werewoof
elected pathetic man of the day
introduction.
howdy! you can call me max! i'm twenty-two & use they/he pronouns.
i have been roleplaying on and off for years! recently, i had to take a hiatus due to the busyness of life, but i'm hoping to be back and better than ever! <:]
➝ queer & trans friendly!!! especially since i am a queer, non-cis person!!!
➝ all folks 20+! hard no on interactions with minors!!
➝ i love ooc chatter. i'm not always available because of Life but i try to be present when I'm free :]!!
* on top of this: i love passion! lets share playlists, head canons, tell me about your favorite ocs!!
➝ i'm ghost friendly! we all have lives, don't worry if things don't work out or if you forget!
➝ avoiding triggers matters a lot to me, please communicate yours and I'll communicate mine.
➝ i ask that all romantic pairings remain romantic and not abusive
howdy! you can call me max! i'm twenty-two & use they/he pronouns.
i have been roleplaying on and off for years! recently, i had to take a hiatus due to the busyness of life, but i'm hoping to be back and better than ever! <:]
➝ queer & trans friendly!!! especially since i am a queer, non-cis person!!!
➝ all folks 20+! hard no on interactions with minors!!
➝ i love ooc chatter. i'm not always available because of Life but i try to be present when I'm free :]!!
* on top of this: i love passion! lets share playlists, head canons, tell me about your favorite ocs!!
➝ i'm ghost friendly! we all have lives, don't worry if things don't work out or if you forget!
➝ avoiding triggers matters a lot to me, please communicate yours and I'll communicate mine.
➝ i ask that all romantic pairings remain romantic and not abusive
roleplay info —
➝ i favor queer and non-cis pairings (t4t my beloved). ,,,
➝ m/m = non-woman/non-woman > m/f > f/f*
*it is not often i write women!! i have a couple in my arsenal and am not opposed to f/f !!! i just haven't wrote it in YEARS.
➝ i will also write polys!
➝ i’m craving romance currently! pls gimme < 3➝ third person is a must! but, i’m down with past or present tense! i can/will write both and am comfortable switching.
➝ characters 20+! no minors involved as main or side characters < 3
➝ descriptions are preferred for character appearances
*if you draw your own ocs!! great!! but no AI art and/or stolen art < 3!
**i do not care about anyone using real life references, though it’s unlikely i will reciprocate it. if asked, you’ll probably receive a frankenstein’s monster of “this hair” “these eyes” “this jawline”
➝ i’m not too picky on length! i range between 2,000+ words to a measly 200 depending on pacing.i often mirror length and am down for one-liners when suiting for the pacing.
— wordbank.
romance. small towns. urban fantasy. cozy fantasy. letters/letter-style. exploring mortality. godhood. morally grey.
soulmates. secrets. regret. disguises. found family. murder husbands. cowboys. werewolves. second chances.
enemies/rivals to lovers. "it's always been you." cozy fantasy. fame.
romance. small towns. urban fantasy. cozy fantasy. letters/letter-style. exploring mortality. godhood. morally grey.
soulmates. secrets. regret. disguises. found family. murder husbands. cowboys. werewolves. second chances.
enemies/rivals to lovers. "it's always been you." cozy fantasy. fame.
ideas // inspo —
this is full of: fleshed out ideas. vague vibes. and specific wordbanks about cravings. come with your own ideas/thoughts/enthusiasm < : D
i know the end … muse a is an author, muse b is their biggest fan.
a is unaware that they have been detailing all of their past lives together in each of their novels, meanwhile b can recall each life perfectly.
