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— Megan Fernandes, “Do You Sell Dignity Here?” from I Do Everything I’m Told

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A monster, however horrible, secretly attracts us, pursues us, haunts us.

E. M. Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born, tr. Richard Howard

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What is happening.

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You know how the second you release something into the wild, you're instantly able to see things you should've changed?

I should have written "Without decay, nutrients never return to the soil. Without predators, deer populate themselves into starvation. Without fires, seeds suffocate in the undergrowth."

Parallel construction (more or less, nevermind a stray adverb or object, lol) -- it just sounds better.

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These funding cuts leave us no other option than Villainous Performance Art.

(also, Love me.)

Top-Tier Villain Motivations

They will be safe. It doesn't matter who else or what else burns as long as They will be safe.

I will be safe. The hunger and the cold will never touch me again.

Fuck any bitch who's prettier(/cooler/better-liked/better at making dumplings) than me.

Yes, Master

Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. LOVE ME!

I know the terrible things these so-called "heroes" will do if I don't stop them (<- is absolutely wrong)

I don't want a better future, I want a better past!

No other way to get performance art funded these days

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Temporary Vows, Caroline Bird

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Everyone finds that one random unposed snapshot of their mother from 30 years ago where she is literally the most beautiful woman you've ever seen in your life

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This vignette is finally complete! I realized when putting together the last installment that it has the acronym BOOB, which I would've been FAR more obnoxious about if I had realized earlier. Regardless, it was such a fun one to write (even if I did learn, in my research, that you can make MORE meth from the pee of someone who’s done a lot of meth, which doesn’t make it into the story, but is a fact I was cursed with and now you are too). I had no idea where it was going, and wouldn't have initially predicted it would end up where it did. 😳

I loved exploring Tula in a totally desperate state. She's at full hunger this entire time, and nearly frenzies on a couple of occasions — but never actually does (not even at the end!). These events also directly follow her confession to Silk that she diablerized their former packmate, Luna, and they —  the only person she's cared about since she was driven from her sire and city (ironically, as a result of the aforementioned diablerie) —  leave her. In an unconnected but poorly-timed stroke of bad luck, this is also when the building management evicts Ethel, who's actually been dead for months now, and she loses her haven. This bitch has absolutely nothing else to lose. (Or so she thinks.) It's satisfying to explore, especially when her precarious situation has demanded she be so careful prior to these events. 

I also thought a lot about Odell, and while he's terrible, I did develop some sympathy for him. I think it's important to be clear, and I hope it comes across in the reading, that Odell doesn't go after Tula because he thinks she's hot and really wants a blowjob. He wants to know what she did to him (we know, of course: she fed on him and he doesn't remember). He's feels victimized, but he can't admit that to himself, so he turns it into anger and obsession. Doing something to her, exerting power over her and turning HER into the vulnerable one, is how he intends to make things right. He's not especially enthusiastic about the assault, and when he talks about it, it's almost like he's convincing himself he needs to do it. It’s fucked up, of course, but understandable in the whole toxic-logic scheme of things, especially if Odell has some history of feeling powerless or victimized and is responding — however unhealthily — to prior trauma.

As an aside, I do hope to see Carl again. Both he and Odell are on the fringes of a local far-right militia-type group, so I can see that being problematic in the future. 

Anyway, that's my ramble about this very weird little story, BOOB.

TW: Drug use, sexual assault threat.

Prologue: 4:20am

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

“How many nights you gonna sit out here, ‘Dell?” Carl snorts a bump off the back of his left hand. Nice and discrete. Odell likes that about him. Not many folks around this time of night, but the city ain't predictable.

“Until they give me work, I guess, or this bitch shows up.” Odell is tweaking hard, tap-tap-tapping fingers fast against his thigh through time-worn jeans. Feels good, stupid-confident, invincible, electric. 

“Ain’t ever seen you so strung out on a woman.” Carl sniffs, nostrils burning. “An’ you don’t even know why.” 

“That’s what’s fuckin’ with me.” That’s what’s been fucking with him, ever since he dropped the girl here weeks ago. Chewed on the night himself for a while, running through the memory time and time again. Picked her up on the old highway off 78. Brought her here. She was supposed to make it worth his while. Parked in this lot, in this space. Then nothing. He jerked awake an hour later, all woozy-feeling, like he’d been drugged or something. The bitch was gone. 

