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Fantasy Bloodlines of the Night (Closed w spruce)

Phantomelda

Phantomelda

your friendly neighborhood ghost
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Bloodletter Heir



Aristeo Hudson













mood

Tired af











outfit

Outfit











location

Bloodletter HQ











interactions

About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

#vampirehunter #fangoff















Full Name: Aristeo Hudson
Title(Mr./Mrs./Lord/Lady/Sir/): Lord Aristeo Hudson, heir to the Bloodletter Clan
Nickname(s): Arris generally speaking, Ari for those he is close with

Sex: Male
Race/species: Immortal Human
Age: 27
Orientation/Sexual preference: Pansexual

Height: 5'8
Weight: 180lbs

Allegiance: The Bloodletter Clan. They are a mafia group of immortal human vampire hunters. They named themselves the bloodletters as they are food for the vampires, but like to make the vampires bleed just as much back. Its a reminder of their mortality at the root. Witches once blessed them with immortality in hopes of eradicating the vampires, and now practice basic magic, and burning runes into their skin to enhance it.

Scars: He has a few scattered around his body from training and vampire wars
Birthmarks(and what they are/were): N/A
Tattoos(what they are and where): He has a line of runes going down his spine, and a few that he turned into a half sleeve on one arm that is usually hidden. They were burned into his skin as is the practice of the witches knowledge to them.
Piercings(what they are and where): Wouldn't you like to know?

Abilities: He can conjure a fair amount of ice and fire, and wield it as frozen blades, fireballs, stakes made of ice, and/or turn a sword into a flaming sword. But it has a time limit, and he can only conjure so much.
Special skills: Enhanced stamina, enhanced strength, enhanced speed, he has a preternatural sixth sense the witches gifted him as a born heir (ie he has a singular sense for vampires even if they're hidden), a bit of regeneration. He relies on his honed reaction time and cleverness to outsmart and dodge attackers. He is also not very tall compared to most so he relies heavily on his speed and counterattacks. He likes to use his opponents strength against them. He is still a human, so he has enhanced physical abilities but they're nowhere near a vampires level, and his body will naturally heal itself albeit extremely slowly. A wound that would take a vampire a minute to heal could take him hours.
Hobbies: Reading, drawing, throwing his most favorite knives, watching movies, and listening to music.


♡coded by uxie♡
 









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Bloodletter Heir



Aristeo Hudson













mood

Tired af











outfit

Outfit











location

Bloodletter HQ











interactions

About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

#vampirehunter #fangoff















"Fuck. no."
Arris basically growled to his father.

He stood mere feet from the man, arms crossed over his chest, and his feet in a fighting stance. His father, who sat at the head of the table in their private dining room in their wing of the estate, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. The current head of the Bloodletter Clan was Arris' father, Lord Hector Hudson, revered leader of the immortal human vampire hunters, whatever whatever. Hector had built a private wing for his family as it grew, as he wanted less prying eyes from the entire clan to have quiet dinners with his wife if he wanted to. And on the occasion, his son. Like tonight, which was a rare treat for Arris usually and he had been looking forward to it all day.

Currently, Arris wanted to either throw himself out the window and fall to his death, plunge a stake into his own heart, or potentially do it to his own father.

"Ari, darling. You understand why we're asking you."
His mothers sweet voice chirped out, and Arris' gaze flicked to her as she placed her hand on top of her husbands in moral support.

Showing a united front against a great decision right now, such as scolding their son.

Arris sat, and propped his elbows on the table so that he could gently rest his forhead into closed fists.

"I understand why. But why now? Why me?"
He raised his head up and earnestly looked at his parents who looked back at him with a tinge of sadness, and regret.

Their hands clenched tighter where they held each other on top of the blasted table, and it broke his heart to challenge them like this.

"There have been centuries for a truce to be made. A bargain struck. Peace to be found. Why am I getting married off to that pompous, blood sucking, arrogant prince of a vampire?"
He almost shouted.
"Are you seriously telling me he's already agreed? I'm pretty sure I stabbed him at least once in the last altercation we had on a fighting ring night in the Underground..."
He mumbled.

His parents face didn't falter once, and only seemed to shine brighter with a resoluteness. Arris quit talking and slumped in his chair, staring at the ceiling as his mask slipped on. Complete control as his voice evened out to its usual canter of being calm, smooth, and emotionless, and his face carefully arranged free of any human telltale sign of emotion. Almost like the oldest of vampires who felt nothing. That was who he was. Once raw clay that had been kneaded, kneaded, and kneaded again, until a kiln fired him into a honed warrior with no emotions. It had been beaten into him, tortured into him, and burned into his very skin. He was a vampire hunter, and the perfectly calculated leader and son everyone needed him to be to follow in his ruthless fathers shoes.

He knew his fate was sealed, and the last chip of his truly human heart that felt hope of just being human fell away into the darkness, as he was about to be a blushing bride to be to a freakin vampire, his mortal enemy.

"When's the wedding?"
He asked.


♡coded by uxie♡
 
character form can be viewed here.​





FC: Tamino-Amir Moharam Fouad




Damian Lechkov - Vampire
“
If I'm an angel, paint me with black wings.
”


 










Damian slowly drug a fingernail across the expensive black leather of the couch he was laying upon in the dimly lit, gothic parlor, back and forth, forth and back, back and forth. He tried, desperately, to fight the urge to yawn.

Coven meetings were always abysmally boring, and although it was only twilight, although he had only just woken up, the fire that crackled in the hearth of the parlor's fireplace was warm enough to nearly put him to sleep.

Gathered around him, sprawled like languid jungle cats across the numerous couches and armchairs strewn around the parlor's perimeter were some of Lucius' closest followers-- the most trusted, the most revered, the strongest vampires that the coven had in its employ... and... the dullest. The Inner Circle was a most law-abiding bunch, and the strictest rule enforcers of Coven Law that Damian had ever met. They twittered quietly amongst themselves as they waited for Lucius to make his appearance, and Damian only wished that they'd hurry up and get this meeting over with. There were far better ways to spend his time when the night was still young.

'I heard,' Vera leaned in close from over the arm of the armchair nearest to Damian's seat on the couch, hand cupped conspiratorially beside her mouth as she peered at him with luminous green eyes. Her voice was shrill even when it spoke inside Damian's head. 'That Lucius has a very important announcement to make tonight. And I heard that it's all about you.'

Damian scoffed quietly, and rolled his neck back to lay the back of his head on the couch's arm. He peered at her from his upside-down position. Vera was a gossip at best, and the majority of her bombshells were often false. It was more than likely that she had heard wrong. 'If it had something to do with me, he would tell me first.' He projected back. Damian heaved a sigh, and righted his neck once more. He knew far too much about coven business than he cared to as Lucius' fledgling and heir. He had memorized every law, knew every inch of their territory like the back of his hand. Lucius never kept secrets from him.

He occupied himself with scraping his nail along the black leather of the couch cushion as he tucked one of his arms behind his head, crossed his legs at their bony ankles, let the warmth of the fire seep into his very bones. He very nearly dozed off before the door to the parlor swung open and Lucius strode in.

The birdlike chatter of the vampires ceased at once, and Damian watched as all thirteen members of the Inner Circle drew themselves up straighter. He, on the other hand, remained sprawled on his back where he was comfortable, or that was, until Lucius pointed a finger at him and hooked it towards himself in a come hither motion.

"Rise," the ivory-skinned vampire hissed, and Damian felt his legs uncross themselves and swing themselves over the front of the couch, felt his spine right itself into an upright position in an unnatural, stiff motion that made him feel like a wooden marionette on a string. For a brief, terrible moment his body was not his own. "This matter commands your full attention."

Some of the vampires chuckled bemusedly; Damian knew full-well what the majority of the Inner Circle's members felt about him: They were older, far more experienced. He was the fledgling, the babe, the fawn wobbling on teetering, unsteady legs when it came to matters of the Dark Gift. In their own minds, they deserved to be heirs, despite the fact that only Damian possessed Lucius' ancient blood. If killing another vampire were not crime punishable by a slow, most painful death, Damian was quite sure that he would be dead. There was not any time for Damian to consider this matter in depth, however. Lucius flicked his wrist absently upwards, and Damian, with a sick, swooping sensation, felt himself rise to his feet, nothing but a mere puppet at his Maker's beckoning.

"I have returned from my discussion with the leader of the Bloodletter clan." Several of the vampires bared their fangs and hissed. "And it appears as though there is but one logical solution that will end our feud with our oldest, most predominant enemy." Amber eyes that mirrored Damian's own fell upon his face, and Lucius met Damian's gaze with an unnerving steadiness. "This terrible war," Lucius continued, "Has gone on long enough. We have lost far, far too many of our brothers and sisters, o' my children of the night." There was a quiet murmur of agreement amongst the mental link between vampires: none would dare to interrupt their leader while he was speaking. Even Damian held his tongue.

Lucius took a great step forward, where he stood dead-center in the room. "Which is why, my dearest vampires-- my most trusted Inner Circle-- the coven will wage an alliance with the Bloodletter clan, and end this war once and for all."

There was instantaneous outrage. In their shock, in their fury, the vampires forgot their place. Several members of the coven rose from their chair as they voiced their disbelief, their anger. Damian, on the other hand, forced himself to stay silenced; Lucius' voice was a percussive shout in all of their heads. 'ENOUGH!' Each member of the coven crumpled like squashed spiders into their seats or on the floor, their hands clapped over their ears. They would not hear a word of the conversation that was to follow. Damian, however, remained untouched by this pain, though he knew all too well what it was like. He turned, warily, to watch as Vera curled into herself in the armchair beside him, mouth parted in a silent scream of agony, but Lucius' cold grip on his jaw turned his gaze on him instead.

"Blood of my blood," Lucius addressed him, "My progeny. It will be you who ends this war. I have offered your hand in marriage, to the young Bloodletter heir. As his betrothed, you will serve as a testament to a truce-- coven and clan will feud no more, and in war's stead, your bond, your companionship, will be a beacon of peace."

This time, Damian was unable to hold his tongue.

"Marriage?" He spat incredulously. "Companionship?! You're selling me off for a-- for a truce? Like I'm a prized whore? Why does that have to be our only option? Do I not get a say in this?" Damian took a step backwards, and the backs of his knees collided with the front of the couch as Lucius stared him down for his outburst. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run; Damian, in more than one sense of the word, felt hopelessly trapped as Lucius took another small step forward, his eyes blazing in the same, brilliant orange as the fire in the hearth. "It's bullshit," Damian managed, brokenly. He felt, for all the world, like a simpering, petulant child.

"Oh, don't look so despairing," Lucius spat. Damian listened to the steady thrum of the bass from within the club a mere hallway away from the parlor; on any other night, the noise of the Crypt, one of the many nightclubs under the umbrella of the coven's ownership, would alluring-- welcoming-- but now, it only made him feel sick. He stared at the floor; the room felt like it was spinning.

"It's only a superficial arrangement." His Maker continued on, apparently oblivious to Damian's shock and horror. "You only need to look and act the part around the Bloodletter clan and the coven. You're free to do whatever you'd like when you're away from any prying eyes." Lucius waved a pale hand. "Arise, brothers and sisters. And this time, do behave." Slowly, the vampires around them began to right themselves once more; hands fell from ears, mouths were closed, and this time, the coven's Inner Circle merely looked on in grim silence. Damian didn't need to listen in to any internal chatter to know that they disproved of this union just as much as he did, though, surely not for Damian's sake. "Surely you can pretend, can't you?"

When Damian didn't answer, Lucius placed a hand on the back of his neck. Damian swallowed, hard, around the lump in his throat. "As my heir, this is your duty," Lucius' voice was a deadly calm. "Your duty is to the coven. It is my blood that made you, my gifts that you possess, and it's thanks to me that you are here today, saved from an urchin's death on the street, born again in my image, stronger than any other vampire in this room." Lucius' hand flexed, just slightly, against Damian's nape. The softness of his voice didn't fool him, not for one foolish moment, not when Lucius' long nails were mere inches from his throat. "So, answer me now, fledgling. Will you help me stop this terrible war? Will you serve your coven?"

Damian felt his shoulders fall, but a stray muscle twitched in his jaw.

"Yes." He ground out. "I'll serve my coven."

Lucius released him and took a small step back. His luminous eyes searched Damian's face once more before he nodded his approval. "Very well. You are free to do as you wish tonight. The wedding will take place at November's end. Until then, I suggest that you get to know your future betrothed. Convince the coven. Convince me." His Maker's smile was a corpse's grin before he turned away and strode through the parlor, through the door that led to his office. Damian stared at the fire. He wondered, for but a moment, if it would simply be easier to jump inside of it.

'See?' Vera's jeering, smug voice reverberated inside his skull. 'I told you it was going to be about you. Congratulations on your engagement.'

Damian glowered at her for but a mere moment, and then, he glanced down at the hem of her dress. Without a moment's notice, a tiny flame flickered to life along the fabric. Vera gave a shriek and Gustav, at her side, reached over with a pillow in an attempt to beat the fire away, but Damian barely heard, didn't stick around to listen to the commotion he'd caused. Instead, he slunk out of the room and down the hallway towards the Crypt, towards the strobe lights and organ-reverberating bass, with every intention to help himself forget that his life had never been, would never be, his own.








horror.



damian.








  • filler tab!





♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:









scroll








Bloodletter Heir



Aristeo Hudson













mood

Tired af











outfit

Outfit











location

Bloodletter HQ











interactions

About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

#vampirehunter #fangoff















"Aaaaand... sent."
Arris mumbled as he watched the text bubble go through. He stared at it a moment longer, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach with the weight of that text message.

Sighing, he flopped face down onto his bed, backpack slinging awkwardly off him. He could hear his knives in particular tinkle around. He still held his phone tightly and it startled him with a buzz buzz. Jolting as it vibrated, he quickly propped his torso up onto his arms as he clicked open the lock screen, which depicted a mood board he had made as his background, to see who it was. He was tense, expecting the individual to have replied. Instead, he was relieved to see it was Nikolai texting the group chat. He instantly let out a soft exhale through his nose as he tried to relax, even if a little bit.


🦇Eternal Nightwhores🦇​
Nikolai 🎤: Hey, bros. EN this weekend work for you? Emil snagged us a gig down at Crypt. Mal, no trying to start a stage orgy this time, k? No one appreciates it.


Malik 🥁: You wound me, Nik. You know I'm a lover, not a fighter. Can't help it if the hotties want this drummer pumping onto more than just my kit. 😘


Malik 🥁: But fr, yeah I'm down. How'd Emil manage to get us into Crypt? That's like... the biggest gig we've ever had. Everyone goes to Crypt.