➝ this can be as tragic as you want it! anywhere from “we keep having the most romantic lives and i’m excited to spend another one with you”
to “no matter what we never die of old age” to “someone/thing is keeping us apart”
between my teeth …
under each others’ skins. rivalry/enemies to lovers.
maybe: superhero/villain or villain/villain. academic (college-aged) rivalry. rival assassins. magical rivalry.
under each others’ skins. rivalry/enemies to lovers.
maybe: superhero/villain or villain/villain. academic (college-aged) rivalry. rival assassins. magical rivalry.
right side of my neck …
predictable werewolf seeking behavior on my part
think… fated mates. cheesy shit. wagging tails and fanged smiles. any sappy, fluffy fuckin trope.
but also… lycanthropy as a disability. constantly traveling lycanthropes attempting to hide their secret. wanting a closeness, unsure how to both give and receive.
all the rage back home ...
ideas that would begin in letter-based writing style because I'm starving for it
think… fan/vaguely “famous” person (a niche sort of fame maybe? photographer, writer, etc).
muse b sending muse a fanmail and something strikes enough of a chord to have a wanting to connect.
but also... small towns. muse a & b ran in the same circle, muse a became famous and left it all behind.
muse b sends a letter in hopes of reconnecting... it works.
ideas that would begin in letter-based writing style because I'm starving for it
think… fan/vaguely “famous” person (a niche sort of fame maybe? photographer, writer, etc).
muse b sending muse a fanmail and something strikes enough of a chord to have a wanting to connect.
but also... small towns. muse a & b ran in the same circle, muse a became famous and left it all behind.
muse b sends a letter in hopes of reconnecting... it works.
samples —
these are OLD !! and i am EMBARRASSED ! (insert heart eyes emoji here). however, it feels weird not to include them! I will hopefully update with new samples at some point soon, but I'm pulling this from my old arsenal < 3
siren's cove
type: starter
genre: fantasy
content warnings: this is my darling murdering someone... sorry about that.
word count: 1,496
The same intoxication that surrounded a siren’s home was what Asterios called home.
Asterios knew the taste of it on his tongue better than the gods knew that of ambrosia—sweet, tart, like a pomegranate cracked open, staining whatever it touches. From an evolutionary standpoint, no one had bothered to ask if such an effect on the land could be for the benefit of lone sirens seeking a pod or for the capturing of humans, but Asterios took advantage of it nonetheless.
When they caught the trace of it days before, the siren followed it without question, knowing that practically every pod—no matter how distant—was a place to curl into, ready to accept another siren with open arms. At the time, they did not necessarily crave a place to stay, but there’s a loneliness traveling alone, an unfamiliarity behind even the kindness of smiles. A pod of sirens would not be the same as his own, but at least they’d carry an ounce of familiarity.
There wasn’t shock when Asterios found the island, but there was a pause, a wonder of how many fishermen were set adrift and crashed here. And then, the question always asked after: how many survived when they crossed paths with a place like this?
Asterios knew what humans said about them—every merfolk heard the tales, the speculations, whether accurate or not. And though myths did not spread in the waters like they did on land—written text was practically forgone, word of mouth the most common communication—it had not skipped over the pods of merfolk entirely.
There was laughing when Apollonius’ Argonautica detailed sirens with feathers and beaks, an odd superstition raised when rumors of them dying upon failing to lure someone in began to spread, Homer’s Odyssey had sirens quirking their brows, wondering if a human would attempt to recreate such a scene. (Of course, humans with their masochistic curiosity strung themself up to the masts on occasion, but either left looking a fool because humiliation was more interesting to watch than the spill of blood or found that wax earplugs were not as sound-proof as they thought and instead were left starving on a mast.) Rumor mills twisted more and more over the years, ranging anywhere from wildly unbelievable to so detailed the one to spread it may have been a part of a pod themself (not completely unlikely, mermaids in particular seemed to like gossip, especially about their more brutal relatives). In the end, it didn’t matter much. The stories were stories, and humans weren’t seeming to catch on even when ships crashed onto land completely empty, or at least not enough to begin poaching the waters. That alone seemed to answer the question on how many had made it out alive and were taken seriously.
The island itself was rather luscious, a paradise for those crashed upon it—Asterios imagined the collection of resources wouldn’t horribly doom a person. But, rivers flowed deep through the island, caves running beneath the land. And, in every pocket, a siren—sharp fangs, large pupils, sickening claws—ready to welcome Asterios in like he should’ve been there all along.
It was two days before there was the first sign of a ship coming and Asterios was awoken by whispers feet away, his head picking up from the rock he had been using to keep anchored. While they were making his stay here for the unforeseen time, they weren’t privy to the happenings of the innermost circles of the pod, clearly. But, just like he could feel the island, the taste of humans was thick in the air.
