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─────── independent, selective, & private vampire original character. original lore. dead dove. multipara only. 20+ applies to muses as well. minors do not interact.

#✦✦✦ ─────── 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭

// roleplaying with deans (you know the one) thinking its gonna be hee hee haa haa sp.n moment

made me realise I've set myself up for another new kind of pain howard has been hiding from 🥴 which is reminiscing how good it felt like to have a loving, kind brother, now that he'd lost him forever

#ooc #// so cooked. do you know how much howard loves his brother #// do you know how much his brother loves howard #// this whole fucking vampire thing starts and ends through a kind of brotherly love you cannot comprehend

tooth--ache

// sending you freaks memes that may or may not be something you reblogged. sometimes when i get like this, i custom them. i normally send a few at a time so you have a shark coochieboard of selection to pick from. dont feel obligated to do all of them.

also if you have mutual recs let them know im looking. not the most active as you know but i am looking to make new writing friends. might be awk as i softblocked a bunch of quiet blogs a while back and we know our circle is small but hey! not the end of the world right.

tooth--ache

// rate limited like the beautiful romantic cunning and amiable empress of the universe that i am. if you haven’t received yours yet, i’ll get back to you after they release me from ask jail today.

#ooc #tbd

mythshire

°☠*:·゚ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃 ··· a collection of survival instinct, found family, moral compromise & last days of humanity roleplay sentence starters. genre: apocalyptic, angst, hurt and comfort, life or death.

• How long has it been since you've seen another person? • You need to eat. I don't care if you're not hungry. • That's the last of the clean water. We have maybe three days. • Don't go out there. Not after dark. • I heard gunshots about two miles west. We need to move. • You're burning through supplies like we have somewhere to restock. • I can't remember what coffee tastes like anymore. • Show me your arm. • The radio's been silent for six days now. • I found a Polaroid in that house. Look—people used to smile like this. • We're not taking them with us. We barely have enough for ourselves. • You've been coughing for three days. Don't lie to me. • I think I saw smoke on the horizon. Could be a settlement. Could be a trap. • This is the fourth body we've found this week. • You want to talk about what happened back there? Or are we just going to pretend? • I'm not leaving you behind. I don't care what you say. • The fence has a breach. Something got through last night. • When was the last time you slept? And I mean actually slept. • You're rationing your own food to feed me, aren't you? • I can still hear the sirens sometimes. Even though they stopped months ago. • We can't stay here. This place is compromised. • I found batteries. Three AAs and a nine-volt. • You never told me what you did before all this. • That's a gunshot wound. Who shot you? • I haven't seen the sun in four days. This ash won't clear. • We're down to eleven bullets. Make them count. • I know what day it is. It's your birthday. • The last time I trusted someone, they stole half our supplies and disappeared. • You're running a fever. Sit down before you collapse. • I can't do this anymore. I can't keep watching people die. • We have to go back. I left something—someone—behind. • You've been talking in your sleep. About before. • I found a working generator. We could have power for a week, maybe two. • You're the only person left who knows my real name. • That smell means the bodies are close. Cover your mouth. • I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking you to survive. • The coordinates led us here. There's nothing. It was all a lie. • How many people have you killed since this started? Don't lie. • We used to have rules. Remember that? • You took the last dose of antibiotics. That was for the kid. • I saw your hand shake when you raised that gun. You're not okay. • This is it. This is all that's left of the world. • I can't remember their face anymore. Isn't that terrible? • You're planning to leave, aren't you? I can tell. • We found a car with half a tank. That's a goddamn miracle. • You didn't have to kill them. They would have left. • I'm trying to remember what music sounded like. • This is the third night you've taken watch. You're going to get us killed. • The map stops here. Everything past this point is unmapped territory.

#rp meme #// i do have zombie/apocalypse au of course i have one who do you think i am

confession: I want to eat your lungs.