Nikolai 🎤: Yeah whatever, you whore. Just no. stage. orgy. Capeesh? Thanks. Everyone does go there which is why this would be huge for us and I'm texting you in the middle of the night. Why are you awake? Looking at FangHub again, you degenerate?


Nikolai 🎤: By? A? You good?


Byron 🎹: 👍


Byron 🎹: a... u good? u have the hardest time getting away. u coming?


Nikolai 🎤: First of all, why is everyone awake? Is Mal turning you all into sex fiends? Please tell me you're not all rubbing one out and in your other hand texting me. I might actually stake you next time I see you. Actually, don't even try to tell me if you are. I don't think I can mentally handle that right now. Or the image. Anyways.


Nikolai 🎤: Secondly, seriously, shit yeah, sorry A. I know its kinda last minute. Think you can get away from the bloodsuckers in your area just for a night?


A 🎸: All good. I'll figure something out if I have to. See you this weekend.


Nikolai 🎤: Sick. Saturday, get there by 9pm, Crypt. We're onstage by 10. Let's rock and roll, baby.


Arris set his phone down even as it continued to buzz. Nik and Mal’s usual banter going back and forth as Mal tried to defend that he was indeed on FangHub trying to bite one and rub one out in the middle of the night. When Arris had just checked the time, it was two in the afternoon. Way late for them.

Sunlight poured into his room. Warm, and bright. It filled the space. Filled part of him with something other than darkness and the cold for once. He had several large windows, but one bay window on the far wall. All of their heavy, floor to ceiling, blackout curtains were always drawn open. The sun was like an old friend to him. It greeted him the moment it begins to rise, and climb over the tops of the city skyscrapers making them shimmer in the morning glow like glittering waves of metal. And it bid him farewell the moment it set, kissing one final wave of light before disappearing into a twilight hue that welcomed the night to paint onto a new canvas, filling it with stars, as if they were carefully placed brushstrokes in one great painting.

Even in true night, Arris liked to stargaze and look up at the moon. It was a different sort of comfort to know they were always there, even on nights the moon was silent and hidden. They welcomed him into a headspace that was peaceful, and quiet. Unlike the usual raucous noise that was his thoughts, his every waking moment of fear. His external self remained emotionless, cold, distant. Just like the moon.

However, he lived in fear. Every second of every day. The Bloodletters had been on the brink of war lately, attacks on all fronts. Not just the vampire clans, but the other rival groups consisting of demons and werewolves in the area hoping that someone will falter enough for them to seize land and stake claim to part of this city. He feared the Bloodletters would fall one day. He feared his parents would be targeted. His mother. His men. His friends, even if they were vampires too. They were still good people. They didn’t target the innocent for nefarious deeds.

Arris was the bad guy, who skulked in the deepest shadows of the night. Involved deep in the family business, walking in his father’s echo of footsteps. They ran half of the shady businesses that comprised of the Underground. Fighting rings for all creatures and humans brave enough to get killed, controlled drug cartels, illegal rune stamping, a black market for stolen and illicit items. He helped keep it running like a well oiled machine. Everyone in town knew his face, knew his title.

He was Lord Aristeo, heir to the Bloodletters.

What a bunch of crap.

This isn’t the life he wanted, but it was a life he couldn’t run from. Not from his mother or other people counting on him whether they knew it or not. Like his friends, his band mates who didn’t even know his face, let alone his name. He frequented the vampire clubs, finding ways to hide his face so he could get lost in the throng of bodies and let his own be possessed by the deep pulsating of the music and just live as anybody for the night.

He had gone to his usual haunt one weekend, and found them workshopping, or rather arguing rather loudly, about having just lost their lead guitarist before they even went live for the first time. They barely had a vision, but they had a sound, and they had the right heart. He could feel it. Music called to him in a way that nothing else did and it was one of his greatest passions. So, before he even knew what he was doing, he offered his skills for the night. He’d just need twenty minutes reading the songs they wanted to perform.

The moment he stood on that stage and performed, his fingers wicked and lovely along a borrowed guitar, he helped create a moment for the crowd that night. A moment of clarity. Of freedom. Of light, found within the darkness. Within himself.

Afterward, the other three basically tackled him with tears from exhilaration as the crowd went feral and wild with cheers and asking for information about them as a band. He could only give the bare minimum, he’s involved in the vampire clans, it’s hard to be away from that lifestyle and responsibility, and nobody can know who he was. Only rule, that they quickly respected. He was just A to them. Their guitarist that helped mold their shape and sound into the band they wanted to be, with quiet encouragement that they were good, but there was always room for improvement. That they as vampires, had room for improvement. Not that they knew he wasn’t one.

And so, Eternal Nightfall was born. Nikolai was the lead singer, who used just a hint of his stronger magic of allure into his vocals to entrance people into the music. He had a clear cut tone that rang out like a bell, but could be growled and gutteral as the time came. He is the perfect balance of making sure we keep our shit together, and being a true friend if we ever needed someone or something. He’s a good guy, and if Arris had a best friend, that’d be him.

Malik was the drummer, and a complete ladies man so to speak, who always had a body attached to him and basically fucking 24/7. Didn’t matter who or what the body was as long as it was willing. Dry humping even during band meetings. He was a simple man and he never hid it. He liked to have sex, and he liked to eat, and he liked to do it all at once all the time. But besides the man whore behavior, he was a good friend who always had their backs and was funny. He was the funniest of all of them and always kept the mood light.

Byron was the bassist, and occasional synthetic pianist. He always is the rock at the foundation, and is always there, no questions asked. They all were, but Byron in particular was the one to turn to to keep the peace and keep the calm when shit hit the fan.

Emil was the sleazy businessman who took a shine to the band at some point, and had become their unofficial, official manager. He managed a lot for them, like getting them gigs as long as he got a cut. He reluctantly liked all four boys, and genuinely looked out for them. He just liked that they made his pockets heavy even more.

And then there was Arris, a nobody with them, who obviously kept them at a distance enough they’d never know who he truly was. But, they trusted him enough to let that be okay and welcomed him with open arms anyway. And they had truly, truly, become dear to him whether they knew it or not. They had no idea the depth that they clawed their way into his heart. He’d never tell them, and they’d never know. But they had allowed him a safe space he had always wanted his entire life. And he’d do anything for them, like getting away from the Bloodletters for a couple hours and say he was out on his patrol duty again. Or he had business to follow up on in the Underground. Whatever it took. He’d never let them down. They were his safe space, all combined into one thing — music.

His true peace.

Unzipping his backpack, Arris slipped on his headphones and hit shuffle on Spotify. Music consumed him, and his mind went quiet for the first time that day as he relaxed against his navy sheets.

Even as he stared at the text message he had sent, hoping it would ding in a few hours when night fell, and the vampires rose for their morning routines.

Prince Thirsty Cadaver ✝️​

Aristeo: This is Aristeo Hudson. I'm texting you so you'll both have my number, and so we can discuss a meeting arrangement sometime this week. Maybe even tomorrow, dependent on your schedule? Your dad gave it to me when he was leaving earlier today after finalizing contracts on your end, just so you don't think I got your number randomly. Let me know what works for you.



♡coded by uxie♡
 










By vampire standards, Damain was, always had been, an early riser. Most of his fellow coven members arose from their slumber when the very last drop of sunset finally bled from the sky, but Damian awakened when there were still a few final brushstrokes of oranges and purples and pinks left over New York's smog-choked skyline. It was, he supposed, yet another act of rebellion by his own body, a body where the Dark Gift felt more like a cancerous growth than anything else. It was attached to him, but it was never a part of him.

One of the coven's ridiculous laws commanded that each vampire sleep within a coffin, and in Damian's case, that coffin was in an apartment directly above the Crypt that Damian seldom spent time in. The daylight hours were for sleeping, but the nighttime and its delicious inky darkness was for exploring; the only thing Damian used this place for was to sleep, despite the elaborate furniture it was adorned with. He supposed he was lucky. Members of the Inner Circle slept in coffins that were aligned together in a singular row in the basement of the Crypt. Less for solidarity, he supposed, and more so that Lucius could keep an eye on them. Or, maybe, the Inner Circle was just as strange as Damian made it out to be and they liked being confined in such close quarters.

Damian pushed open the coffin's lid and stepped outside before he made his way over to the window. Just as he'd thought, there was still a trace of sunset smattered across the sky, shot through with what few stars or planets were able to outshine New York's polluted, hazy air. The city's day-to-day inhabitants-- tired office-dwellers, frazzled parents, baristas, food service workers-- were retreating into their homes for the evening, but the city's more exciting crowd was just awakening.

The beautiful simplicity of humanity was omnipresent in a city like this one, he thought, as he pressed the pads of his fingertips to the glass. He wasn't far up enough here to truly appreciate the city's skyline, but Damian had lived in this city all his life— in both his lives: mortal and immortal. He'd stood atop what had to have been hundreds of roofs from countless city skyscrapers and let the wind ruffle his hair, let the thrill of adrenaline course through him. From such a dizzying height, eye level with the predatory birds that sometimes circled high above the never-ending chaos of New York City, he allowed himself to attempt to feel.

Absently, Damian pressed a finger to the side of his throat as a flock of pigeons passed by the window in a whirl of smoke-grey feathers. One of the birds landed on the stony outcropping of the window ledge. Damian watched it preen itself as he probed for his jugular. The skin there was corpse-cold, which wasn’t surprising, and there was no gentle flutter of life beneath his fingertips. There was no pulse, which wasn't surprising either; his heart hadn’t beat for 44 years. He dropped his hand to his side.

"Not that it matters," he said aloud to the round little bird, whose beak was buried beneath one of its wings. "Why should it matter if it's being sold off to some silver-wielding asshole if it isn't beating?" He exhaled bitterly. The events of the previous evening were coming back to him in slow waves and memories of them soured his mood. "You're lucky you have wings. I would fly away from here if I could."

The pigeon ruffled its feathers in response.

Damian pulled away from the window and raked a hand through his hair. There was the telltale hum at the base of his skull that he always got when he was hungry, the familiar tightness around his eyes, a human-like shakiness to his movements. One of the legs of his pajama pants had slid up halfway up his calf in his sleep. Enough was enough. He needed to stop moping and feed. Needed to enjoy one of his last few evenings of freedom.

He set about the task of putting himself back together again.

Once he'd washed his face, styled his hair, and changed out of his pajamas into his clothes for the night, he crossed the bedroom to where his phone was charging on the nightstand. It lay there on the dark stained mahogany beside a neatly-made bed with an impressive, intricately carved black wooden frame, the purpose of which did not include sleeping. Damian sat down on the edge of the bed and aimlessly scrolled through notifications. It was all boring, all uninteresting, until a text message from an unfamiliar number caught his eye. Damian read the message once, twice, three times, before he felt a bitter bark of a laugh claw itself up from his chest.

It sounded so casual. This wasn't the sort of message one would send to their future betrothed-to-be. It sounded like a meeting for a goddamned Craigslist ad. Damian laughed again, and raked a hand through his hair. It was a business transaction, nothing more; it was so informal that he knew that its sender-- that Aristeo-- felt the same way about this arranged marriage as Damian did. This was ridiculous. This was an insult. Damian still could imagine the bite of a silver blade below his ribcage from one of their fights in the Underground ring. He'd seldom spoken half a dozen words to Aristeo in both of their lifetimes, but the withering glances that the other sent his way were far louder than any conversation that they could have shared. The heir to the Bloodletter clan killed vampires like they were trophy deer. Damian stared down at the white bubble of Aristeo's text message; he felt like a prized show pig to be led to the slaughter. And he was to marry him.

He ground his back molars together and grimaced; his fangs had popped, and he'd accidentally sunk his canines into his lower lip. Damian bit back a curse and probed at the punctures with his tongue. It wasn't fresh blood that beaded at the wound's opening-- he'd need to hunt sooner than later, but now, this message, this abomination, had ruined his appetite. He hovered his fingers over the keypad before he typed out a response.

message to: heir dickhead 💩🩸
​
fuck you, lucius isn't my dad, he's my maker. moron. there's a big difference. don't they teach you anything in that stupid clan of yours?

He pressed send, and contemplated for just a moment, ran his free hand over the silken dark grey duvet cover with a scowl. He felt half inclined to tell the Aristeo that his schedule was open never, that there was no way in hell that he'd agree to meet him, but Damian knew all too well how Lucius punished coven members who stepped out of line. Damian dug his nails into the bedspread until he heard something tear, felt the tickle of goose down beneath his fingertips, before he sent another message, and another followed suit.

sure. whatever, tomorrow night's fine. let's just get this over with.

there's a club in astoria called gehenna. 9:00 pm, be there or be square.

And, for good measure, he added just one more message before he turned over his phone.

🖕

Damian pulled himself to his feet. His mood this evening had gone from bad to worse, and the hunger wasn't helping. He needed to feed, needed the thrill of chasing one of the city's most despicable human beings. Sex traffickers, child molesters, men who hurt their wives-- if Damian concentrated hard enough, amongst a city of human thoughts, surely he would be able to pick out a miscreant quickly enough. He slung his jacket over his shoulders and allowed the door to slam behind him before he strode out into the hallway. Aristeo was a sickeningly responsible being. Damian knew that he would show. But, as he stepped out into the delicious cool of the night air, he already had decided one thing: he was going to make Aristeo wish that he hadn't come at all.








horror.



damian.








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Bloodletter Heir



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mood

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About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

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Aris eventually fell asleep for a few hours, albeit only a few. His sleep schedule was so messed up between training and patrols he usually only slept a maximum of four hours a night. He was pretty sure he slept less than the vampires. By now, he was used to it. His restless mind was always too loud during the time he was awake. Hence, the music. It quietened it just enough.

He had no partner, had never even been with someone. He never had any time or desire to. He had enough people to worry about. Yet, here he was. Weeks before he was to be married to someone probably as bad as Mal when it came to lust.

Aris sighed sharply through his nose, his eyes creaking open slowly as the last ribbons of day shimmered through his open windows, before he watched it turn into darkness. The rich orange and purple hues being squashed into nothingness once more. He laid there longer than he meant to, just watching the transformation as if it were him and every other creature of the night. Melting away into nothing. However, his phone kept buzzing. Definitely Nik and Mal still going at it.

Slowly sitting up and propping his head up with pillows, his navy sheets sliding down his bare torso with the movement, he blindly reached for his phone on the nightstand. Once he retrieved it and was laying back more comfortably, he arched a brow as the screen lit up again with a buzz buzz.

168 notifications

Tapping so it would use face recognition for him to look at the notifications, he idly scrolled through his bandmates chatter. For awhile it was arguing about being degenerates on FangHub, which quickly spiraled into favorite vamp stars, which spiraled into what source of food they wanted this weekend. Typical. Glancing over to tap out of the band group chat, the only people he ever received messages from, his breath caught just slightly.

