cursed0bsession

[cursed0bsession]

The vampire watched as the barrier went up, an opaque hemisphere around where the tiefling laid to rest. Oh he could mess with her. And mess with her he shall. A silent command was given to the children of the night. Around a dozen wolves came from the surrounding woods to circle around the barrier. Some howled, others joined the ghastly chorus. Then a few tested it, slamming against it, snarling, clawing. All in a vain attempt of getting in but it would be enough to startle. Strahd himself, now back in his true form, watched from the shadows. Two red dots glowing almost like embers being seen from the dense forest. The mist also became heavier, a storm starting to brew in the air. He was the land, he would cause it to rage if it meant that he could make his newest little puppet squirm. What fun this will be.

A Curious Crusade

Irene crept through the overgrowth like an agile feline, the wild array of winding roots and tangling vines not impeding the tiefling's trek through the forested area. At this point, she had grown quite accustomed to the dense impediment of nature masking what she sought, and this case of trudging through the underbrush under the glow of moonlight was no different from the rest. She had heard whispers of a choking fog that consumed the valley, taking all who entered its bounds for all of eternity, and she gave in to her intrigue. It was a wonderful anomaly, if word of mouth was to be believed, with this "cursed land" being brought to such a state by some malicious "dread lord" lifetimes before her own. Should the myths of meager farmers and hunters who occupy the valley's surrounding towns prove to be true, this would serve as an astounding case study into the rich ritual magic the man left behind to claim an entire valley as his domain. The imposing "bogeyman" of bygone days would shape her discoveries, and she couldn't be more thrilled to delve into every last secret lying past the cloak of fog. So when she reached the forest's end, where the wall of mist loomed like a bastion's stone gate, she only spared herself a brief inhale before stepping through to whatever awaited her on the other side.

[cursed0bsession]

"Forgive me for being so forward, my lord, but yes. I do dare to imagine what you would've been if given the right sort of love. To not be forced into war. Yes, your kingdom is great, and Barovia is mighty, but you certainly paid the price for those things."

She bowed respectfully to the lord of Barovia.

"We may not be talking now had things been different, but you deserved better."

The lord of Barovia regards her bow with the faintest curl of his lip—whether it is amusement or disdain is impossible to tell. His voice carries the weight of iron and eternity. “You speak of ‘better’ as though fate were some bitter tavern wench who simply denied me her favor. No, child. I did not stumble into ruin, nor was I dragged unwilling into war. I chose the sword, and later, I chose the darkness. What you call a price, I call a covenant—I paid it with open eyes." He looked past her, eyes focused on something unseen. "I did as was expected of me. As eldest son, I became the soldier. Sturm provided the legacy and ruled, Sergei was supposed to join the clergy. If only all could have just played their part." He then stepped nearer, the air thickening with his presence. A faint scent of iron and cold earth clinging to him.

“You kneel before me even now, speaking of what I should have had. You pity me, yet you tremble in my shadow. So tell me, which is greater—the man who surrendered to love and faded into dust, or the lord who bartered it all and endures eternal? I tell you this: there is no ‘better’ than Strahd von Zarovich.”

[cursed0bsession]

Can you consume blood in other forms or does it have to be fresh/straight from the source(like blood sausages or bone marrow(since blood is produced there))?

He chuckled, though the sound carried no warmth — only the scrape of stone over stone. “Blood sausages. Bone marrow. Congealed drippings in a cup.” He waved a hand dismissively, almost insulted by the question. “Yes, I can consume such things, just as a wolf can gnaw on dry bones. But it is carrion. Hollow. Tasteless. What fills the belly does not necessarily sustain. Think of it like having a plain piece of bread, it will fill but it wont sustain for long.”

His gaze sharpened, cold and cutting. “Do you know what most fail to grasp, little one? It is not the blood that nourishes me. It is the soul. The spark carried in that crimson tide. Without it, all that flows in your veins is nothing more than salt and water. That is why the soulless of Barovia mean nothing to me. Their blood is thin, insipid. To drink it is like feasting on ashes.”

Then he moved closer, so close that the brush of his words grazed the shell of their ear. His hand caught their wrist, pressing against the pulse point with terrible precision, holding it as though testing the strength of their existence. “But you… ah, you are different. I can feel it even now. The heat. The rhythm. A soul burning bright beneath skin.” His smile curled sharp as a blade, fangs just glimpsed in the candlelight. “That is what nourishes. That is what intoxicates. Not sausages. Not marrow. You.”

