Hi y’all! This is a modern-day BoRhap cast fic which takes place in a supernatural AU inspired (pretty loosely, you’ll see as the series progresses) by the Twilight Saga. If you’re a BYCNL reader, don’t worry; I’m still working on that series and will finish it! I just couldn’t get the beginning of this story out of my head, and there’s no such thing as too much reading material in these strange times, is there?! 😉 I might start doing alternating chapters (new BYCNL chapter one week, Eccentricity the next, back to BYCNL…), but we’ll see how it goes.
And don’t be fooled by the first chapter…this will NOT be a Ben fic. 😉
I’m going to tag a bazillion people for the first chapter (as I always do), but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask. 😊
Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make.
Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield.
Chapter Warnings: Language, some depression.
Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE
Tagging: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @killer-queen-xo @caborhapch @kimmietea @asquiresofftime @sleepretreat @jonesyaddiction @ixchel-9275 @omgitsearly @lovepizza-cake11 @deacy-dearest @mrbenhardys @deaky-with-a-c @brianprobablywill @dancingstan @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @abigfatmess @sara-1705 @thigh-your-mother-down @danadeacon @painkiller80 @jazzman-19 @loveofmylife-bringitback @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @michael-loves-chickens @discodeakky @brianandthemays @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @faithtrustandrobbiekay @myguardianmailman @crazyweirdocalledfriday @coffeeandparchment @blind-melon-taylor @fierce-bab @sevenseasofcats @partydulce @young-and-youre-crazy @unicorn-princess-1999 @rocknrollqueenie @coffeexcigarette @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @quarterback-5 @billigskars @namelesslosers @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @bookandband @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @hardyshoe @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall
Let me know if you’d like to be added to the series taglist! 💜
Vampires do not exist.
This is a universal truth, like gravity or the Big Bang, like the fact that the sun sets in the west and rises each morning to burn off the deep, enigmatic quilt of the universe, peppered with pinpricks of quicksilver stars so far away we still think they’re alive.
A lot of the stars you see up there have been dead since before you were born. They exploded into supernovae—swallowing worlds in groundless inferno—or collapsed into themselves, thousands of years ago, maybe millions, maybe before the dinosaurs, and their light takes so long to travel through the hollow dark of the universe that we still see it, fire that no longer exists, those last, scattered particles of their persistent life, over and yet eternal, living through the reaching, spider-spun neurons in our brains. Death is flexible, you see? Life is all about perspective. And from here on Earth, you could never tell the chaos from the light.
For a moment—just a moment, if you can—forget everything you think you know.
There once was a sixteenth-century Hungarian countess called Elizabeth Bathory. She had peasant girls from the countryside brought into her service as maids: sincere girls, simple girls, girls as young as twelve, girls with plump ruddy blood-lush cheeks, orphans and daughters, artless virgins, girls who would not be missed. But the job description neglected a vital obligation. The Countess would murder these girls, sometimes slowly, sometimes with ice or fire, sometimes with blades; and she would bathe in their blood like a shark in hot, rolling Caribbean surf, slick and godless. She believed that it kept her young, kept her beautiful, that she had discovered a crimson, clotted rivulet that led to the Fountain of Youth. Her ambition proved her demise as she graduated to finer, aristocratic stock and moneyed eyes began to notice; gold has a way of weighing consequence, then as well as now. They caught her, tried her, and walled her up in the highest room of her castle after burning her accomplices alive. For three years she was fed through a slit in the bricks, and then she died, with sudden, dutiful mystery.
The Countess Bathory and I, incidentally, have a little bit in common. We’re both ageless. We’re both killers. And we’ve both been baptized by a river of blood, into infamy.