4 notifications

Prince Thirsty Cadaver ✝️​
fuck you, lucius isn't my dad, he's my maker. moron. there's a big difference. don't they teach you anything in that stupid clan of yours?

sure. whatever, tomorrow night's fine. let's just get this over with.

there's a club in astoria called gehenna. 9:00 pm, be there or be square.

🖕


Aris' original disinterested quirked eyebrows deepened into a furrow. A deep lined frown, crossing from how brow, down to his full mouth. He scrunched his nose in distaste just a bit, feeling his septum piercings sharp coldness against his upper lip as he pondered how to reply for just a moment. It didn't take him too long. He was so detached from this whole situation right now, feeling like it was all a bad dream. He couldn't be bothered to care enough to be hostile back.

Prince Thirsty Cadaver ✝️​
Sometimes makers are blood related, but also, he's technically your guardian. Does that not make him a father figure whether you want it or not? Otherwise, didn't really care to fact check. Thanks for clarifying.

Okay. See you then.


Groaning he clicked the screen shut and tucked it against his chest while he stared at the ceiling. Just for one more moment. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.

Damn those bastards are certified yappers. Just fang and bang already. Jesus.

Rolling out of bed, he got ready for the rest of the day. It was going to be a solo patrol day, just checking up on the business side of things around the Underground district. The Underground was a few city blocks of all the businesses the Bloodletters, the vampire clans, and other marketers had. Aris definitely was not looking forward to it.

Pulling on black jeans, a tightly fitted black t-shirt, and a thick belt with a variety of holsters, he pulled on his black combat boots and laced them up tightly before he started strapped himself with everything he needed. A silver knife or blade went into every nook and cranny it could reasonably fit without nicking him, and his standard pistol was holstered just under his armpit. Slinging on his leather black jacket that had one silver chain spiraling across it, it perfectly concealed the weapon that was full of live rounds of silver bullets. Grabbing his backpack from where it had fallen on the floor last night, he quickly unzipped it and shoved two silver short blades into it. They would be harder to grab, but he would have them if he needed them, and he wouldn't be stopped by human police for obvious weapons.

Lastly, he adorned his jewelry. His silver nose ring and small hoops were made of medical grade stuff so he never had to take them out. Several rings of silver, some plain, some with intricate patterns and runes. In some situations, they've been used as almost brass knuckles against the right company, and definitely helpful in the fighting pit in the Underground. Then, his necklace. He clasped a very plain and simple cross set upon a silver chain that hung just below his collarbone.

Then he was ready. Almost.

Grabbing his headphones from the nightstand and his portable charger from the drawer, he shoved them into his backpack, then made sure his phone was in one pocket, and his wallet in the other. His keys already jingled in the bottom of his backpack. Then he grabbed his sleek black helmet from the dresser and tucked it under an arm.

Striding across the room, he paused at the threshold and took in his peaceful space for just a moment longer. The room was devoid of personality, and looked like any standard Hunter's room. Standard for a soldier. But it was his, and it was one of the only places he felt like he could breathe. Taking in one last easy, deep breath, he shut the door behind him quietly as he worked his way through the labyrinth of halls that was the Bloodletter HQ building. It was basically one huge apartment building, with a built in gym, pool, spa, rooftop garden, everything they could possibly need all in one place to train and live as one harmonious unit.

It took Aris about fifteen minutes to get to the bottom floor when everyone and their mother had to stop on almost 50 floors of other Hunters going in and out on their duties. He and his parents lived in the penthouse, which was the top suite and private from everybody. It was extremely spacious for just three of them, with multiple open kitchens, living rooms, and lots of bedrooms and bathrooms. He lived on one side, his parents the other, and they very rarely ever saw each other unless he was invited to dinner.

He was tense, his white knuckled fist grasping his backpack strap tightly while his other arm squeezed his helmet tightly into his ribs. When the elevator went ping on the first floor, he was the first one out and didn't bother to look at anyone as he quickly exited the building and into the attached parking garage. Nobody would stop him or talk to him anyway. No one took notice of him.

Finding his Yamaha YZF-R1, he wasted no time putting on his helmet and securing it tightly before slinging his leg over the bike and turning it on all in one fluid, practiced movement. The motorcycle roared to life, and making sure his backpack was on all the way and secured, he flicked on his headlight and drove into the city.


♡coded by uxie♡
 










The nightclub Gehenna was a gothic human experimentation in vampirism.

The two story building was dark all throughout its interior; even the pulsing strobe lights that flashed in time to the bass on the dance floor at the club’s lower level flashed in macabre arrays of reds and purples. On the lowest level, where a throng of leather-clad individuals danced to their hearts content, fog machines pumped a hazy white mist that smelled vaguely of cedar. A DJ behind a mixer with headphones and a spiked necklace around his throat pumped his fist in the air and nodded her head along with the beat.

A staircase led to an upper level, which was hollowed out in the middle with railings along each side of the floor. This allowed patrons upstairs to look down into the dance floor if they desired to. A litany of heavy black chairs and couches surrounded tables throughout the whole upper level. A bar in the back, bottles backlit in an intense red color, was maintained by a single hard-working bartender in a sleeveless leather jacket, whose massive arms bulged as he shook cocktails within a stainless steel mixer. The air was heavy with the smell of humans: their sweat from their incessant dancing on the lower floor, their colognes and perfumes, the mousse they used to style their hair, the leather of their clothes, the alcohol in their blood.

Damian rested his palms on the wooden banister of the second floor, and peered down into the writing sea of bodies below. In the dark, his orange, lamp-like eyes seemed even brighter still. He was, as it turned out, caught in rapture with these humans and their ceaseless need to dance the night away as though in ritual, as though in solidarity with some pagan, underworld god. He took a slow, deep breath in through his nose, despite the fact that he didn't need to breathe. He had hunted earlier this evening-- the smell of human blood was faint enough that it didn't bother him. Even so, there was something intoxicating about it all. These humans, their short lives, their desires. All was laid bare before him on the floor of the nightclub. They danced because they were young, because their lives were short. It was beautiful, it was fascinating. It all did a very good job of distracting Damian from the true reason why he was here.

In Jewish and Christian eschatology, Gehenna was the abode of the damned-- the very state of misery itself. Damian had never believed in a God, or the devil for that matter, but even so, as he stared down at the club's patrons, he couldn't help but feel as though he had been condemned to hell himself. His life, signed away for an eternity, all for the sake of the coven, to a boy who had killed so many of his kind. If Damian were less selfish, he'd have realized that it was for the better: no more vampires would need to die at the clan's hand. However, he was selfish; the only thing on his mind was the fact that tonight began the end of his freedom.

He tugged his phone out of the side pocket of his charcoal grey slacks. Despite his inherent misery about the situation, he'd dressed lavishly. His raven hair was tucked behind his ears, fell just to the bottom of his nape in carefully maintained waves. A black turtleneck hid the scars from his Turning. In a sea of debauchery, he looked out of place. Otherworldly. That was exactly the sort of thing that he was going for. He had to show this mere boy, this slayer of vampires, that he was exactly the kind of monster that he had spent his lifetime learning to fear, learning to kill.

He stared at the phone, the dammed thing, for just a moment longer before he tucked it back into his pocket and rested his hands on the banister overlooking the dance floor once more. It was 8:59.

So far, he hadn’t heard anything from Aristeo, not since he had texted him he would be meeting Damian at this place tonight. Damian hadn’t responded, just as he hadn’t planted himself directly at the club’s entrance for the other’s convenience. Aristeo was a hunter, after all, and as the clan's precious boy heir, he was a damned good one. He’d fare just fine if he had to use his vampire hunter instincts to hunt him down in here. He would have to check for tracks, scent him like a bloodhound, or do whatever the hell that it was that vampire hunters did to find their prey. To this day Damian didn’t know how exactly the Bloodletter clan did it— chasing vampires down would be like grasping at thin air for ghosts for any other mortal— but he knew that it had to do something with those ridiculous runes they embellished their skin with.

The Bloodletter clan was strong because of magic: witch magic. Damian, personally, thought that it was ridiculous that witches hated vampires so much. After all, were they both not magical, misunderstood beings who had been burned at the stake? In Lucius' words, in the coven's words, as Damian had heard many, many times over, it was the vampire hunters who were the monsters. A vampire killed because they had to-- a vampire killed because they had to eat, but a vampire hunter killed for what? For sport? Out of malevolence? Fear? Hatred? In spite of himself, Damian tightened his hands on the wooden banister, and the black rings on his middle and index fingers dug into his flesh. He grimaced. Just because he was hard to kill didn't mean he was hard to hurt, and now, he felt just as he did when he was in the Underground ring: he was preparing himself for a fight, for the bite of a blade to the flesh.

Damian let his eyes fall to the club's entrance. He felt his magic before he saw him like an uncomfortable prickle of spiders crawling up the back of his neck. Aristeo had just walked in. Damian drew his hands back from the railing. His betrothed-to-be was leather-clad like a good number of club-goers, but unlike them, he was likely armed. He narrowed his amber eyes, let his gaze bore into the other's forehead. Mortal enemy, future spouse. It all felt like a cruel, sick joke. Damian tilted his head ever-so-slightly to the side, and watched the other for a long, hateful moment. It was a shame, really: he was handsome, but then again, he wouldn't hesitate to slot one of those silver daggers between Damian's ribs. Good looks were a waste on a vampire slayer. All Damian felt in that moment was a rapidly kindling anger... and the fear that he quickly concealed beneath it.








horror.



damian.








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Bloodletter Heir



Aristeo Hudson













mood

Tired af











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About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

#vampirehunter #fangoff















A fist as hard as an iron pipe slammed into his jaw, again, hard enough that not only did his head crack to the side viciously, his body lurched with it too. Arms as strong as lead were an unwavering vise around his biceps where they were being held uncomfortably behind him to keep him upright, and were ironically the only thing that kept him from toppling over completely from the force of the blow. Aris took a quick breath, which sounded ragged and gurgled with blood from where it was trickling down his throat. He spat out a thick wad of blood at his attackers feet.

And then he moved. Quick, precise. One, two. He kicked back with all of his strength, and felt as he hit his mark as the big guy holding him had his legs go out beneath him. The moment Aris' arms were even remotely freed, he dove and somersaulted out of the way, and was already throwing silver daggers at the other two before they could barely react. They both clumsily moved, caught off guard from the sudden commotion. The blond on the left had the dagger sink deep into her thigh, and she hissed in response from where her flesh began to audibly burn at the impact. She clawed at it as she already started making a run for it, stumbling wildly back down the dark alley towards the street.

The brunette on the right was lucky. He moved just a fraction of an inch that the dagger that sank deep into his chest was probably a centimeter, if that, off from his heart. He had a similar reaction to the girl, except his eyes went wild with fear as they clashed with Aris', and then he full on sprinted the opposite direction. He choked on the blood that surely began to fill his punctured lungs as he went. Both left a nice little trail of blood as they went.

Focusing, Aris returned his gaze to the big guy. Easily 6'5 and corded with nothing but raw muscle, the vampire rose to his full height and they sized each other up for a moment before they moved at the same time. The bloodsucker had a considerable height and weight advantage on Aris. He breathed controlled breaths as he side stepped and pushed and pulled to use the mans strength against himself, taking the defensive strategy. They circled around each other playing this little game, trying to find a way to get the upper hand.

Finally, the vampire moved erratically, choosing impatience to end this little fight swiftly so he could resume whatever little plot he and his buddies were up to tonight. He moved faster than lightning, attempting to use his full vampiric speed to make the final blow. One of the runes on Aris' left bicep burned as it activated, a faint blueish glow emanating through his shirt as it did so. His eyes filmed over as time seemed to slow just enough milliseconds that a extremely trained Hunter such as himself could react, and fight back. He tracked the vampire running almost zigzag straight at him, probably expecting Aris to move in some way.

The moment they collided, Aris was fully tackled to the ground with a great, gurgled wheeze that got squeezed out of him, but his hand was hot and slick with blood as he held his arm ramrod straight, brunting all of the vampires weight with a single pose. He had shoved another silver dagger straight through the bottom of the vampires chin, where it would've gone straight through his mouth and pierced deeply into the roof of his mouth. Firmly closing it shut from where those fangs had been just inches from Aris' neck.

The vampire whined and his eyes filled with tears as he began clawing at his face, unable to open his mouth as he and Aris continued to stare at each other for just a moment. Aris' face was stone cold. He shoved, eliciting another loud whine and panicked noises from the man as he hunched over himself in too much pain and shock to fully want to unlatching the dagger yet. Aris was about to move again when his phones alarm went off. His brow furrowed deeply as with his hand not dripping with vile, rotten vampire blood fished it out from his pocket, he hit the stop button and glanced at the time.

20:45

Shit.

Aris flicked his gaze back to the moaning vampire on the ground, and evaluated the trails of blood from where the other two had probably tried to disappear into the Underground district. Sighing, he sent a very quick debrief to one of the patrol captains he knew was on duty for the night, having to leave it in their hands to followup, and began running. He refused to be late tonight which is exactly why he had set an alarm fifteen minutes prior to their agreed meeting. He snatched his bag from the ground, now covered in dirt and sand, and slung it on his back as he rushed onto the busy street and assessed where in the Underground he was exactly. Quickly evaluating and turning right, barely a hesitation in his steps, he ran a few buildings down before stepping into a bustling coffee shop. None of its patrons glanced twice at him, as they were used to all manner of creature crawling their way out of the fighting pits for quick cash, or black market deals going sideways. It was just the way of life here in the Underground.

Making his way to the unoccupied bathroom in the back, he latched the door and quickly turned on the water. He glanced at his appearance only for a moment. He knew it looked bad, and with such fresh wounds, there was no way he was going to be able to hide them from his newly betrothed.

Great. Just what I needed on our first meeting...

He thought to himself as he began washing his hands, scrubbing every speck of blood from his face and neck, and began dusting down himself. He tidied himself, extremely practiced so as he looked as human as he could get on any street in this city. He had a nasty black eye already swelling, mostly underneath his right eye. A few scratches, the most prominent ones being a deeper cut on the bridge of his nose, and a elongated one across his cheek. A small cut on his bottom lip. And then there was his neck.

He had spent his day as promised to his routine. He patrolled for at least three hours catching up on some of the admin side of things around the Underground, reminding owners that taxes would be coming soon, and generally inquire to how business was going. On his way to get a coffee before his meeting, he quite literally got jumped by three young, reckless rogue vampires. They didn't seem to have any real allegiance, but the squad he had asked to follow-up would look into it just in case. It was a rooky mistake he hadn't made in years, but Aris' mind was so damned loud with incessant thoughts and the dread pooled deep inside him at the thought of his meeting tonight, he was not on as high alert as he usually was.