And then, when a siren assigned to watch duty came announcing the arrival of a pirate ship there was the contention of whether or not risking a handful of lives was worth it. (Some leered at Asterios in a way that said a newcomer is an easy sacrifice to make.) But, in the end, it was not.
Unsurprisingly, the invitation to follow is not offered when the rest of the sirens retreat for the time it took the pirates to clear out. Curiosity, foolishness—one in the same, truly—was what convinced Asterios to stay. Except, truly, staying wasn’t much of a risk when it meant Asterios was spending his time curled in a sea loch, draped over a rock like a fisherman’s catch laid out to dry—though maybe more tempting than a dead fish. At least, he’d like to hope so.
Around him, flowers bloomed bright, bursting from the rocks cresting the land. Even the lowest hanging fruit was perfect when they plucked it from the tree, split it across the rocks and picked at leisurely. And, when the sun tried to dry out the scales that wandered high up his waist, they could sink down into water that brought joyful shivers.
If Asterios were ever inclined to find a place to stay permanently, it would be here.
The day was weaning on when the first sign of a pirate nearby hit—the crunch of leaves, the slight increase of breaths. And, in turn, Asterios stopped breathing, waiting for the accompaniment of more. And, instead, a lone pirate, spotting the cove just as the siren was sinking further into the water, ducking behind a rock.
While a whole crew could be a problem, a stray pirate wasn’t something Asterios even marked as an inconvenience. Though, he supposed that a stray siren was not seen as much of an issue to someone well-acquainted with the seas either. (He poked his tongue up against the point of his fang as though checking to make sure they hadn’t dulled since the last time they ate. Partnered with this action was the lazy, near duty-bound thought that yes, they could kill this guy if necessary.)
A beat passed, then there was the sound of gear hitting the ground and a splash that had their hands scrambling to grip a bit firmer on the rock, tail kicking up its own separate wave.
Erring on the side of caution, Asterios pushed themself over to a small boulder, the highest point of it just barely cresting over the waterline. A thin layer of moss spread across it, and when Asterios’ hands came to lay atop they couldn’t help but let their fingers curl in. They pushed themself up just the slightest, cheek coming to rest against their hands as they watched the human sink himself beneath the surface, clothes and all.
This was when humans were the most charming, in Asterios’ humble opinion. Not when they were tossing advances out to the closest bed-partner they could lure, not even when those flirtations were directed right down at them, careening quickly from curious into lovestruck. But instead when they were completely unarmed, in the water, unaware of a lurking siren’s presence. Maybe it was because he could rip his throat out if need-be. Maybe it was because Asterios could get them a bit—more than a bit—tipsy on his voice alone.
The human came up for air and Aster couldn’t help that their gaze followed a stray drop of water—over his cheekbone, down his chin, down to a gill-less neck.
The first time Asterios ever drowned a human, they had cradled his neck, felt every gasp for air, the heave of their throat when water clogged their windpipe. They had pressed him into the sand, the seaweed, the sharp coral that scraped along their skin so often, and watched as life weaned out of his eyes, his body going limp under their hands. Then, ever-so-gently, they had traced their claws against the expanse of his neck as if waiting for him to sprout some of his own (just like one of those very false rumors had said would happen.)
A smile curled onto them—not as though predator watching prey, but a curiosity piqued, the vague thought forming that Asterios wouldn’t mind watching from afar for a bit longer. Glossy eyes pulled to the pirate’s face again. They could test their luck, see how long they could linger on the outskirts.
But Asterios knew that spying on someone never came without consequence. It was better to be the one catching than the one caught.
“Careful, Captain,”—Asterios wished that he could chalk this up to impressive observational skills and say he was able to determine a human’s rank on a ship from sight alone, but it was really just the unfortunate fact that he had learned that lots of humans who frequent ships find the title attractive—“with all those clothes on you can go down just as easy as your ship.” A smile offered, fangs emphasized with the tilt of his head. Asterios’ words curled around the edge of temptation, inviting the natural allure to ease into it. Not enough for the pirate to throw himself head first into whatever trouble a siren like Asterios promised, but promising that he could if he wanted to.
