boundary: if you post or draw this fanart then please tag it with (tag) so I will not see it, or else you will be blocked
boundary: please don’t post this type of art where I can see it. I will not go looking in fan spaces because those are not for me. If you do not do this you will be blocked
boundary: do not send me this type of fan work or you will be banned from my chat
boundary: if you’re a content creator don’t interact with my work on stream because it makes me uncomfortable
NOT a boundary: stop making this work if I find out you have made this work I will send people to ‘deal with’ you
just… get a DNI tag and people will be good about it… don’t threaten to attack teens and young adults who look up to you as a public figure.
For those that dont know, Pyro and his partner Maddy has recently updated their boundaries to a full ban on shipping.
I dont see myself as someone who breaks other boundaries, and for the most part I try not to. That being said, them not whilling to try and understand how fandom spaces work (Like how Abolish was) and shutting down any suggestions for alternatives is a massive overstep in my opinion.
I am anti-censorship, no matter the context. I understand where both of them are coming from. I, like Maddy, have been in situations before where shipping made me feel uncomfortable enough to get it shut down. I too, like Pyro, have stood by someone I loved/cared about while shipping about them got shut down. But these are fictional characters, that they choose to put their name on.
I dont appreciate getting "subtle" threats from a stranger on the other side of the world.
I dont appreciate cc's coming into the fandom space, acting like police when they're not welcome there.
I dont appreciate cc's not making alternatives for poeple, and starting witch hunts that will hurt others.
I dont appreciate being made to feel like I cant be upset about this whole thing.
I dont appreciate being told by others in this fandom that I cant be upset.
I dont appreciate being told how to enjoy my ships, only to be yelled at by a fan who clearly didnt listen.
There is no "good guys"
There is no "bad guys"
This is not me hating on the creator Pyro and/or Maddy, this is me telling you, that they went about it the wrong way. This is the most toxic outcome you could pick.
If you've known me for more than 2 seconds, you know the ship firelocke is very dear to me. This ship has helped me through some shit, and I will not be throwing that away. I might sound harsh and blunt now, but I will not be caving to the needs of a stranger across the world from me.
This is also not the first time we've seen this in out fandom space.
I am not trying to put anyone in bad light here, but I am tired. If you're an actor/rp-actor and you make media you share with the world, be prepared for fans to interact with you're media. I spend most of my night crying about this, because I didnt get a chance to process the A and M situation back when that was happening.
Many of their statements on stream didnt make sense either. They want people to stop thinking everything he does is romantic, yet wiil continue with "play flirting" and will change nothing of his content.
Many times, poeple in chat also brought up that behind these characters, there were real life people. Pyro agrees with this, only to follow up by saying he has never experienced anyone shipping him as a person.
Buddy, Im going to hold your hand now, please make that sentence make sense.
In chat, when people were genuinely currious about where the litimt were, a lot of fans, mods and other cc's answered with vauge answers, while being hostile. (Thats how I understood, dont take my word for it, go watch the VOD for yourself)
I have seen others trying to find other solutions to this new "rule", But making people write romantic ships as qpr is not the same. it will never be the same.
Did I mention the fact they said, all ongoign fics should be stopped/ not "published" out of respect. They dont know how comfortable they are knowing you're still reading old fanfics about them, and is trying to convince you to not make any new fics. This goes for art as well, and really any craft where shipping could even be hinted.
The fact he used the word published really rubbed me the wrong way. Dude you dont fucking own shit, but your own name, and you sold that the minute you put it out for the world to see.
I will, like many other of my moots/friends and fellow fans, not be stopping.
While I had a small fic ready for the end of next week, I will not be posting it for a while. I will not stop writing, drawing or talking about what I love, for the comfort of somone else. I love what Im doing too much, for me to put the needs of others before my own.
If anything I have just said makes you uncomfortable in any way, feel free to block me. I will not get mad about losing followers, or people turning their backs on me, but I will not be silent about this. The big red button is there for a reason, so please just feel free to block me at any point.
That is all for now, hope you all stay safe out there. Thank you for listening to me.
While I'm not making my own post to talk about this (since you said most of what I was thinking), I would also like to add one thing:
CREATORS NEED TO LEARN HOW TO BLOCK THINGS THEY DON'T WANT TO SEE.