✦✦✦ ─────── WILL IT HURT? WILL IT HURT? Will what hurt? Can anything hurt more than how it has and will always be? Howard's palm rest on his sternum, counting one unnecessary breath after another.

"I don't want to feel pain anymore," he replied quietly. "I want to feel how love feels like. Slow. Steady. Soft. I want it to have intention. I want to be loved."

He looked down at himself, at the clothes he was wearing. A soft jumper he'd stolen from a department store in a mad rush to change his appearance. Baby pinks and blues, fuzzy wool and polyester. Made for a woman, it must have; meant to swallow her figure in an oversized embrace. On him, it fitted just enough. He didn't want to take it off, but took it off he did, and folded it neatly to the side.

His chest was now bare. Scars, fears and all. Ready, perhaps -- he couldn't quite tell.

"You can have it," he offered in a broken, dazed answer. "As long as it won't hurt."

#{ answered }#// ay yO

// i am genooinely tired so im gonna maybe do something shortish off the inbox later today (it 2am) and/or get to whatever howie wants to roll with. middle of workweek bullshit you know what it is. my disc. is available for any and all mutuals

#ooc #tbd

I think you can write 47 from Hitman pretty well.

A character I might play well? // Thanks for sending this in!

Huhhhhhh. There's depth to 47 throughout the game pre-reboot and seeing glimpses of it as the game progresses really shows he isn't as heartless or cold as he appears to be. You are right tho, Howard is the only character I write that isn't this type of guy so it's pretty much my brand LMAO (also come off anon lets talk!!)

#{ mun answers }#ooc

startshxtwithme

Based on the character(s) you see me play, send me another character you think I could write well

On anon or not

Maybe I’ll start playing them!

#// go on then . mp3 #mun meme

// You know when you go through other people's threads and think oh, no, Thematically we will not be able to work together. And then you have like, heckling peanut gallery audience in the back of your head throwing tomatoes at you for judging people by the style they go for, calling you an elitist? Yeah...

Does it like, bother anyone else that this is an existing barrier for interaction. I used to think I'm a flexible writer until I reach a point where I think a loooot of people on this website thinks 'mature themes' meant that if you reach the legal age to consume and create these narratives, that you're good to go. That if you write blood and gore often enough, you're a mature narrative writer. It sucks to reiterate this again and again because it makes me sound and feel like an uppity snooty dickhead

I really do want to foster a good small community of writers in my little bog corner of the internet but I can't get over the fact that I can tell on the get go that some writers just aren't suited stylistically with mine, and it fucking SUCKS because it really is judging a book by it's cover type of moment. It's why I don't have a promo and will not put up a promo. I know my ass isn't capable of whatever you guys are capable of doing with a wide variety of writers and It Sucks To Me That I Can't. Its not a 'higher than thou' moment, it means at some point I'm going to stagnate here locked into a certain kind of writing and themes, and this isn't good for my growth. Blegh

Threads just up and die because I feel like I had to dance a different tune since its such a jarring juxtaposition to see my edgy pretentious prose against ... YA book responses. It's not bad, I repeat I'm not slagging YA books or whatever, it's just... You know. It doesn't mesh and I feel really sorry that I can't find a middle ground for this.

No clever remarks I just wanted to say this out loud 🤔

NB Before you say I'm vaguing... lmao I'm not, usually I hardblock (reluctantly) or softblock writers I know I just can't work with... It's just my chewsday thoughts about this lil corner I inhibit and loudly mulling if I am part of a wider problem.

#ooc

m0il

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤShay watches every twitch of the tiny, many-legged beast make its way around Howard's face. It searches for a crevice to explore, for a flap of skin to lift and make a residence out of. It can smell the rotten flesh suspended in time, which is a fascinating science that Shay does not understand. Life is supposed to continue beyond death wearing a different identity. He, like Howard, is a victim of some timeless clock, but his biology remains the same: beating heart, occasional hunger, and air that he wheezes out when a bullet from an antsy police man pierces his lungs. Howard doesn't need to do any of that to exist as himself, even in a state of chilled decomposition.

