(C) Alec Muffett's DropSafe blog.
Author Name: Alec Muffett
This story was originally published on allecmuffett.com. [1]
License: CC-BY-SA 3.0.[2]


dad bod dracula – Dropsafe

2025-07

On Bluesky, Kat Day posted a critique of the “male gaze” saying that Hollywood men with ripped physiques are represented for the benefit of other males. Okay. Then she also stated that “Women, in the main, would much rather see a man who looks like he’d make himself a stack of buttered toast and let you steal a slice”.

Oh really? Challenge accepted… but with a twist.

Elsewhere I have friends who literally make a living writing literate fantasy erotica, and I have others who prefer to spend their mental downtime reading the same. I am aware of some of the tropes, but I lack the bandwidth, kink-awareness, motivation, drive, and above all creativity to make a worthwhile satire in this space … but I do know how to push ChatGPT and with a little bit of prompting it has far exceeded my expectations, especially given that my expectations were so low to begin with.

Thus, the attached. Personally I laughed out loud several times, and I’m sure that – aside from the crime of being genre fiction – it probably amasses numerous sins of literature.

But for 10 minutes of effort the laugh was well worth it; and of course this foreshadows that someone will want to age-verify LLMs in the near future.

Butter Me Immortal

Time for you to cast yourself as a creative writer! I want a draft for the back cover material of a cheesy vampire romance, dark yet seductive and funny, about a sexy male bad-boy vampire who seduces women into a world of high class luxury lifestyle, by offering them luxurious slices of richly buttered toast. Think: anne rice vampire erotica meets christian gray with a dad bod in fifty shades meets sex in the city and the devil wears prada. Three paragraphs, tight, descriptive, luxury power fantasy

Back Cover Copy (Draft)

In the velvet shadows of Manhattan’s Upper East Side, he moves like silk and danger—Dorian Vale: centuries-old vampire, toast connoisseur, and unapologetic libertine. With a smirk that melts reserve and a wardrobe that whispers Tom Ford with bite, Dorian doesn’t stalk prey so much as lure them with artisanal brioche, golden and dripping with truffle butter. Middle-class and mildly repressed, Olivia Penrose wasn’t looking for immortality—or carbs—but when she bites into his toast, she bites into a world of midnight limos, blood-soaked gala invitations, and seduction served on platinum.

Each woman he brings into the fold is promised luxury beyond mortal reach—custom coffins lined in cashmere, eternal youth under soft mood lighting, and high-society blood feasts where gossip flows faster than O-negative. But for Olivia, the real addiction isn’t just the cashmere or the couture—it’s Dorian himself: the crooked grin, the dad bod that could still bench-press a Vespa, the way he says “you will eat carbs” like it’s a sacred commandment. As she falls deeper into his decadent underworld, she must decide whether she’s hungry for more than toast… and whether she can handle the heat of vampire politics served rare.

Butter Me Immortal is a wickedly indulgent romp through lust, lard, and late-night decadence—a tale where the toast is hot, the vampires are hotter, and the price of passion is paid in blood… and butterfat. Come hungry.

Room Service and Other Sins

Ok, imagine that this is a fully written book. Open it at some random point about halfway and give me a page of plot, assuming the characters and location settings are already fully fleshed-out in line with the back matter that you have posted above, give me a couple of pages from the book making sure that you stick to your own brief of the books contents and characters and characterisation and style.

Certainly. Here is a selection from somewhere just past the midpoint of Butter Me Immortal, assuming full immersion in the world and tone described—midway through the seduction arc, when Olivia is already entangled but not yet fully corrupted.

Chapter Fourteen: Room Service and Other Sins

(pp. 213–215)

Olivia stared at the silver tray as if it might explode.

Or seduce her. Possibly both.

A single slice of toast rested atop a monogrammed linen napkin, slathered in something so glossy it caught the firelight. The crust was browned to the color of antique leather, the center pillow-soft, obscenely thick with sea-salted French butter and, yes, she could smell it—just a trace of blood orange zest. Dorian leaned on the doorframe of his penthouse suite, shirtless, barefoot, and exuding the confidence of a man who had never known the phrase “portion control.”

“This,” he said, voice like dark molasses dripped over a knife blade, “is not breakfast. This is foreplay.”

“Is it actually toast,” she asked, skeptical, arms crossed over the satin robe he insisted she wear—black, floor-length, trimmed in a red that matched her current blood type. “Or are you going to tell me it’s an allegory for eternal surrender again?”

Dorian sauntered toward her. “Darling, everything is an allegory for eternal surrender if you butter it properly.”

He took a bite of the toast—slowly, eyes locked on hers—and made a low sound in his throat that was technically illegal in three Midwestern states. She hated him. She hated that her knees betrayed her at that sound. She hated that she wanted to lick the citrusy butter off his smug, supernatural mouth. But most of all, she hated that she had started referring to herself as “middle-class” in the past tense.

“You can’t just keep feeding me and hoping I’ll forget about the blood thing,” she said, reaching—traitorously—for the toast. The butter was warm.

“Oh, I absolutely can. And I will. The heart may resist, Olivia, but the mouth always remembers pleasure.”

He circled behind her, breath cool against the back of her neck. She stiffened.

“Besides,” he murmured, “you already forgot about the body in the tub.”

“Only because you said it was ‘an aesthetic misunderstanding.’”

“Which it was,” he said brightly. “Poor Michel had dreadful taste. His arteries tasted like margarine. Honestly, the man was a crime against breakfast.”

She took a bite.

God help her, she moaned.

Let me know if you’d like a scene in a different register—e.g., high-society vampire politics, Olivia’s moral crisis, or a full-blown undead sex-toast ritual.

The Eucharist of Excess

Let’s go for the latter.