I understand that Maddy feels uncomfortable with shipping, and I am not saying that her feelings aren't valid or that I think she should just grin and bear it, but if it is causing distress to the point of not sleeping, maybe it's time for her to log off.
Boundaries are not rules. They should not be treated as rules. A boundary is saying "If you do this, I will do this." Example: "If you make shipping content, I will block you." It is not: "If you make shipping content, you are breaking the rules of interacting with my character and I'm going to encourage people to bully you."
What Pyro has stated in his boundary stream is a rule, not a boundary. Rules do not apply to the entire fandom. Rules apply to:
-Youtube comments
-Twitch chat
-Pyro's Discord server
-Pyro's ask box on Tumblr
If someone is not following the rules for participating in those four areas, it is appropriate to remove them from it and not allow them to re-enter. It is not appropriate to harass them or try and chase them out of places that do not include the ones specified.
Rules do not apply to:
-Twitter and Tumblr posts/art
-Fics on ao3
-People's private Discord servers
-Any other wider fandom space
If you do not like what you see in those places, block and move on. I am afraid that shipping a roleplay character with another roleplay character is never so serious that it calls for harassment and threats.
I am tired of fandom spaces being hostile to fans. These people are not making this art for your personal benefit.
Hi, I don’t really visit your blog anymore, but I just wanted to say thank you for getting me into reading for like the first time!
Wow! That really means a lot to me, anon.
I never really expected any interaction with my writing, it was something I made to scratch an itch in my brain, so every time someone tells me that it had an impact I can't help but be surprised.
While I am no longer writing for VSMP, I don't regret the time spent creating my AU and my oneshots because of comments and asks like these.
Thank you anon, and thank you to everyone who has left a comment or tag on my work! It means more than you ever will know.
The sunset was so auraful...
CONTENT WARNINGS: Self-deprecation, referenced murder, manipulation
Violet regains some control after crashing out. They rebuild not only the Tavern, but some of their strained relationships. She also fistfights Meabh, but hey! Progress takes time.
this has been out for over two weeks but I forgot to post it lol
CONTENT WARNINGS: Raised voices, physical violence, suicidal thoughts/actions, self-deprecation, ear ringing, video/audio distortion
The episode where Violet gets ragebaited for one hour and forty minutes. They don't deal with it well.
Note to my tumblr moots who don't have some of the context for this: The person who played William ended up leaving the server after this episode, so he retroactively perished. RIP.
there is a pit of lava in front of you. above the lava is your cat, in a cage slowly descending. in order to stop the descent, you must write a story that is not tragic or doomed. if your story ends up tragic or doomed, the cage's speed will increase
So, this chapter is so much longer than what I usually do, and therefor there will go a little bit of time before the next one comes along. It's the middle of my finals, so getting this out is an insane doing on my part, I know that. But, I also couldn't rest until it came out.
Today's chapter is heavy on the gore, blood and more specifically animal abuse, though, its in the form of a snare. Still I wanted it tagged, because I don't want to overlook anything.
She turned around, slowly trying to imagine this interference were just another, ordinary dream. It were not. Now, starring at down upon her, glaring holes into her, none-existing, soul, Ms. Medora stood. Hands tucked onto her hips, looking mighty disappointed, but as well…relived? How had she forgotten that sweet, old Ms. Medora were always on lobster shift, when the humble lady had practically raised her. Even, though, as the mask sat on her face, her tone was clear. The mask gave away no emotion, black carvings where eyes should have been, a frail line starting where eyebrows where missing, cutting down, through the eye, ending its path under the eye.
Every single personnel adored this mask. Far back in time, it were worn out of discipline, a part of the uniform, to work for the Jayson’s. Now, it was worn in a way to show respect, to those who housed, fed and cared for the staffers. Every new staffer is given one, wearing it would be up to them. Ms. Medora always said, it were the personnel’s way of upholding this old, sacred tradition, show just how far their respect goes for they vampires they serve. The last Jayson’s, her parents, always tried to pry the idea out, thinking nothing short of equal to the servants. One could see the degradation of her mask, small cuts on the once smooth surface, a rough look adoring the marbled of-white colour of the expressionless wear. It brought with it memories of her upbringing, Ms. Medora had been there always.