The centipede still finds him worthy of a nibble. Shay rolls his eyes. He doesn't understand the rhetoric behind naming an insectoid. It's just a wiggling manifestation of survival. It seeks to latch onto things it represents: polluted thoughts, regretful heartbeats, and whatever else makes a human being regret their entire life from decisions they made themselves. A name is a name.

His eyes flick toward Howard's parting mouth. As his jaw hangs agape, he welcomes the centipede to crawl inside, prickling his wet tongue with its pointed steps. Its long, skeletal body fits snuggly against the damp muscle. It shudders when its top half fits against the back of Howard's throat. Its tails hangs by the man's chin, swaying in wait. It proceeded further, seeking a way into Howard's stomach. Shay tilted his chin, waiting with raised eyebrows for the other man to green light the centipede's journey. The two men hold each other in a glossy mirror: Howard's damp eyes touch Shay's deep abyss. He nods for him to continue.

"If you aren't gonna name it, then it's name is Howa'd." The slithering messenger is swallowed. Shay nods with approval, casting his eyes at Howard's throat. He sees the outline of rogue movement making its way down, pushing up against the slick, inner walls of the undead's lining. It will find Howard's stomach eventually and lie there in wait, feeding on its surroundings and soaking up whatever polluted feelings Howard has of his identity. The job of the Omen is boundless.

"Good." Shay speaks. "In a couple days, it will crawl out, havin' fed on you plenty. And then, I'm going to eat it." His tilts his head slightly. "Capiche? So don't puke it befo'e that."

tooth--ache

An asphyxiating draw of breath followed a gurgle as Howard's body tried to reject the welcomed intrusion. He could feel the creature's pointed, sharp legs microtear through his oesophagus, which caused him to momentarily seize, white-knuckled fists gripping his last resort to swallow the rest of it down. As it found its way inside the void of the universe and fell just outside of Jupiter, Howard fell to his knees and coughed, heaving deep breaths. It felt so close to heaven, it felt so close to godhood. Just out of reach, edging him on, teasing him with a taste of what could have and should have been.

He should have been their king. He should have been everything Malena feared him to be. If only he managed to find a way to eat away at the sludge that made love to his brain, nuzzling him in a loveless sex just beneath his skull, he would have. Should have. When the day comes, and it is a matter of time before he figures it all out, he would burn them on slow-scorching coal, raking their pathetic bodies and laugh as they melt into nothing.

Howard placed a gentle hand over his stomach. Will the creature eat away the rotting cum too? He wished he could feel it dig into the linings of his insides, scrape away the decay plunged deep inside of him, lubricated by his own tears and bile-thick spit. Will it hurt, he wondered for a mere split second before he recalled the worst nights of his undead life, passed along like a sack of useless meat, and decided nothing would feel nearly as celestially unholy and torturous. It would not even come close, even if the centipede splits into hundreds and thousands in the hollows of his body.

“Can’t…call him Howard, that’s my name,” he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. His eyes were red when they met Shay once more. “No one gets to be called Howard inside of me. Call him Kevin.”

“What if I just wanted to look?” An innocent question, like a curious boy who was keen on seeing how big his stupid little bug grew as it feeds. It would gladden him to see its segments roll just under his skin, pushing against it like a threat to bloat and burst him into pieces. He would be proud of how verdant he was. He would want it to breed. To turn him into death the way death meant to make him look like.

“I promise I’ll put him back in.”

