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#but who needs therapy when you can be an undead sexyman right
ashintheairlikesnow · 10 months
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Hello there!
I haven‘t heard of my favourite vampire for a long time. Let‘s see some Erich ultimately giving into his new nature. Pls 🥺👉👈
"Erich was slowly but surely starting to enjoy himself, feeling his humanity slipping away from him."
Dresden, East Germany, 1947
With every passing day, Erich Eeten was slowly - but surely - starting to... enjoy it.
The feeling of skin torn apart by his teeth, the rush of hot blood on his tongue and down his throat, warm skin that went cold as he drank and took another life, and another, and another... It had gone from a horror to an ecstasy, each time the idea that he was doing harm seemed further and further from his mind.
It felt like his humanity was slipping away from him.
More and more often, he found he did not care. He lived, after all, in the ruins of the greatest inhumanity he could ever have imagined.
Tonight, he walked with his hands buried in the pockets of a great overcoat, a cap pulled down low to shield the vaguely feline, inhuman pupils of his gleaming eyes. The ruins of the bombed-out city felt like observers all their own, piles of brick and rubble that seemed to sway towards him and then away.
The darkness slid around him like liquid, and the person he was following did not see him at all.
Why he had even wanted to return to Germany, he wasn't sure. To see his homeland desecrated and wrecked, the land of his father broken by the bombs that it had carelessly egged on again and again... Then split in two.
In the First War, they had taught he and the other soldiers, too young to know better, that there was glory in fighting for your country. Thousands had wandered home with shellshock and nightmares to show for their grand ideals and the ambitions of old rich men who sent the young and poor to die in the fields of France.
If he were going to weep for what Germany lost, he would have done so in 1918.
Here - now - all he could feel was the hunger that was never quite satisfied.
He sidestepped a fallen stone as he moved past the ruins of a grand church. Two walls were all that stood now, the curve on one side and straight lines on the other. A statue of Martin Luther still held court, looming with solemn dignity over the death of worship.
Someone had laid flowers beneath Luther's stone feet. They had gone gray, brown, and dried.
The man Erich followed had paused to light a cigarette, his matches a bright flicker of flame in the ever-present darkness.
Erich felt the ache in his fangs that longed to be buried in soft living skin. He swallowed, shifting slightly to the side. He let the shadows hide him.
It mattered so much less, now, if he knew someone had done harm or not.
Only the old rich men ever truly won the wars. The young and poor only went home to wait until they were forced to fight another.
And was it any worse to take life from a need to survive, than it was to order men like chess pieces to fall and be lost for nothing but vanity and ambition?
At least Erich kills clean.
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