Jazz wanted to reach out, take the puckered-up hands of the woman, and give them a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Ms. Medora had always worried for the young heir’s safety, thus making the decision to become one with her. After twenty years of working for the Jayson’s, the geezer had requested to be turned. It was another choice which the personnel had, some took it, others just carried out the duty in the form of mortality.
Being unable to avoid the boring stare, that she knew the elder woman held up, she took a hesitant step forward. She felt eyes searching for an explanation in her features, a sign of hurt or conformation to her sneaking out. Instead of scolding she only got a heavy sigh, Ms. Medora obviously cared deeply for the young immortal, for as she pulled her into her embrace.
A small hint of a smile found its way to Jazz’s lips, before she spoke.
“Medora, you know you do not have to speak with such formality around me,” she pulled back to look at her friend. “I am, but another person. We are not higher in power than you, and I do not wish for you to think of us in that matter.” Medora sounded as if she were about speak, but the words got caught on their way up her throat and out her mouth, leaving only a sound of what could be mistaken as a gasp. So low, if she had not been of vampire blood, she might have missed it completely.
“If that is your wish young heir, I shall work more on that.” She didn’t say more, before stepping back, letting go of the immortal, and turning to walk away. Jazz was not sure if she should follow, but when the geezer turns her head, gesturing for her to follow, she swallows all her pride, and falls in step. A small, creeping sense of dread snaked its way down her spinal cord, settling in her with a cold feeling.
“You are not gonna recount this incident to them, are you?” She realized the desperation in her voice came through, and for a fraction of a second, she felt small again, back to being a kid. As soon as the words left her lips, shame flooded her, rushing over her like a flood coming from a newly opened dam, after years of holding back the water. Had she been alive, had a pulse, had anything but rotten blood flowing through her system, an ashamed flush would have laid on her face like a soft blanket.
But she didn’t.
Once again, Jazz felt eyes fall upon her. She wished to turn her head, to look at the other immortal, but she couldn’t get herself to. She were the next in line to the Jayson’s name, to carry on the legacy, and here she were, ashamed from getting caught red-handed. Or, was it clean-handed. She had not killed, she had spared that ewe, looking into its eyes had been too much. Who were she, if she couldn’t even kill a sheep, when her mind was full of thoughts, all stained crimson of the blood, she never let fall. If Medora sensed any of these feeling radiate of the small vampire -Jazz knew she did. It followed with becoming immortal, sensing big changes in emotions, atmospheres or even the thudding pulse under mortals’ skin. She were kind enough to not bring up this factor.
They feel back into silence, Ms. Medora letting the question float around in the air, not daring to touch it. In this moment, she wished the personnel didn’t wear masks, she wished to be able to know the expression on the friend’s face. But she gave nothing away, so she laid it behind her, even if it caused her great distress. They just kept on walking, a step at the time, all the way down the west wing, past the many paintings on the wall. Past the quiet silver dust in the air, the danced around them as they walked past, disturbing their still descent down. She silently flinched, her eyes violently closing with every passing pillar stand window, the early dawn streaming in through. Medora never did flinch, never even moved a muzzle. She just kept on walking, hands laying neatly in front of her; a contrast to her own, folded, tense, tucked away behind her, upholding this regal posture that had been engraved into her skull.
They finally stopped at her door, the silence no longer comfortable nor familiar, but instead intense and pressing. Hand on the handle, she hesitated once again this night; she had done that one too many times. “I will not tell on you,” the words came from behind, reassuring warmth flowing into her head, swimming around her, before taking the weight of her shoulders. “Your parents will not know of tonight, if that is your wish.”
Before she could possibly turn around, thank her friend for taking this task upon her, the sounds of footsteps got further and further away. Vampires don’t have sound to their footsteps, not without purpose.
-
How word got around, she did not know, nor did she care. The scolding had been subtle, a talking with harsh words, and even harder meaning behind it. She knew her parents only worried for her safety, wanted nothing more than to protect their only daughter. She were not looking to put the blame on any staffers, scuttlebutt like that travelled fast. It might have just come up in a mainstream of morning small talk, a once innocent topic, spun around, making its way to the immortal’s parents.