#m0il #{ butter! }#cw sa mention #// singlehandedly unlocked my and howard’s freak .#// congrats

// whenever someone calls Dolores by her first name on my dash it triggers my dodging hotkey. I just flinch like i was expecting it midair, you know. It just feels like i had to run even though im not involved in the altercation

#{ dash commentary }

sloppjockey

scumm. gouache painting on paper mounted on wood. 3x3 inches

m0il

@tooth--ache

#{ rot! }#{ imageries; }#// tq love 🐛💗

kxllerblond

Clark did not fight Howard on it and instead nodded; he had insisted upon supporting the vampire regardless of what he chose. He did however have a single condition: ❝ That's fine. I would... prefer to be present with you, if that's OK. Not breathing down your neck but around. In the shower maybe, I don't know. ❞

It was important for him to support his spouse that way, if only because Clark was still somewhat worried Howard would dive into this alone because he had gone through it alone. He couldn't be sure that was it at all, but he had been there before. Denying help out of some sense of guilt and shame and self-flagellation.

He hummed low in his throat and reached to card a hand simply through the side of Howard's hair. ❝ Maybe we can talk like this now. Distract you through it a bit. Or at least make it a bit less tense. Then after we can go for a walk? ❞

tooth--ache

That was a fair ask, and if Howard were to be honest with himself, a much preferred alternative than being on his own as he picked up after the pieces. Vic had discouraged Clark's active involvement where it was possible for Howard to expose himself safely to his triggers, though heavily encouraged Clark's presence during, if only to keep Howard safe.

When he lifted his face, his eyes were glassy, and Howard nodded slowly -- careful not to encourage the dam to break yet again.

"That'd be nice. Thank you," he muttered quietly. "If I have the energy to, we definitely should have a walk. But-- if not, can we..." a rough, loud swallow allowed a break between his sentence, "...just, lie down in your room?"

There was intent in the suggestion, though it was heavily laden with uncertainty that it might be a horrible idea.

(It IS a horrible idea, he argued internally, in fact it is the most inappropriate thought process he had ever had in a while yet. WHY did his mind even go there in the first place? Was he so used to the chain of sex and torture, that it had now become natural for his body to demand one after another, to seek comfort in both of its miseries? Could he then say he never wanted any of it, if when he was given the opportunity to choose, he willingly chose the same outcome for himself? Is it the same at all with Clark whom he loves with all of his heart; or does it show Howard's hypocrisy instead?)

"I just-- I... Want to be close to you. Today. If that's okay. I just... Need a hug, lots of it.."

#kxllerblond #// ouhhh .

m0il

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe wiggling scolopendra twists in the cool palm of the undead, seeking a crevice where it may wrap around its long, damp body and find slumber. It crawls over Howard's skin, denting it slightly with its pointed legs until it reaches the hollow of his cheek. It pinches him there gently with its mandibles, testing out the taste of dead, animated skin. It keeps its poison claws aside, in favor of befriending its new home. It presses as much as it can against the side of Howard's face, reaching for his eyelid and lying flat along the frame of his face. Its head grinds against his temple as if flattening its entire body against his skin, like a desert spider burrowing into sand. It stills there, staring into the undead's hair big, beady eyes.

"It wants to be inside you." Shay answers, watching his pet, one of a million, really, cuddle up to the walking corpse. A whiff of rot passes under his nostrils and he sniffles it. He crosses his arms, nodding at the harbinger. "Give it a name and swallow it."

tooth--ache

Insistent, needy; wanted, home.

Howard drew in a breath, choked on it briefly. It felt foreign and surreal to know that the filth coating the insides of his body is a desired form. He chuckled breathily as it tried to burrow into his skin; wished something would eventually find a way to tunnel under his dermis and consume what has been left within him to fester and pus.

"I can't name it," he said hoarsely. His throat felt dry, his heart a stampede rampaging through the hollows of his ribcage. "It's not mine to name."

Obediently, expectantly, Howard opened his mouth slightly. Pinching legs began to scurry to an opening on his face: a moist, welcoming tunnel into the yawning void. He stifled a sound when he could feel the creature's segments rattle against his teeth, each foot nipping on the soft of his tongue.

It nestled deep within his throat, past his uvula, pressing against his trachea. Its ultimate legs rested against the tip of his tongue. Waiting.