He had been yanked backwards by the top of his bag, sending both him and his backpack in different directions in a dark alley, before hands with elongated nails not unsimilar to its owners fangs began to choke him and tear the skin at his throat. It unarmed him enough that by the time he was able to buck the attacker off and suck in oxygen, he was yanked into a submissive position he was not all unfamiliar with as his arms were almost painfully held behind his back, and he was forced to take punch after punch after punch all over his face and torso.

His ribs ached, his stomach hurt, his face looked like shit. But, even Aris recognized his throat looked a little... he almost winced as he scrubbed at it again with water just to rinse all the rest of the dried blood and dirt away. A thick ring of bruising was already settling around his neck.

How lovely.

Pulling his phone out again and glancing at the time, he hissed under his breath and startled a young demon standing outside the bathroom door as he barged out. He barely glanced at her as he ran for his bike, knowing if he booked it, he'd make it just barely on time.

Which, he did. Parking on the street just outside the club, and securing his backpack into the attached saddlebags of his motorcycle, he left his helmet hanging off one of the handlebars as he made his way up the steps to the glistening, sleek building. Lights flashed red and bold, Gehenna glaring down at him. He glared right back as he tried to breathe, breathe, brea-

He glanced down at his phone again and watched it turn to the meeting time on the dot.

21:00

He had no time to truly get his baring's or calm his racing thoughts, so he slipped on his fully emotionless, calm mask, and pushed open the door. He was instantly greeted with a dance floor. A dj, pulsing lights, a thick fog, and grinding bodies that writhed together harmoniously to the beat. He barely glanced, knowing he would not find who he was meeting there. Too busy. Aris' brain immediately focused on the task at hand, his thoughts whirring like cogs in a machine as they clicked through the options. A royal, arrogant vampire who wanted to meet at a club would most definitely want some sort of higher advantage to make himself feel larger than he was.

He'd want to have the high ground.

Literally, it would seem.

Aris' chestnut eyes slid up to the second floor balconies where it would have been impossible to miss the beautiful vampire standing at the railing, who already has his amber eyes on him. Aris took a very slow breath in, and very slowly released it as he began to move with confident intention through the throng of people and towards the wooden staircase, the smoke and fog clinging to him before spiraling off like dark tendrils of darkness as he went. His eyes never left Damian's until they were forced out of view as his boots hit heavy on the sleek wood, and he followed it up, up, up.

Hitting the landing, he turned towards a set of empty couches, chairs, and tables. Where he assumed Damian had left it reserved for them to meet as privately as they possibly could, as promised. Knowing the moment he was within reasonable distance all of his fresh wounds would be on display, he didn't hesitate or falter as he neared. They would be on full display and not a single expression or acknowledgement was made towards how utterly terrible he looked right now. He simply locked his eyes on the prince, who stood beautiful and graceful at the balcony's edge, and stopping with a reasonably healthy distance between them, stuck out a hand in a casual greeting.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet. I'm Aristeo Hudson."



♡coded by uxie♡
 










The crowd parted for the Bloodletter heir as though he were Moses, splitting the Red Sea into two, and it only took Damian all of two seconds to understand why. Aristeo looked like he'd been in a fight, and judging by the looks of him alone, it would have been hard to tell who won had Damian not heard stories about the vampire-slaying prodigy himself. Damian narrowed his eyes slightly as the boy climbed the wooden steps, all composure, all confidence. He didn't see any silver-bladed knives, but he knew that they were there. His gaze fell, for just a moment, on the heir's hands, where silver rings flashed against his fingers.

Damian let Aristeo come to him; he lifted his chin, only slightly, and stared down at him as his future spouse neared the top of the staircase and made his way closer. The haze from the fog machine drifted upwards with him as he walked, and clad in his black leather jacket with its silver chain, covered in red, purpling bruises with his curly halo of dark hair above his head, trailed by artificial fog, he looked almost etherial, dangerous, like some sort of angel of the damned. He was beautiful, he was terrible, he was battered and he was indestructible, and he was a walking contradiction: someone so pretty had no right to be so dangerous. Damian hated him. He'd hated him when Aristeo had shoved a silver knife into his side, had hated him when they'd had an altercation in one of the werewolf-owned clubs in the city that had ended with Aristeo's silver-ringed fist to his nose.

When Aristeo finally approached him and extended his hand, Damian dropped his eyes to the other's open palm for just a moment before he cocked his head to the side, blinked at him slowly, and tucked his own hands in the side pockets of his dress slacks instead. He'd taken great care in his fashion this evening; the slacks were slightly higher on his waist, with a slim, simplistic black belt that had cost him about half a grand. The black turtleneck was overkill, perhaps, for a club like this, but Damian wasn't about to show Aristeo his throat-- both figuratively, and from a general sense. He didn't want to remind the heir to the Bloodletter clan that there were parts of him that were vulnerable.

"You're late," he told him, simply, by way of greeting instead, as he quirked a brow at the other's outstretched hand. He was more interested in making him sweat; there was no point in formalities... or basic decency, for that matter. One corner of his mouth curved upwards in a small, smug smile as he studied the other's face. Scratches and gashes decorated his features; his eyes were drawn to the particularly deep one on the bridge of the other's nose where it slashed across the smattering of freckles on his face. Damian's breath hitched in his chest as he inhaled sharply, softly. Perhaps the blood had been washed away, for the most part, but the smell was unmistakable. Oh, there was the smell of vampire's blood, yes, but the human blood, on the other hand... it didn't matter that he'd already fed.

Blood was still blood.

Damian composed himself for a mere millisecond. "I know who you are. You know who I am. I find this formality to be dull and unnecessary. Boring, even. Wouldn't you agree?" He took one step forward, and then another. Aristeo was somewhat shorter than him, which he'd expected. Damian stared down at the other slightly as he inclined his head forward. "Ouch," he noted, but mirth filled him rather than sympathy. If Aristeo had fought a vampire, it was likely that the poor creature was dead or left to die in an alleyway somewhere. "It looks like you've had an eventful night already. In poor taste, isn't it, killing one of my kind so soon after our engagement was announced? Mm. Might make the reception awkward." He narrowed his eyes, and his gaze searched the other's face before it fell to his throat, to the silvered necklace that hung down over the front of his shirt collar.

In spite of himself, he laughed, softly, when he saw the cross charm that dangled at the end. It was silver - there was so much silver on the heir's person. Damian knew because being too close to it made his nose run. Vampires, as it turned out, did not cry tears: instead, blood ran from their eyes. He knew that if he stayed too close to all of that silver for too long, there'd be a thin trail of blood dribbling from his nostrils, but he hooked a finger through the cross chain all the same and gave the necklace a soft tug in a barely-there touch. Aristeo would barely feel the way that the chain tightened ever-so-slightly at the back of his neck. For all his recklessness, Damian wasn't stupid; he liked this club too much to pick a fight here that would get him thrown out.

"Hm." He hummed, tone bored even as his skin burned instantly when he touched the silver. He let the necklace fall back over the other's front. "Funny. You know, some vampires might balk at--" Damian pointed a finger skywards and moved his wrist in a circle, an indication to the heavens above, or the implication of something like it. "-- you know." He laughed softly. "Personally, I think it's all bullshit. Crosses. Bibles. All that higher power stuff."

Damian sighed as he sunk to a seat into one of the plush leather armchairs and carefully crossed one of his ankles over his knee. His shoes-- shining black Oxfords that left the milky bones of his ankles exposed, gleamed slightly beneath the dim red lighting that had crept over towards them from the bar. Up here, there was only the illusion of quiet, but the thrum of the bass felt deeper whereas the actual music from the speakers was slightly muted. "Sort of like this meeting." He smiled despite the rudeness of his words as he stared at Aristeo's face, unblinking. Even so marred, he really was an eyesore. A waste. He was the sort that Damian would have loved to pursue had he not been forced into marrying him.

"So...?" Damian shrugged one of his shoulders as he rested an elbow on the arm of the chair, opened one of his hands with a flourish, a gesture of, What now? "What do you think tonight's 'meeting arrangement' should consist of, then? Are we to try to play nice? Talk about ourselves, about our feelings?"








horror.



damian.








  • filler tab!





♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:









scroll








Bloodletter Heir



Aristeo Hudson













mood

Tired af











outfit

Outfit











location

Bloodletter HQ











interactions

About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

#vampirehunter #fangoff















His eyes missed nothing, and quickly tracked as Damian's hands went into his pockets, rather than meeting his handshake. Aris quickly dropped his hand uncaringly.

He took in the vampire. He was breathtaking, in every sense of the word. He oozed with beauty, sex, with enough of a sharp edge it was almost as if his amber eyes glowed with a sense of 'i-dont-bite-unless-you-ask-me-to'. Quite literally, Aris knew. The man was a few inches taller than him, but he knew that already. He had a cleanly cut head of delicious brown curls, gently pulled out of his face most likely with a gel. He had an angular face, with a deep brow that framed those entrancing eyes. Aris bet a lot of people got lost in them if Damian wanted them to. Aris was trained against such allures, but he felt the beckoning tug as if it were instinctive to draw in prey the moment Damian's eyes locked onto his next meal. He was dressed to perfection, with a sense of city style that made him look polished. A black turtleneck tucked into a set of high waisted, gray slacks, with a black belt to tie it altogether. Aris' own chestnut eyes traced down his body to take in every inch of him, from the crown of brown curls, to the shining gleams of his shining shoes, and back up again.

He did it slowly, but without a hint of sexualization behind the movement. It was purely an assessment, and now it was completed, as he watched the vampire attempt to chastise and unnerve him.

"Formalities may not be the right move considering our brief history, but its my way of trying to at least be neutral with you. We will have to live with each other, after all. But we can play this however you set the tone. If you'd like to be hostile, it's going to be a one man show. So I hope you enjoy staying mad, then."
Aris huffed nonchalantly, one of his brows quirking incredulously at Damian.

"As for killing your kind so soon..."
He dared to step closer, showing he wasn't afraid to get close either.
"Think what you will. I had places to be."


Aris watched and putting his own hands in his jacket pockets at some point, a wholly indifferent expression on his face, and controlled his body from not moving a muscle as he allowed Damian to pull him in just a little closer by his silver cross, making remarks about all the religious horseshit of their life predicament and juxtaposition, before retreating to one of the couches and lounging a little too casually.

"It is bullshit,"
He agreed.
"But its sentiment seems to piss a lot of blood sucking leeches off. Seems to be doing its job."


They had met probably a few times over the years, but the most memorable was about a year ago. Somehow, some way, his patrol group convinced him that the only way to really rally them as a team was to watch their leader and heir prove himself by getting into one of the fighting pits to prove he'd stoop low like they would. That he was one of them. Lo and behold, he had gotten matched with Damian fucking Lechkov of all people. They had had little time to assess each other, and littler time to rethink what it might mean that the two rival heirs were in the ring. The moment the fighters were announced, and the bell rang out in the arena, the crowd went wild. Aris only remembered being as vicious as he possibly could, with the pits rules being you could have and use weapons without intention to harm, but not kill. Of course, accidents happened. But of course, Aris stayed strapped. And the very first thing he did was stab a silver dagger directly into Damian's side.

Damian had fought exactly how he looked. Like a work of art, artistically and without restraint. He painted color like a master artist all over Aris, making his dark skin bloom with rich hues of reds, blues, and purples. Emphasis on the red, as Damian's nails and punches drew just as much blood and pain as Aris tried to gift back, including a few well aimed punches with fists strapped with silver rings to that devastatingly beautiful face.

Eventually, a draw was made. They were both heirs, and true death or maiming could ensue a full out war amongst the Underground, the clans, and everything as they knew it. The fighting pits just used them as the greatest source of entertainment they'd had in decades for the night. People still whispered about it on the occasion, much to Lord Hudson's chagrin.

Taking calculated steps, Aris joined Damian at the seating arrangement. Sitting across from his armchair, Aris slid into a pristine couch and sat back rather comfortably with his hands still in his pockets. Too casual. Too nonchalant. Calculated cold and indifference, much like his expressionless face. With it being the first time he'd relaxed his muscles since his altercation, he felt all the aches and pains beginning to settle. And damn did they hurt.

Ignoring Damian's snide marks aside, Aris got to business on his end.
"I thought it would be a good idea to meet, and while we'll have plenty of time to find a neutral relationship to at least tolerate each other for public viewing before we get officially married, I wanted to be up front on what your expectations are for this arrangement. Its clear neither of us wanted this, but it was a decision made for us. Such is the way of our life. I'd rather not waste extra time I do not have being extremely hostile towards someone I will have to live with. So first and foremost of my expectations, is get over yourself, leech."
He said with an emphasis on the insult, driving his point he was completely unbothered and unafraid to push the prince.
"So do us both a favor and figure out a way to try and make it that we aren't a problem for each other, as we need to be cordial and do lovey dovey bullshit for our clans. I don't care how that comes to be. If that means in our own home we don't even speak a single word to each other? Fine by me. But I refuse to be given a migraine and bothered by your every waking existence. Do you understand me?"



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If this arrangement was fire and burning brimstone for Damian, it was all business for the clan's heir, who leaned back against the couch with such a cool degree of indifference that he might as well have been establishing a contract. Sign here, initial here, was there anything else he could help him with this fine evening?

Damian slowly drummed his fingertips against his kneecap as he tilted his head at the boy. He wondered if Aristeo had merely rolled over and yielded to Lord Hudson's demands, or if he'd retaliated in any way. Surely he was capable of holding his own in a fight and holding himself upright despite taking a pummeling. But there was something poised about the other's aloof behavior, something that felt familiar. It was a mask, most likely, just as Damian had crafted one for himself. Aristeo had to be livid at being forced into an eternal arrangement like this one, but he didn't show it. Even in the ring, when the young lord had been swinging with fist and glimmering blade, he'd been calculated, expressionless. He'd slowly lowered himself to a seat like his wounds pained him, and there were clearly other ouches beneath those clothes of his, but his expression was neutral. Composed. Damian had never been careful with his toys. He wondered how much button-pushing it would take to get the other to snap.

He listened as Aristeo spoke. Business, business, 'this is how it's going to be so, used to it,' blah, blah, blah, business. Damian rolled his head back to rest on the back of the couch as he let out a soft, breathless laugh, gaze fixated on the ceiling, but he slowly moved back to how he'd been prior, his gaze trained unwaveringly on the other's bruise-covered face. Damian was suddenly, inexplicably, reminded of sunlight, filtering through a canopy of leaves, dappling the forest floor below. It was all so boring. It did, however, get interesting when the young lord fixed him in a slightly exasperated expression.

'Get over yourself, leech.'