She slammed yet another book, the sound giving echo in the enormous manor library, an annoyed sound escaping her lips. Resting her head in one hand, she starts twirling the book on the table, a wave of boredom hitting her. The light cast by the candle sitting beside her, one that was not there for her sake but for the mortal’s, illuminated the ever so growing stack of books, sending a golden essence over the room.
She were not to leave the grounds for a hebdomad, casting iron chains by her ankles, permitting her freedom within the manor walls, and no further. Naturally, her parents would never bound her iron chains, the metal burning a vampire, making the skin sizzle worse than garlic made the throat close and itch, causing for a horrible and slow way of choking. To lessen the punishment, she had taken to the library, looking for answers on just what went wrong on her latest hunt. The failure had disappointed her greatly and did not wish for another hunt do go as such.
Silently, a new book was pushed towards her, one bound in leather red as the purest, freshest blood. Looking up, she saw her personal servant, Esmé, hidden away behind her very own mask. The mortal’s breathing was the only sound filling the dark room, the only sound she did on intention. Jazz, on the other hand, could hear her pulse, a steady and calming rhythm. She found herself often latching on to the sweet melody, feeding from it without ever gaining contact. A single curl of chestnut brown fell in front of the black holes -her eyes- but she did not rush to fix this. Esmé adored a simple maids dress, as did every other female staffer, yet her hair was not tied back. It simply sat as it was, a mess of luscious curls that framed the space where her face would have shown, tucked behind her ears, making them stick out slightly. The candle was mostly for her mortal eyes.
The title of the book read “Classifications of night creatures”
Jazz let her eyes graze the title again and again, her claws running over the weathered cover, before snapping her eyes back onto Esmé’s. “I found it pushed behind others, looking as it were hidden away. This was the kind of book you were searching, was it not?”
She said it as if asking, but the both of them knew the answer already. This was the exact kind of book. Had they found this earlier, it could have spared them two days of taking the library apart, worried they might just be looking for some text, that did not even exist. It had let them down holes of desperation, brought out sides of them, they were not proud of discussing, once resolved. The mortal took the charge of checking the bottom rows, look at every subject from vampire hierarchy to philosophy against her kind. Whereas the immortal had fused her body into that of a bat, flown under the high ceiling, searching for books and texts, clearly intended to hide from the eyes of the livestock -mortals.
In her search, a rather sizeable book had caught her eye, one draped in a sickly green binding, cutting, golden edges, and no title in sight. But on the descend down, the book had in fact been too heavy for the little chiropteran, the book not a long shot, almost the same size as her, sending her down in chunks, as surprised sounds escaped the tiny form. She had been in luck, Esmé had been underneath, catching both the book and the immortal, still in the disguise of a bat. The book had not contained the valuable information of the sorts they were scouting, but it had been a nice break into a realm of story, and away from hours spent hunched, reading deep meaning without break for days, tend to bled into each other, days passing in a blur, the sun and moon’s pattern across the sky, no longer finding its way into her mind, giving her worry.
The words start floating off the pages at around page two hundred, dragging her into the ledger as she continues reading, before her eyes finally finds what she’s been scouting.
Dhampirs – A vampire in which the offspring is of human and vampire, often times found in women having conceived with a vampire, at most times unknowingly. This phenomenon could also occur if a vampire, by desire, were to be cured of their vampirism, and returned to be human. Except, this has side effects. A dhampir is often referred to as a halfling-
Jazz found herself tsking at the thought of someone wanting to rid themselves of this gift, especially ones born with it, out of the many odds. Her eyes trailed over the rest of the words -none which seemed important, only talking about ridding themselves of vampirism- before she tore her sight from them to look up at her handmaid, Esmé having completely frozen in place. The mortal had seemed to try and stop her breathing, not wishing to disturb her immortal overseer, to alert the monster. Jazz tilted her head, wanted another angle to look at her foe from, and the mortal seemed to shrink over her gaze, seemingly avoiding eye contact; even as her eyes were not on display. She felt the need to explain herself, but why would she? She was the higher up in ranks, the one being served, the next one in line to the name. Instead, she only signalled the other to sit, the chair across from her now serving a purpose other than collecting dust, before returning to the record, once more looking for answers. Answers she didn’t know if existed, if helped reason her ever growing concern for her own sanity.