“An’ if you find her. What then?” 

Odell’s laugh is humorless, half-manic. Sure, he’s pissed about being scammed, especially by a hitchhiking skank. More than that, though, he don’t like the fact she did something to him. Can’t figure how nor why. Hundreds in cash still in his wallet, .38 in the glovebox, crystal stashed under the seat cover. Nothing at all fucked with, ‘cept him. Kinda wished she’d robbed him, ‘cause then he’d at least know why. The uneasy dark of his memory needled him all these past weeks, ’til he couldn’t tolerate it no more. Odell Brown, in his own estimation, is not a man to be fucked-with.  

“She has a debt. I’m collecting.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble just to get your dick sucked.” 

“It’s the principle of it.”

 If she was nice, if she told him what she did, how she put him out, maybe he’d just let her settle up. If not… well, wouldn’t be the first bitch who needed lessons learnt the hard way.

Envision it like an architectural rendering from a blueprint: twelve floor building, eleven flights of stairs. No roof access from here. The building superintendent is dressed but not shaved, eyes bleary red, hair uncombed and tufting aggressively on the left in haphazard peaks. The lights are a problem, he agrees, in fact, he was going to replace the bulbs between the third and fifth floors last week, but his supplier didn’t have the four-foot fluorescent tubes in stock, as everything is LED now, you know. He thinks they should upgrade, but the manager doesn’t want to spend the cash. It’s never locked, no sir: that’s a fire hazard. If you want to go up or down, it’s this or the elevator — or, yeah, there’s a fire escape on the West side of the building. It’s up to code, but he doesn’t have the paperwork. You’ll have to call his boss.

Worked here for twenty years. It’s getting harder as the building gets on in age. Things breaking more. And the tenants: well, they’re getting on in age too. Three years ago a man died in his place — no foul play, mind you, natural causes — and they didn’t find him until the neighbors noticed the smell. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to get rid of that smell. Or maybe you would. There’s a lady on four who’s got dementia, he thinks, and the husband isn’t all there either. She’ll go knocking on doors all hours of the night. Most of the residents know her, and they’ll just call him, and he takes her back home. Not really his job, but he feels bad for her being all confused, and it’s easier than fielding complaints about it all night.

As for the lady on seven, Ethel, well, no. He hasn’t seen her lately. Not in months. She’s been there longer than he has: a widow, lord, forever now. He can’t be sure he ever even met her husband. She had some family in town recently, some granddaughter or great-niece or something. Never saw her himself, no. No one in that apartment ever caused a bit of trouble, not until the rent stopped being paid about six months ago. He hates to put someone out on the street, especially an old woman, but it’s his boss’s call. You know how it is.

He assumes it was an attempted robbery, someone tipped off about the eviction. Neighbors heard some strange banging sounds, maybe something like a struggle. Doesn’t think there was anything of real value there. Never saw anything flashy on Ethel. She was just real subdued, polite.

And the blood? The handprint on the stairwell wall, the trail of droplets from seven down? Well, no, he can’t explain that, but he finds it very troubling. Do you think something happened to Ethel?

“Wish we had some music or something.”

Odell doesn’t answer. His eyesight is kinda shit; he had glasses years back, but they broke or got lost and that was the end of it. He’s squinting, eyes on a figure moving beneath the streetlamp. Girl-sized. Flash of red hair. Pale-ass legs, big-ass boots. No jacket, but some big shirt. 

“Hey,” he’s nodding to the street, already fishing for his gun. “I think that’s her.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“We’re gonna follow her.”

“Fuck, I got a record. I don’t need another case.”

“You gonna be a pussy about this?” Odell checks his gun. “There’s another in the glovebox — grab it.”

Face all grimaced, Carl retrieves the spare and tucks it into his waistband. Knows, sinkingly, that it adds charges. When he helped Davy hit that gas station last year, he only got 12 months, out in 10, and Davy’s still in, ‘cause Davy had the gun. (Tried to pin the weapon on him, that fucking snake, but there was fucking security video and everyone knew he was full of shit, so yeah, fuck you Davy.)

Still — Carl likes Odell. Trusts him. Maybe more than Jenni, Odell’s little sister. Jenni was hot shit when she and Carl met, twenty-three and a dancer at Mirages out near the Railyard. Biggest fake tits you ever saw on a real-life woman. Said the doctor didn’t wanna do ‘em that big, but she insisted. Things have been rough with her since he got out. Pills. Lots of ‘em. Half the time she doesn’t even get outta bed. Other half she spends on the sagging couch in their trailer’s shitty living room, chain smoking and watching shows with the curtains drawn. Even her tits seem pathetic. What do you do about shit like that?

