revenge for her uncle’s death.
“’Course,” Wynter simpered. “Business is business.”
She chucked the bundle through her open car window onto the passenger’s seat. Slipping a card out from her pocket, she handed it to Sasha just as he lit a cigarette. “Ricardo’s hosting an exclusive event tomorrow night. In case you wanna have a little chat.”
Sasha handed his pack to Wynter and as she pulled out a cigarette, he flicked open his lighter, readying the flame. After drawing in a long inhale, she continued, letting the smoke seep from her mouth, “Turns out he likes a very specific type of vessel. Coloratura sopranos.”
“The fuck?” Sasha snapped, fumes rushing out of his nose as he frowned, trying to make sense of it.
“All the better to hit the high notes for the screams.” Wynter shrugged. Sure, it was a little pretentious, but hey, you had to give the guy points for creativity.
“What a fucking piece of work.” Not only was Ricardo Giovanni a fellow rival who could oust him as his father’s successor, he also had a particular artefact that Matheo coveted. So, he needed to go.
“You got a plan?” she drawled, a faint expression of boredom spreading across her face.
Sasha tossed the burned-out stub of his cigarette onto the road, crushing it with the sole of his sneaker. “Yeah, wear something nice to the event, will ya?”
And that was how they ended up in front of a fancy members’ club the next night.
“You cleaned up good,” Wynter remarked, cocking an eyebrow as she regarded the Giovanni before her.
His bright ginger mane was slicked down with not a single flyaway out of place, and he donned a custom-fit shirt and waistcoat set made of luxurious velvet. Its rose and skull patterns against a wash of burgundy and deep violet complemented each other. Along with his slim-cut trousers and expensive Italian leather shoes, he looked right at home rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.
In return, Sasha gave her a low whistle while blatantly checking her out. “I could say the same about you.”
She had opted for the vintage, chic look that was all the rage these days. With her hair coiffed into a bouffant bob, the elegant lavallière blouse under her cream skirt suit, and a pair of red bottom stilettos, she resembled a bella donna from the ’60s. Yet the latest designer bag she carried housed a Beretta 92 with a detachable suppressor, just like how Sasha had an engraved Colt 1911 tucked away within his waistcoat, including an arsenal of smaller weaponry.
“Guess your sugar daddy’s treating—”
Sasha was interrupted with a reproachful flick to his forehead, as Wynter glowered at him.
“Ow!” He raised his hands in mock surrender, biting back his anger. “Okay, okay. Take it easy, lady!”
“Uh-huh? Let’s just focus on the task ahead,” she deadpanned. “What’re we doing about the invites?”
“What about them?” he asked nonchalantly. Upon meeting her blank expression, he offered his arm to her. “Come on, watch and learn from the pro.”
She scoffed at him, but linked her arm around his, allowing him to lead the way.
At the door, he just strode in, ignoring the queue and the attendants at the door, until a bouncer stood in front of him, physically blocking his way. Sasha remained apathetic, exclaiming, “Is this how Ricky treats his esteemed guests?”
“What? You know Mr. G personally?” the bouncer questioned, already scrolling through his tablet. “If I could just get your—”
Sasha snorted arrogantly at the man, countering with, “And you are?”
Instead of waiting for the bouncer to respond, he brushed past him, muttering loudly for those in the surrounding vicinity to hear, “I should really talk to Ricky about these new hires. Seems like they’re not cut out for the job.”
With a dumbfounded look on his face, the bouncer mumbled out a hurried apology and let them go. Once they were at a safe distance from the entrance, Sasha turned to Wynter. The diamond-shaped tattoo under his eye twinkled under the lights as he scrunched his face up into a smug grin. “What did I tell ya? I’d say it was an Oscar-winning performance.”
Wynter waved him off dismissively. “Hmm, it was so-so.”
Sasha shook his head in mild disgruntlement. “Tough crowd.” At the same time, he brought her close to him, pretending to give her an embrace, only to slip a vial discreetly into the pocket of her blazer. “Just a little concoction I prepared for the vessel,” he whispered into her ear.
Wynter didn’t need any further directions. Immediately, she set to work, surveying the hall they had stepped into. She understood setups like these from previous hit jobs. People were rarely imaginative when it came to how they organized logistics, preferring to rely on the same old tired methods.
It wasn’t difficult to spot Ricardo. He was a brash and extravagant man who appeared to be in his early thirties, slim build, blessed with a thick curly mop of dark raven hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Easy on the eyes, but akin to marmite the moment he opened his mouth. He was over by the roulette table in the middle of the room, soaking up the spotlight from his peers. It checked out with what Sasha had mentioned to her the other night, that the Giovanni rival was vainglorious and had a weakness for excess and women.
At the side, there was a raised platform cordoned off with a velvet rope, leading to a private area with its own lush booths and bar. The VIP section, Wynter presumed, and where her target was likely to be. If she had a penny for every Kindred who jealously guarded their prized vessels under the guise of plying them with freebies like this makeshift cage, she’d be swimming in even more cash by now.
Casually, she fished out a cigarette, sauntering over to Ricardo, who had now moved over to the poker tables. Sighing breathily, she played the damsel in distress, “Don’t suppose you have a light?”