Howard held his throat gently with his hand, a pair of tearful eyes descending upon Shay with repentance reserved for the holy. He drew a tight, hindered breath, tilted his head up.

And swallowed.

#m0il #{ butter! }#// HAPPY PRIDE HOWARD JESUS FUCKING CHRIST #// what the FUCK do i even tag this as LMAO #cw insects #cw suggestive

// happy pride vampire enjoyers. very thankful in a weird way that every one of my mutuals respect howard's sexuality, which is first and foremost a demi!

in a sex/romance heavy space, while howie and i don't really care what people do with their bits and what they do with their free time, having muses and writers respect greysexuality is a bit of a tall ask around here, if you believe it. it is greatly less 'marketable' to have a character who is under the acearo flag, as shipping is by and large the first goal for most interactions here (not that its a bad thing!).

thank you it means a lot to me and howie both, he feels valid and safe to just be himself taking his time getting to know everyone here knowing theres no rush into anything

🌈🙂‍↕️🌈

#ooc

•°¯•• 🎀 𝒞𝒶𝓃𝓃𝒾𝒷𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓂 🎀 ••¯°•

#{ butter! }

m0il

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThis one's a screamer! Shay's ears are briefly defeaned by fusing with the door. He sees the other man's rounding eyes and then he is inside. The holler of the banshee slaps him with an echo and he has to blink a couple times to adjust himself. When he swings open the door with a grimace translating his disgust with the overreaction (which, to a normal human being is an appropriate feedback for seeing a man melt into the door), Shay holds his breath. If he exhales, he is going to say something really nasty about the other's vocal cords. The police sirens have nothing on this guy, seriously.

"Get up." Shay snaps, "Ya done being d'amatic? Fuck." He slams the door behind the other just as the helicopter passes, shining its blinding spotlight into the alleyway. Finding nothing, it keeps splitting the skies forward.

And here they are, sauntering in an unoccupied space. Shay is looking for any tools that may come in handy. He is not worried that this man would attack him. He supposes that there is a plus side to things: he scared this detainee enough to keep his distance. In the meantime, while hiding from the armed enforcement, the mission is to simply survive. The pollutant has no desire in leaving this place flattened against the ground and spread by the gravity of bullet fire. He knows that if he twitches the wrong way, the coppers are going to keep unloading gold until he is but a wet spot in the ground. He could hide in this place's walls, yet leaving black mold behind is a waste of resources. Shay's preference is to fester in a space that carries life, not someone's empty rent left behind.

Shay's nostrils twitch when the air permeates with something sickly sweet. A carcass stench, one recognized by a being that devours lesser. A centipede looking for a maggot wiggling in a pile of someone's remains. He turns his head to behold the struggling man with tinged hands, muttering some kind of nonsense. He observes the wrists from where he stands but hardly captures the Devil's details. It is dark in the apartment they are occupying, and Shay struggles with night vision: he just has human eyes.

The man advances forward. There is about a fifteen centimeter difference in their height, or six inches in American terms. The felon over here isn't stretched in his full height, instead, he is hunched over the simple contraption. The closer Shay creeps, the more potent the smell is. Is it a really bad choice in cologne? No, he has tasted this air before. He scoffs at the other man.

"Your accent is giving me a mig'aine, what the hell are you sayin'?" Shay's lips twist in a sneer. He is close enough to hear the rusty clang of the cuff. What a terrible contraption. Maybe, he can crack it with his knife, but what's that going to do after butchering a couple cops? He doesn't even want to come back for their lungs; that's how useless policemen are. "I can do you a favo', pop those eyes of you's so you don't have to see me again ea'ly, huh? What do you say-Hey, hey," Shay is interrupted by an unpredictable spasm that sends his unfortunate Plus One directly on the floor. Something shoots the man in the head, and for a moment, Shay checks the window in anticipation of a sniper hitting its target. With the glass intact and no trace of blood anywhere on the carpet, Shay concludes the damage is internal. It doubles his confusion as he glares at the man at his feet.