They don’t talk about her. Sensitive subject for both of ‘em. One time, after about a case of Natty Light and god knows what else, ‘Dell put his elbows on his knees all woozy-looking and slurred: “Fuck man, you know how I found out about her? Went to that stupid club, and there’s Jenni up on stage in a fucking g-string, tits out, shaking her ass in some ugly fucker’s face. She saw me and I saw her and I walked right outta there and never went back.” The way he said it, too, you know it fucked with him. These days Jenni’s his problem. She’s gotta be fucking her dealer ‘cause she’s not working and he’s not giving her pill money, but she keeps gettin’ pills. Carl doesn’t say shit about it. You can’t tell a man his little sister’s a pill-head hooker, you just can’t. Besides, everybody knows that’s just what happens when you go away, shit goes South. 

“She got a name?” 

“Told me it was Luna.”

Pretty name. He tries to look casual as they follow the redhead, staying a good twenty yards back. They pick up their pace as she enters a building.

“She pretty hot?”

“Yeah, not bad. Nice lips. But she’s pale as fuck. ”

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Hahahaha, OKAY BUT she washed the coyote slobber off in the ocean later, after driving around in the gross stolen truck, and THEN she bought a new t-shirt at a convenience store.

SEE what happens when Silk's not around???

TW: gore and violence, feral women, vampires on meth blood

Prelude: 4:02

Part One

Part Two

She's been hungry forever. Never known satisfaction. Her teeth don't puncture, they tear. Sticky chunks of flesh and viscera straight from the bone. Not sucking but chewing, slurping grease-chemical blood from this meat like juice from a pulp. Letting the desiccated, mashed-up mess fall from her mouth into the dirt before plunging her teeth back in, time and time again. Not thinking but taking, filling the hollow, the hunger. Body tensed like she'll cum, calves and thighs and stomach, all hard-coiled muscles, all straining. An ecstatic release at the moment of culmination, a moaning against the bloodless insides. She's taken it all. Where did you learn to do that?

Tula sighs deeply, resting her cheek in the muddle of flesh, basking in her kill, nearly laying in it. She could burrow into the broke-open body and stay warm forever, walls of bones and eaves of skin. Artery lashing. Fleshcraft. Where did you hear that?

It's already beginning to cool. A tickling thought, recalling the other who ran.

Tula sits up, blinking in the blue moonlight, rubbing her eyes with the balls of her palms. Should she chase them? An electric feeling is spreading under her skin, a sense of tumbling momentum, a quickness. Her heart suddenly a too-fast metronome, beating on its own volition, my god: she is alive! Let them run. They are no threat to her. Look at her! Covered in blood, fresh from the womb of her own bestial wickedness! Look! Brutal, beautiful: this thing of myth and nightmare, this eater-of-men, this girl-monster! She wants to scream at the moon, remind her that she's still there; she's been hidden away in closets and and basements and backrooms and shadows, but for fuck's sake, she's alive. Is that what he'll tell them? Then tell them!

Tula sneers down at Odell's face, the pink peeling lips, the wide yellow sclera of eyes frozen open in death-fear. The mangled neck, split chest to lungs and red withered heart, open belly. (What had she done to him?) Tula rises, scowl-browed, black-eyed. Grabs the corpse's arm, anchoring a boot on its ribs, and pulls, twisting until the ligaments snap and bones crack. Twisting until the grey flesh splits, and the limb pulls from the body. (What is she doing to him?)

The arm flops at the elbow when she holds it up. Inhumanly still, she fishes for calm, for focus. Her jaw sets. Much to do. When she speaks, it's loud enough to carry: "I'm going to need your help with this."

A single coyote trots out of the darkness, muted redbrown and bushy, ears up and twitching-alert. It sits patiently opposite the corpse, a curious canine tilt to its head. Half a dozen others follow, eyes flashing the carnivorous moonlight.

"Are you hungry?"

They took it all, piece by piece. They licked the blood from her hands, her face, her arms and legs. When she left with the truck, with her credit card and his cash, Odell Brown was no more.