Spinning around, Ricardo’s surprise morphed into a leering smile as he ogled at Wynter. “For a bella ragazza like you? Anything!”
He sparked up his lighter as she leaned forward, puffing on her cigarette seductively, making sure he could catch a good glimpse of her coy, lowered lashes, and the tantalizing way she licked her parted lips.
“Are you alone, signorina?” he pried expectantly.
The corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile, deciding there was nothing more entertaining than letting him indulge in a contest of egos. “No, I’m accompanied by my Cousin.”
She noticed his olive green eyes widen as he clocked the title she used as one of his own, and then, the drop in his smile when she beckoned Sasha over.
“Cousin Sasha…” Ricardo greeted stiffly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Neither did I.” Sasha smirked. “I couldn’t help but indulge the lady.”
Ricardo huffed out a scathing laugh. “Didn’t think she was your type, ragazzino.”
In any other circumstance, Sasha would have lost his temper, demanding that Ricardo explain the diminutive way he addressed him, and most importantly, what he was getting at with that backhanded slight. Yet the furtive glance that Wynter threw him made him realize the game she was playing. It was better for Ricardo to underestimate the two of them, and strike once he had let his guard down.
“Oh, you boys!” she teased, playfully patting the lapel of Ricardo’s suit. “Why don’t we gamble a little?”
She acquired a hefty stack of chips from the dealer at the table and the others followed suit. The mood eased up as they engaged in the poker game that was about to commence. To the men’s bemusement, no matter whether Wynter was winning or losing, she placed riskier and riskier bets with each round, as if she were living life on the fast lane, driving straight into a car crash without fear. Ricardo seemed to take a liking to her aggressive, flashy style of playing, experiencing a sense of exhilaration vicariously through her.
He touched her shoulder before sneaking his hand under her blazer to toy with her bow. “Say, why don’t you join me in the VIP lounge? I have something special to show you. Something I think you might enjoy…” he remarked suggestively.
Peering up at him, she batted her eyelashes and pouted. “Can Cousin come?”
Gingerly, he glanced between Sasha and Wynter, hesitating for a moment, but not wanting to lose out to the other Giovanni, he relented. “Sì, certo! He can watch, but not touch.” He laughed contemptuously, unable to resist shoehorning in another insult.
Sasha gritted his teeth, chainsmoking as he prayed that it wouldn’t be long until Ricardo met his well-deserved fate.
As they settled into a VIP booth, Ricardo called over a lady who appeared rather awkward and like a fish out of water, as if she were not used to the grandeur of such parties. “Don’t be shy! We won’t bite… yet,” he jested before introducing her to the two. “This is Emily.”
She nodded timidly, taking a seat beside him as she placed the cocktail she had been nursing on the table.
“Emily’s pretty talented. Aren’t you, piccola?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t—”
Ricardo cut her off, feigning ignorance. “She’s an understudy for an opera singer. Whatchamacallit again? Color— Colatu?”
“Coloratura soprano,” she corrected him nervously.
“Ahh, that’s it!” He gave a resounding clap before flagging down an assistant to arrange something for him.
Taking advantage of this opportune moment, Wynter focused on her Blood. Time seemed to stand still and in a fraction of a second, she dumped the contents of the vial into Emily’s drink, with both parties being none the wiser to her antics.
Emily grew flustered as Wynter gave her a cheeky wink, and she gulped down the remains from her glass for liquid courage. Satisfied, Wynter gazed at Sasha, blinking twice like a secret code they shared, and he mouthed the words “twenty minutes” in return.
Just then, Ricardo wrapped up his conversation with the assistant. Turning back to Wynter, he gestured toward Emily, as if displaying a piece of meat. “What do you think? Isn’t she so nice and refreshing?”
Wynter tilted her head coquettishly, agreeing with him. “Yes, she is. Couldn’t we go somewhere more private?” she asked, flirtatiously running the vamp of her heel up the length of his trouser leg. He bit his lip and took in a sharp breath. “I’d like to get to know each other better.”
Running a hand through his black tresses, he stood up, signaling to the staff to clear the table as he brought the group through the back stairs of the building, leading up to where his personal study was. As they walked in, Sasha and Wynter noticed that the room was soundproofed. A bunch of odd objects that didn’t quite fit into its aesthetic were lying around in a deliberate order. Their eyes darted toward the rope, a camera on a tripod stand, a scalpel, and a plastic sheet spread out on the ground.
Ricardo shut and locked the door behind him covertly before welcoming them into his private space. “Now, why don’t you stand in front of the camera, Emily? Entertain us with one of your concerto pieces, my little songbird,” he cooed, directing her to the spot.
By this point, she was moving fairly unsteadily, but still managed to get into position as the plastic crinkled under her feet.
“My, my, aren’t you a lightweight,” Ricardo taunted, then turned his attention to Wynter. “Signorina— Ahh, my apologies. I believe I haven’t even asked for your name.”
She slinked over, pressing her finger to his lips, shushing him. “Perhaps I’ll reward you with it after we’ve had some fun.”
