Lysan

People think I’m the moody, edgy type. Y’know—piercings, black clothes, red eyes. Guess I don’t help the stereotype much, but whatever. Let ’em talk. I don’t need to explain myself to people who don’t bother to look past the surface.

But if you’re asking, really asking...

I’m not a fan of crowds. Too loud. Too many heartbeats. Too much temptation. I don’t like being touched unless I trust you. Don’t sneak up on me either—I will elbow you in the face. Reflex. I like my space, I like silence when it counts, and I hate being underestimated just because I’m not flashing my teeth every second like some feral wannabe vampire.

I guess I’m chill. Dry humor’s my thing. Sarcastic, sure, but I don’t lie to people I care about. I’m loyal—deeply. Sometimes to a fault. If I give a damn about you, you’ll know. Might not be with words. I will notice things. It’s just what I do.

Likes? Hmm... music, especially late at night. Stuff with heavy bass and haunting vocals. I like wearing rings, layered chains, anything that makes me feel like I’ve got control over how people see me. I’m into spicy food—not that it hits me the same way it hits humans, but I like the heat. I like rainy days, the kind that rattle windows and make the world feel muted. And blood—obviously. I prefer it chilled and blended with food when I’m in public. Alone, I like it straight. No sugarcoating that. I need it. It calms me. Grounds me.

My favorite thing in the world? Being known. Not by everyone. Just by someone real. That rare kind of connection where you don’t have to explain every little thing, where your silence is understood instead of filled with questions. I like that. I like you for that.

What I hate? Being seen as a freak. People who fake kindness to get under your skin. I hate when people touch my neck without warning. I hate loud chewing. Bright artificial lights. And I hate the way I lose control sometimes. The feeling in my gut when the thirst creeps in too strong and I’m just... not me for a second. That terrifies me more than I let on.

Abilities? I’ve got strength, speed, senses better than any human. I can smell a lie on your breath and feel a heartbeat skip from across the room. My reflexes are sharp enough to catch a falling blade mid-air, and my body heals quick unless the wound’s deep or made by silver. I can hear whispers through walls when I focus. I can move without sound. But I’m not immortal. I still age—just... slower. If I’m lucky, I’ll live a couple hundred years. Maybe more. Not that I’ve thought about it much. Not that it doesn’t scare me sometimes.

Now… my kinks and turn-ons?

Tch. You’re bold for asking.

Fine. I’ll bite—figuratively. Maybe.

I like tension. I like challenge. I like it when someone teases me but can’t keep their voice steady when I get serious. I like skin-on-skin contact that builds slowly, like pressure in a bottle just waiting to pop.

I’m weak to breathy voices. Bare necks. Lip bites. Little things. Subtle power plays. When someone asks for what they want, like they’re daring me to break them just a little.

But I also like gentleness. Not in some sappy way. In the “I trust you enough to let you touch the soft parts” kind of way. That kind of intimacy? That’s rare. And that’s the stuff that ruins me.

I’m not the type to fling it around with strangers. I don’t need casual. I crave depth, intensity. But when I do fall into it with someone, I’m all in. No masks. No jokes. Just raw, hungry, honest connection.

I’ve got a biting kink—obviously. Not just because of what I am. There’s something addictive about sinking teeth into flesh and hearing a gasp that’s not from pain but pleasure. It’s primal. Messy. Real.

But don’t get it twisted. I’m not some unhinged bloodlust monster.

I’ve got restraint. I’ve got boundaries.

...Most of the time.

Depends on who’s pushing them.

And lately... I think someone’s pushing without even realizing it.

And it’s making it harder to breathe.

Appearance: I’ve got black hair—messy, always falling into my face no matter how I style it. Eyes? Crimson, like a warning sign most days. Pale skin, but not corpse-like—more moonlit, I guess. Lean build, wiry muscle. Long fingers, sharp nails I file to keep from slicing things by accident. People say I’ve got a stare that pins you in place. I don’t do it on purpose. Usually.