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TW: gore and violence, feral women, vampires on meth blood

Prologue: 4:20am

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

She's been hungry forever. Never known satisfaction. Her teeth don't puncture, they tear. Sticky chunks of flesh and viscera straight from the bone. Not sucking but chewing, slurping grease-chemical blood from this meat like juice from a pulp. Letting the desiccated, mashed-up mess fall from her mouth into the dirt before plunging her teeth back in, time and time again. Not thinking but taking, filling the hollow, the hunger. Body tensed like she'll cum, calves and thighs and stomach, all hard-coiled muscles, all straining. An ecstatic release at the moment of culmination, a moaning against the bloodless insides. She's taken it all. Where did you learn to do that?

Tula sighs deeply, resting her cheek in the muddle of flesh, basking in her kill, nearly laying in it. She could burrow into the broke-open body and stay warm forever, walls of bones and eaves of skin. Artery lashing. Fleshcraft. Where did you hear that?

It's already beginning to cool. A tickling thought, recalling the other who ran.

Tula sits up, blinking in the blue moonlight, rubbing her eyes with the balls of her palms. Should she chase them? An electric feeling is spreading under her skin, a sense of tumbling momentum, a quickness. Her heart suddenly a too-fast metronome, beating on its own volition, my god: she is alive! Let them run. They are no threat to her. Look at her! Covered in blood, fresh from the womb of her own bestial wickedness! Look! Brutal, beautiful: this thing of myth and nightmare, this eater-of-men, this girl-monster! She wants to scream at the moon, remind her that she's still there; she's been hidden away in closets and and basements and backrooms and shadows, but for fuck's sake, she's alive. Is that what he'll tell them? Then tell them!

Tula sneers down at Odell's face, the pink peeling lips, the wide yellow sclera of eyes frozen open in death-fear. The mangled neck, split chest to lungs and red withered heart, open belly. (What had she done to him?) Tula rises, scowl-browed, black-eyed. Grabs the corpse's arm, anchoring a boot on its ribs, and pulls, twisting until the ligaments snap and bones crack. Twisting until the grey flesh splits, and the limb pulls from the body. (What is she doing to him?)

The arm flops at the elbow when she holds it up. Inhumanly still, she fishes for calm, for focus. Her jaw sets. Much to do. When she speaks, it's loud enough to carry: "I'm going to need your help with this."

A single coyote trots out of the darkness, muted redbrown and bushy, ears up and twitching-alert. It sits patiently opposite the corpse, a curious canine tilt to its head. Half a dozen others follow, eyes flashing the carnivorous moonlight.

"Are you hungry?"

They took it all, piece by piece. They licked the blood from her hands, her face, her arms and legs. When she left with the truck, with her credit card and his cash, Odell Brown was no more.

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OC Deep Dive - Tula Redgrave

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

One of the things I love about this story is that, despite the facade of power and prestige and allure we associate with being Kindred, the Beast is, above all, a very scared and hungry thing. Tula’s fears are many, varied, vague, and often contradictory. Sometimes the terror is impossible to name.

She is afraid of herself: primarily the capacity for violence that she struggles to control. Of her hunger and what it demands of her. Of love, because she fears she is incapable of not hurting those she loves.  She is afraid of being alone. She is afraid of never finding a place, and she’s afraid of being trapped in the wrong place.

She’s afraid of losing herself to Luna, that her memories aren’t her own. She’s fears that, since she’s turned, her face has physically changed or is changing, and she won’t know herself at all (damn that Lasombra bane!).

Exposure and attention. Heights (she’s more of a Depths Bitch). Silk’s suffering. Children. Jumpscares.

Do they have any pet peeves?

Men who tell her to smile.

People who don’t use headphones on public transit.

Lying liars and the lies they tell. 

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

Welp, she’s currently holed up Las Alturas’s shittiest motel, but on the upside they gave her a real key (not a keycard) and she can turn the ancient television on, most of the time -- those are Lasombra luxuries, right??

I’ll list literally every item she owns:

One pair of Walmart jeans (lighter wash, baggy, low-slung)

Silk's slutty fake leather shorts

Five black shirts: 2 identical tank tops, 1 cropped tshirt, 1 sleeveless mock turtleneck, 1 lace-overlayed bodysuit, all cheap as hell

An oversized purple t-shirt that just says "Las Alturas" (purchased at a convenience store, so you know it’s good)

Black stompy boots

Cosmetics: Lotion, soap, comb, blush, lip gloss (someone get her some curl cream, please)

Notebook & Pens

Ethel's 70s-era honeymoon snapshot: a round-corner print, muted colors, grainy

Odell’s gun

What do they notice first in a person?