"What's wrong with you?" Shay's spits, gritting his teeth before crouching nearby. His mouth hangs open to deliver another question, but suddenly his face goes blank. His irritated expression relaxes, every muscle letting go of a sight of emotion. His eyes, twin-dark pools of frustrations, are now a pair of voids that simply stare at the other man like he is the only thing Shay is able to register. His knitted eyebrows sit evenly above his lowered eyelids. The corners of his lips snaps from their taut pull and lower over his teeth. The man remains like that for a couple of seconds, existing in a world with no sound. Then, he blinks, returning to the reality with a summoned glint in his eyes. Alive.

"You bette' sit on this floor until you don't have to c'awl, okay?" Shay's voice regains its dancing notes, albeit slowly, as if the man had just stepped out of a dream from a coma-like sleep. He clears his throat. "The cuff's not that serious, leave it. I can probably pick it." He gives their surroundings another honest sweep with his eyes, pouting. No pins in this area, that's for sure. Maybe, if this loft has a bedroom, he will be lucky to seek under the bed or the back of each cabinet.

tooth--ache

The Third Prince's decay hollows out its husks whole, though the imprints of a soul remained enough for it to amble on the face of Earth in perverted suspension of existence as its own person. Personhood and what it means to possess a heart or a memory was so ingrained in a human's experience of life, and most importantly inedible, hence Howard James Pike is Howard James Pike, no matter which way you slice and dice him.

He was dead many, many years ago, incomprehensible by the modern human's brain. His insides play pretend, so did his outsides, coy in the hiding and rebranding that he was a VAMPIRE -- what a pathetic description of a creature beyond even the fundamental concept of blood -- and coy in the believing that this was enough. It was this weakness: BELIEF, that had allowed a foreign creature to nestle in Howard's brain as he fell on his knees, controlling his every move like a dog on a leash. It would scream and shout at him until he was reduced to a pulp inside, rotten and rank; then they would pulp his outside too, for the fun of it.

The thing inside of his skull was decidedly unnatural. The thing came from the depths of hell, promised by a demon, another inedible concept which frustrates the Prince greatly, for now. One day the Prince will be able to entice Howard to believe demons can in fact be ingested, just like everything, and perhaps he will solve his problems then, by eating himself free. Close the cycle of life. Yes?

No. Not that easy. Now mould spores over Howard's eyes in the form of a body, also playing pretend, also playing coy.

Howard nodded blankly; he could bite through the metal. It'd be as soft as putty. He raised his hands in front of his face, but had forgotten how to work his jaw, to bite, to say something. The pain was so blinding he could barely understand what the stranger was saying to him, let alone respond in a meaningful way.

𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐚𝐰. 𝐘𝐞𝐬. 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐨𝐲. 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐩 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡. 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡. 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡, 𝐲𝐞𝐬. 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥.

The bite terrorised a chunk of his own flesh. One half of the cuff fell onto the floor with a slap of black rot and a metallic thump. Howard fell backwards, his eyes rolling back into his skull, and seized through an ethereal amount of pain. A brief punishment for his failures.

Rolling mist dissipated from his blisteringly hot body, and as soon as it rose in temperature, it fell once again into deathly cold. The lost chunk of flesh crawled into his wrist once more, just in time before Howard lifted his palms to hide his face and curl into himself, mouth open in a soundless scream. Every vein on his throat rose with the celestial suffering, yet there was only silence.

Two beats later and it was as if Howard had imagined it all. Maybe he did. Maybe he was insane. Maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill. Weak. Insane! Insane!

With a sniffle, Howard turned away, hiding his face against the floor.

"I'm fine," he lied. "Migraine," he lied. "I just need a nap," he lied.

#m0il #//hah more like TURm0IL #// you know what i mean?????#{ butter! }

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