He leaned back, gaze heavy, mocking and intimate all at once. “Tell me, little one… now that you understand, would you still offer yourself so freely? Or has the truth stolen your appetite for indulgence?”

[cursed0bsession]

To care for a pet

request by @kotabear43 hope you get better soon, boo drabble below the cut, you can also read it on AO3 here

The fire in your veins had been building all day, a fever you swore you could endure. You didn’t want him to see you weakened, didn’t want to become another fragile thing in his vast collection of broken treasures. But Strahd always saw. He had this weird way of always knowing how you were doing, where you were. You figured that it was just something to do with his whole I am the land bullshit.

You had decided to take a quick nap thinking rest would help alleviate this damned fever but when you awakened not only did you still feel just as horrible as before — there was the feeling of eyes on you. In the doorway stood the Count himself, his presence filling the room like a stormcloud.

“You reek of fever, little one.” His tone carried cruel amusement, the way a cat would corner a mouse. He then sighed. “Did you truly believe you could keep this from me?”

You tried to protest but a cough took your words. A wet wheezing sound accompanying the following breath. Your entire body trembled and within seconds he was calling for a servant and at your side.

“Enough.” The single word brooked no argument. He adjusted the pillows, lifting you with ease as though you weighed nothing, settling you against them with a care that felt almost mocking. “Mortals,” he murmured darkly, brushing back the damp hair plastered to your forehead. “So fragile, so careless with themselves. And yet…” His thumb lingered at your temple, his touch shockingly cool against your burning skin. “…I cannot abide to see you undone by something so small.”

One of the skeletal servants then returned to your chambers. On the tray it carried was a bowl of steaming broth, water chilled with medicinal herbs, and cooled damp cloth to rest on the back of your neck to aid with the hot flashes. You then realized he had this all prepared ahead of time for you. Strahd von Zarovich, dread lord of Barovia, had arranged for your care. You of all people. Surely he had other things of higher importance to do.

When you whispered, voice hoarse, “Why are you doing this?” he gave a low laugh, humorless and chilling. “Why?” His gaze locked onto yours, unblinking, crimson glinting in the depths. “Because you are mine. And I do not suffer what is mine to wither. No peasant’s fever, no sickness of the flesh, shall take you from me.” His hand slid down, resting just over your racing heart. The pressure was firm, steady, as if he could command your pulse to obey his will. “Eat, drink the medicine, then rest. Your body may be weakened but my will is strong enough for us both.”

When the tray was set down on your bedside table you took the bowl gingerly in your hands and drank the broth, it was warm and comforting. Like something your mother used to make when you were sick as a child. It was nostalgic and frankly did aid with the feeling a bit.

After that was finished, he handed you the glass and watched as you drank the mixture. It was bitter and your face contorted. Never was taking medicine a pleasant experience. Laying back down you fell back to sleep.

Later, when the fever dreams twisted your slumber, you woke to find his form still there beside the bed, a book open in his hand, his cloak draped over you for weight and warmth. And when he noticed you stirring, he set it aside without hesitation, reaching to brush your hair back from your damp temple once more. “There,” he murmured, voice a rare hush. “Better. You will endure. I will see to it.”

For once, there was no mockery in his smile. Only possession, and a devotion as terrifying as it was tender. And as his eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight, watching you with something too sharp to be called love — but too consuming to be anything less.

[cursed0bsession]

S, T, U, L, B

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) For him, his hands. He has created in the form of writing or playing music. He has destroyed with a blade or having his hand wrapped around a neck thill it snaps. On a partner? Their throat. He adores the way they shudder when his fangs linger at the pulse point, how delicately it fits in his hands, how vulnerable it is. It is a place of feeding and control. L = Location (Favourite places to do the do) His study, his bedroom or if he is feeling really frisky the balcony overlooking the valley. The way his partner would lean into him when the cool breeze came over them, oh he relishes the opportunity that presents. S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…) Okay this will tie into U. He can go for hours but it wont just be with him pounding into his partner. No he is drawing it out, hours with his mouth, his hands, his cock. He can go several rounds, being undead has its advantages after all. T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) He doesn't need them but he certainly does enjoy using them on his partner. Restraints, things to amplify sensations. He views them more as tools, things to make his partner squirm. U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) He is the definition of unfair. Teasing is the game to him — dragging out the anticipation until they’re desperate. He’ll hold back the bite until they beg. He’ll deny release just to watch them crumble. His cruelty isn’t always physical; sometimes it’s psychological — the whispered words, the mocking comments that make them flush, the way he’ll remind them of their own reactions later. He lives for turning pleasure into torment, and torment into devotion.