Asterios knew the taste of it on his tongue better than the gods knew that of ambrosia—sweet, tart, like a pomegranate cracked open, staining whatever it touches. From an evolutionary standpoint, no one had bothered to ask if such an effect on the land could be for the benefit of lone sirens seeking a pod or for the capturing of humans, but Asterios took advantage of it nonetheless.
When they caught the trace of it days before, the siren followed it without question, knowing that practically every pod—no matter how distant—was a place to curl into, ready to accept another siren with open arms. At the time, they did not necessarily crave a place to stay, but there’s a loneliness traveling alone, an unfamiliarity behind even the kindness of smiles. A pod of sirens would not be the same as his own, but at least they’d carry an ounce of familiarity.
There wasn’t shock when Asterios found the island, but there was a pause, a wonder of how many fishermen were set adrift and crashed here. And then, the question always asked after: how many survived when they crossed paths with a place like this?
𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂ 𓇼 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ
Asterios knew what humans said about them—every merfolk heard the tales, the speculations, whether accurate or not. And though myths did not spread in the waters like they did on land—written text was practically forgone, word of mouth the most common communication—it had not skipped over the pods of merfolk entirely.
There was laughing when Apollonius’ Argonautica detailed sirens with feathers and beaks, an odd superstition raised when rumors of them dying upon failing to lure someone in began to spread, Homer’s Odyssey had sirens quirking their brows, wondering if a human would attempt to recreate such a scene. (Of course, humans with their masochistic curiosity strung themself up to the masts on occasion, but either left looking a fool because humiliation was more interesting to watch than the spill of blood or found that wax earplugs were not as sound-proof as they thought and instead were left starving on a mast.) Rumor mills twisted more and more over the years, ranging anywhere from wildly unbelievable to so detailed the one to spread it may have been a part of a pod themself (not completely unlikely, mermaids in particular seemed to like gossip, especially about their more brutal relatives). In the end, it didn’t matter much. The stories were stories, and humans weren’t seeming to catch on even when ships crashed onto land completely empty, or at least not enough to begin poaching the waters. That alone seemed to answer the question on how many had made it out alive and were taken seriously.
𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂ 𓇼 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ
The island itself was rather luscious, a paradise for those crashed upon it—Asterios imagined the collection of resources wouldn’t horribly doom a person. But, rivers flowed deep through the island, caves running beneath the land. And, in every pocket, a siren—sharp fangs, large pupils, sickening claws—ready to welcome Asterios in like he should’ve been there all along.
It was two days before there was the first sign of a ship coming and Asterios was awoken by whispers feet away, his head picking up from the rock he had been using to keep anchored. While they were making his stay here for the unforeseen time, they weren’t privy to the happenings of the innermost circles of the pod, clearly. But, just like he could feel the island, the taste of humans was thick in the air.
And then, when a siren assigned to watch duty came announcing the arrival of a pirate ship there was the contention of whether or not risking a handful of lives was worth it. (Some leered at Asterios in a way that said a newcomer is an easy sacrifice to make.) But, in the end, it was not.
𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𓇼 ࣪ 𓈒ㅤׂ 𓇼 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ
Unsurprisingly, the invitation to follow is not offered when the rest of the sirens retreat for the time it took the pirates to clear out. Curiosity, foolishness—one in the same, truly—was what convinced Asterios to stay. Except, truly, staying wasn’t much of a risk when it meant Asterios was spending his time curled in a sea loch, draped over a rock like a fisherman’s catch laid out to dry—though maybe more tempting than a dead fish. At least, he’d like to hope so.
Around him, flowers bloomed bright, bursting from the rocks cresting the land. Even the lowest hanging fruit was perfect when they plucked it from the tree, split it across the rocks and picked at leisurely. And, when the sun tried to dry out the scales that wandered high up his waist, they could sink down into water that brought joyful shivers.
If Asterios were ever inclined to find a place to stay permanently, it would be here.
The day was weaning on when the first sign of a pirate nearby hit—the crunch of leaves, the slight increase of breaths. And, in turn, Asterios stopped breathing, waiting for the accompaniment of more. And, instead, a lone pirate, spotting the cove just as the siren was sinking further into the water, ducking behind a rock.