Moroi – Vampires in which are seen as passing for mortals, features of vampirism not nearly giving away as much. Their fangs are smaller, duller and often located in the back of the mouth, resembling that of a carnivore, making for more efficient blending. More than often, it’s been recorded that these subspecies of vampires feed of souls, leaving no trace of their massacre. Victims of this are passed of as having just simply passed, no further explanation needed to ease the simple mind of livestock.
While this was truly fascinating to read about, it was still not the answers in which she sought out. She turned a few pages, looking for more specific answers, for smaller subspecies.
Strontian – Often confused with sirens, these vampires are found by bodies of water, having a strong connection to these streams. Where many has never been documented, these vampires are believed to have developed, for the soul purpose of living and hunting near bodies of water. A common misconception about this subspecies is that they live of the blood of fish and other waterborne creatures, such as other ‘sirens’ whereas the real answer, is they simply feed from mortals, just as any other species of vampire.
Jazz frowned slightly upon reading that section, a water species of vampires sounded like something made up to scare younglings. She opened her mouth, prepared herself to speak badly about the insanity of those who had written this very book, when a steady heartbeat pulled her from her thoughts. Her friend was still very much there, observing her quiet frowning and forming of wrinkles on her forehead, not even knowing what messed with her thoughts.
“This book is telling me of strange vampires.” She settled for, before ripping her eyes from the pages, to try and capture the gaze of the other, younger woman. Who were she trying to play about, Esmé was always listening, fascinated by whatever she stirred up. The light provided by the candle, the one serving a sad faith, as it seemed its lifespan were coming to an end, marking yet another day spent looking between pages and dust, spilled on to her. The tips of her ears turned golden, as tanned skin mixed with yellowish light, casting even more golden streak into her curls. She offered a stiff nod, before going to speak. “I am here if you would like a discussion to occur, but I do not expect you to share the contest of which you are reading.” She breathed out, voice ever so quiet, like she didn’t wish to be heard at all.
The heir was just about to speak once more, telling her to never think of herself as below her, that she was wished to be heard too, when small pricks banging against the tall windows. It had been a soft rain that had taken up the past few hours, a light blanket of drops falling with no time for breaks, now the skies roared. The clouds had turned a sad shade of grey, but it was not as if she was to be venturing outside any time soon, so she did little to worry about the unfortunate weather. Ending their conversation there, she shrugged stiffly, trying to lessen the tension in her shoulders, before guiding her eyes back onto the pages again.
Nosferatu – These deformed creatures resemble that of a monster, being nothing but violent and cold-hearted, sinking their teeth into any and all living things around them. It’s even been recorded these monsters has taken down other vampires, always desperate for food, going as far as killing and feeding off of these bodies, only sourced with rotting blood.
She stopped herself from reading anymore, she did not need that horrific image plastered to the inside of her closed eyelids. Rubbing her temples with one hand, going in circles until stars appeared before her very eyes, she only let out a deep sigh. This couldn’t be the answer in which she had been outlooking, because if it were, did that logic appeal to her as well. Were she, the heir to the Jayson name, the daughter of the respectable Count and Countess Jayson, really nothing more than another case to a mysterious book?
She looked up at her servant once more, unclarity visible in her expression and a frown settling onto her fine, thin-pressed lips, the weight of emotion earning her a flick of the ear, she simply put herself on display for Esmé’s trusting eyes.
“I am a deformed, dishevelled monster, cold-heartly killing everything that stands upon my way.” She muttered, breath caught on its way out of her lungs, making for a small, sickening hiccup. She was not cry; she was not to show weakness. “And yet, I could not tear the neck of a small ewe. I am…” she stopped, thinking about something harsh enough to describe what exact kind of monster sat in her place, drowning in the blood of her very own greed for more. “I am pathetic.” She finally settled on.
The air between them seemed to thin out, leaving them behind in this uncomfortable silence, with tension so thick it could be cut with a silver knife, followed by served on a silver platter, handed right to them. It were as if the world itself had stopped just for them, to get them utterly and completely on edge, making of a humiliating display. Jazz upheld the intense, but deeply vulnerable, eye contact. The mortal finally breathed out, Jazz had not picked up on the fact she had not been able to hear the small breathes, finally moved, finally broke this trance which had sat on them, sprinkled into the air. Mortal hands did not find hers, why would she ever seek out the cold hands of a living cadaver, but instead reached for the book, which sat abandoned on the table. In the last remaining moments of the candle’s life, she used up its giving light, reading allowed a new segment, one she had shrugged off earlier.