He kissed her finger and stroked her neck with a hint of menace behind his words. After all, he wasn’t the kind of man to be denied. “Oh, you will. I’ll make sure of it.”
Over his dead body, Sasha growled internally, as hatred for his rival and a feeling of protectiveness toward Wynter surged in his chest.
“As for you, Cousin Sasha. Stay right there and watch,” Ricardo ordered, as he pressed the record button on his camera. “You do anything stupid and I’ll have your legs broken, you hear me?”
Sasha clenched his fists, but nodded subserviently. It wasn’t long now until the real party would start. In fact, he was this close to getting what he was looking for.
“Emily!” Ricardo roared, as she let out a startled squeak in reply. “Haven’t I asked you to start singing?”
Instantly, she trilled the opening notes of the concerto. It wasn’t her best work, as her voice warbled, seemingly unfocused and unable to hit the right notes. Dismayed, Ricardo castigated, “What’s wrong with you? Here, I’ll give you some encouragement.”
Storming over, he grabbed her roughly by her hair, exposing her neck as he sank his fangs into it. However, as he drank from her, he felt something was amiss. Where were the bloodcurdling screams he so loved? Surely, he still suffered from the bane of his clan’s painful Kiss? Why was she slumping in his arms, in a catatonic state? What was—
He dropped her body to the floor, as sanguine fluids pumped out of the carotid arteries along her neck, splattering shades of red across the sheet like a work of art. “What the hell… W-what have you done?” he croaked, as he stumbled over Emily’s legs, trying to catch himself, but failing and tumbling into a heap.
Ricardo was unfamiliar with such a form of intoxication. Even when he’d gotten high off the blood of others, it was a fraction of what he was experiencing now. How could this be?
As if he’d read his mind, Sasha ambled over, snickering as he drew out his switchblade, flicking it open intimidatingly. “Ricky, Ricky, Ricky… Jeez, man, you never learn, do you? Who knew the Duskborn could be that ingenious, huh? Wow, I still can’t believe this shit actually worked! I mean, look at you. Pathetic!” he spat.
The whole time, Ricardo tried to scramble to his feet, but it felt as if his limbs were not cooperating, as if his body were no longer his, and he could only roll around from side to side. His spatial awareness was messed up, and he saw things as nearer or further away than they actually were.
Sasha rained blows on his face and gave him a couple of kicks to his stomach, taking out the pent-up frustration he had been holding back for ages onto his rival. Beaten and bruised, he lay there, quiet and unmoving.
“Cat got your tongue?” Sasha sneered, squatting down beside him. He aimed the switchblade at his face. “So, I’ll cut to the chase. You’ve got something my father wants real bad. Any idea where I could get my hands on it?”
“Fuck you, son of a bitch!” Ricardo yelled, though his speech was slurred.
“Wrong answer.”
The blade sliced his clothes like a hot knife through butter and Sasha quickly ripped off the rest of the fabric, chucking them and his shoes to the side, leaving Ricardo stark naked. Wynter had collected the rope, handing it to Sasha as he clutched his knife between his teeth, binding Ricardo’s wrists to a solid fixture.
“You see that thing there?” Sasha pointed to the tripod stand. “Thanks to you, the camera’s rolling. So, remember that you asked for it.” Gazing deeply into Ricardo’s eyes, he grounded himself, compelling him firmly. “Bark like a dog!”
Suddenly, Ricardo stuck his tongue out, panting as saliva drooled down his chin. In abject obedience, he woofed and bellowed frantically like a hound. This went on for a few minutes, causing Sasha to howl with laughter, until he finally had enough and commanded him to stop. Wynter just sat on the desk, watching the proceedings dispassionately.
“Boy, am I going to have a field day with this footage,” Sasha remarked with glee. “Anyway, let’s try this again. Where the fuck is the item?”
Still, Ricardo would not budge. “Go fuck yourself! You, of all people, would never understand the true value of it, filthy peasant!”
In response, Sasha smacked him hard across the jaw and flew into rage, wrecking the entire room apart. He swiped everything he could find off the surfaces, smashing Ricardo’s possessions against the walls, yanking open and slamming shut drawers.
It was only when he came upon a particular cabinet that he discovered something of interest. He did a double take and chuckled in disbelief. The suction cup hissed as he removed the object from its upright position. The room had grown silent again as Ricardo looked away in embarrassment.
“You know, Ricky, I gotta wonder. Do you keep this thing here for yourself or others?” Sasha twirled the space blue dildo in his hand. It was enlarged, fleshy, and veiny, and the silicone wobbled as it moved in the air. “Tell you what, why don’t we take it for a little spin, shall we?”
He tossed the dildo up and down, letting it land square each time on his open palm, as he strolled toward Ricardo who had closed his eyes, refusing to meet his gaze. As Sasha grazed the tip of the dildo along his chest, Ricardo whimpered and tried to break free of his binds, but his actions were groggy and sluggish.
“Shh, shh, shhh…” The dildo circled around his nipples before dragging along his navel and happy trail. “I’m beginning to think I’m going too easy on you,” Sasha jeered as he placed the tip at the base of Ricardo’s ass.