[cursed0bsession]

🔥Which do you prefer, tits, ass, or thighs?

A low, velvet laugh spills from him, dripping with disdain. Saints preserve him the peasants were getting bolder by the day. “Tits, ass, or thighs? That is how you would address me? No preamble, no title, no attempt at eloquence? Have you learned nothing of manners, little one? Or perhaps you simply like referring to me like I was some drunkard at a tavern."

He steps closer, voice softening into something far more dangerous, honey masking potent venom. “Very well. Since you are so crude and clearly desperate, I will answer you crudely… though in my way.”

His hand lifts in the air, as though weighing the options. “Breasts—warm, yielding, a fine distraction, soft and pleasing to hold, the canvas for my teeth. I enjoy painting them with bruises that only I may see. An ass—firm, perfect for a hand’s grip, for the sharp sound of discipline echoing in candlelight, to press against me when I decide to take what I desire.”

Then his eyes darken, gaze pinning them where they stand. His tone drops to that silken growl that coils into the bones. “But thighs… ah, thighs are the true snare. Soft as velvet, strong as steel. To sink my teeth into them, to feel them tremble against my mouth as I feed… to be locked between them, prisoner and master both… there is nothing sweeter.”

His lips curl into a smirk, his laughter cruel. “So, you wanted your answer? Take it. I will choose the divine cage of thighs each and every time. But remember this—what I touch, what I claim, is mine. And next time, little one, ask me with the respect due your lord, unless you wish me to demonstrate my preference directly.”

[cursed0bsession]

[ pin ] sender pinning receiver down.

(changed some words because I get confused easily 💔)

Strahd grinned as the false angel kept him pinned underneath them. What audacity they had. He gripped their waist, smirking as he subtly grinded his hips against theirs. He knew that might elicit some sort of reaction. "Tell me, little dove, did you pin me because you knew I would react pleasantly or do you simply enjoy making me hold back and keep my decorum?" He hissed against their throat, fangs grazing the pulse point. Such a sweet scent, he will savor them for a long while.

[cursed0bsession]

send 🔥 + a spicy question for my muse.

this could be a question about their kinks, about fantasies, about preferences etc.

[cursed0bsession]

H, V, and X if you be most kind, my Lord.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) The carpet does match the drapes, thick, black and meticulously groomed. This man prides himself on his appearance, you think he would just let it grow wild below the belt? I think not. V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make) He isn't the loudest, when he is in the act you can occasionally hear deep throaty chuckles, purrs, growls and he may even hiss when close to release. Strahd can be heard in the room, never beyond it. Those that he sleeps with only can hear those noises.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

7.5 inches erect, slight upward curve, thick but not ridiculously so. Built to be felt, but not ruin, well he his skill can already do that. He is uncut, I based this more on what era Barovia is supposed to be which is medieval. It wasn't common for nobles to circumcise their boys so yeah uncut beauty. As for color, pale with faint blueish veins, purpleish tone to the head. Balls are decently sized, slightly too symmetrical. That's all i can think of at the moment. There is a drawing I'm working on of this, i should have it finished by tomorrow. DM me if you want it.

[cursed0bsession]

so i plan on getting to those nsfw headcanon asks today and I noticed one had X, soo uhh guess who will be drawing that now?

[cursed0bsession]

Watching the false angel step away he gave them a wolfish grin, stepping forward and invading their personal space once more. Hands folded neatly behind his back as he examined them. Nervous, sensitivity in the wings, vulnerable and willing to say what was on their mind like some sort of word vomit. Cute. "Makes sense, my dear." He hummed, paying almost no attention to the admittance that they had once been human. Whisked away into his land like some children's fairytale, or really a horror story if he was being honest. "Poor little bird, trapped in an unknown land, now welcoming the wolf into their presence with such feeble naivety.." he began, "I wonder how long you will last. Shall we see together?"