“Rusalki – Better known as the gentle vampire, this subspecies is also known as the Jayson’s bloodline, the only ever documented bloodline of purebred vampires, where along the way, hiccups of gentle, kind and mighty intelligent vampires seem to bloom. They’re highly emphatic vampires, and looking down the family tree, the root of more than ten millennia, many of which have ruled with a firm, but caring hand.” She stopped reading aloud, only to glance back at her, to search for some sort of new emotion in the distraught immortal’s face.
She found none; only a small, almost inaudible whine filled the space of the library, safe from one beating heart and another stone-cold one.
-
Seven days, seven passes of the moon, and seven passes of the sun, she had been inside, upholding her end of the deal. The layout of the cobble streets not wiped from her frontside just yet, while snake-like and patience testing, she eventually found her way to her desired place. The night was still fresh, many homes still a light or two alive, while others fell black and quiet, a neat contrast to the rowdy demeanour of the place, with music blaring across the empty streets. The place smelled of sweat, beverage and snobs, a perfect feasting opportunity. She stepped the last few feet, crossing the road to get to the front door, with the hanging sign overhead, the hinges squeaking a lonely melody, before the quiet song was drowned out by the galloping music from within.
She opened the door to the Rusty Raven, local tavern, and scanned the place for empty chairs, weary eyes and the echoing sound of what must have been at least thirty beating hearts, all gathered in one place. Her parents knew her mission tonight, had overlooked her plan with her, rather wishing knowing these schemes, other than finding her drenched in crimson, from head to toe. The light from within the space was almost too bright for her senses, she forced her eyes to squint at the rapid change in brightness, but swiftly recovered, playing it off, as if it had never been an issue. Many heads turned towards her, eyeing her furrily up and down, in such manner, had she been alive, she might have shivered and turned around on the spot. But she was fully dead, inside and out, so she just closed the heavy door behind her, closing out the cold the night brought with it, allowing the warmth from the tavern, and the sweet, honey-like smell the living carried.
Inside, lanterns hung on the wooden pillars and beams in the ceiling, spilling golden light onto everything and everyone in the tavern, tables scattered all around, some inhabited by drunks, few stood empty. It were a busy night, old snobs drinking themselves to their very own grave, their lives a ticking bomb, in which they helped her shorten it. Had she been able to, she would have bet a whole commemorative glass, filled to the brim, overspilling with reds, that she found someone on the hook tonight. Unfortunately for her, she were run dry of reds, run utterly and completely dry of blood, hence why she used up the night’s cloak to hunt out more.
Scouting out the very back booth, pressed into the corner of the back walls, Jazz found herself gravitating towards it, before a clear plan had formed in her mind. She ignored the dirtied looks she received, focusing solely on reaching the lone booth. In it, she found a rather inebriated man, one which seemed to be on the older side of his life. As if her mere presence were more intoxicating than the old fashioned that accompanied his hand, the man seemed to sway over the table, eyes darting over her body, only stopping for a second at her waist, before travelling back to her top feature, the man almost looked as if he’d sobered up. Drink in his hand forgotten, pushed to another side of his fumy brain, like a predator forgetting a smaller prey, the second a bigger one finds its interest. Big enough to satisfy its ever-growing hunger for more, a beast drowning in its own greed, much one like herself. His dark matted eyes, clouded heavy by the booze, roamed her one last time, before flicking to the seat besides him, clearly demanding an action much alike his own, of sitting.
She took the invitation with an open heart, closed mind. She knew why she was here, there was simply no need for foreplay of any kind, only charm, only seduction, only carrying on her the already building up tension in her limbs, keeping herself in check as to not lunge. Lunge, flense his throat, and watch as the blood would pour out of him, as it was her time to eye him. No, not him, he was not worth eyeing, the snob was a hideous sight of that, fat and extremely dressed in velvet, making him an easy target. No, she would be eyeing the reds of his inside, the overspilling motion of crimson flowing from his cold, dead body.