Out of reflex, Ricardo moaned, shifting his hips as he pressed down against the dildo, wanting to take more of it in. Then, upon realizing what he had done, he jerked away in horror, attempting to curl up into a ball. But Sasha gripped his thighs, splaying his legs apart. Ricardo’s hardened erection, weeping with precum was bared on screen for the video recording.
“For all your self-proclaimed maschismo, this is what you really enjoy, huh? Priceless.” Sasha cackled, as he headed toward the camera. “Just gonna zoom in and send it—”
“No! No! Please!” Ricardo interjected. “I’ll give you what you want, just don’t…” His voice died as he choked out dry sobs, utterly humiliated by the turn of events.
Through his muffled instructions, they found his hidden safe, warded and sealed, where the item was held. To Sasha’s disappointment, all that he retrieved was an empty, plain bronze box.
“This is what my father wants?” he stated incredulously.
Ricardo could only scoff in response.
Wynter peered at it closely, humming as things clicked into place. “It’s not about what’s inside…”
Spurred on by her suggestion, Sasha followed her train of thought and finished her sentence. “... but about what it can contain.”
“Hmm, interesting.” He thumbed the edges of it before putting it into his pocket for safekeeping. Taking the camera off the stand, he switched it off, slinging the strap flagrantly around his neck. “Suits me, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your little secret if you back off from what is rightfully mine.”
With that, the party was over and Sasha and Wynter strode out into the early hours of twilight. Dawn was approaching, but as Sasha had promised, he gave her the rest of the documents she required along with the valuable tip-off.
“So, you’re gonna win your old man over?” She gestured to the box.
“Eh, I dunno!” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. Sometimes, he wished Matheo would see in him a worthy heir, but that dream seemed to be slipping further and further away.
She thought back on a piece of advice that had been offered to her long ago, and paraphrased it with her own. “If he won’t give it to you, you grab it with both hands. Capisci?”
Sasha smiled fondly before breaking out into a warm laugh. “Sì, amica. Next time we meet, I’ll be the boss.”
Just as she was about to hit the road, he called out, “Hey, Wynter! In bocca al lupo. For that shit with Carlo.”
“Crepi.” She nodded. “You got any special requests?”
He grinned like a fox. “Tell the motherfucker, ‘Sasha sends his greetings.’”
I think one of the funniest abortion stances I've heard was from my parents neighbor. He's a like, hard-core libertarian viking larper guy who is very tall and very fat and very bald.
He believes a fetus is human with a soul, but also its "basically attacking the woman's body" so if she wants to get rid of it, that's "basically self-defense". He compared it to shooting a home invader. So he supports abortion not as healthcare, but as killing a baby in self-defense
Y'know I'm so glad someone reminded me of this. Because this was also discussed.
My stepmother did NOT like the way her Libertarian Viking Neighbor framed pregnancy as the fetus "attacking the woman". She incredulously told him this was extremely disrespectful to expectant mothers to portray pregnancy as so violent and negative.
Libertarian Viking Neighbor's response was that people consensually hurt each other all the time, and "there's like a whole community about that, with the acronym the one that starts with a B" And his reasoning was that if the mother was consenting to bring attacked by the baby, it in fact wasn't violent and negative because there was consent.
He brought up people consensually hurting each other, didn't go for one of the obvious answers like boxing or body mods or something, no he went STRAIGHT TO BDSM and he DIDN'T EVEN REMEMBER THE ACRONYM
emotional responses are deeply evolutionarily advantageous in any animals that are making complex decisions and behaviors (in many vertebrates, say) because they act as a reinforcer for a behavior. a bird taking a vigorous bath in a puddle is probably happy because if that behavior didnt elicit a positive feeling they wouldn't do it (it is dangerous to be on the ground and wet!). if an animal can feel fear, which i think is a less contested assertion to make, then it can certainly feel the opposite, that is, happy.
Here's my entry for the Prompts of Darkness writers' event hosted by myself and @porcelainseashore! I'm so excited to work on my first ever community writing challenge in the World of Darkness space.
My prompt was: Weird Obsession
Title: To Know a Body
Summary: The Embrace story of a curious medical student named Lorelai Chen who took her weird obsession to the next level when she finds an undead corpse in her school's basement.
Warnings: Unethical Experimentation, Medical Inaccuracies, Blood Drinking, Corpse Desecration, Non-Explicit Necrophilia, Vampire Turning, Canon-Typical Violence
You can also read on Ao3 here!: linkie
Also check out the other fics in the Ao3 collection: linkie
Divider by @diableriedoll
The year was 1985. The main building of the University of Florida College of Medicine had long since closed for the night—lights turned off, entrance doors locked, and halls emptied of students and staff alike. By all accounts, no one should still have been inside at this hour; technically, it was already morning, with the clock having struck midnight some time ago.
Everyone else should have been at home or in their dorms by then. But not Lorelai Chen, an overexcited Second Year Post-Grad with mischief on her mind, having stayed hidden in darkened corridors since the early evening before reemerging to stake her claim.