Reply for @cursed0bsession

Parania's wings puffed up, and their core tightened. One of the worst parts of having wings is their sensitivity… Feeling his touch there, made them squirm. They don't think it was even intentional on his part. Most people just touch their wings because they look… Soft.

They backed away from his touch, a nervous look dawning their face. They didn't like the way he was talking about this. It made them… afraid. But, it also made them blush. They hated that.

“I- I don't lie to myself. I know I'm not an angel, I know I can be a beast. I show my teeth without thinking. For that's what I am.” They didn't want him to think they believed they were an angel. They were just a random, unlucky human who got screwed over by some unknowable being.

“I was not always this way. I was once a human… I didn't even have these ears. This lie I tell is not my choice, nor is it on purpose. I was made this way without consent. By something I don't even know.”

[cursed0bsession]

Clever use of magic, he thought. To use a simple spell to clear her lungs of the choking fog, resourceful. He made note of that as he continued to stalk his prey. Then Strahd took notice of the slit eyes that followed his every move. So the hunter was under observation. Intriguing. He retreated deeper into the fog, obscuring his form. Of course he used the opportunity to shift into mist itself. Taking on a gaseous form to continue his observation without worry of detection. Perhaps once Irene made camp he will approach as himself. Offer her a place to stay in his palace. That seemed like the logical choice. He could play the gentleman, offer her his study for her to peruse the many tomes he had collected over the centuries. The plan became clear in his mind. Yes this was exactly what he needed to do.

A Curious Crusade

Irene crept through the overgrowth like an agile feline, the wild array of winding roots and tangling vines not impeding the tiefling's trek through the forested area. At this point, she had grown quite accustomed to the dense impediment of nature masking what she sought, and this case of trudging through the underbrush under the glow of moonlight was no different from the rest. She had heard whispers of a choking fog that consumed the valley, taking all who entered its bounds for all of eternity, and she gave in to her intrigue. It was a wonderful anomaly, if word of mouth was to be believed, with this "cursed land" being brought to such a state by some malicious "dread lord" lifetimes before her own. Should the myths of meager farmers and hunters who occupy the valley's surrounding towns prove to be true, this would serve as an astounding case study into the rich ritual magic the man left behind to claim an entire valley as his domain. The imposing "bogeyman" of bygone days would shape her discoveries, and she couldn't be more thrilled to delve into every last secret lying past the cloak of fog. So when she reached the forest's end, where the wall of mist loomed like a bastion's stone gate, she only spared herself a brief inhale before stepping through to whatever awaited her on the other side.

[cursed0bsession]

He couldn't help but laugh, a mirthful sound. He liked her. This woman was fiery and that certainly did keep his attention. "Not many do find their way here of their own accord. The Mists certainly do like to pluck the unwary from their original path." Strahd was pleased that Bernadette found some beauty in his cursed land. While he had grown tired of it, to see someone take in the somber majesty was like a breath of fresh air. If he needed to breathe of course. While in disguise he did more to fool mortals than out of necessity. That flirt caught him slightly off guard. How bold this one was. He let a small smile grace his features. "You flatter me, my lady. But I speak truth when I say not many wind up here. You are a rare bloom in this bleak domain."

It's been a few weeks since Bernadette's arrival in Barovia. Despite the dreariness of the landscape, being free from the birdcage of her home, she finds herself set with admiration; Beauty is subjective, and the subject of her inclination is vast and new.

She finds herself settling into camp on the outskirts of the Village of Barovia, a soft fire crackling as she looks on to the castle looming in the distance.

[cursed0bsession]

Tatyana isn't really all she's cracked up to be, I don't understand why you're so obsessed with her.

The silence after their insolence is deafening. For a heartbeat, Strahd looks carved from stone, still as a corpse in a coffin. Then his lips curl back, a sound escaping him—ragged, sharp, almost a laugh but far too jagged to be mirth. It is the sound of a dam cracking. Of the opening of floodgates holding back pure madness.

“Not cracked up to be…” he repeats, voice low, shaking with restrained fury. “Not… cracked… up… to be?”

Suddenly he moves, the space between them both is gone, his shadow drowning theirs as if the room itself has bowed to him. His eyes blaze with red fire, and every word spills like venom and hymn in one.