“What is a young, innocent lady like yourself doing out on such a dark, slumber night?” the question would have been answered with a cocky smirk, if she hadn’t known better, instead she breathed out, pulling on the skin of human once again, before turning to answer him sweetly. The words had been slurred, he’d obviously been enjoying himself quite the bit, before she had entered the picture. “I thought about going for a chilly stroll, just around the corner, that’s when this lovely music came to my ears, guiding me here.” She lied, as the man leaned further into her personal space, making the bench underneath him scream, and wail in agony.
Jazz laid her hand on his, meeting his eyes, preforming a shy look-away, before gesturing to the bar. The man seemed to have caught wind rather easily, almost to easily for her stomach to keep down the ever-growing bile, that slowly snaked its way up the back of her throat. The thumping of his heartbeat, was almost as slurred as his drunken words, riding a full-speed roller-coaster. The room in which she was led to, was not lit up, the only light came from behind them, streaming in through the crack of the old wooden door, henges not nearly screaming for desperate help, nor singing an angelic hymn. Soon the door was slammed shut behind her, the sudden gust of wind playing softly with her hair, before politely dropping it back down again.
If she turned now, the man would surely see her reflective eyes, shimmering a soft blue into the dark abyss, in which the room loomed of. Outside a fox thought it was sneaking up on its prey, barring its teeth, already a feral growl forming its way up the throat of the animal, before it slowly creeped even closer. His roaming hands found Jazz’s waist before the fox could pounce, before the prey could see what was really watching it, all before her plan clicked into play.
He forced their lips together, pried apart her delicate lips, and the fox pounced. The red coated fur, such a simple contrast to the reds that fell from its clenched jaw, covered in beautiful blood. The hunter screamed in pain, as the snare around its neck tightened, pulling closer together, with every move. This fox didn’t know it tried the wrong prey.
With red pilling up in the corners of her mouth, she finally let go of the terrified man, letting his whole person dump onto the floor, causing such raucous. Such a shame really, his blood tasted so silky smooth, layered with fatty minerals. He’d run his tongue along the roof of her mouth, mirroring the motion with his hands over her rips, as she’d pounced right back. The fox had chosen to sneak up on a wolf. Before any blood could possibly stain her cream-white dress shirt, she licked her lips clean, taking in the sent of iron that slowly came to the air, settling around them like a pleasant reminder, of who exactly was the real prey. The fox’s eyes widened in fear, yellow dressed soul, mirrors to the other side, sending signals to the wolf, as it just kept on pulling on the snare.
Tighter and tighter.
So tight the wolf angled its head, the fox looked like it was about to pop, about to dig its own grave before blood had even been exchanged. His tongue sat in between her fangs, as she starred down upon him, she chewed a few times, before swallowing the thing whole. Jazz saw how he followed the bobbing of her throat, the confirmation that his precious tongue were now gone. The night was not quiet just yet, the vomit inducing sound of someone slowly, but very surely, she made that very achievable, drowning in their own blood. Cutting of the tongue with her bare teeth, it was an obvious choice, she loved the taste and texture of fresh tongue, but even better, was the causing of her victims drowning in the own blood, as their own crimson flowed down their throat and into the lungs. Like ballons, they filled, as he spurred and slurred, and clawed at the wooden floorboards, nails scraping as splinters settled under nails, and blood gave out from the tips of the fingers. She just stood and watched, before kicking over the now silent body, and emptying out every last artery for fluid, leaving behind the old man, like one would with the core of an apple.
She flung the door open, carefully licking every last evidence of her meal, and stormed out that tavern, as every, either guilty and filthy eyes wandered after her, and out into the night, where she could once again breathe fresh air. Not watching where she even stormed, so very reckless of her, she knew that very well, the street had found itself a single carriage to transfer, which just so happened to be right in front of her. Startled, the horses flared their nostrils, and skipped to a halt, bringing the whole thing on wheels to a stop as well. Peaking inside of the claps on their eyes, a wild and terror fuelled look carried, whines coming from the animals, and they hastily backed away from her. They were tense in their shoulders as well, these otherwise gentle creatures, spooked by her sudden appearance, were certainly also smelling the clear metallic lingering of blood on her, seeing a monster in which the chauffeur did not, angrily yelling for them to push past this mere girl in the road.
