Hello tumblr dot com. Did I hear out-of-context VtM whump? Did I hear delusional whumper pov? Did I hear Finally Posting Fic Again After Three Years? yeah you're right i didn't hear any of that- WOAHH WHAT'S THAT UNDER THE CUT
(if you are in this campaign. i am looking at you directly em. i am trusting you not to look but Do Not Look or do i'm not your boss. but nonetheless foip foip foip unbelievable foip.)
anyway. who doesn't love evil deluded vampire twinks?
i call this one 'don't play with your food asshole'
godbless he's so cute
Heās started imagining things.
Not fantasising - that makes it sound a little too much like a, um, vulgar sort of imagining, and though in his time as a purely sexualised existence (the queer thing, no the vampire thing - though he finds it difficult to imagine that nobody has that particular fetish) he has become, he thinks, anything but a prude, his good Christian upbringing canāt quite reconcile active fantasising just yet - justā¦ imagining. Picturing. Seeing, objectively.
Yes, he knows he uses that sort of thing as a front for luring prey to his apartment - but thatās just feeding. He isnāt deriving any fetishistic pleasure from it, no more than they are; itās just like eating a meal. If you made out with the meal a bit first, to make it taste better.
Hm. There is, perhaps, a better analogy.
Either way, the manner in which he fantasises is neither fetishistic nor particularly Christian, so heās losing on both fronts; when cleaning glasses or mixing drinks his eyes are able to wander, and when he has time (which is, admittedly, rarely), they are able to linger on the forms of his moreā¦ well-off patrons. Those who laugh in a particularly carefree manner, who wax fondly of lovers and family a little too loud, who walk with enough confidence to draw his eye - the gait of a person who has never suffered and doesnāt care to. The way that they walk, in particular, enchants him: upright and confident, or bouncing, or a half-skip, or a stride - utterly unlike that imperfect gait he sees in glitches and flickers in passing windows or in his shadow, utterly ignorant of the other side.
Itās that focus that helps him to see them in a different manner. Itās that magnetism that lets him picture their bodies feeble and crawling, soaked through with desperation, hauling their limp and bleeding selves across his floor and sobbing, begging with their eyes - the pain of running so great that it outweighs the need to survive like nothing ever outweighed his, and the fantasy reminds him that in everything he is, in spite of what has been done to him, he is better than them, and itās a feeling he could get high on. And itās that kind of thought that lets him get through a shift without launching himself across the bar and strangling the first person to mention a friend or a relative with any hint of fondness - or display a hint of an Irish accent; one or the other (he doesnāt hate the Irish, he doesnāt, but the accent is both distinctive and familiar, and itās not like he has anything against the accent itself but he thinks he is well within his rights to find it uncomfortable, well within his rights, even if it feels a little reductive, but who cares? Itās not some moralising thing, just a slight discomfort, he doesnāt actually even dislike the accent; itās fine; itās a fine accent; just uncomfortable). Only once or twice has he actually gone through with the urge to mutilate, and though he promptly threw up and swore it off the first time, the inevitable second was unimaginably freeing. It took him at least a few extra minutes before the urge to run to the bathroom and puke blood into his sink overtook him entirely - so, clearly, heās getting there.
(Is āthereā somewhere he particularly wants to get, though? He perishes the thought. At least itās something heās allowed to want.)
Thereās something about the feeling of holding another personās life in his hands that, were it not for the fact that it was his life he held so often, would almost certainly have him sympathising with Father Aiden. The feeling of slipping his hands down a personās legs, of holding them taut with his teeth deep in their thigh, of the precision with which a hidden and carefully-sharpened knife glides through muscle and feeling tendon retreat like a snapped bungee cord, beneath skin and between his fingers. The feeling of clumsily pressing his thumb into the wound and scraping bone. That knowing feeling, when he looks into their eyes from below and knows itās too much even to scream, and the sound that comes out instead when without glancing down, he cuts the second. That oneās clumsier - partially because he canāt see and partially because his hands are now shaking: takes a little sawing to sever completely, and makes him feel a little silly under the high. Itās his first time, he explains, like his audience is someone who can care, so heās bound to be a little clumsy. He hopes they can forgive him, he laughs (like a nervous schoolboy), but knows they wonāt. He asks them to stand. They refuse. He looks them in the eye and tells them to stand. Heās only once taken ecstasy, but he doesnāt think heāll have to ever again. And thatās where he gets the idea to tell them to run, and realises when their bloodied hand falls limp against the pressed-in handle that he forgot to lock the door. Lucky break, then, that he got to them so quickly. He doesnāt make that mistake again, though he does lean over and expel that particular meal against his will, faint and shaking, when he sees their eyes roll back.
He finishes shaking that margarita, strains it out and salts the rim. The customer shyly asks for the lime on the side, and he apologises profusely, obliges, and even gives her an extra on the opposite side. It matches the bunny ears, he mentions offhand, noticing the visible hen-do attire; he laughs, she laughs, and he knows theyāre tipping good tonight, though that wasnāt his initial thought. It really does look a bit like bunny ears. He could do something with that, next Easter - maybe with strawberry slices; something with chocolate liqueur?
He takes another order. The second time was clumsier still - well run dry of beginnerās luck, perhaps (though he did lock the door, this time!), or maybe just the consequences of thinking a little too hard; either way, his hand slips, and the victim kicks out against the pain even through the haze of the kiss - the blade scars his palm, and he is left facing an angry, fading man. Whatās worse is that the man is bigger than him, that there are weapons in the room and he knows because heās wielding one; he is very, very aware of how easily he can be disarmed.
He pressed his palm into his preyās mouth and forced them down, he remembers. He held it there as if to gag him, and the way the look in his eyes shifted as the blood ran from his own palm and down its throat is a sight he has to press out of the forefront of his mind as long as heās in public. He pours another round of shots. His glasses were askew, anyway - he couldnāt see quite right, not the full picture, and he doesnāt doubt thatās for the best.
Still pressing one hand to the kineās lips, he used the other to adjust his glasses and press a single finger to his own.
Shh.
It stares up at him in wonder as he peels his hand away, which contorts into agony, not anger, when he slashes his heels as quickly as he can. He rings in an order. The sensation of blood-soaked hands running through well-kept curls presents itself to him, and he lets himself breathe it in before serving the next customer.
He didnāt finish drinking from that one - just put a few more clumsy wounds in it and let it bleed out naturally (maybe thatās why he threw up, but at the very least, it was slightly less to expel). He cringes thinking about what Father Aiden must have thought, cleaning up the body - though, he supposes that ālooking like an amateurā is about par for the course, when it comes toā¦ being somewhat of an amateur, so heās sure that he canāt judge too harshly. Heāll just remind him of the somewhat heavy-handed number of car accidents staged in his youth, if he asks; he isnāt the only kindred here allowed to be a little excessive.
He cleans a glass and assures a bejewelled patron that heāll be with them in just a moment. He heaps some praise on their jewellery and then on their eyes, with a natural humility he could only dream of genuinely possessing. Two is a messy number, after all - and heās certain he can do it better this time.