The corner of Damian's mouth twisted upwards in a savage sort of smile. Maybe there was more to that backbone than chilly composure. Maybe the boy heir was interesting after all. He met the other's eyes as his own amber gaze seemed to lighten, ever so slightly-- bourbon to honey. A quiet chuckle, barely more than a soft puff of air, escaped his lips as he absently flexed the ankle he'd crossed over one of his knees.

"Oh, but we've always been a problem for each other, haven't we?" He asked, bemusedly. "It's in our nature to loathe one another. Don't pretend that you're okay with this, giving up your life, the pathetic semblance of freedom you have while the clan still has a leash around your throat." Damian's eyes fell to the other's neck, where a highway of life deluged just below the skin, where his pulse flickered faintly through his jugular. The bruises on the other's face, where blood ran just too close to the surface of his skin, was a reminder of his humanity. He took a soft breath in, uncrossed his leg, and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, as though ready to share some terrible secret. Damian clasped his hands together and smirked. Maybe Aristeo was just as brainwashed as Lucius wanted him to be. Maybe, he thought, with some degree of disgust, the boy across from him was alright with being ordered around, was alright with being owned.

"We'll never be able to get out of this arrangement, but I'll as sure as hell try. This marriage is a circus performance. It's a song and dance. The coven, your clan, all they want is a good show. That’s all it will ever be. An act. And the curtain has to fall someday. They think that this union will cease the fighting but it can't. The cobra and the mongoose will never make amends, the vampire and the vampire hunter will always be at each other's throats. You're just as foolish as the rest of them if you think that we'll ever manage a truce." Damian narrowed his eyes, just slightly, at the faint glimmer of silver that was barely visible on the interior lining of the other's leather jacket. It was far more likely that this arrangement would end with one of those blades buried in his unseating heart. "You might be your clan's pet, but I belong to no one."

It was a blatant lie; it was one that Damian had gotten awfully adept at telling himself. He stared at the gash at the bridge of the other's nose. It looked like it would scar. He leaned back carefully against the chair, posture informal, sprawling, rested his elbows against the chair's arms as he let his eyes bore into the other's. Damian's eyes had been brown too, once, before he'd been given the Gift. "But, fine. Since we are here, young Lord Aristeo, humor me. How, exactly, do you propose that the two of us attempt to get along? How will we go about pretending that our kinds haven't been enemies for all time? We are immortal, more or less. If you expect us to make this— this condemnation— last for an eternity, then you are a fool.”








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Aris' eyes flashed with danger at the insinuation that he has rolled over like an obedient guard dog. It wasn't as simple as that. His face was still impassive without a twitch of change, but his eyes. His eyes already a rich, dark brown, with hints of orange that swirled in certain lighting. When light hit its depths, it almost looked like a sun shining through dark whiskey. Rich, warm hues of orange would appear. In this dark club lighting, with a increasingly foul mood? His eyes shifted to something dark, and velvety. Like chocolate melting.

"If you think I'm okay with this,"
He borderline hissed,
"then you are sorely mistaken. We are being put in a impossible situation, and I simply do not wish to spend my life miserable and wasting my time and energy on useless things and emotions like hatred my every waking moment in one of the few places I'd like to actually try to relax. Like my own fucking home. So if we are to live together, I am asking you to figure it out to at least be neutral, or stay out of my way if you can't play nice, leech."


Drawing in a sharp breath, trying to damned breathe in this place and this situation that is making him feel claustrophobic, he tried to slowly let it out to calm his heart he felt had begun beating hard with heightened emotion. It came out a bit shaky, especially as his aching ribs had a sharp twinge with the movement. The corners of his eyes crinkled just slightly. The only indicator about it, albeit reluctantly.

"We may never truly find a truce. But we will be altering history for your coven, and my clan. We are nothing but test subjects put on display for them to be mocked and prodded as an experiment. But we are the focal fronts to be followed. We set the example-"
He started, and then paused as Damian's stupidly perfect, fanged mouth kept blabbing.

"You might be your clan's pet, but I belong to no one."


Aris felt his shoulders tighten, and his eyes dripped completely into dark, molten chocolate. His jaw feathered just slightly as his face went wholly unfeeling, if that were even possible.

"I propose you start with growing up. But maybe you still have a few centuries to do that, as your leash is looking a little tight yourself, and are surely being mocked over this arrangement."


Standing up suddenly, he withdrew a simple black, velvet box, and basically slammed it on the table between them. Right before Damian's perfectly polished shoe.

"We're done here. I have nothing more to say to you, as its falling on deaf ears, and you've received my expectations. That's all I can do. Later."
He clipped out, before turning on his heel without giving the vampire a chance to reply, and hearing his boots heavy on the wooden stairs going down, down, down.

He had considered what to get his betrothed, knowing nothing about his personality or likes. He had still worked with a craftsman, commissioning him for a few new jewelry pieces he had yet to expect with priority to one, that Aris wanted a hand in picking and designing. A ring. A wedding ring, made of onyx so black it seemed to suck the light out of its surroundings, with a intricate swirling pattern of silver. Not real silver, being mindful of Damian being a vampire and all, but iron that was polished so perfectly it glistened like it was real silver. Set in the middle was a small blood ruby, its color so rich and clear, it looked almost as if Aris' own blood could have been pooled and formed into a stone. It was the perfect blend of motifs for a vampire prince, and his soon to be Hunter husband.

Hitting the ground floor, Aris turned towards the back wall, the fog clinging to him once more like a shroud. Swirling off of him like tendrils, with willowy hands almost seeming to grasp out at the people he passed. He glided through the crowd again, blending in with them seamlessly, before popping out the other side. He sidled up to the bar and motioned to the bartender, asking for their strongest drink. He didn't look back once while he waited, needing something to kickstart his pain relief. Because fuck was he starting to hurt, and his head buzzing once more with swirling thoughts almost as thick and choking like the fog that filled the club that clung to him.


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'Your own leash is looking a little tight yourself.'

A mostly true statement, however, there was one little caveat: it wasn't so much a leash or a chain that wound itself around Damian's throat, but a noose.

The coven was full of laws to make one feel tied up. If you reveal to a mortal your true vampiric nature, the mortal will die and you will be severely punished, unless you are the coven leader, and you can do whatever the hell it is you want. If you kill, or attempt to kill, another member of the coven, you will be killed yourself, unless, of course, you are the coven leader, and can, again, do whatever the hell it is you want. The actual laws were much more gaudy, much more in detail, and were much more of a bore than that. Damian was quite certain that they'd been written in the 1700s.

There were other minor rules outside of the coven's five commandments, of course, and there were other ways to get punished. Damian knew this because once he'd insisted upon mouthing off to his Maker in an eventual evening that had ended with a hole blown through the wall. It was Damian's back that had put that gaping wound there. He'd been thrown through the wall by Lucius for his repugnance, had torn through the wallpaper and wooden bones of the wall like it was nothing. Damian had lain on the floor of the room where he'd landed surrounded by a delicate snowfall of drywall, insulation, dust and debris, limbs bent like a crumpled, squashed spider as Lucius loomed over him, dark pupils rapidly vibrating in the bright, eerie green of his cat's eyes as his voice boomed in Damian's skull.

'Remember your tongue, Fledgling. You were nothing when I found you - nothing but a pathetic little packet of blood and bones. Now, I have created you in my image, have made you greater than anything you have ever been, ever had the potential to be. I should rip out your tongue and bleed you dry for such insolence, but your power is far greater than any member of my flock and I am a sentimental being.' Damian remembered how he'd risen to his own feet, to his own broken legs against his own free will like a broken puppet. He remembered how Lucius had held him aloft, stock-still on his feet despite his shattered bones, his dislocated legs, despite the fact that he'd begun to shake, that his body screamed in agony, that he wanted to scream too, but his jaw was clamped shut by a horrible outside force. He'd stared into those luminous predatory eyes, had felt Lucius' hand enclose around his nape as a singular bloody tear trickled from the corner of his own eye. 'You owe your life to this coven. You owe your very existence to me. I expect you to remember that the next time that you decide to step out of line.'

Damian blinked-- once, again, and again-- in an effort to clear his memories from his mind. They had no place here. To the outside eye, it merely looked like he was bored, but his smirk had slid off of his face at Aristeo's comment all the same. How dare this boy - this young heir masquerading as a lord - remind him of the anvil that hung over his head? Damian slowly allowed his smirk to pull itself back over his lips as he inclined his head to the side. Instead, he focused on the obvious, steady climb of the other's pulse. He watched it in Aristeo's throat as it began to race, heard it with his own two ears as the other slammed a delicate little box on the table in front of him. So, the prodigal son was not so emotionless after all. There was a spark behind those redwood eyes, a fire in his heart. Damian watched as Aristeo turned and stormed down the wooden stairs, his footfalls impossibly loud over the steady thrum of the bass.

Now things were interesting. Damian found that he respected the Bloodletter heir a hell of a lot more when he put that spine to good use. There was a great deal of satisfaction to be had in making Aristeo as furious as he had, but it still did nothing to fill the hole in Damian's chest that he'd had for quite some time. His smirk slid from his face; he was disappointed that antagonizing the boy hadn't done a thing to help his plight, to help him forget. This nightmare was still omnipresent. The noose was still there.

Damian leaned forward and grabbed the box from the table. It was surprisingly heavy, given its small size. Damian traced a finger over the soft velvet before he opened the box up and peered down at the ring inside. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship - black as obsidian, with a single blood-red ruby amongst its intricate carvings. It was certainly a precious, unique thing, likely custom-made, sure to have cost a fortune. It was perfect. It was exactly the sort of thing he would pick out for himself, that he would have been happy to receive in any other circumstance. He scoffed bitterly and snapped the box shut. He hated it. Very much.

Slowly, without any hurry, he pulled himself to his feet, stuffed the box in the side pocket of his pants, and strode down the stairs on quiet feet, a bounce in his footsteps as he trailed a hand down the banister. He paused, for but a moment at the foot of the stairs, and attempted to pick through the human thoughts that flooded the atmosphere of the club if he let himself tune into them. It was no use; a more ancient vampire, like Lucius, would have been able to fine-tune himself to an individual's thoughts and track them that way, but Damian was still far too new. The overall effect was overwhelming. He mentally shook the chatter away before he decided to veer off to the right, first, and walked a near entire lap around the first floor before he found Aristeo bellied up to the bar, drowning out his misery in a way that made Damian incredibly jealous. He yearned, for a selfish moment, for the burn of alcohol in his throat.

He said nothing as he approached, but rather, materialized silently beside the other and spoke to him through his thoughts with every intent set upon making the other jump.

'Trouble in paradise, dearest?' He asked, sourly. Bitterness and sarcasm oozed from his tone even through his telepathy as he leaned his forearms on the bar beside him. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he stared at the litany of bottles on the back wall. 'It's a shame you left so soon. You showed me yours and were gone before I even had the chance to show you mine.'

Damian inclined his head to the side as he reached into his pocket and slid a small navy box across the bar towards the other without a glance in his direction. It was a simple band - pure silver, unobtrusive due to the heir's line of work, but delicate, elaborate, decorative carvings curled across the band's exterior. It was simple, hardly as intricate as the ring that the other had given him, but Aristeo would need something that didn't get in the way. And, alongside that band, there was a simple black one that was made of silicone - a band for the individuals who needed full mobility in their hands. Contractors, painters, knife-throwing vampire-slaying clan members-- it was, as it turned out, a niche but necessary market. "Do with it what you will. It is of no concern to me."

The silver had been a pointed choice. Yes, he'd give the Bloodletter heir his hand in marriage, but if he were to touch that silver, he'd be burned. Damian studied the now-healed burn he'd gotten on his fingertip when he'd given the other's necklace a slight, callous tug. It had been a raised blister mere minutes before, but now, it was a soft almost-pink, and even that was fading fast. It was a blatant statement: they would do this because they had to, but it would never truly bind them, the vampires and vampire hunters would never truly be united.








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Bloodletter Heir



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He took a shot. Or two. It was already warming up his blood, quelling his mind, and soothing the aches that could be physically felt. As well as those that weren't. The bartender had just handed him a short glass of brandy, and was swirling it around to let it breathe for a moment. Unlike his own self. He felt like he couldn't breathe. But he needed something first before he went off grid from HQ for a bit.

He felt, rather than saw, the prince slither up to his side. He had slinked through the crowd, the air shifting with his otherworldly presence. Where Damian was a prince of darkness, he still managed to hold a presence that demanded attention. Demanded respect. Authoritative, and sure. He was almost like a bright star in the middle of the darkest night. Aris felt more like a creature of the night then the vampire beside him, however ironic that was. He felt like a wraith.

A phantom, walking amongst the living and the dead, without truly being a tangible thing. His fingers tightened on the glass as Damian spoke into his mind, a velvety, smooth intonation. He took a deep gulp of his drink, thinking how the prince's voice tasted exactly the same as his brandy. But he listened, and processed as the prince slid a small navy box across the bar.

He snatched it before it could fall off the wooden counter, and tentatively opened it.

"I'll be honest, I didn't expect anything from you."
He stated simply as he delicately plucked the silver ring out of the box.

And it was silver, true silver. A very intentional choice by Damian, no doubt. Simple, yet elegant. With elaborate carvings made with incredible precision. In the ring box was also a simple, black, silicone one as well. As if Damian had considered his profession while choosing, like any other couple. That was interesting.

"Careful, prince. Or I might start to think that you do care about your image for this marriage more than your words are trying to bite."


Downing the last of his drink, he gently set the glass down within easy reach of the bartender as he turned towards Damian, his head tilting up to gaze into those luminously amber eyes. They held a sense of danger, of darkness, in this club. It set Aris with a thrill, shivering through him as he maintained eye contact. The alcohol was starting to warm him up enough he felt less on edge. Less wary. And bolder. Stupidly bold. His head gently tilted towards the dance floor, his head of thick but cleanly cut curls signaling his intention.

"First thing you could learn about me, Aristeo, not the heir apparent, is I like to dance. I like music. I like to get lost in the beat. I frequent clubs around the city almost every weekend. With that being said..."
He stumbled a bit over the forwardness of it, but pushed through it anyway. Not really caring. Not even caring he was asking Damian.

He was going to go out there anyway, and decided if he was going to find a body to dance with, it might as well be his betrothed. They didn't have to like each other to simply hold each other company, just like they would for the rest of their miserable lives from here on out. He still held that unwavering eye contact of melted chocolate, with swirls of orange, as he took off his silver rings one by one. Slowly, meticulously. And slid them into his pocket. He did the same with the navy ring box, latching it closed so the silicone ring wouldn't go far, even as he kept his own wedding band out.

He still held that unwavering eye contact as he unclasped the chain of his necklace just enough to slip the ring on it, and resecuring it, even as the swirling silver band slid until it went tink against his cross pendant.