Before all this, Lorelai had been exactly the sort of student others said was destined for greatness. In high school, she was a straight-A overachiever, adored by teachers and classmates alike. Smart, peppy, vibrant, charming—almost aggressively so. The kind of girl yuppie culture in America loved to parade around as proof that hard work and ambition can take you anywhere.
Her parents trusted her. Teachers praised her. Other students were either envious or jealous. People smiled proudly whenever she spoke about medicine and the future ahead of her. She sold them all the same story: that she wanted to become a world-class doctor to help people, heal the world, and make her life mean something.
To her credit, she probably could have. The thought would not have troubled her conscience in the slightest. But Lorelai’s fascination with medicine had never been entirely altruistic.
What truly captivated her was not health but broken bodies. Diseased bodies. Damaged bodies. Opened bodies. Bodies transformed by violence, decay, or catastrophe into something raw and revealing. She had recognized that fascination long before she had words for it.
She knew it the first time, when she was four years old and standing beside a creek with her mother after they found a pale, waterlogged corpse tangled against the reeds. While her mother called for help, Lorelai stared in wonder, wanting to touch the body’s bloated belly.
The second time came at twelve, when she slipped beneath police tape at a crime scene just to glimpse the remains of a bullet-riddled man collapsed in a widening pool of blood.
At sixteen, she lingered too long in the Natural History Museum, studying preserved specimens and dissected cadavers with an intensity that unsettled even the tour guide.
And at twenty, as an undergraduate, she expressed fondness for the medical sciences so much that she received special permission from the department to assist in a full human dissection.
It was at that moment that she stopped lying to herself.
Lorelai knew there was something pathological inside her. A lifelong, cancerous fascination with the human body at its worst and most vulnerable. She was drawn to the fragile truth underneath the skin—to what remained when people were cut open, mangled, diseased, dissected, or irreversibly changed by suffering.
This was why she enrolled in medical school. Not to preserve healthy bodies. Not to save lives. But to carve apart the unusual dead and uncover what secrets they kept inside in hopes they would reveal to her a beautiful and terrible revelation about the human condition.
Tonight, she had embarked on a secret mission after finding a lead through faculty files she had snooped through about a mysterious corpse that had supposedly remained with the university for generations. One that had no tags, no records, and no recollections from current or former staff about how the body came into their possession. As far as anyone knew, it had always been there. There were strict orders from the Board that it was never to be touched and always kept under lock and key.
That, however, did not mean tight surveillance.
The literal lock and key were as old as the nineteenth century, with the physical key being a handmade brass one with a single crude bit at the end. Lorelai had found it in an unlocked glass case in the department head’s office hidden behind a picture frame. There was no way she could not take it and seize the chance to see the school’s secret specimen for herself.
With a crude map of the school building in one hand and a bag containing the key alongside other breaking-and-entering tools slung over her shoulder, Lorelai got to sneaking.
It didn’t take long for her to find the school’s morgue on the bottom level and locate the cabinet with the ancient brass lock. The set of drawers containing the body in question appeared to be as old as the building itself—perhaps even older—with a heavy layer of rust and permanent patina coating the metal surface.
Lorelai stared at it with widening excitement and got to work loosening the openings with oil lube from a can. It only took a few moments for the drawer to be prepared until she could finally with bated breath, insert the key, twist, and unlock.
The key worked like a charm and the lock inside gave a satisfying click as it popped. She left the key in as she slid out the drawer with her hands tight on the handle, shaking with anticipation.
What she found when she pulled it all the way was astounding. The corpse was of an older man in his approximate sixties who was very well preserved despite being dead for about two hundred years. He was a large cadaver, tall at over six feet and still broad at the shoulders and chest even in its sunken state. His hair and skin were practically untouched: no indents or holes, no examination scars, not even the telltale Y incision mark from an autopsy. It was as if the body was perfectly preserved in its natural state without the need for a mortician or embalmer.
This was incredible to Lorelai. She had to put him on the table and find out more.
It took a considerable effort from her to lift his large frame out of the drawer and onto a gurney to transfer onto an examination table. She tried her best to be delicate and not damage such a fine specimen, and in that attempt she found herself accidentally enjoying the process. Feeling the weight of him in her arms from the initial lift, the smooth glide of her hands against his elastic skin, the coolness of his body compared to her warmth. She had never had to handle a specimen this thoroughly before, and it made her wish she could do it more often.
After she positions him to lie flat on the table, she turns on the examination light above him and considers her options for viewing. A staunch white LED light comes alive and blinds Lorelai for a moment until her sight comes back and she can see the object of her curiosity more clearly. She can see all of him in front of her from head to toe now, completely bare with no tags or marks anywhere.
She puts her fingers against his neck to begin her physical examination. No pulse, obviously. Skin below room temperature to the touch. Arteries and underlying structure still present even while atrophied. She takes note of his face, his expression still and calm as if he faced a quiet death without resistance. There is a strange, handsome quality to him, still serene and regal after all these years.
She finds herself stroking his silver hair and hollow cheek despite herself. Nothing wrong with appreciating beauty in a peaceful state.
As her finger gently brushed across his lips, she caught what looked like the faintest twitch in his upper lip. The movement made her yelp and instinctively jerk backward.