While a whole crew could be a problem, a stray pirate wasn’t something Asterios even marked as an inconvenience. Though, he supposed that a stray siren was not seen as much of an issue to someone well-acquainted with the seas either. (He poked his tongue up against the point of his fang as though checking to make sure they hadn’t dulled since the last time they ate. Partnered with this action was the lazy, near duty-bound thought that yes, they could kill this guy if necessary.)
A beat passed, then there was the sound of gear hitting the ground and a splash that had their hands scrambling to grip a bit firmer on the rock, tail kicking up its own separate wave.
Erring on the side of caution, Asterios pushed themself over to a small boulder, the highest point of it just barely cresting over the waterline. A thin layer of moss spread across it, and when Asterios’ hands came to lay atop they couldn’t help but let their fingers curl in. They pushed themself up just the slightest, cheek coming to rest against their hands as they watched the human sink himself beneath the surface, clothes and all.
This was when humans were the most charming, in Asterios’ humble opinion. Not when they were tossing advances out to the closest bed-partner they could lure, not even when those flirtations were directed right down at them, careening quickly from curious into lovestruck. But instead when they were completely unarmed, in the water, unaware of a lurking siren’s presence. Maybe it was because he could rip his throat out if need-be. Maybe it was because Asterios could get them a bit—more than a bit—tipsy on his voice alone.
The human came up for air and Aster couldn’t help that their gaze followed a stray drop of water—over his cheekbone, down his chin, down to a gill-less neck.
The first time Asterios ever drowned a human, they had cradled his neck, felt every gasp for air, the heave of their throat when water clogged their windpipe. They had pressed him into the sand, the seaweed, the sharp coral that scraped along their skin so often, and watched as life weaned out of his eyes, his body going limp under their hands. Then, ever-so-gently, they had traced their claws against the expanse of his neck as if waiting for him to sprout some of his own (just like one of those very false rumors had said would happen.)
A smile curled onto them—not as though predator watching prey, but a curiosity piqued, the vague thought forming that Asterios wouldn’t mind watching from afar for a bit longer. Glossy eyes pulled to the pirate’s face again. They could test their luck, see how long they could linger on the outskirts.
But Asterios knew that spying on someone never came without consequence. It was better to be the one catching than the one caught.
“Careful, Captain,”—Asterios wished that he could chalk this up to impressive observational skills and say he was able to determine a human’s rank on a ship from sight alone, but it was really just the unfortunate fact that he had learned that lots of humans who frequent ships find the title attractive—“with all those clothes on you can go down just as easy as your ship.” A smile offered, fangs emphasized with the tilt of his head. Asterios’ words curled around the edge of temptation, inviting the natural allure to ease into it. Not enough for the pirate to throw himself head first into whatever trouble a siren like Asterios promised, but promising that he could if he wanted to.
rich vampire pouting in the rain :/
type: shorter starter
genre: fantasy
content warnings: referenced fight, murder mention, implied unhealthy relationship.
word count: 965
CALIFORNIA, 1949
There’s a certain melodrama that’s involved in standing in the rain far after the sun has set, soaked through in your robe, clearly unprepared for what lies in the street but needing out of whatever fate you’re narrowly escaping. The scene is a classic in movies for a reason—it shows the desperation in which one would choose the cold and wet over the warmth of a dry home, there’s a contrast in the comfort of the dashing hero that’s sure to come save the damsel. There’s always a kiss in the rain. Always.
Clare Starling has never played the damsel in need of saving. He’s been the dashing love interest once, the taxi driver twice, and once an orphan on the sidewalk, where the leading lady messed up her lines so many times that he contracted pneumonia.
Tonight, perhaps he is the damsel—in nothing but pajamas made for lounging, a silk robe billowing to the ground, ends soaking in the city’s runoff. One of Tom’s jackets is over his shoulders, taken in a rush out the door. It’s far too large for Clare, but it’s warmer than any that he owns, able to cocoon himself in if he so pleases.
