stereotypical vampires suck: it's what they do
Maladicta drew her fingernail in a long, steady line down the delicate blue vein she could make out underneath the fair skin of her inner arm. It left a faint pink line that quickly smoothed back to whiteness. She sighed.
She was, at present, if nothing else comfortable. She’d found a white slip in the basement that was greatly preferable to the trousers and man’s shirt she’d been in before, and was artfully sprawled across the pool table, ankles tucked together and hips twisted towards the wall. She dropped her arms over her head, one bending so she could absently play with her hair where it was fanned across the green felt. She was bored. Painfully bored. She wanted someone to play with. So she remained draped with unnervingly boneless ease where she was and watched the door out of the corner of her eye.
She was, at present, if nothing else comfortable. She’d found a white slip in the basement that was greatly preferable to the trousers and man’s shirt she’d been in before, and was artfully sprawled across the pool table, ankles tucked together and hips twisted towards the wall. She dropped her arms over her head, one bending so she could absently play with her hair where it was fanned across the green felt. She was bored. Painfully bored. She wanted someone to play with. So she remained draped with unnervingly boneless ease where she was and watched the door out of the corner of her eye.