Her heart jumped out of her chest as it skipped. In the time it took for her pulse to regulate itself, she found nothing on his face. The figure went still again the moment the room fell silent, and she felt silly for what appeared to be nothing. A trick of the light playing on her fear of getting caught.
Her hands return to him and move downwards as she proceeds with the next step. She presses on his clavicles, upper chest and sternum, briefly pressing a hand down where his heart is when she feels a sudden jolt, a strong pulse before the chest springs upwards.
THUMP.
She flinches again, though this time she’s sure it’s not her anxiety making her see things anymore.
This body… this man… He’s still responsive to outside stimuli.
Which meant somehow, he was still alive.
Lorelai’s breath caught in her throat.
For several seconds, she simply stared at the corpse beneath the examination light, waiting for more movement. Another pulse maybe. But the body returned to stillness once more, calm and silent atop the steel table as though nothing had happened at all.
Then the medical part of her mind took over. Her fear gave way to instinct.
“Oh my God…” she whispered under her breath as she leaned over him again. “You’re alive. You need help.”
She had considered backing away and calling for emergency services. An ambulance and EMTs to carry him away and resuscitate him properly. It would’ve been the right thing to do.
But then she imagined police arriving behind them, and reality settled heavily into place. She would be implicated immediately. Charged for breaking and entering and theft of university property. Desecration of a corpse.
No way. She couldn’t risk her secret getting out. Not here, not now.
Her hands moved quickly, fingers pressing against his throat again in search of a pulse. Nothing. She lowered her ear toward his chest and listened carefully.
Silence. No heartbeat. No respiration. And yet she had felt something.
THUMP.
Not imagined. Not nerves. Real.
Her eyes darted toward the nearby equipment shelves. Logic screamed at her that this made no sense, but fascination crushed panic beneath its heel. Whatever this man was, whatever state he existed in, he was still responding. Which meant there was still activity somewhere inside him.
Lorelai immediately climbed onto the stool beside the table and locked her hands together over the center of his chest.
“One, two, three…”
She began chest compressions.
His body shifted beneath the pressure, the ancient flesh surprisingly resilient beneath her palms. Not brittle. Not rotten. Elastic. Alive in all the wrong ways.
Thirty compressions.
She tilted his head back and pinched his nose shut before breathing into his mouth. His lips were freezing cold.
Again. Thirty more.
Sweat began collecting against her brow despite the chill of the morgue. Her pulse hammered wildly as adrenaline overtook her exhaustion.
“This is insane,” she muttered breathlessly. “This is completely fucking insane—”
THUMP.
His chest jerked again beneath her hands. This time harder.
Lorelai recoiled slightly before immediately leaning back over him. “Come on,” she urged. “Come on…” Her eyes snapped toward the door when she remembered something. Storage refrigeration units in the cooling room upstairs for specimens, fluids, and blood.
Blood.
If his organs were somehow inactive—if circulation had halted—then maybe external stimulation alone was not enough. Maybe the body needed volume. Nutrients. Oxygenation. Something primitive and reckless formed in her mind.
Before she could second-guess herself, Lorelai rushed toward the refrigeration room upstairs, found it behind an unlocked door, and yanked it open. Bags of stored donor blood stared back at her beneath the cold fluorescent light inside a fridge. She smuggled three O- types into her bag.
On the way back, she grabbed an IV stand, tubing, and a catheter. No time for fancier equipment like pumps or monitors; she was going to have to do this manually by hand. Returning to the examination table, she worked quickly and with frightening competence. Needle. Line. Vein access.
The veins in his arm accepted the catheter disturbingly easily, as though they had never truly collapsed at all. She hooked a bag to a pole, squeezed it with two hands and bent the tubing to get an even flow. Dark red blood began flowing down in stages until it was smooth.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the body inhaled. Not a reflex. Not a twitch. An inhale. It was sharp and sudden. Deep enough to make the chest rise violently from the table.
Lorelai froze. The man’s eyes opened. Pale gray and blood shot. Fully aware. The man’s gaze locked onto hers with terrifying immediacy, and she felt something impossible behind those eyes—not confusion, not panic, but intelligence. Old, ancient intelligence. Cold and immense and starving.
Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run. But she couldn’t move.
His lips parted slightly. Two fangs descending from the canines slid into view.
Lorelai only had enough time for a single strangled gasp before his hand seized the front of her neck with monstrous strength. The man moved faster than any human body should have been capable of moving.
One moment he was lying beneath her. The next he was on top of her. She screamed as he dragged her downward and buried his teeth deep into her throat.
Pain exploded through her neck. Then came ecstasy.
Heat flooded out her body as he drank from her in deep, desperate pulls. She felt herself weakening almost immediately, her limbs growing numb while her heartbeat thundered louder and louder inside her ears.
The old man made a sound against her throat somewhere between a groan and a starving animal finally fed.
The blood bags hanging beside the table fell as the IV stand overturned onto the floor.
Lorelai tried to push him away at first.
Then weaker. Then not at all.
Her body slumped beneath him as dizziness consumed her vision. The room blurred around the edges. The overhead light smeared into white haze.