Tom, naturally, is going to be the dashing hero. Even after their fight—Clare taking nasty shots at Tom for his “insecurities”, and Tom refusing to shake Clare from his grasp like a dog with its favorite toy in his jaw—Tom is sure to be there. Though, the climax will be far less romantic than in the movies. Simply, Clare will give in, wallow back home because he does not want to burn up, and more than that, because he does not want to be alone. Tom will welcome him, hold him tight to his chest and spin more tales about worry over the vampire. He’ll tell him he’s fragile. Too young to understand still. Then he’ll kiss Clare, insist on warming him up and dote on him as though he can contract any human illness. Ultimately, Clare will forgive him. Ultimately, Tom will keep the upper hand. And perhaps this cycle will continue weekly until Clare lands another gig, hopefully one that is filming anywhere but California.
In the beginning, Clare adored being between jobs. It meant being with Tom more—indulging in soft affections, dragging him on vacations, learning more about the older vampire and his own origin. (Of course, this came after Clare’s bout of melancholy at his initial turning. Once the young vampire got over that, he found it quite romantic to spend eternity with his lover.) But, like clockwork, they fight now.
The first two days always pass in bliss. Spending far more time in bed, Clare being fed til his heart’s content. He’ll practice his makeup in the mirror, then have his jaw tilted around by Tom while he hums in approval. But their honeymoon phase always ends, usually when Clare asks a question that’s “too invasive” or when he implies that he’d rather enjoy a night out alone.
Today, though, it was Tom’s words that set off the spiral. There was an article with Clare’s name in the headline, reading: ‘WHEN WILL STARLING SETTLE?’ The entire spread was full of speculations about his relationships, particularly with Marlene West and Thomas Adkins, though the latter was simply detailing their platonic feelings. And, naturally, it led to a jab toward Clare, a threat thrown to Marlene in consequence.
“Maybe we should drain her dry.”
Clare tried not to think of such things. About the weight of a body sagging into him when the feed was done, about how he was constantly starving, aching, yet too scared to finish off a human. If it could be helped, he would convince Tom to let them steal blood bags instead. Or at least turn his head and cry while Tom finished off whichever victim he chose.
But Marlene wasn’t an option, Clare made that much clear with the tantrum he threw. Yelling, gathering his things like he has a place to go to accept him. Tom wouldn’t forfeit Clare’s wallet, claiming he was going hysterical, unable to think clearly and would only make poor decisions, and it’s left Clare with only crumpled bills in his pocket.
Well, and a pack of cigarettes with the custom lighter Clare gifted Tom awhile back.
The damsel collapses four blocks from his home. Far enough away to feel like Tom has no chance of watching his movements, but close enough to tuck his tail between his legs and come home at any moment. Here, the streets are abandoned enough for Clare to sink down to the curb, watch the occasional car pass without shame in feeling so alone.
Years ago, this would’ve been nerve-wracking, but now Clare is the thing in the dark to be scared of and he has no plans on hunting.
Unlike when he was a human, he allows himself to sink completely into his head. There’s no thoughts of the cold or of the footsteps falling behind him. He refuses to be scared—of his fate, of Tom, of the possibility of another vampire finding him and holding him hostage like their newest and most naive plaything.
A cigarette is brought out, lit with shaking hands. The first inhale scrapes across his throat, flesh raw from screaming at Tom. His own blood slicks through him, ripe on his palate but far less pleasant of a drink than any other source. Bitterly, he thinks that Tom would enjoy knowing he made Clare bleed like this, that they’ll kiss when he’s home and the older vampire will smile when he tastes his blood on his tongue.
Still, another inhale, a long breath out. He hopes the smoke ruins his taste. He hopes Tom winces when their lips meet.
There’s a certain melodrama that’s involved in standing in the rain far after the sun has set, soaked through in your robe, clearly unprepared for what lies in the street but needing out of whatever fate you’re narrowly escaping. The scene is a classic in movies for a reason—it shows the desperation in which one would choose the cold and wet over the warmth of a dry home, there’s a contrast in the comfort of the dashing hero that’s sure to come save the damsel. There’s always a kiss in the rain. Always.
Clare Starling has never played the damsel in need of saving. He’s been the dashing love interest once, the taxi driver twice, and once an orphan on the sidewalk, where the leading lady messed up her lines so many times that he contracted pneumonia.