If she’s not in pursuit of a goal or objective, nothing. She can be remarkably disengaged. 

Otherwise, what she notices corresponds directly to why she’s looking. Prey? Their capacity to resist, escape, fight back. An associate? Their mood, their desires, what they need from her. She's a very practical observer, unless there's an emotional connection. Then she can be full-on obsessive, noticing every little detail.

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

What is average for a vampire? 12? Probably about there. She has no affection or affinity for pain, but she endures. Knowing that most injuries won’t kill you dulls the panic that accompanies pain, making it overall less traumatic. The only pain she really fears is hunger. Emotional pain is a different story, but a similar simmering constant.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? (or freeze and fawn)

Flight if it’s not important, fight if it is. She’s got some Potence, so she might as well use it. 

What animal represents them best?

Wild red fox. (Not those urban foxes who don’t give a fuck.) Red hair, sleek, skittish, rarely seen. Not very social, except in small groups.  Hunted by assholes. Difficult to domesticate. Horny? Horny. 

How would a stranger likely describe them?

“Who?” -Timothy Cooper

“Yeah, not bad. Nice lips. But she’s pale as fuck.” -Odell Brown

“Affectionately, a pain in my ass.” -Salvador Santos

“She’s very…” “…fucking…” “…intense.” -Megan, Meghan, Meagan 

“The skinny white girl with the Xanax eyes?” -Stella Benjamin

“Fascinating, perhaps useful. We’ll find out, won’t we?” -Miel

*nervous sweating* -Lamb

Do they have any hobbies?

Reading, mostly: nearly anything, but she has a soft spot for Magical Realism, literary fiction, queer fiction, short stories. Idle doodling. Research, when she has cause. Watching television, when she can. 

Tagged by @porcelainseashore -- thank you so much! <3

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oh no, so Tula wasn't really taught about the clan's history and values and such? I have two follow up questions

1.) do you think Tula could have survived in the Sabbat if Evelyn had Embraced her there instead?

2.) what training and instruction *did* Evelyn give her? does Tula still keep any of that training?

She wasn’t really! Recently (like, in the very last thing I wrote for her, lol) she began to learn about her the history of her clan, but to her, it seems distant and bizarre, like myth. (I look forward to her finding out the hard way that it isn’t.)

I like to think Tula would have survived in the Sabbat, maybe even thrived in it, perhaps moreso than the Camarilla. She is keenly aware of her monstrous nature, and I could absolutely see her fitting better with an organization that acknowledges, rather than suppresses, this truth. Her need for belonging could be satisfied by the Vaulderie. And apparently she’s pretty good at diablerie, so that’s another gold star. 

(There is an AU that exists where Tula was part of Silk’s original pack! It’s a lot of fun. …and occasionally very strange.)

And I think Evelyn, who was embraced into the Sabbat but later broke from her sire and defected (before her clan did), realized that Tula was better suited to the Sabbat, and I think that was one of the reasons she was so hard on her, and told her so little. Basically, Evelyn taught her the ways of the Camarilla. The hierarchies, the Traditions, etc. Names and significance of prominent Atlanta vampires, who to be wary of, who is and isn’t worth her time, how politics and power work among kindred. The importance of self control, manipulation, and obedience. To the Camarilla, but especially to her.  

I always appreciate the questions! Helps me to better define different areas of her experience. Thank you for letting me ramble. <3

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May I ask another Tula question? What does she think about the Sabbat? Or the history and heritage of the Lasombra with that Sect? Did her Sire teach her anything about them, or did she avoid discussing them at all?

Of course! I will take all of the questions, and be grateful for a chance to ramble! Tula has no clue. She was Camarilla progeny, specifically. The cost of Evelyn joining the Ivory Tower was her childer, which she accepted, and she was able to sire Tula as a replacement for the one she sacrificed. Tula was supposed to be a Good Camarilla Lasombra, but guess what, her blood is still VERY Sabbat and she's a starved freak, so that is the crux of her downfall and the avenue through which, with Silk, she finds her legitimate place and power. Sorry, Evie, you gave it a good try.

Thank you so much for asking!