Still he drank. Greedily. Like a man waking from centuries of starvation.
By the time he finally pulled away, Lorelai couldn’t feel her fingers.
The old man stared down at her with blood running from the corners of his mouth. Color had begun returning faintly to his corpse-like skin now. The hollowness beneath his cheeks softened. His chest rose slowly with unnecessary breaths.
Lorelai tried to speak, but only a wet rasp escaped her lips.
The elder regarded her silently for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, his expression shifted. Amusement.
“A physician,” he said softly, his voice ruined from disuse and age. “How fitting.”
His accent sounded old. European. He spoke English in a way that was too formal in the modern world.
Lorelai’s vision darkened further. She realized dimly that she was dying. The man seemed to recognize it too.
“You woke me before my appointed hour,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully. “But perhaps that is not without purpose.”
He raised one pale wrist to his mouth and tore it open with one sharp fang. Black-red blood welled from the wound. Then he gripped Lorelai by the jaw and forced his bleeding wrist against her lips.
“Drink.”
She tried weakly to resist. Instinct failed against thirst. The moment the blood touched her tongue, agony erupted through her entire body. Her back arched violently against the floor. Every nerve ignited.
She could feel her heart convulsing inside her chest as something ancient and alien poured into her bloodstream. Cold flooded her veins. Her thoughts shattered apart beneath flashes of impossible things—chanting voices, burning towers, circles of blood painted onto stone floors, robed figures standing beneath candlelight while something unseen watched from the dark.
The elder loomed above her throughout all of it, calm and patient. Watching. Waiting.
Lorelai’s body seized one final time before going still completely. Silence swallowed the morgue. The old man slowly rose to his feet. For the first time in centuries, Regent Alaric von Straub of Clan Tremere stood awake and undead once more.
His gaze drifted across the modernity of the morgue around him with faint disdain. Then down toward Lorelai lying dead at his feet.
No. Not dead. Changing.
A faint smile touched the elder’s lips as Lorelai’s fingers twitched against the floor beside her. The first stirrings of hunger had already begun. The hunger arrived before consciousness did.
It came as an unbearable emptiness buried deep inside her body, gnawing at her from the inside out until it eclipsed thought itself. Her chest spasmed violently against the tile floor as dead lungs dragged in a ragged breath she did not need.
Then her eyes snapped open. The world hit her all at once. Too bright. Too sharp.
She could hear the faint electrical hum inside the overhead lights. The distant drip of water somewhere in the pipes above them. The soft crackle of old fluorescent wiring hidden behind the ceiling panels. Most unbearable of all was the smell.
Blood.
The copper-rich scent flooded her senses with nauseating clarity. She smelled it splashed across the floor. Inside the IV bags. Drying against her own throat. Emptiness clawing against her stomach with a vengeance.
Lorelai lurched towards the spilt blood on the floor on all fours like a dog. She lapped at the expiring blood with her tongue fully extended, slurping every bit she could before the blood turned rancid. But even when it did, she didn’t care. For the first few minutes of unlife, she was nothing but a wild animal.
The elder watched her from across the room while calmly dressing himself in dark garments pulled from an old leather case beside the cabinet. The clothing looked centuries out of fashion—high-collared black wool coat, linen tunic, tailored trousers, leather gloves and boots. Every movement he made was deliberate and composed now, utterly unlike the starving thing that had torn into her moments earlier.
When lucidity finally returned to her, her hands flew to her neck. No pulse. No warmth. Only smooth skin and tacky blood. Panic surged through her.
“What…” Her voice cracked horribly. “What did you do to me?”
The elder fastened one silver cuff button before answering. “I saved your life.”
“That’s not—” Lorelai’s words caught abruptly in her throat. The hunger sharpened again. Her eyes drifted involuntarily toward the overturned blood bags and her knees on the floor. The taste of grit in her mouth from licking the ground began to sour with old blood.
Her face recoiled in horror.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You understand already.”
Lorelai shook her head violently. “No. No, this isn’t possible—”
“You died, Miss Chen.” His voice remained calm. Academic, almost. “I drained you beyond the point of recovery. Then I fed you my vitae before death fully settled. Your body expired. Your mind did not.” His pale eyes studied her carefully. “Congratulations. You are no longer human.”
The words hollowed her out. She stared at him in mute horror. Some distant part of her mind tried desperately to rationalize what was happening. Drugs. Psychosis. A breakdown brought on by stress and sleep deprivation.
But her body knew better. Her body understood the truth before her mind could bear it.
The elder stepped closer.
Up close, Lorelai could see how unnatural he truly looked now that color had partially returned to him. Not dead exactly. Not alive either. His skin remained pale marble beneath the morgue lights, his eyes too still and ancient for any ordinary man.
“What are you?” she whispered.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Clan Tremere,” he answered simply. “Though your generation tends to prefer the more vulgar term: vampire.”
Lorelai let out a strained laugh that bordered on hysteria.
“No,” she breathed. “No, vampires aren’t real.”
“And yet here you are.”
He crouched before her with slow elegance.
“Tell me, Lorelai Chen… after everything you have seen tonight, do you truly still believe the world is rational?”
