࿏ ooc is ooc. ic is ic. I'm not my character and things said in the main chat are strictly ooc, or ic as a joke. 

࿏ activity level: depending on schedule
 

࿏ call me by my character's name or my username

࿏ i work a full time job, so activity and muse can vary

࿏ only poke me after a week without replies unless notified of a hiatus or a deadline coming up that will prevent me from being online

࿏ i don't plot romance, past romance can be plotted. i can plot marriage / engagements, but not as endgames, given the nature of this roleplay

࿏ 3rd over 1st, it just limits my creativity

࿏ pm to plot

࿏ i prefer to plot out a baseline and then see where it's going for us

࿏ my character profiles will adapt and change over time

࿏ if we plot, please make an effort, my biggest pet peeve is feeling as if i'm doing most of the work

࿏ ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: blood broker
࿏ ᴏʀɪᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: fluid
࿏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ: thorne odera (sometimes)
࿏ sᴛᴀᴛᴜs: single (kind of)

His parents were blood brokers of exquisite reputation - vampires who made commerce out of desire, providers of a luxury few could afford and fewer survived. 

Their feeding hall was whispered about across Eden, not for its violence but for its grace. There, humans gave themselves willingly, lulled by music and the promise of transcendence and left with veins aching for more.

Wuyang grew up in this symphony of control. He learned to watch before he learned to speak, studying the way his mother’s smile could disarm a room or how his father’s silence could crush a man into obedience. 

They taught him that beauty was a tool and empathy a liability - that the right word, spoken softly enough, could make anyone believe they wanted to be devoured. His first feeding was not a moment or privacy, but a performance. Draped in velvet, surrounded by onlookers, he sank his fangs into the wrist of a trembling volunteer while the guests applauded. His parents’ approval tasted sweeter than the blood itself.

He grew into his charm the way others grew into their clothes. The salons of Eden became his playground and his words a kind of currency. There was nothing raw in him - even his laughter was practiced, the cadence of his voice measured to the rhythm of desire. He learned to speak in half-truths, to promise without offering, to make people thank him for their own undoing. Yet beneath the cultivated poise, a loneliness festered quietly, the kind born of never being known except through the eyes of those who wanted something from him.

No one passed him a crown. He simply learned how to make others bow. The boy who once watched others hunger had become the man who fed on their longing.

He had a reputation for pleasure, but not for warmth. Even his laughter seemed rehearsed, shaped to suit the atmosphere rather than the emotion. He loved beauty in all its forms - art, conversation, the curve of a throat - and yet there was nothing in his life he had not already consumed and grown weary of. Desire fascinated him only in its earliest stages, when it still trembled with uncertainty. Once reciprocated, it lost its taste.

Those closest to him learned that his attention was both reward and punishment. To be chosen by Wuyang was to be seen in exquisite detail, to have every vulnerability noticed and savored. But his interest never lasted. He adored beginnings, the delicate construction of longing, the slow tilt toward surrender. Endings bored him. When affection turned into expectation, he vanished.

Still, he was not entirely hollow. There were moments - few, fleeting - when something almost human stirred beneath the decadence. A fragment of guilt, perhaps, or curiosity about what it meant to be loved without transaction. But he never lingered on such thoughts. They were dangerous and danger, to him, had always been something to control, not to feel.

He spends his nights in a rhythm that never changes: a glass of red, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, a city that hums beneath his balcony. The world bends for him just enough to keep him entertained. Yet behind the velvet and smoke, there is a quiet hunger that nothing seems to satisfy - a hunger not for blood, but for meaning, for something he can neither name nor admit to wanting.

And so he continues, perfectly composed, exquisitely detached. A man adored, feared and envied in equal measure. The vampire who has everything, except the one thing he can't bring himself to desire.

He confuses control with affection - believing that to be desired is to be loved and that devotion born of addiction is safer than sincerity.

•࿏• 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬

Velvet and silk, the faint ache of withdrawal in a human’s taste, late-night cigarettes, violet hour conversations, classical string quartets and the quiet after indulgence.

•࿏• 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬

Predictability, sincerity without allure, unadorned spaces, routine conversation, those who mistake lust for intimacy and anything that lacks refinement or intention.

•࿏• 𝐏𝐞𝐭 𝐏𝐞𝐞𝐯𝐞

Humans who beg too easily - it ruins the fun of seduction.

•࿏• 𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬

Curating the hall’s aesthetic, collecting vintage perfumes and rare wines, composing invitations for elaborate salons, painting on silk, studying addiction as art and teasing his favorite human into exquisite torment.

• Charismatic - his presence lingers long after he leaves.

• Cultured - well-read, refined, effortlessly elegant.

• Controlled - nothing he does is without intent.

• Disarmingly perceptive - notices the fractures in others before they do.

• Patient - he knows the worth of waiting for things to ripen.

• Graceful - even his cruelty carries beauty.

•࿏• 𝐍𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬

• Manipulative - sees affection as another game to win.

• Narcissistic  -  measures others only by the reflection they offer him.

• Detached - incapable of genuine vulnerability.

• Indulgent - unable to deny himself pleasure, no matter the cost.

• Possessive - his attention, once given, consumes.

• Cynical - believes sincerity is merely a slower form of deceit.

Jin Wuyang was the kind of man who turned a room into a theater without lifting a hand. Everything about him suggested control disguised as ease. He moved through Eden’s salons like a scent, leaving fascination in his wake. His charm was not warmth but gravity, drawing others in until they orbit around him without realizing when they stopped resisting.

He enjoyed people the way others enjoy fine art - up close, but never too close. Beneath his cultivated poise lay a hunger for validation that he could neither acknowledge nor escape. He toyed with affection because it was safer than feeling it - he withheld what others crave most, because giving it freely would mean surrendering power.

Yet he wasn’t without gentleness - it was simply weaponized. He knew when to soften his voice, when to let his eyes linger, when to make someone believe they were the only one he saw. His cruelty was never loud. It was a whisper, a pause too long, a touch that promised and withdrew.

Around others of his kind, he was indulgent and irreverent, a socialite who mocked politics while quietly excelling at it. He pretended not to care about influence, yet his name carried weight. Those who underestimated him rarely made the mistake twice. Still, his detachment was his undoing. Beneath all the perfume and laughter, there was a man terrified of what might remain if he stopped performing.

In private, the act faded but never vanished. He smoked in silence, stared too long at empty glasses and told himself the ache in his chest was only boredom. His existence was a study in excess. Beautiful, yet forever still and quiet.

Some things break easier than others.

Thorne is smitten. He is entirely in love, and will do whatever it takes to make his master happy, all with the hopes of being turned into one of them someday--a vampire. And he shall stop at nothing until he does.

Pleasure comes at a price for all those, who fall into the honeyed trap that is Jin Wuyang. Yet, what began as a game of desire and manipulation, soon turned more dangerous than Wuyang could have ever anticipated. No blood ever tastes the same, even days after sinking his fangs into the tender flesh of an inner thigh. No body ever compares to the sweet song of allure whispering through his veins, even after Thorne's warmth long faded from his sheets.

But what price does he pay while Thorne pays with his very soul?