Tonight, perhaps he is the damsel—in nothing but pajamas made for lounging, a silk robe billowing to the ground, ends soaking in the city’s runoff. One of Tom’s jackets is over his shoulders, taken in a rush out the door. It’s far too large for Clare, but it’s warmer than any that he owns, able to cocoon himself in if he so pleases.
Tom, naturally, is going to be the dashing hero. Even after their fight—Clare taking nasty shots at Tom for his “insecurities”, and Tom refusing to shake Clare from his grasp like a dog with its favorite toy in his jaw—Tom is sure to be there. Though, the climax will be far less romantic than in the movies. Simply, Clare will give in, wallow back home because he does not want to burn up, and more than that, because he does not want to be alone. Tom will welcome him, hold him tight to his chest and spin more tales about worry over the vampire. He’ll tell him he’s fragile. Too young to understand still. Then he’ll kiss Clare, insist on warming him up and dote on him as though he can contract any human illness. Ultimately, Clare will forgive him. Ultimately, Tom will keep the upper hand. And perhaps this cycle will continue weekly until Clare lands another gig, hopefully one that is filming anywhere but California.
In the beginning, Clare adored being between jobs. It meant being with Tom more—indulging in soft affections, dragging him on vacations, learning more about the older vampire and his own origin. (Of course, this came after Clare’s bout of melancholy at his initial turning. Once the young vampire got over that, he found it quite romantic to spend eternity with his lover.) But, like clockwork, they fight now.
The first two days always pass in bliss. Spending far more time in bed, Clare being fed til his heart’s content. He’ll practice his makeup in the mirror, then have his jaw tilted around by Tom while he hums in approval. But their honeymoon phase always ends, usually when Clare asks a question that’s “too invasive” or when he implies that he’d rather enjoy a night out alone.
Today, though, it was Tom’s words that set off the spiral. There was an article with Clare’s name in the headline, reading: ‘WHEN WILL STARLING SETTLE?’ The entire spread was full of speculations about his relationships, particularly with Marlene West and Thomas Adkins, though the latter was simply detailing their platonic feelings. And, naturally, it led to a jab toward Clare, a threat thrown to Marlene in consequence.
“Maybe we should drain her dry.”
Clare tried not to think of such things. About the weight of a body sagging into him when the feed was done, about how he was constantly starving, aching, yet too scared to finish off a human. If it could be helped, he would convince Tom to let them steal blood bags instead. Or at least turn his head and cry while Tom finished off whichever victim he chose.
But Marlene wasn’t an option, Clare made that much clear with the tantrum he threw. Yelling, gathering his things like he has a place to go to accept him. Tom wouldn’t forfeit Clare’s wallet, claiming he was going hysterical, unable to think clearly and would only make poor decisions, and it’s left Clare with only crumpled bills in his pocket.
Well, and a pack of cigarettes with the custom lighter Clare gifted Tom awhile back.
The damsel collapses four blocks from his home. Far enough away to feel like Tom has no chance of watching his movements, but close enough to tuck his tail between his legs and come home at any moment. Here, the streets are abandoned enough for Clare to sink down to the curb, watch the occasional car pass without shame in feeling so alone.
Years ago, this would’ve been nerve-wracking, but now Clare is the thing in the dark to be scared of and he has no plans on hunting.
Unlike when he was a human, he allows himself to sink completely into his head. There’s no thoughts of the cold or of the footsteps falling behind him. He refuses to be scared—of his fate, of Tom, of the possibility of another vampire finding him and holding him hostage like their newest and most naive plaything.
A cigarette is brought out, lit with shaking hands. The first inhale scrapes across his throat, flesh raw from screaming at Tom. His own blood slicks through him, ripe on his palate but far less pleasant of a drink than any other source. Bitterly, he thinks that Tom would enjoy knowing he made Clare bleed like this, that they’ll kiss when he’s home and the older vampire will smile when he tastes his blood on his tongue.
Still, another inhale, a long breath out. He hopes the smoke ruins his taste. He hopes Tom winces when their lips meet.
fin.
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