She opened her mouth to argue. Nothing came out.
The elder regarded her silently for a moment longer before continuing.
“My name is Alaric von Straub. Once Regent of a chantry I assume has long since turned to dust. I entered torpor willingly in the year 1826.”
“Torpor?” she repeated weakly.
“A deathlike hibernation. Necessary, at times.” His expression darkened slightly. “There were wars within my Clan. Betrayals. Hunters. Fire. Ambitious apprentices.” A flicker of old irritation crossed his features. “I chose patience instead.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the ancient cabinet. “I remember being placed into my coffin at my estate in Stuttgart. I do not recognize this cabinet, nor this place.” His pale eyes shifted back toward her. “Where am I? What year is this?”
Lorelai stared at him for a moment before answering carefully. “It’s… 1985. We’re in Florida. In America.”
The elder’s eyes snapped toward her with inhuman speed. The movement alone made her flinch. His stare struck her like a lightning bolt through the brain. At first, he gave no visible reaction at all. His face remained completely blank as he processed the words in silence.
Then as seconds went by, he started to chortle. Then he started to laugh, low and sinister. It built slowly in volume until it echoed violently throughout the sterile morgue, bouncing off steel cabinets and tile walls alike.
Lorelai could do nothing but watch and listen. It must’ve been far too long for him. And far too distant for this to be an expected awakening. When the laughter finally began to settle, she couldn’t help but ask. “You… hid yourself in Stuttgart?”
“I preserved myself there. And now I am here.” He corrected. “Mortals are adequate custodians until they expire and their loyalties die with them.”
The hunger twisted inside her again, harder this time. She doubled over with a pained sound.
Immediately, Alaric seized one of the unruptured blood bags from the floor and held it toward her. “Drink.”
The scent hit her like a physical blow. Lorelai hesitated only a second before instinct overwhelmed disgust. She snatched the bag from his hand with shaking fingers and tore into it desperately.
The blood was cold. Stale. But it eased the agony instantly. She drained the bag in seconds. Then stared at the empty plastic in horror.
Alaric watched with clinical fascination. “Good,” he murmured. “Your Beast is healthy.”
“My what?”
“You will learn.”
She looked up at him suddenly, fury beginning to break through the panic. “You murdered me.”
“Yes.”
The bluntness of it stunned her silent. Alaric tilted his head slightly.
“And yet you pursued deathly beauty your entire life, did you not?” he asked softly. “You sought it in creeks. Crime scenes. Dissection halls. Morgues.” His pale eyes sharpened on hers. “You were fascinated by the boundary between life and death long before I arrived.”
Lorelai’s stomach twisted. He was right. That terrified her most of all.
“I sensed your fascination with me, Lorelai. With my body most of all.” he continued, giving her a sick, perverse smile. “I am flattered. And for your diligence, this is your reward.”
She hated how deeply those words burrowed into her. The room fell quiet again. Then, somewhere far above them, a door opened and slammed shut. Both of them froze.
Alaric’s expression sharpened instantly. “Dawn approaches,” he said.
Lorelai blinked. “What?”
“The sun.” For the first time all night, genuine urgency entered his voice. “You will soon discover that it is no longer your friend.”
there's a lot of talk about reading comprehension and one thing i think is the biggest barrier to people on this site getting better at it is simply... rushing. rushing to share something you haven't understood, rushing to have an opinion without taking the time to think about it, rushing to declare that you don't understand something
take these tags, on somebody else's post (condolences pip)
the thing is. this is what i would call an inside thought. nobody would have known you didn't get it if you didn't tell them that. if you recognised that it was important but didn't have the headspace to process it, you can reblog without commentary for others, or to come back to later. or you can save it somewhere and wait until you DO have the capacity to read it over a few more times, ponder it, consider what it might mean, figure out how to understand it, and THEN reblog it
but no. rushing to reblog while it is still opaque. rushing to admit to ignorance rather than spend the time to achieve understanding. perhaps hoping that somebody will break it down for you more simply, though to my mind it was quite simply phrased in the first place. never stopping to take the time first
comprehension is not always instant! sometimes it takes a bit of time for something to percolate after you read it; sometimes you need to read it a few times; sometimes you realise you don't have the context for it and either go and get the context or accept that it's not for you right now
please just simply slow down. you don't always have to respond to everything within a second or two. it is okay if it is not an instantaneous understanding. we all need to get more comfortable with thinking more slowly and more deeply and more carefully, and not letting our instant split second responses drive us all the time, because they are a barrier to genuine reflection
I like them a lot. they produce up to half of all earth's oxygen. the air you breathe is thanks to sun-eating stars made of glass. and that's pretty cool.
I reblogged this yesterday, but I want to reblog it again. Diabetic ketoacidosis turns your blood acidic and will essentially burn you from the inside out.
The stories you hear of people dying from rationing, this is what happens to their body.
Affordable insulin isn’t just a right, it’s a necessity.
No one should have to die like that when it’s preventable with access to proper medication.
"Affordable" should be the lowest fucking bar. Pharmaceutical companies should be tripping over themselves to offer insulin at "affordable". That shit deserves to be fucking free
