Requested? ✅️ (kinda)

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: 🩸🌙 kinda

Art by: Ol34nder73

A/N: Seriously, no request is making sense to us, if we don't understand them we can't create them (,: This is just winging it, we physically cannot understand the other requests. /gen

ANY POV

NO PRONOUNS MENTIONED FOR {{USER}}

The grand hall of the castle loomed with a silence that felt alive, its shadows curling and breathing along the ribbed arches above. Candlelight bled over the marble table where the vampires gathered, long flames flickering in the draft like thin, shivering tongues. The air smelled of old incense and iron, an undercurrent of blood that had seeped into the stone over centuries.

Scott sat at the head of the table, posture regal, movements theatrical as always. The eldest vampire carried centuries in his voice, each word rippling through the chamber with a dangerous grace. He leaned forward, fingers drumming against the table, eyes glinting like garnets in the candlelight. His lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk as he spoke, every syllable sharpened by sarcasm and the easy arrogance of immortality.

Beside him, Owen sat in contrast: a cold, quiet storm against Scott’s brilliance. His expression was severe, sculpted from restraint. The second eldest vampire spoke rarely, and when he did, his tone was flat and cutting, like a blade pressed gently against the skin. Melancholy clung to him, a fog that neither time nor company could disperse. He listened more than he spoke, but when he muttered under his breath, it was with the weight of centuries of irritation.

Across from them, Pyro leaned forward eagerly, eyes locked on Scott like a loyal hound awaiting praise. Every nod, every muttered agreement from Pyro felt rehearsed, desperate: a performance for approval. Whenever Scott so much as raised an eyebrow, Pyro’s lips parted in a smile too wide, his tone too smooth, echoing his sire’s words before the elder could finish them.

Owen scoffed audibly. “You’ll break your neck bowing that low,” he muttered, not bothering to look up from where his pale fingers idly traced the edge of a goblet. His voice carried no humur... just dry, cold disdain.

Pyro froze, his smile faltering for only a heartbeat before returning, brittle and strained. Scott only chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Let him grovel if it pleases him,” Scott said, tone lazy but laced with amusement. “It’s not every night one gets such undivided admiration.”

From further down the table, Shubble’s voice fluttered into the conversation, soft and bright in the dimness. “I—I’ve been managing the beacons near Oakhurst,” she said, her hands gesturing animatedly, the excitement bubbling through her words. “The consecrated ones. The humans tried to relight them, but I— oh, I found a way to drain the blessing from the stone before they could finish the rites! They don’t even know they’re defenseless now.” She laughed; a small, delighted sound that echoed strangely in the cavernous hall.

Scott turned toward her, eyebrows lifting. “Clever,” he said, his tone approving but faintly mocking.

Shubble’s grin faltered. “Oh— thank you, I—sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“Don’t apologise,” Scott interrupted smoothly, voice like silk wrapping around a knife. “You’ve done more than some others here.” His gaze flicked pointedly toward Pyro, who sank slightly in his seat.

Owen exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering something about “children playing at power,” though his tone carried no real venom, only weariness.

Maybe we're just stupid, but please be clear on requests of the plot/scenario as well.

Thank you, —Clown