Another Venetian Vampire created by me, RebelBikerDude.
RebelBikerDude's blog galleries of AI-generated biker-themed pix and vids created by him using AI image-generation programs. All images are
This vampire video was created by me, RebelBikerDude, using AI, from a picture (source unknown) I found online, so I claim no copyright in it at all. Be sure to check out my blog, RebelBikerDude’s AI Biker Art blog, containing thousands of AI-generated biker pictures & video clips, including biker vampire pix/vids, accessible at: https://rebelbikerdude.blogspot.com/
Male vampire x female character (Țepeș x Adriane - Full Moon Motorcycles) - Chapter One (sfw)
Hello all! While I'm finishing up this month's Patreon exclusive for you (m. dragonborn!), here's nearly 7k words of what was supposed to be the first in the Full Moon Motorcycle 'universe'. It's set before Demon's, Oats', and Pumpkin's stories!
I hope you come to love Țepeș as much as I have! He's got an interesting backstory, and although he looks intimidating, he's actually a huge softie under all that muscle and height. If you know Demon from his story, you get to see a different side of him in this, and you'll see why he was so keen not to introduce his human love interest to the gang after this (shitty) behaviour...
This is going to be up on Patreon on early release, but I'm keeping Demon's story back until it's finished so it doesn't spoil things, so keep that in mind if you leave a comment please :)
Content: plus size female character (unaware of the supernatural) is given a helping hand by the owner of a motorcycle shop, and returns later in the day to thank him, only to find half of the Full Moon Motorcycle bikers standing outside the shop that evening and goofing around. When she's offered a ride home, the tall, darkly-clad, silent biker nicknamed Țepeș volunteers to take her on his massive, black Ducati Streetfighter V4...
Wordcount: 6809
Extract:
A dark, scuff-sided delivery moped — unsurprisingly missing its left mirror — clipped her elbow as it sped down the side street, spewing a cloud of nasty petrol fumes strong enough to make her cough. As she cradled her arm against her chest to rub at her elbow, Adriane’s heavy, cotton bag jolted down off her shoulder to catch painfully in the crook of her arm, and she cursed elaborately.
“Watch where you’re going, arsehole!” she yelling after the moped a second later, but they were long gone.
To add insult to injury, she snagged her boot heel on a crack in the pavement and tripped backwards to land hard enough on her ass that all the breath left her body in an inelegant grunt, and she was lucky she didn’t bite her tongue off when her jaw clacked shut under the force of the landing. The straining seams of her ancient and over-full tote bag finally ruptured on impact, and loose sheafs of paper fluttered up and away like white doves into the blustery autumn air.
“Shitting fuck!” she shouted and scrabbled to catch the remaining ones. If all of those pages got away, she’d have nothing to show at the interview — for which she was now probably going to be late — and there was no way they’d take her seriously without some kind of portfolio. And boy did she need this job.
“You ok there?” a rough, bass voice asked from right behind her. “Here, lemme help you.”
“My stuff,” Adriane choked out around a sob without turning around. “Shit…” Tears of raw frustration, tinged with exhaustion, filled her eyes and she bowed her head, willing herself not to burst into tears on the sidewalk outside some gritty-looking motorcycle shop in the back street of this new and relatively unfamiliar town.
“Here, come on. Let’s get you up.”
“What’s the fucking point?” she groaned, but she did get her legs under her and let the stranger help her to her feet with a kindly hand at her elbow. He released her and stepped back, and she smoothed the floaty, floral-printed, chiffon skirt down over her curvy thighs and tugged irritably at the hem of her cropped denim jacket before looking up at her rescuer for the first time.
She found an older man moving away to a respectful distance now that she was upright, and she regarded him a little warily. He wasn’t particularly tall or threatening though, with his wavy, salt and pepper hair falling scruffily around his ears and just brushing the collar of his blue-and-white-checked shirt. He had a short, grey beard, kind, smiling brown eyes and a significant barrel-belly. He also looked like maybe the kind of guy who rode a Harley and took no nonsense when pushed, but he seemed harmless enough as he steadied her and then stepped back another pace.
Adriane looked along the street and saw that one of the pages of her portfolio had landed face-down in a puddle, and the rest were lost to the wind. “Fuck,” she said again. She was forced to clutch the torn remnants of her bag to her chest to keep its remaining contents together, which felt like a metaphor if ever she’d known one.
“What’s wrong?” the man asked, raising his head slightly and breathing in as if he’d caught the scent of a familiar perfume. As he did, his hazel brown eyes caught the light oddly and seemed to flash amber. “You hurt yourself?”
“I’m good,” she said automatically, then added with a gesture at the soggy pages, “That was my portfolio though. I just got it printed this morning, and I don’t have the time or the money to get it printed again. My interview starts in —” she glanced at the old, analogue wristwatch on her left wrist. Only now, after the fall, it was cracked. Well, at least it wasn’t some fancy smartwatch. None of those for her with her bank account idling somewhere in the low double figures. “— twenty-eight minutes.”
“How fancy are we talking?” he asked and she frowned, confused. The man jabbed his thumb over his shoulder and explained. “I’ve got a fairly decent printer in the shop for flyers and stuff. If you’ve got a thumb drive with the files on, you can print it off here.”
She blinked. Miracle of miracles, she did actually have the USB drive in her jacket pocket. “You serious? I can’t pay you.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” he said with a hearty smile. “C’mon. Time’s wasting and you ain’t got long.”
Adriane bit her lip, moved by the kindness of this complete stranger, and followed him into the bike shop.
Read the whole thing right now over on Patreon, and consider joining the Little Ghosties tier for access to this month's Patreon exclusive story, as well as my entire back catalogue of Patreon exclusive content.
A polished concrete floor gave it a modern, industrial look that fitted the grungy biker vibe, which was also echoed by orange accents and leather here and there, and it smelled of coffee and metal, fuel and oil, but the latter weren’t unpleasant in the way they were at a petrol station.
The one on the beast of a bike raised his gloved hand and Hank clocked the movement with evident surprise. “Țepeș, you’re offering to give her a lift?”