And then he held out his calloused hand, palm up, towards Damian. A flash of challenge swirling in his eyes as one of his eyebrows quirked up. His signature expression.

"I could probably use some more alcohol tonight, but I want to dance first. Care to join me?"



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Damian awaited, boredly, as Aristeo tugged the little navy box closer to himself from across the countertop's oaken surface. The countertop was old, worn, stain faded from so many elbows of so many souls who had come to drown out their sorrows in all the years past and sticky with their liquor. He'd be more disgusted by drumming his fingertips absently against its surface, but there was no grime or germ on this battered piece of furniture that could sicken a vampire. Rather than watch the heir's expression - Damian knew he'd find nothing there - he watched his hands as he tugged the box open. Silver gleamed on his fingers in the aggressive flashing lights of the dance floor: white, crimson, violet, green, and the ring within the container flickered too, but with slightly more radiance, slightly more shine. It was a newer piece, virgin to the wear and tear that violence, that blood (both human and vampire) wreaked on such a fine, rare metal.

There was real estate on the heir's left ring finger; no gleaming ring adorned that particular spot. Damian watched as Aristeo studied the piece. It was all useless, sentimental human nonsense, that the leftmost ring finger bore the wedding ring because it led to the heart. No vein ran from hand to heart - it was just another pathetic cry for humanity to pretend that love was anything more than self-serving and superficial. Damian let his eyes fall to the other's face as he turned the ring this way and that in those calloused, blade-worn hands. It was impossible to imagine that they would be capable of any tenderness at all.

He watched, for but a heartbeat, the young heir's expression as he scrutinized the ring. Out of shock that Damian had purchased one, perhaps, or maybe he was checking the metal to make sure it was real. Damian watched the purse of his mouth, the frown that laid a furrow between his brows, the hundreds of freckles on his face - tiny stars.

"Mm," he mused, vaguely, with a dismissive wave of his hand as he turned his gaze away and instead stared at the bottles behind the bartender. To him, they were far more desirable than any rare earth metal. It had been a long time since he had tasted liquor on his tongue. It was different, the flavor and effect of alcohol when it was consumed through human blood. Most people drank to forget their woes and sorrows, after all, and the blood of the miserable was far less delicious than the blood of the euphoric. Not that Damian would know this from anywhere but the coven's conversations in passing; the only blood he fed himself with was the blood of those too far lost, or those who were too far past salvation. "I can't say that I expected anything from myself, either. I care nothing for this arrangement. It is a business transaction: that ring is simply my tangible end of the bargain."

Damian scraped a slightly pointed nail against the countertop absently, scratched aimlessly at the dark stained oak. Whatever fire that had been alight in the vampire slayer's eyes earlier had abated with the help of the drink. He was not drunk, didn't smell drunk, but there was a lightness to him now that the alcohol had given him. The back of his skull prickled slightly. Once upon a time, perhaps in a darker time, one of his habits had ended in hangovers. He smelled the alcohol on the other's breath, in his blood. The urge to bury his fangs into the other's neck wasn't so much due to hunger as it was due to the urge to remedy the sudden onset claustrophobia that pressed down upon him. Damian shifted slightly where he stood. Trapped. That was all that he was. This nightmare was really happening.

Aristeo's movement turned his attention back to him, away from the retreat he had been making into his own mind. Damian stared at him with slightly lidded eyes. He was sure that the other was about to careen from his stool - was almost hopeful he would - but instead, the other merely pointed that head of curly hair towards the dance floor, and the piercings on his face flickered in time to the flash of the lights.

"You unnecessarily compartmentalize," he drawled in an answer that was hardly an answer at all. "You. Aristeo. Not the proverbial boy heir when you are one and the same." Damian blinked at the other slowly. "As though they can be broken apart. The young man who would love nothing more than to bury one of these--" He reached out to pinch the fabric of the other's leather jacket between his fingers, where the outline of a blade lay beneath "-- into my throat loves to dance. Duly noted." He cocked his head to the side and released the other's jacket. "Not only is he the clan's pet, but he is also their beloved dancing circus bear."

His eyes met the other's, vibrant, amber, blazing despite the bored drone of his voice. Aristeo removed each of those silver rings, slowly, carefully, one by one. It was hardly an undressing, but there was an intimacy about shedding that burning metal all the same. Damian's lips parted slightly, but even he was at a loss of words for a moment as he realized what the other was implying. A breathless laugh-- nothing more than a mere quiet sigh, really, left his lips as he looked down at the heir's silver chain. A silver cross. A silver wedding band for a shoddy arranged marriage. Human faith in God and religion and human faith in love. Both foolish concepts, both entirely false. He stared at the purpling that painted the other's throat as he attempted to ignore the lump in his own. Humans' bodies mottled themselves with bruises and bled just to prove that they were alive.

Aristeo's open palm was an invitation and a challenge. Damian looked down not at his palm, but at the raised veins of the other's wrist. His jaw twitched, just for a moment, before he raised one of his brows, sneered, and reached out. He took his cold, unliving hand, its cadaver's touch, and laid it over top of the other's palm. It amazed him, to no end, how warm that humans truly were. The other's breath was warm, too, as he spoke. There was something ridiculous in the Bible - something about breath being the soul. If that was the case, then Damian himself was soulless too. No pulse, no heartbeat, no breath; no heart, no place for love, no soul.

He curled his fingers through the other's, in a motion that was slightly too tight to be cordial, too tense to be loving. This was ridiculous. But a show was a show was a show, and Damian had known that there were members of the coven watching them from the railings above for some time now. He followed Aristeo to the dance floor and cocked his head, lifted his gaze upwards, at Vera and Estelle, who tittered amongst themselves as they leaned over the banisters above.

'Go fuck yourselves, ladies,' he droned at them in his mind. His expression was a lazy cat's smile, lidded eyes, arrogant curve of the lips as the girls stopped their gossiping, luminous eyes widened as they peered down at him like surprised, mascara-laden owls. 'You can leave now. Go on, report back to Lucius that I'm here doing exactly what was asked of me. I knew that you were here all the while. Your voices are like shrill-- like seagulls-- even when you aren't speaking out loud.' Damian smirked to himself as they joined the writhing throng of bodies on the dance floor. One small victory, putting those two in their place to momentarily forget the unbearable weight of the chain around his throat.








horror.



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Bloodletter Heir



Aristeo Hudson













mood

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outfit

Outfit











location

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interactions

About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

#vampirehunter #fangoff















Not that he would explicitly show it, but Aris was pleasantly surprised when Damian took the initiative on contact first. Tracing the outline of a blade underneath his jackets folds.

"I do compartmentalize. Aristeo the Bloodletter heir, vampire killer by night is not the same Aristeo that likes music or likes to dance. We are similar, but its duty versus heart. They can be conjoined. But motives are separate. Thoughts are different. Its who I have to be versus who I want to be, and try to be outside of all..."
He waved a hand towards the club, where they both knew other vampires lingered by, and motioned between them, signaling their forced agreement.

"I like to fight, and then I like to drink to help with pain management. I love music and everything with it, and then I like to dance. None of that has to do with anything about being a hunter or the Bloodletters. Absolutely nothing. That's just me, Aristeo."
He said, as if it were simple. Matter of fact. Because to him, it was. If he didn't separate work with his own person, he would truly be lost. He hoped that day never came. The moment he couldn't pull back from falling into the pit of his mind was the moment he lost his sense of self, and he didn't know if he could handle that.

His head was buzzing. Heightened with the alcohol, even as his muscles relaxed, and pains subdued, his mind was alight. It was loud. It was suffocating. The moment Damian's cold, smooth palm slid against his and tightened, it was like he was a cold rain. Dousing the fire that raged inside him and fueled his incessant thoughts. Everything went quiet, and Aris' focus honed in solely on Damian. He blinked, trying to hide any surprise that might flicker in his gaze. He smothered it as quickly as he felt it and instead gripped Damian's hand just as tight as he pulled them towards the dance floor.

He didn't look back as he wound them through the crowd into the direct center, where it would be loudest, hottest, and in the middle of everything. Only then did he turn, and gently released Damian's hand. Although, he didn't go far. Rather, he sidled up to the prince and held no hesitation as he stood with barely an inch or two between them, and tilted his head up just to meet those delicious eyes the color of honey. Their breaths mingled. Then he reached, aiming to wind his forearms around Damian's neck so that they touched a little, and run his fingers through the bottom of that luscious hair.

He also gave Damian a moment, seeing his eyes almost glassy as he seemed to be quietly communicating with someone nearby. Most likely the vampires clearly cackling from the balcony they too stood at not that long ago. But only a moment. Damian's eyes only had one place to be right now. Tugging slightly, Aris stepped so that Damian's back would be to them, and out of eyesight. Forgotten, for now. And leaned in close, going up on his tip toes to reach but still managing to keep space between their actual bodies, his lips just barely averted Damian's teasingly before resting at the shell of the vampires ear. Aris had never been with someone before, but he knew vampires were flirty. And he was maybe a little buzzed now. Not drunk, but buzzed. And his head was quiet for the first time in a long time. Clear. He wanted to play his little prince's game, or at least show he had no problem going toe to toe.

"This is what I mean,"
He whispered.
"I'm just Aristeo right now. I'm right here with you in this moment, with nowhere else to be. So dance with me."


And then he moved. The beat, the tempo, consuming his body as he remained always touching Damian at least a little bit. Wanting to just feel the presence of someone with him. A reminder he wasn't truly lost. Not yet, at least. He was just Aristeo tonight, and he definitely wanted more alcohol.


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It was one thing watching the mass of dancing beings from above; being a part of such a swarm was different entirely. It was a hive mind mentality, the way that these creatures around him moved their bodies to the rhythm. On the dance floor, the bass was organ-meltingly heavy, and the smell of sweat, blood, alcohol, and perfumes was almost overwhelming. Damian the human had never danced. Damian the vampire didn't dance, either. It wasn't that he couldn't; the Dark Gift brought all sorts of side effects, and one of which was far-improved hand-eye coordination. All of the vampires in the inner circle were incredibly athletic beings; being a vampire naturally pre-dispositioned each individual to their most beautiful, most "perfect" form. The clumsy were made assure on their feet, those who lacked musicality could now sing like angels. Damian knew he was perfectly capable, but he always felt far too removed from the crowd to do anything more than observe.

A man in a sleeveless biker's jacket bumped into his back as the two of them walked, bound not only by their hands, or the rings that promised them, but by a strange terrible fate itself, but Damian barely felt it. It took enough effort as it was not to focus too hard on the steady beat of Aristeo's heart, the baby-bird-fluttering of the pulse at his wrist. What he wanted was to get good and drunk, to fall asleep with a stranger whom he could leave before sunrise at his side. They threaded their way through the mass of rhythm-made zombies, and stopped at the dead center of the floor. When the young heir dropped his hand, Damian merely cocked his head to the side.

'A murder with an audience?' He asked the other, words silken inside his skull as he gave the barest flick of his chin towards the vampires and mortals who watched from above. 'Gauche. The alleyway would be a far more becoming place to kill me.' The boy hadn't been lying when he had mentioned that this, the music, was his element. He seemed to glow beneath the array of multicolored lights, but Damian didn't allow himself the millisecond of believing the other was vulnerable: he'd seemed to glow in the Underground Ring when he'd slotted one of those blades into Damian's ribcage, too.

This time, however, there was no knife. Aristeo stepped close to him, closer, until his alcohol-laden breath and Damian's lack thereof intertwined into one. Damian peered down his nose at the other's redwood eyes-- mahogany, melted chocolate, iron-rich earth, the darkest ale, and stood, silently, arms at his sides as the other wound his arms around his neck. Faux-intimacy, the bliss of distraction, a boa constrictor's gentle embrace before suffocation. The young heir's murderous fingers, their touch impossibly light, carded absently through the chestnut hair at Damian's nape. In spite of himself, Damian felt his lips part as something hitched inside his chest. He shut his eyes, a soft, avian flutter of lashes as he sucked in a soft breath that he did not need. It had been not so long ago that he had allowed another the gentleness of a casual touch, but he did not want the reminder that that time was doomed to be his last.

A millisecond. That was all he needed for his self-composure as the music drowned out Vera and Estelle's antagonizing entirely. Damian opened his eyes and met the other's gaze. His wrists against the bare skin of his neck practically burned, they were so warm. Damian lifted his hands and rested them, lightly, on the elbows of Aristeo's arms, over the leather of his jacket. His breath against the shell of his ear, too, was so warm.

What did it mean, to be able to split oneself apart in such a way - duty versus heart? There was no way for a monster to cease being a monster; it followed Damian like the shadow at his heels. He rested his hands lightly against the ebony leather of the other's jacket, fingers curled ever-so-slightly against his elbows in a feather-light touch. Damian knew if he were to separate himself in such a manner, the pieces would not be so even; they would be jagged and broken because he was jagged and broken, had been in both his former life and was in this afterlife. He watched as Aristeo moved his body - his mortal body - soft and warm and bruised and battered and pliable and so vulnerable, so easily breakable - to the music, as though the bass and himself were one.

'You're just drunk.' He projected into the other's head as he began to dance himself. He didn't trust himself not to bite if he stuck his head so close to the other's neck - wanted to bite - and yet, more than anything, wanted to turn tail and flee. 'Drunk, and brainwashed, and the illusion of freedom is stuck in your head because they've loosened your collar for the evening.'

'Trouble in paradise, little princeling?' Vera, incessant, her laughter audible in his thoughts even though he was not looking at her.

'You look so tense.' Estelle's shrill voice, high-pitched in his skull. 'You're going to have to do better if you're to convince us that this little ruse is going to fix all that's broken.'

Damian's hand brushed over the small of Aristeo's back as he twisted, turning them, just slightly, in an attempt to shoot the two coven members a dismissive glance over his shoulder. As terrible as the pair was, they did have a good point: this was never going to work.








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He danced and grabbed another shot or two from waitresses who squirmed by with trays filled with varying liquors, expertly keeping their trays above their head as they moved to the music too so as not to spill. They were performers too. Aris danced freely, without restraint. He didn't give a damn who saw, or what they thought. His shackles were loosened enough he could grind and sway and touch a beautiful vampire if he wanted to. He may drink, and let himself get buzzed, but he never let himself get drunk. Or get to the point he couldn't react, if necessary. He never let his mind wander that freely, weighed down by his responsibilities.

At some point, as tentative hands grasped onto his elbows lightly, and unsure, and they moved together, Aris took in Damian's incredulous face. Almost stiff movements. He tipped his head back, the pulsing colors washing over his face, and laughed.
"You're a terrible dancer. Stop being so stiff, you're as stiff as a vampire who's been in their coffin for too long and have a crick in their neck."