This is a rewrite of a specific scene in Violet's EP 5! It will contain major spoilers. Read at your own risk.
"And, if you are right, what are you going to do about it?"
That was the question, wasn't it? Violet wasn't sure. Everything was happening so fast, and they were talking too much, and Illios was looking at them like they were insane.
Fumbling for an answer, Violet settled on, "Well, I'll make sure everyone knows. If they really are dangerous, that is. I don't know."
Something glinted in Illios' eyes. "Won't that just cause more panic and trouble?"
"Everyone's already panicked. We're all in trouble." The least we can do is be informed. Violet let those last words stay in their head. Illios wasn't taking this as well as she hoped.
There were a few long seconds where neither of them spoke. Violet turned her gaze to the lake tower, even though Regal and Gideon had long departed. Were they really vampires? Violet didn't have a definite answer, but they were prepared for the worst.
"So you'll be looking for proof?" Illios shifted in the corner of Violet's eye.
She took a deep breath. "Yes." That was the logical next step. Back up their suspicions with evidence, or completely disprove their theory. Violet was hoping for the second.
"And then you'll tell everyone."
"Yes." They deserved to know, especially if Gideon and Regal meant harm. Did they? Violet wasn't a good judge of people.
More silence. Violet still wasn't looking at Illios, mind wandering elsewhere. If they had heard the sound of metal sliding out of a sheath, they might've turned around.
"I can't let that happen. I'm sorry, Violet."
She didn't have time to look back before a slash of burning pain sliced through her arm. "Hey-!"
Violet whipped back to face Illios, their friend, their day one, the person they wanted to protect, to see him wielding his sword, blood dripping off the edge.
"Illios, what are you doing?" Violet slowly backed away, holding up her hands.
"I'm sorry." Sun reflected off of the metal as they swung again. "I'm so sorry."
Trying to catch the blade in her hands, Violet hissed as her palms were sliced open. They stepped back, but her feet only found air.
Violet cried out as she tumbled down the side of the mountain, rocks and sticks further battering them. "Stop!"
Illios clambered down the slope, a steely determination marking the face Violet thought they knew. "I'm so sorry, Violet. I don't want to do this."
Before they could attack, Violet scrambled to her feet, throwing a frantic punch at them. It connected, Illios fumbling their sword.
Seeing an opening, Violet turned to run, but her attacker was faster. There was a horrible sound as metal sank deep into Violet's arm. They almost fell again.
"I trusted you," Violet gasped, tears streaming down her face.
Illios looked almost regretful as he pulled his sword out of their flesh. "I know. I'm sorry."
Not paying attention to where she was going, Violet didn't notice they were on the beach until water was soaking into their boots. Realizing that she was in danger of falling into the lake, Violet took her eyes off of Illios for a split second. "Wait-"
Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, Illios leapt forward, tackling Violet. There was a loud splash as they landed in the shallows, water flooding Violet's clothes. Panic coursed through their veins as the fear of drowning struck, but the water wasn't deep enough to fully submerge her head.
Raising their sword hand, Illios' jaw clenched as he prepared to strike again.
In desperation, Violet fumbled for the stake she'd carved earlier that week, when the thought of vampires was still a hypothetical, and aimed it at Illios' heart. "I don't want to hurt you!"
Illios didn't stop at the sight, plunging the blade into her chest.
Violet screamed, feeling an agony previously unknown. Blood poured from their injuries, coloring the water. If she could think through the pain, she might've appreciated the artistry in the way swirls of red wrapped around every fresh wound. Wouldn't this make such a good painting?
In a final attempt to escape, to do something, Violet stabbed Illios with her stake. However, before it could hit their ribcage, she redirected it, burying the point into their shoulder instead.
Illios just laughed at their attempt, too-sharp canines flashing. "That's not going to do anything."
Vision fading, pain blurring her movements, Violet managed to say, "I don't want to fight…" Their words faded out as blood seeped into her lungs.
"I'm so sorry." Illios' voice sounded distant, the chill of the water no longer registering.
The last thing Violet felt admist the haze of bloodloss and fading adrenaline was the prick of fangs in their neck. It was gentle, an embrace from death.
