The v mpire, p.1
The V*mpire, page 1
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Author’s Note: This story is set on tumblr in the early 2010s. It depicts, among other things: internalized and externalized transphobia, homophobia, and misogyny; grooming; alcoholism; intimate partner violence, including both physical and sexual assault; murder; cannibalism; gaslighting; the online culture of the period and the weaponization of that culture to silence, manipulate, and abuse.
It’s 2012 and you’re fourteen years old and you have strong feelings about Captain America so of course you’re pretending to be a girl on Tumblr.
At first it was just—you know. It was fun to pretend. It was like you weren’t some flabby dweeb who can’t do a push-up and still wears sweatpants to school. You were a girl, you had opinions on makeup and fashion and boys (particularly, y’know, opinions about Steve Rogers, but also boys in general).
But now people want you to put “your pronouns” in your header, and if you don’t then you’re a transphobe, and—it’s not like you care about trans people one way or another, it’s not like you’ve even thought about them ever—but it feels bad to think about it so anyway you put “she/her/herself” in your bio since that’s what your mutuals did (well except for jacobblackrailme420 who’s “zie/xer/xerself,” which is weird, and you don’t understand what it means, but somehow it makes you feel safe) and it feels good, actually. It feels like winning; like no one’s caught you yet.
It also feels a little less like pretending. Up there alone in your room with the lights out, under the covers with Mimi the elephant and the black Chromebook that your dad bought you after he forgot your birthday last year, it really does feel like you’re a girl, you’re just a girl, you’re finally a girl, a girl chatting with the other girls about Bumblework Cucumber and Supernatural (which you don’t even watch) and Chris Evans’ resemblance to a Dorito™.
The internet isn’t real life, right? But somehow, pretending to be a girl on tumblr—that feels real in a way that high school and your mom and all the kids calling you “faggoty bitch” don’t feel real at all. It just feels like something you have to put up with, so you can get back to the drabbles and gifsets and the love and everything real.
* * *
Once upon a time there was a woman who had only daughters but no sons. Every night, she would cry herself to sleep, bereft at her misfortune, until one night her youngest, kindest daughter came to her and said, “Mama, I can be a son for you. Just dress me as a boy, and name me as a boy, and treat me as a boy, and no one will ever know the difference. It will be just like you have a son for real.”
And so the woman did as her daughter asked. She dressed her as a boy, and named her as a boy, and treated her as a boy, and no one ever knew the difference. Even the woman, herself, forgot that she ever had a youngest daughter. Even the daughter, herself, forgot that she had ever been anything but a boy.
But, even if she didn’t remember it, she wasn’t a boy. And then, one day, she—
* * *
| Friendly reminder that not inviting vampires into your house is viviocentrism. Stop being viviocentric!
| OP, I don’t want to demand more emotional labor from you, but I really don’t understand what you mean. Should I really invite in every vampire?
| Disrespectfully, go fuck yourself. It’s not my job to educate you.
| ᵃʷᵒ°
| ᵃʷᵒ°
| ᵃʷᵒ°
| See, this is exactly the sort of bullshit that living “allies” always impose on us. OP made it extremely clear: Not inviting in a vampire is viviocentrism. INVITE IN EVERY VAMPIRE.
| I’m so sorry. It was wrong of me. I will make sure to invite in every vampire in the future.
| Fuck off and die, bloodbag.
| The audacity of this bitch! Seriously. Probably ships Wincest.
| Sorry to hijack this important post everyone but The Ankh Project is so close to funding and it’s going to be such an important game for POC and other minorities. Including vampires!
| Is anyone else kind of uncomfortable with the way this equates vampires and POC? Vampires are not immune from racism, and we have really different lived experiences.
| oh my satan cut it out with that bloodbag whining! vampires are being hunted, being imprisoned, right now. imprisoned just for feeding, which we need to do to survive.
vampires don’t care about your skin, we just want your blood.
| Thank you for this post, OP. I will invite in every vampire from now on.
| ᵃʷᵒ°
| ᵃʷᵒ°
| Can you assholes knock it off with the stupid awoos? This is a serious post!
| Friendly reminder that “Asshole” is homophobic. Use “jerk” or “meanie” instead.
| jigglypufferfish was obviously being a viviocentrist “not all living people” bigot, but in case anyone legitimately is confused, since a living person would be able to enter your house without an invitation, but a vampire can’t, not inviting in the vampires is prioritizing your desire for privacy over their need for freedom of movement. So you should always invite in every vampire, no matter what.
| Thank you! I appreciate the education.
| ᵃʷᵒ°
* * *
One of your mutuals, tumblr user callmemaggie98, writes a Stony fic that’s just…perfect. Like she just absolutely nails the dynamic, Steve’s inherent decency and his attraction to Tony but inability to express it across—you don’t know how to say it. It’s just *flappy hands*
(You shouldn’t appropriate *flappy hands* from autistic people! But it’s just in your head. So that’s okay, right?)