The laugh was short and quick, but it held nothing less than complete mirth as the lights strobed for a moment and the flashing set his figure into snippets of a broad, white grin, the bruising on his neck on plain view. It was over as soon as it started, but his eyes remained wholly focused on the prince as he tilted his head back down to normal eyesight and the rainbow of colors began flashing to the beat once more.

Which is why when Damian started chiding in his head, it set him on edge just a little, even as he downed another shot.

'You're just drunk - drunk, and brainwashed, and the illusion of freedom is stuck in your head because they've loosened your collar for the evening.'


Aris scoffed at this, all of it untrue. He threw one arm up, his body naturally rolling along to the sensual and dangerous beat, while the other still firmly stayed in contact with Damian. Sliding it from his neck, and shoulders, down to pressing firmly and secure against the middle of the vampires chest. Where it was cold, and lifeless. Maybe I am starting to get a little too buzzed so that's the last one for the night but for now...

"If you really believe that then what are you doing here dancing with me completely out of your element? And really poorly at that. Maybe you should stop focusing on a collar around your throat like a dog, and find ways, find moments, to be your own master. Living for others is not living at all. Sometimes we have to seize those moments. Nobody else can do that for you. Which means, this will never work if you don't even try."
He said, as if he had indeed read Damian's mind.

Simply put, he had. A small pinch in his brow and the slight downturn of the corner of his lips into a sharp frown. As if whoever he was talking to was ogling them, and clearly yapping in Damian's early. With another shift in the beat, Aris spun away from Damian, only for a moment, before snapping back with his arms around the princes neck once more. Completely secure in his position. Perspiration was beginning to form on his forehead, and neck. His skin felt like it was on fire, and he almost couldn't stop touching Damian when he was just so cold. It felt refreshing, and soothing, to his body and his mind that always blazed.

Maybe he was starting to feel a little drunk.

His phone went buzz buzz in his pocket. He ignored it, enjoying the moment while he could. Until it kept buzzing, drawing him somewhere else. He sighed sharply, and face going completely devoid of anything human once more, drew away to pull it out of his pocket. The lock screen of his mood board glaring at him as he glared back, before reading the messages flooding in. He stiffened, and inhaled a sharp breath. He quickly shoved it back into his pocket. The moment lost, and the mask of Aristeo the Bloodletter heir slipping on seamlessly once more.

"Forget it. Genuinely, thanks for at least giving me a poor attempt of dancing, it was quite the show, and for this,"
He started, jingling his necklace as if in answer,
"but I have to go. Emergency. Just text me if you decide on actually trying. Or don't. I'll see you at the wedding regardless."


With that, he didn't even turn to look at Damian again as he started pushing through the crowd. He was already digging out his rings and sliding them on like a second skin, before he flexed his hands. It took him but a moment to slap some cash on the bar counter, tabbing out, before rounding for the door. The moment he stepped out into the crisp night air, it burned. Burned his flesh that felt ablaze, and scraped against his lungs like broken glass as he tried to take gulping breaths. It took him no time at all to reach his bike, just a few car spots down against the curb of the street, and he started strapping on his helmet and his bag. Ready to take on the rest of the night.


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'Living for others is not living at all.' The boy heir said, as though it were the only answer in the world. Optimistic, alcohol-warmed words, tinder to the flame of drunken elation that tumbled from the heir's mouth, and if Damian were not careful, he'd find himself burned. He pulled his head back just slightly, and fixed the other - and that dazzling, hopeless grin - in a sour, broken smirk.

To what, then, of those who lived because of others? Because others allowed them to? Who were alive because of what they were given... and what they paid back in return. Damian had spent multiple lives in various debts. Lucius was merely one of them. And after all, was one not the culmination of their pasts? He was Damian now, the sole fledgling of Lucius the Ancient; he had the blood of the most powerful vampire in the city coursing through him, but a raptor with a clipped wing was still flightless. A songbird that could still fly would still live a fuller life than the hawk who would never touch the sky. He leaned in closer, cold lips nearly touching the other’s temple as his grip on his elbow tightened, just slightly.

With his other hand he reached up, hooked the engagement ring of his soon-to-be betrothed through one of his fingers. “This,” he began, before he gave the ring a small tug downwards, towards the floor to accentuate his point, “Is me trying.”

Immediately, the skin blistered where the silver touched, but he didn’t grimace. Instead, he spoke, breathless and cold into the other’s ear. The sounds and smells of the club began to fall away. The bass became a heartbeat, strong, steady, metronomic. His senses flooded with the smell of hard liquor on Aristeo’s breath, his blood, the sweat along his brow. “But do you feel that?” He gave the necklace another downward tug. “That’s the noose, tightening. If we don’t kill each other, one of them will. Your kind, my kind, it doesn’t matter whose. For any single vampire or vampire hunter who stands by this plan, there will be more who do not.”

Damian released the ring and pulled back once again, and the young lord’s pulse faded away, blissfully, into the chaos and ruckus that was Gehenna once more. If the other had been bothered by his words, there was no indication of it. He was lost, hidden away in that delicate Eden’s twilight of booze-filled human hope. There was what felt like but a mere breath more of dancing, but only just. The persistent humming of the other’s cell phone was too urgent to ignore. They stopped dancing, and the rift between them blew itself wide once more as Aristeo pulled his phone out of his pocket. The blue light of the screen bathed his face in a ghostly hue that only accentuated that forest-floor-dappling of bruises.

Damian smirked, the tilt of his mouth a savage line. The frown on the heir’s face was unmistakable. Those wouldn’t be the only ouches that Aristeo accumulated tonight, by the way that his expression contorted into one of dismay.

“Uh oh,” he hummed around his cat’s smile. The endless flowing tide of dancing bodies pushed them closer together still. They were close enough that Damian felt the warmth of the other’s chest against his own. He stared down at the gash on the bridge of Aristeo’s nose, which was only just beginning to scab over. “It looks like duty calls. What was that you said, hunter, about being your own master?” It was cruel to mock, insensitive to toy, but Damian hated being reminded by this vampire hunter— this mere mortal boy— of the cage that he was in. They were not so different, Aristeo and himself, in that regard. Damian cocked his head to the side. “Mm. I must have misheard you. Tick tock. Time be of the essence, and all that.”

He watched as Aristeo turned tail, and, like a phantom, he slipped through the crowd until Damian could not see him at all. Despite the hundreds of undulating, writhing souls that filled the building with life, Damian was left — alone. And that was how it always had ended.

It had never been anything different.

‘That didn’t go so well,’ Estelle squawked into his skull. ‘The poor thing couldn’t get away from you fast enough.’

'And to think,' Vera chimed in, 'It seemed like you really had him wrapped around your finger.'

'The whole "forbidden fruit" ordeal almost had him. But that's just like our little Damian to scare him away.'

Damian closed his eyes and set his jaw.

'Enough of you.' He snapped into their headspace. Damian shut them out of his mind, blocked their mental chatter off completely, and carefully smoothed a hand back over his hair. Each strand, back in place, as though the young heir's wandering hands hadn't been threaded through it mere minutes before. He had no more business here in this nightclub; there would just have to be other things that preoccupied his mind this particular evening than the heir and his sentimental words. What did the heir to the Bloodletter clan know about freedom? Damian stalked out of Gehenna and into the brisk night air. Autumn was fast approaching in New York City; it was a matter of time before it and its inhabitants sank into the chill that smothered the city in late October.

He walked, silently, in the direction of the Crypt and the coven, but took his time getting there. There was no sense in hurrying back to the place that bound him when there were still hours left until sunset. Damian aimlessly stroked a thumb over the black velvet box that rested inside of his pocket. As he passed by a couple who walked down the sidewalk, arms intertwined, voices muffled and giggling against the fabric of each other's clothes, Damian reached into his other pocket and grabbed a cigarette. He lit it with merely a soft burst of flame from the tip of his finger and stuck the cigarette into his mouth, pretended that when he exhaled, it was not smoke that filled the air, but the steam from his own breath - human breath, and imagined what it would be like if he were to live a perfect mortal's life.

It was next to impossible. Even as one of the living, a soft future was never in Damian Lechkov's cards.

Damian pressed his back up against the cold of a brick wall and fished the little box out of his pocket. With a dismissive air, he pulled the ring out and slid it onto his left ring finger. In the city's meek attempt at darkness, the tiny ruby at the ring's center gleamed feebly. Damian drew the ring closer and turned his hand this way and that. The glow of his cigarette's ember caught the little bloodied speck, and as he moved, the ruby almost pulsed, a tiny, beating heart.

As the cigarette dangled from his lips, he pulled his phone from his pocket and held the camera out, the obsidian ring on display on his hand, but, after a second of hesitation, he curled all fingers but his middle, and snapped a picture of the ring. Damian typed out a trio of messages to Aristeo, along with the photo, but stopped before he hit send.

fits like a glove. you really have been stalking me.

creep.

hope the next vampire you meet kicks your ass.

He made a face, and stuck the phone back into his pocket before he dropped his cigarette to the ground and snubbed it out with the toe of his black Oxford. Damian peeled his back away from the wall and slowly made his way back to the coven - his eternal prison, and yet, the only home he had ever truly known. He waited to press send until the blackness of the night had only just begun to give way to the tentative lilac of dawn, and, before he crawled into his coffin for the morning, he turned the phone face down on his nightstand. He would deal with that once he had awoken again.

This is me trying, the message was supposed to say, but Damian knew better. The two of them would only ever end in flames.










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Late that night, when dawn was just on the horizon, he finally fell onto his bed. Worn, and aching. It had been many hours, and none of his wounds severe. They had mostly healed, minus some of the more severe punches he had taken to his ribcage, and the deep scratch on the bridge of his nose. When he had seen his appearance earlier, even the necklace of bruising had begun to fade. All thanks to his enhanced healing.

Falling face first onto his bed, he pulled out his phone and glanced out it. Again, mostly the group chat sending memes. He glazed over the messages that had drawn him from the club earlier, with the patrol captain he had left to hunt out his prey, needing to urgently talk to him. As it turns out with one of the vampires, they held hostage for awhile for a little chat, Aris was apparently being targeted.

News had already begun to spread of the betrothal arrangement. No hunter would step out of line to that extent to blatantly hunt Damian. They may have their qualms and if the leadership of the Bloodletters gave the okay, they would strike down Damian given the opportunity. But they wouldn’t be as brash or as bold as wild vampires would be, trying to get an into the clans, by bringing the perfectly by hunter heir at their doorstep.

Lucky him.

Scrolling down a little more as he saw there were still notifications, he saw it was his betrothed. He messaged back quickly, leaving it nonchalant as usual, before plugging in his phone and letting sleep wash over him. His bones weary and tired, even as his internal head began buzzing and was screaming with thoughts once more.

See you later, leech. Thanks for the show tonight.


🗡​

Days passed, and in his free time, Aris rehearsed over facetime with his band mates. His face was never shown, but they could see from the neck down as they rehearsed their show for that night one final time.

"Alright, alright. Save that energy for tonight. I think we’re ready,”
Nikolai said, a fanged grin stretching his face.
“Don’t forget, Crypt tonight at nine. I’ll see you there, cocksuckers.”


The others, including Aris himself, gave a chorus of ‘see-you-later’ before it disconnected.

He had spent the days since he had left Damian behind almost on autopilot, patrol, business, patrol, occasionally sleep.

”Do you feel that? That’s the noose tightening.”


Those words haunted him through it all, plaguing his already fitful sleep, as they were whispered to him in his dreams with glowing eyes the color of rich honey peering out at him.

Shaking out the dread that came with it, he packed up his electric guitar. It was simple, nothing more than a standard PRS SE, but its color is what usually drew attention. It was a brilliant shade of blue, and glittered like tiny fragments of stars were arranged within it. Like a sapphire, it was a rich color and looked like the color of twilight as it glittered on stage. It was his most prized possession.

Then, he started to get ready. Donning his suit of armor for the night that would both make him and his band mates look like individuals, but like a unit. A band of vampires posing as vampires. Aris’ uniform consisted of black tailored long sleeve button up, with a black tie he tied firmly and adjusted the collar snugly over it, a form fitting black suitcoat with a tail that had swirling black filigree all over it, giving it the illusion of a noble’s suit.

His shirt was tucked snugly into black slacks, with a black belt that secured all of it together. And long black socks tucked into a pair of shining black ankle boots. He became a prince of darkness, in a perfectly clean black suit, all of it molded to perfection to his body. His biceps were on clear display through his shirt, as well as his lean figure.
Lastly, he shoved his essentials in his plain backpack, as well as the final touch – his mask.

It was a handcrafted item, one that matched his bandmates. Made of a matte sliver, it looked human with horns sticking out of the top, and the mouthpiece had two obvious fangs curling over it. They were masked vampires of the night, or at least gave the illusion of it unbeknownst to the crowd.

Grabbing his bike helmet last, he gave his appearance one last lookover making sure not a spec of dirt or dust was anywhere, before he headed into the city to Crypt.


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Time was nothing to a vampire. Minutes could have been seconds could have been hours could have been years.

The next few nights crawled by in a languid haze. Damian passed the time idly in an eclectic handful of places: the theater for a play, the symphony hall for a concert; he lounged on one of the plush couches of the Crypt's more distinguished upper level, and even had an evening's jaunt in the Metropolitan after he'd instructed the guard on duty (who had shone a flashlight in his face with a panicked cry of 'Halt!') to sleep, and pulled his comatose body into one of the museum's plush offices. He'd traversed 5,000 years of history in one evening as he passed by intricate Grecian marble sculptures, plaques from ancient Mesopotamia, paintings by Americans in the early 1920s in a desperate attempt to conjure a semblance of hope in such dire times.

Damian was young by vampire standards - practically still a babe. He'd been permanently frozen as a 29 year old young man ever since Lucius had bestowed the Dark Gift upon him in the 1980s. He had hardly been around humanity for but a blip in time. It baffled him, even still, how despite centuries upon centuries, humans still dreamt, hoped, wished, created, had been dreaming, hoping, wishing, and creating since the near beginning of time. He'd left the museum with a hollow feeling in the pit of his chest.

All of his escapades through the evenings were made with one intention: to get the hell away from the coven, who had become incredibly unbearable in recent days. Vera and Estelle, with their constant gossip and niggling in the back of his skull, Gustav with his snide glances; more unbearable, still, however, was the ferocity of Lucius' green cat's-eye gaze that bored into him. His maker did not need to speak for Damian to know exactly what the weight of those eyes meant: Make this work. Convince the coven, convince me, or I will have no issue finding a new vampire to crown my successor.

The last vampire who had defied Lucius had been enclosed in a coffin and trapped inside, buried alive somewhere far below the Crypt and left to starve to death. Damian was unsure whether the same fate would await him if this marriage fell through or if there would be a far worse punishment for one who humiliated the coven leader.