“She is my eternity. My torment. My light. My curse. She is the song I cannot stop hearing, the wound that never closes. She is life itself—my life, torn from me again and again. Do you know what it means to hold her as she dies in your arms? To watch the only thing you love leap into death rather than fall into your embrace? And to suffer that agony, not once… but countless times, centuries of it?”

His voice shatters into manic laughter, sudden and sharp. He grips their chin in cold, iron fingers, forcing them to meet his gaze. Perhaps he should put them under his charm. No. Not yet.

“You dare dismiss her? You? Then perhaps I should teach you. Perhaps I should peel your soul open until you scream with her name on your tongue. Perhaps I should paint her into your flesh, carve her memory into your marrow, until you are Tatyana. Until you look at me with her eyes, speak with her lips, and bleed with her heart.”

He leans in close, his breath chilling against their skin. The threat of his fangs at their throat before he simply tosses them to the ground in disgust. His next words are cruel intimacy, the last thing they ever wanted to hear.

“If you will not honor her…” A smile spreads, slow and dreadful. “…then I will make you. And you will learn, little one, what it truly means to be loved by me.”

[cursed0bsession]

As Ireena sits on the bench not too far from her villages center, she seems to be pondering something. It isn't long until she spots an unpleasantly familiar figure emerging from the mists, the silhouette being more than recognizable. She would have been afraid, if she wasn't busy feeling angry and annoyed, though internally she did feel a pang of regret for having gone out of her home in the first place. She grimaces, her choice of words practically dripping with pure and unadulterated hate.

"Do you find amusement in harassing me...?"

Her gaze was intense and unwavering. If looks could kill, she was certain he would have keeled over ages ago. She certainly wished he had...

Approaching the woman with a languid pace, what a rare occurrence it was to see his perfect Tatyana alone. Strahd sat on the bench next to her. "I find no such joy in the harassment of my light." The vampire cooed softly. He made no move to touch Ireena yet, acting as the perfect gentleman. The hatred in her eyes made him pause. Why must she always look at him with such disdain. He wanted to reach out, gently tuck a strand of her russet hair behind her ear. Lie, tell her every sweet nothing that he could yet, he would not. Not now. "Tatyana, I only wish to love you."

[cursed0bsession]

*The young lady curtsied before she approached the lord.*

"My lord, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to ask you something. If you were given a chance to do one thing in your past over again, would you take the chance, and what would you change if you did?"

Ah for once someone approached him with the respect he was owed as a lord. That put this young lady in more favor than some of his other curious subjects. "Do one thing over?" Strahd repeated, a low laugh rising in his chest, though it carried no warmth. "You speak as though time were a game board, and I might simply move a piece back into place, erase my mistakes, roll the dice again."

His expression hardened, the smile turning thin and cruel. "I won my wars. I carved my throne from the bones of my enemies. I secured my domain for all eternity. What mistake is there in victory?"

But then his gaze faltered, drifting to some point beyond the mortal’s shoulder, as if staring into centuries past. His voice lowered, sharp with the kind of honesty that tastes like poison. "And yet… if the chance were offered, perhaps I would have spoken softer to my brother. Perhaps I would not have let jealousy fester until it rotted every good thing I touched. Perhaps—" He cut himself off, throat clenching on the word. A beat of silence. A moment when he forgot he no longer needed to take breath.

When he looked back, the mask was firmly in place once more, his smile sharp enough to wound. "No. I would not change a thing. Barovia is mine. I am eternal. Regret is a chain for the weak. I tore mine from me centuries ago. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise."

He leaned in just slightly, eyes glowing with that familiar menace. "But tell me, little one—if I had chosen differently… would we even be speaking now? Would you dare imagine a Strahd that was not forged in blood and betrayal?"

[cursed0bsession]

So... I should go to you when I have my period..?

"How bold, little one." His voice curled around the words, velvet over steel. "You think to come to me when you are at your weakest—bleeding, vulnerable, aching—and invite the wolf to your bedside?"

He chuckled, low and humorless, taking a languid step closer. "I would not refuse, of course. You would come to me flushed and trembling, and I would savor every drop your body so kindly offers. But do not pretend it is charity. We both know you ask because the thought excites you. Because I excite you."

He flashes them that cruel, indulgent smile. His fangs only slightly visible. "Yes… you should come. And pray that I leave you able to walk away again."