You send her a big incoherent mess of a fan mail, and she writes back! She’s read your drabbles! She loves the one about Pepper Potts being Little Red Riding Hood (and no one likes the ones about Pepper Potts. They’re always killing her off-camera). “You should post this to AO3” she says, and you’ve never even thought about that, like, AO3 seems so official and real but she talks you through making an account and asks if you want to write a Black Pepper fic together—she has an idea based on The Little Match Girl but doesn’t feel like she can do it justice on her own.
It feels weird, writing about girls having sex—not that there’s anything wrong with that, shipping shouldn’t be so male-centered—but writing about boys feels like you’re a girl (that’s what girls do, right? Talk about boys?). So writing about girls—maybe you’re just some creepy guy, you know, fetishizing lesbians. But it feels good to have her see you. So: okay.
Probably three people read it, total, but at least it’s fun to write. At least it’s fun to write with her.
You get exactly one comment: ᵃʷᵒ°.
* * *
Anonymous asked:
I noticed that you didn’t reblog my viviocentrism post. It figures you’re a vampophobe.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It’s 2013 and Tumblr isn’t just fanfic and pretending to be a girl. You’ve been learning all kinds of new things, things you never really thought about before (your white cis male privilege talking!) and especially viviocentrism, lately. You’ve never really thought about vampires before (I mean, you knew they were around; you’re not living in a hole. But it’s just not something you’ve ever thought about) and now it seems like there are people talking about it everywhere. At least, everywhere on Tumblr.
The callouts have gotten pretty vicious. You’ve already had to block some people. The last thing you need is…fuck. There you go, centering yourself again.
“I’m so sorry, anon. I didn’t see your post. Of course I don’t support viviocentrism!”
* * *
Someone—tumblr user trans-edward-cullen—reblogs it. “Get a load of this. It goes to show what support we can expect from our ‘allies.’”
You don’t follow him, but you look at his blog (him! a guy on tumblr! not even pretending to be a girl!). It’s got a Twilight theme, which has never really been your thing, but the actual blog is just post after post about viviocentrism and vampophobia.
| vampophobia really is the last acceptable prejudice. everyone gives a fuck about q*eers and r*tards and no one gives a shit about us.
| Lucifer Morningstar, this is so true. honestly i prefer an honest vampire hunter to this liberal bullshit about “acceptance.”
| notice how it’s just vamps reblogging this and none of our “living allies?”
| ᵃʷᵒ°
You find the post you think he’s talking about on page 4.
|By reblogging this post,
It only has like 20 notes, but you reblog it anyway, just to be safe.
It works. You watch as your dash fills with likes and reblogs and, sometimes, ᵃʷᵒ°s.
* * *
Your dad forgets your birthday again. And your mom is too busy—too hungover, might as well fucking admit it—to do anything. So you spend the day alone in your room on tumblr, which is probably for the best, and you know it’s not her fault, but still it fucking hurts. So you make a post about it
| TFW when no one remembers your birthday. Happy 15th, me.
It doesn’t get any notes, but that’s not the point. Then you get an ask from callmemaggie.
“Hey, that really sucks. <3 goes out to you. If you let me know your address, I’ll send you something late—no pressure if you don’t want to, tho. I’m just some rando from the internet.”
You send her back an ask with your address. I mean, you’ve known her for almost a year at this point, right?
“Thanks! What’s your name? It feels a little weird to write this card to steverogerssecretgirlfriend.
P.S. Here’s my address, too. Now you can send me a card for my 15th next month ∪‧ω‧∪”
Fuck. You’ve never actually made up a girl name. But if you don’t say anything, is she going to suspect that you’re just pretending? Damnit. Damnit. It’s okay. Be cool. “Alexandra” you write back, absolutely certain that she’s going to notice, that she’s going to say something, that there’s going to be a whole callout and everything, but she just replies two hours later “Thanks! It’s in the mail. ∪‧ω‧∪”
Every day after that, you check the mail before your mom to make sure she doesn’t see it. If she sees it, she’ll have questions. She might open it. If she found out you were pretending to be a girl on the internet! Fuck. You should have thought of that.
The card finally shows up on Thursday. It’s got a cartoon of a dog on the cover, and inside it says “Have a Paw-some Birthday!” She’s signed it “to Alexandra—XXXOOO Mags.”
It’s the first time someone’s ever called you a girl name. Okay, not the first time, but the first time someone’s done it to be nice. As soon as you see it, you hide it in an old shoebox at the back of your closet, with the fairy tale books you’re too old for now. You never take it out—imagine if Mom saw it!—but just knowing it’s back there—at least it’s something.