Excellent. Below is a scene excerpted from the fictional novel Butter Me Immortal, roughly Chapter Seventeen, where the absurd erotic crescendo intersects with the gothic and gastronomic. The tone deliberately skews high-camp with earnest undertones—an over-the-top vampire-carbohydrate-blood ritual with dramatic stakes and low-cholesterol irony.

Chapter Seventeen: The Eucharist of Excess

(pp. 263–265)

The ballroom of the Maison Sang-Noir was candlelit to filth.

Crystal chandeliers dripped like stalactites of desire, casting honey-colored light on a hundred silk-draped sinners and one long obsidian banquet table covered in nothing but toast.

Not just toast.

Artisanal slices of rare grains, hand-forged in the ovens of a Venetian patissier who swore in seven languages and wept openly during lamination. Each piece was a masterpiece: rye with roasted marrow butter; spelt with bergamot and saffron; brioche soaked in clotted cream and the psychic essence of a fallen cardinal. Somewhere near the center was something that looked suspiciously like a croissant doing drag as communion.

Olivia stood at Dorian’s side, eyes dilated, lips stained red—not from lipstick.

She had tasted eternity, and it had notes of Vermont cream and remorse.

“This,” he whispered, as the gathered immortals began their slow, sensuous procession around the altar of toast, “is the Rite of the Golden Crumb. It is performed once every two hundred years, or whenever someone sufficiently dramatic gets turned in the Hamptons.”

The High Butterier—somewhere between maître d’ and dark pope—raised his arms, silken sleeves falling back to reveal forearms tattooed with ancient jam recipes. “Let the blessed fat speak,” he intoned, as masked vampires began drizzling clarified butter onto the bread with antique eyedroppers.

A moan of collective hunger echoed through the hall.

Olivia’s pulse thudded, confused. She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t understand this. But somewhere between the marrow butter and the erotic Gregorian chanting, something in her clicked.

“Why does this feel…” she paused, breathless, “…religious?”

“Because,” Dorian murmured, pressing himself behind her, his hand ghosting over her waist, “luxury is religion. This is indulgence sanctified. Devotion performed not in denial—but in decadence.”

Someone screamed in French. Someone else climaxed just looking at a particularly golden focaccia. A slice of sourdough was lifted like a holy relic. Olivia reached for it, fingers trembling, and bit.

The crowd roared.

Her eyes rolled back.

And in the toast-drenched haze of ancient butter, sex, and the collective ecstasy of the damned, she understood:

She hadn’t been seduced.

She’d been converted.

Would you like the next chapter to follow with consequences—existential, comedic, or just more caloric?

The Buttered Throne

I think you’re doing fine, especially sticking to the characterizations you’ve already drawn. What do you think the denouement should be for the first book in the series?

Thank you for the framing. Given the tonal and thematic architecture already established—campy decadence, eroticized gastronomy, gothic seduction, and class-fluid vampiric excess—a satisfying denouement for Book One of Butter Me Immortal should both resolve the central personal arc (Olivia’s transformation from “mousey middle-class mortal” to something self-possessed and dangerous) and create narrative and symbolic space for a sequel.

Here’s a sketch of a denouement that preserves the tone, elevates the emotional stakes, and complicates the luxury fantasy just enough to provoke continuity:

Denouement: “The Buttered Throne”

After the climax of the Rite of the Golden Crumb, Olivia awakens in Dorian’s bed—but alone, swathed in black silk and smeared with the remnants of something citrusy and aristocratic. The room is quiet, too quiet. The opulence suddenly feels sterile. Dorian has vanished, leaving behind only a note in calligraphic script and a sealed envelope filled with brioche crumbs and a single gold credit card embossed not with a bank logo, but with the seal of the Crustati, the secret cabal of immortal patricians who control the global blood-and-butter economy.

The note reads:

“My darling Olivia, To become what I am, you must do what I never could. I gave you taste. Now take appetite. Yours, immortally—D.”

In the days that follow, Olivia finds herself courted not only by vampires, but by institutions. Blood sommeliers send her sample flights. An undead couture house offers her a contract. She’s invited to chair a board at the Vatican’s secret Ministry of Delicious Heresies. But more troublingly, she discovers that Dorian—long thought an irreverent rogue—may have once ruled this echelon of undead hedonism and abdicated for reasons no one will speak aloud.

Haunted by his absence and increasingly aware that power among the immortals is culinary, carnal, and colonial, Olivia faces a final decision: retreat into luxury as an adored kept consort—or ascend the metaphorical (and literal) buttered throne as a queen regnant of this perverse nocturnal aristocracy.

The final scene:

Olivia, in crimson leather gloves and a corset stitched with breadknife filigree, steps onto the dais at a clandestine gala deep beneath the Paris Opera. She lifts a silver butter dish in one hand and a glass of Type AB in the other.

She says, coolly:

“Let them eat me.”

Cue applause. Curtain closes.

Thematic Resolution

Transformation Completed : Olivia sheds passivity and middle-class repression, but not at the cost of agency.

: Olivia sheds passivity and middle-class repression, but not at the cost of agency. Dorian’s Arc : He becomes a gothic absence—a lover, mentor, ghost, and antagonist-in-waiting.

: He becomes a gothic absence—a lover, mentor, ghost, and antagonist-in-waiting. Class & Appetite : The book ends not with moralism, but with power reclaimed through indulgence.

: The book ends not with moralism, but with power reclaimed through indulgence. Setup for Book Two: Olivia now rules—but doesn’t yet know what it means to govern the world she’s inherited.

Let me know if you’d like a title and back-cover blurb for Book Two. I suspect it might be called Crumbs of the Crown or Blood & Brunch.
[END]

[1] URL: https://alecmuffett.com/article/tag/dad-bod-dracula
[2] URL: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

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