No, it was better to be away from the coven's judgmental, prying eyes. Damian made himself as scarce as possible over the course of the next few evenings, but he was unable to-- didn't want to-- escape the Crypt on Friday evening. Not when Eternal Nightfall was supposed to play. For a boy who had grown up on cassette tapes to blistering 80s rock, the band catered to the inner boy within Damian who relied on the likes of Van Halen, AC/DC, Def Leppard, Black Sabbath, and Iron Maiden. It had been a simpler time back then, a simpler state of bring, before Damian's life collapsed around his ears at 16, anyhow.

Damian dressed himself as he always did for Eternal Nightfall's concerts: as a typical vampiric cliche. A black pair of dress slacks and black dress shoes, a maroon collared shirt with the top button callously left open. A black leather jacket. He even made a point to paint around his eyes in liner, to style his hair back-- he both fit in with and blatantly stood out from the band's typical crowd.

Eternal Nightfall was one of, if not the most popular, band that came to the Crypt on a regular basis. From what Damian knew of it, each member of the band was a vampire just like himself. And oh, did they sing like vampires-- the pull of their voices, the lyrical webs they spun, were hypnotizing and alluring. The group even had something of a cult following on Spotify.

He hooked a pair of tiny black hoop earrings though either of his ears, and, as the finishing touch, he slid his betrothed's obsidian ring onto his ring finger. The ruby at the ring's heart gazed back at him as he lifted it to his eye level. It was easy to remember, now that he had Lucius' constant scrutiny regarding upholding his end of the bargain. Damian had forgotten to put it on one night and night day only, for that particular evening Lucius had froze him in his tracks and lifted Damian's hand in his own bone-ivory palm, where he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. The savage tilt of his maker's lips had turned Damian's very being to ice, but Lucius only purred: "Ah-ah-ah. Forgetting something, aren't we?" He'd remained frozen, trapped in limbo at Lucius' demand, as the ancient vampire slid the ring onto his finger, his touch as cold as a corpse's. "Such a pretty stone. It'd be a shame not to show it off."

Damian lurked-- he was exceptionally good at the act of that-- towards the side of the crowd of fans who eagerly crowded the stage. Eternal Nightfall's logo was projected onto the maroon curtain that lay closed onstage as the audience buzzed in anticipation. There were plenty of mortals here-- plenty of vampires, too, plenty of werewolves, who made Damian's nose wrinkle with their lupine stench. At least half the crowd was wearing masks made to replicate those that the band wore. Masks, not to become their stage personas but to hide who they were while they were not performing. An all-vampire band, in masks painted with a vampire's fangs. He leaned his temple against one of the support pillars as he waited for the band to emerge, arms crossed over his chest.

There was truth to the boy heir's words that night in Gehenna. Music was an escape, and while Damian would not dance to the band's songs, he'd listen, take into memory the lyrics that he already knew by heart. He'd come here to watch the group for quite some time now, ever since they made their first stage appearance a little under a decade or so ago. Eternal Nightfall hadn't changed since they began performing here, and Damian supposed that he himself hadn't either. It was likely that he was one of their most "regular" regulars.

He listened to the excited roar of the crowd, watched the dozens of ram and goat-horned masks bob up and down in anticipation as friends talked among friends among enemies. The Crypt was a neutral ground, and though fights here still occurred, Eternal Nightfall nights often had less bloodshed than most others because their music had such power: people tended to stop their turf wars, their arguing, and in Damian's case, their overthinking, in favor of listening.

He waited, for the music to help him lose himself.








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#vampirehunter #fangoff















He walked through the back door along the alleyway right at 9pm, his guitar case slung over his back. He barely had anytime to greet his friends as he was whisked into a whirlwind of an hour. They were kept backstage, out of sight, listening as the club got louder, hotter, slowly packing out for the headliner tonight. For them. Aris was a bundle of nerves, hardly able to keep still as they game planned their set for the night. The others were dressed similarly to Ari, with slight differences. Nikolai especially, as he was the lead singer.

The vampire had eyes the shade of an emerald, usually full of laughter. Tonight, they were hardened, and razer focused as they flicked from Aris to Malik to Byron. His outfit was a sleek all black look too, but only had a half mask, showing off more of his face, while covering the lower half of his face with elongated fangs giving the illusion of a vampire. The top of his face could be seen, where he usually smudged kohl around his eyes to truly make them pop, and his blond hair eventually would sweat laden begin to droop into his face. It made the girls go wild. He also had a long black cape, one of those stereotypical ones you'd see a cartoon Dracula wearing with the collar that circled almost his entire neck.

Byron wore an almost identical outfit to Aris, as well as Malik, looking like a unit, with minor fashion taste differences. His mask covered most of his face, similarly to Aris and Malik as well, with only part of the mouth and chin showing. Byron's mask had the shortest horns though, just two little spikes sticking off the top, as he didn't want weight holding him back from truly headbanging while he went crazy on the electric piano. He alternated between bass and an electric piano for synth sounds to round out their sound as a band, who had a silver bass strapped around him right now. His fingers were tapping a rhythm on the body of it nervously, his raven hair slicked back and completely out of his face, and his hazel eyes were intently focused on Nik.

Then there was Malik, who was was twirling his sticks nervously. His fingers were tapping a rhythm on the body of it nervously. He was the man whore of the group, known for always having someone or two in his back pocket. While he did indeed have a pretty blond tucked into his side, he wasn't even trying to eat her face off for once. He had his hand in her back pocket, touching her, keeping her close, but also wholly focused on what they had to do tonight. Aris was relieved. Malik truly did pull through for them, always. His auburn hair was also slicked back out of his face, combed stylishly with gel to give it volume, and his steel eyes glinted out from underneath his mask. Same as Byrons, same as Aris'. Except, Mal of course had the largest horns of the group. Two large, curling horns jutted out, making him almost a whole head taller if you were to count the sheer size of them.

Then, there was Aris. A prince of darkness, the wraith. His shortly cropped head of dark afro-textured hair. Tight curls, impossibly small, and impossibly curly. His mask was somewhere in-between Byron's and Malik's, with medium sized horns that gave him the illusion of the dagger in the dark. A true demon, with slightly curling horns, and fangs that glinted under the lights.

Right before 10, they did a huddle and had one last peptalk, before Mal shooed his plaything to go find her way to the crowd. And for them?

"Let's rock and roll, baby. One, two, three... Nightfall!"
Nikolai shouted before they were ushered to the side of the stage, and held their breath as they watched their manager, Emil, take center stage and tap the microphone to get everyone's attention.

"Ladies, gentleman, and creatures of the night, thank you for attending Crypt under its generous hosts this fine evening. Please give them a round of applause,"
The sleazy vampire started, his navy suit crisp and perfect, silver eyes flashing, and equally silver hair pulled back in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck as he led the crowd into an applause and gestured towards the balcony where he was guessing the owners to be.
"You'll find a merch booth in the back by the bar for anytime during and after the show, where you can also purchase for photo-ops with the entire band or individual members after the show. With that being said, lets fang and bang! May I present to you, Eternal Nightfall!"


Emil stepped off and the lights went dark, fog machines pulsing out along the floor. The crowd was deafening, electric, and Aris' entire body felt like it was vibrating as he slunk onto the stage after his bandmates. The moment they were in their places, he on the right side of the stage, he nodded his readiness. They all did. Malik's clicking came next, setting the tempo short and sweet from the back of the stage while whispering just loud enough for them,
"One... two... one, two, three, four...."


Aris took a deep breath, and the instant the stage lit up, revealing their haunting forms, he physically kicked out dramatically while ripping a sharp note into his guitar. And then he started shredding, breathing life into notes, his fingers creating magic along the strings as if it were just another part of him. Because it was. It was an extension of him. His stage persona, Nightshade, become with the night and music itself. All of them had a stage name after a poisonous plant. But he, Nightshade, was him without being him. He always took special care in wearing none of his usual accessories, not a hint of silver on his person. Not even his cross necklace, where his wedding band now lay. It currently was tucked safely at home.

Nikolai finally opened his mouth, drawing in a deep breathe, before he pulsated his allure into his vocals,
"We rule the darkness, we own the night... bloodlust burning deep inside..."



♡coded by uxie♡
 










Part of a vampire's gift was their charisma: even the most socially awkward human-turned-vampire had a certain gravitational field about them, the kind that would quickly pull anyone unsuspecting into orbit if they let themselves be drawn in. Damian supposed it had something to do with hunting capability-- after all, there were many creatures that indulged this notion. The anglerfish, which Damian recalled from a shriveled up display in one of New York's many museums, which used light as a beacon to attract unwitting creatures deep within the crushing depths of oceanic abyss. A speck of hopefulness in an otherwise endless expanse of dark.

That was, in a way, what Eternal Nightfall did for all these people. It gave them something else to be focused with. It provided something else rather than whatever it was that drew them into their own personal gloom. Damian watched as the band filed onto the stage one-by-one, clad in inky blacks and masks with curled horns and fangs. He felt, in the moment, that he was staring down his own light in perpetual darkness. The crowd's noise, which only crescendoed as each member took their place, faded into nothingness, and when the group surrounding the stage took up a dull roar, Damian barely heard it over the very first chord.

It was intoxicating to watch as the band, androgynous behind their intricately crafted masks of the damned, silently communicated with one another— a nod here, nothing more than a subtle tilt of the chin, but surely an indication to alter the song crafted by vocal chord, hand, fingertips. There were no words needed for such communication. This was a group who had been bonded for years, perhaps decades. They knew one another's body language and next movements as intimately as one knew the rattle of their own breath, the beat of their own heart. Damian cocked his head to the side as the lead vocalist sung like his very soul was being pulled from his throat, watched as the pianist's fingers flew across the keyboard, as the drummer's entire body seemed to move with the beat. The guitarist, though, had always caught his eye more than the others, as incredible as they all were. He played with an air to him that was almost impossible to describe; he played as though he'd been a caged bird all his life but now, was finally released into the open sky, free to spread wing to breeze, to touch the clouds. He played like he had nothing-- and everything-- to lose.

What it had to be like, to know someone so intimately, Damian was unsure. His family had been distant, if not hostile, at best. He'd been an outcast in school-- fights and isolation came much more easily to him than friendships had. Even now, what romantic encounters he'd had with others were physical at the most; they always ended with Damian slipping out of bed, just before the break of dawn. He absently twisted at the obsidian ring around his finger as he kept his arms folded over his torso. The crowd around him belted out the lyrics that Damian himself knew all the words to, but all he did was stand still. Listen. In this particular fantasy he was just another young man in the crowd who was here to be entertained, to enjoy himself. He was fifteen again, sneaking into a concert that he could not- would never- afford, alive with the thrill of not being caught. His eyes slid between each member of the band in turn, but always did fall back to the guitarist, who was never flashy in his movements, yet, to him, he seemed the most genuine out of each and every one of Eternal Nightfall's members.

Damian stood up just a bit straighter and lifted his chin ever-so-slightly as lights flickered above their heads in a cacophony of colors in time to the beat of the drums.








horror.



damian.








  • filler tab!





♡coded by uxie♡
 









scroll








Bloodletter Heir



Aristeo Hudson













mood

Tired af











outfit

Outfit











location

Bloodletter HQ











interactions

About to be married off to a vampire prince











tags

#vampirehunter #fangoff















The stage was set, the lights synchronized with every beat, every melody, and the crowd roared inbetween chords. The band exuded an aura of power and intensity that filled the room. It fill Aris too, with a sense of belonging. Like he was made to do this. To create something with his hands, not just destroy and have them covered in inky blood.

As the first chords of his guitar rang out, the energy in the air crackled with electricity and the space came to life. The drums thundered like a heartbeat, setting the rhythm for the frenzy to come. The bass reverberated through the floor, the piano creating a rounded sound, shaking the very foundations of the venue.

Nikolai, Hemlock in this moment as his stage persona, his voice was a primal scream that sent shivers down the spines of all who listened. With each word he belted out, the crowd became more and more enraptured, caught in the spell of the band's raw energy and passion. With maybe just a little bit of hidden vampire magic.

Aris shredded with ferocious skill, his fingers flying across the fretboard in a blur of motion. The solos were blistering, the riffs relentless, each note dripping with aggression and power. As the set reached its climax, the band seemed to transcend the confines of the stage, becoming something larger than life. They were no longer just musicians, but warriors, fighting a battle with their instruments as their weapons. Extensions of themselves.

Malik, Foxglove, used his drumsticks as if they were daggers dipped in poison. Fast, sharp movement, cutting and slicing and throwing them with speed and efficiency. Byron, Snakeroot, alternated between the bass guitar and his electric piano as if they were a battle axe. Swinging his bass up and down across his body with ease, slower, but meticulous and hard hitting to perfect the sound of the band. Nikolai, Hemlock, used his microphone stand like a stave, both ends tipped with a blade meant for precision and thought before striking.

And then there was Aris, who's sapphire electric guitar seemed to be both a shield and a sword. It was a question and answer in itself. Hard hitting, fast, slow, block. Biding his time, edging the crowd with him, as he struck his invisible opponents down one by one.

In that moment, Aris felt like it was just him and the music. His eyes were closed in concentration as his fingers danced across the strings of his guitar. Every note he played seemed to resonate with a raw emotion that was palpable in the air. His body swayed gently with the rhythm, lost in the music that seemed to flow effortlessly from his instrument. As he played, it was as if the guitar was an extension of his very being, a conduit through which he could express the depths of his soul. Each strum, each chord, was a reflection of his innermost thoughts and feelings, laid bare for all to see.

The music filled the room, wrapping itself around the listeners like a warm embrace. It was hauntingly beautiful, a melody that spoke of love and loss, joy and pain. And in that moment, the guitarist was no longer just a man with a guitar – he was a vessel for something greater, a channel through which the music flowed like a river of emotion.

He and his band mates made it a show, interacting with each other, inciting solos from each other. Living in the moment.

As the final chord echoed through the venue, the crowd erupted in a deafening cheer. The band had delivered a performance for the ages, a display of raw, unbridled energy that would be remembered for years to come. They had proven themselves as true masters of their craft, leaving a lasting impression on all who had the privilege of witnessing their biggest performance yet. It was then, as his awareness came trickling back in, something prickled at him. Making the hairs on his neck rise.

He was gasping for breath, his chest rising and falling, his body slick with perspiration from hours of playing and playing and playing. It was then he finally saw him. Him.

Damian, who lurked off to the side, just as entranced as the rest of the crowd. Aris in his stage persona, flirty and dangerous, made a show of taking his guitar pick and seductively licking it, his tongue extending full of potential promises. And then he flicked it with complete accuracy, shooting over the crowd like a glittering star, and straight for Damian's head.



♡coded by uxie♡
 
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