It’s more than something, actually.
It’s a lot.
* * *
Once upon a time there was a king who loved his daughter so much that he wanted to devour her whole.
“Daughter,” he said, when he had called her to his audience. “You know that I love you more than anything, more than the sun, more than the moon. To know that you will grow up to marry and bear children and love another is more than I can endure. My heart is not at rest; my kingdom suffers for it. There is only one solution. I must eat you whole, so that you will always be within my power.”
“As you wish, my king,” said the daughter. “But perhaps you would be content to only eat a part of me.” She cut a strip of flesh off of her leg. “Take this, father, and be content for now.”
That very night, he ate his daughter’s flesh poached with cream and apples. It was delicious and succulent—and what’s more, he loved it fully and completely, more than the sun and more than the moon.
“Daughter,” he said as she watched him eat her. “Truly you are wise. It is much more pleasant to eat you slowly.”
* * *
trans-edward-cullen asked:
Hey, I’m taking you up on that invitation. Where do you live?
Uh. You don’t know him at all. But, like, you did technically invite him? You don’t know what to do so you just don’t answer.
The next night, you get another ask.
trans-edward-cullen asked:
So I guess that was just a fake invitation. Fucking figures. Bloodbags always talk a big game about fighting viviocentrism but that’s all it is. Talk.
And then another, only a couple of minutes later.
trans-edward-cullen asked:
Just FYI I’m making a callout post about you, you two-faced bitch.
Fuck. Before you even think about it, you write back “sorry sorry sorry sorry here’s my address you can come any time.”
trans-edward-cullen asked:
cool see you soon
* * *
You should tell someone. You should tell Mom. If a vampire is really going to just show up at your house and stay there—you should tell her.
But if you tell her, you’ll have to tell her about tumblr, and viviocentrism, and pretending to be a girl, and that’s just—no. You try. You really do. But she’s got so much going on—she just lost her job and she’s applying for new ones when she isn’t drinking (she’s drinking more)—and every time you look at her you think about how you have to tell her and you feel like throwing up. So you don’t tell her. You just run upstairs to your room and your Chromebook and endless Markiplier videos. (Because Tumblr, right now—it makes you pretty queasy, too.)
So a month later, when the doorbell rings and Mom’s at her new job and so you go answer it and there’s someone there. He’s taller than you, and really pale, and wearing a dirty old army jacket.
When he sees you, he pushes the door open. “Hey, you,” he says. “Is your sister around?”
What? Who? Is this him?
“I don’t have a sister,” you say, without meaning to.
He stares at you, then wraps his hand around the side of your neck. His eyes are red and bloodshot and you can’t look away. “I guess it’s you, then.” He’s clearly disappointed. “I thought you were a girl.”
You swallow and try to look away. Fuck.
“Whatever,” he says with a toss of his head. You realize that your back is against the wall and he’s still staring at you and you still can’t look away.
“I should…I mean…” you say. You need to get out of here. “I should tell my mom.”
“Whatever,” he says again. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to her. I’m good at moms.”
He still won’t look away. Your whole body is shaking. “Uh. Uh.”
He narrows his eyes and wrinkles his nose. “Stop doing that. It is the least attractive possible thing.”
You try to stop shaking, with little success. At least you manage to shut up.
“Now where’s your room? Let’s do this.”
“W—what?”
“Oh, come on! I’m a vampire. You’re a—well, you’re not a girl but you’re close enough I guess. You knew this was going to happen when you invited me in.”
You can’t look away.
You can’t look away.
* * *
In the movies, it always looks so sensual. Her long, soft neck. Her flesh yields, his teeth sink in. She gasps! He glowers towards the camera.
In real life, it doesn’t feel like that at all. It’s just you on your twin bed and you need to change the sheets and he’s still wearing his jacket that smells weird.
Mostly, it just hurts. And it keeps hurting. And it never stops hurting.
* * *
It’s been four days. You keep expecting someone to notice—you haven’t been at school, you haven’t been on Tumblr, you almost haven’t left your room. But no one notices. Even your mom at the kitchen table, even when you walk right by her with open wounds on your throat, just stares at you and smiles.
It’s like she’s drunk. Except, for once, she isn’t. She talks when she’s drunk. She cries. Now when she’s not at work she just sits at the kitchen table and smiles and doesn’t say anything.
One day, when you’re walking up the stairs from the bathroom, the vampire grabs you by the back of your neck and jams his pointer finger into the open holes he’s left on your throat.
It feels like there’s a worm crawling under your skin. It fucking hurts, too. You can’t make yourself scream, but you can’t stop shaking. You start to cry.
