#nosferatu opinions

[mekanikaltrifle]

On request for a little Opinions Post By Meka(tm), something about Clan Nosferatu.

This one’s about clan PR, looking like a smacked ass, and the nastier side of everyone’s favourite bat babies.

I find that the Sewer Rats are often rightly characterised as having had a rough time, what with their curse physically transforming and often disfiguring them. Asides from the obvious iffiness of playing close to the wire with body/beauty image politics there, this curse of monstrousness has at times shown them to look anywhere from eerie and inhuman to outright insanely creature-like. Cool! Awesome. The Nosferatu Embrace is described as being prolonged, painful and incredibly disorienting as their bodies change forcibly under the will of a darkness they could never have understood in life. On top of that, iirc the Curse cannot be lifted by Vicissitude, and may ilicit disastrous effects if someone tries to change it with said Discipline. However, it can be changed (sort of) by using the Mask of a Thousand Faces power of Obfuscate, but this is a fleeting thing only in the minds of those around them-- i.e, it’s not real. What we have here is a very clear multi-layered cake of suffering with body image issues icing on top. Delicious! Now, one would assume that means that if the Nosferatu clan suffer so much on the outside, they must be better on the inside than their less-monstrous-looking peers, right? Certainly their clan PR team and a lot of newer media likes to paint them that way. I think plenty of folks would like their players to be better on the inside than your average vampire because they go through a harrowing change like that. Of course, that’s fine, literally play them how you like. But. I wonder if people have forgotten about clan Nosferatu’s favourite nasty little pastime: creating Cleopatras. For those not in the know, Cleopatras are people Embraced into clan Nosferatu, because of their beauty. In many cases the Cleopatra-to-be is arrogant, prideful or vain, or otherwise making other peoples’ lives worse by having a way too high opinion of their own beauty. In some cases, making a Cleopatra could be a form of comeuppance, if you want to be nasty like that. However, there’s no clan-wide agreement on exactly why a Nossie should make a Cleopatra, and it stands to reason it’s not alwasy comeuppance driving that choice.

Many Nossies (especially in VtM:B and older white wolf books) are explicitly hateful towards beautiful things. Whether that’s from jealousy, an inhuman need to destroy something they feel they can never have again, or projecting the horror of being a vampire onto something tangible they can scrape together a justification for hating, is not solid. What is clear is it often seems to be entirely subjective, and often selfish as well. The clan rivalry between Nosferatu and Toreador is obvious and noted, and makes complete sense from both a shallow and deep look at the clans’ respective positions in the final nights.

Combine this nasty tendency towards getting into peoples’ business, as spymasters and information brokers it is literally their job, and this hatred or revulsion for beautiful things and you have a recipe for some truly cruel behaviour. I wonder how many Cleopatras were just pretty people who crossed a Nossie by accident, or were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Of course, the one most notable Cleopatra, Imalia, is a total dick so... not saying they’re innocent at all. But it makes one wonder.

There’s this beautiful well of psychological torment and traditional-gothic melodramatic nastiness just sitting there, ready to be unleashed on storyteller and player characters alike... maybe next time you try making a morally-dubious Nossie, think about the Cleopatras and their agonies and traumas...

[gorbalsvampire]

Hey so obviously the clanbooks help flesh out the clans, but which clans do you think benefit the most from their clanbooks? Not necessarily powers, but the flavor. The details.

So this one took me a while, because I had to go back and look at the Revised edition clanbooks and refresh my memory on them. I'm mostly a Revised goblin, although Cappadocians never had a Revised clanbook so I dipped my toes into second there.

Also, for a Clanbook to be good, it has to be helpful in playing the clan, and more interested in that than delivering metaplot. This is why Clanbook Giovanni, though dear to my heart, is Not A Good One, because it's so mired up in shuttering Wraith: the Oblivion and the associated plot events. This is why Clanbook Cappadocian is bad, because it is shot through with "here to go" foreshadowing of the clan's downfall and doesn't do enough on establishing what they did in Cainite society at the height of their power.

Brujah: almost no mechanics, almost all history and perspectives. The Brujah suffer from an identity crisis - rootless between the classical era and the twentieth century, their history really feels like the history of the Anarch tendency, and their customs the heart of the movement as it is tonight. But for sheer detail - giving itself the breathing room to talk about how the Brujah work within their sects and contexts - I think this is one of the good ones despite its lack of substance. Telling that Justin wrote it.

Gangrel: this one locks arms with the Ravnos and walks down history together, embedding two underdeveloped clans in each other. The Gangrel come off better, because they're not starting from "[insert slur here] vampires" as a concept, and because the narrative voice of their book is curious and intelligent and refuses to take anything at face value. The core concept of the Gangrel is "Wolverine with fangs" - I'm being reductive, but "brooding animalistic outsider, bad team player, best there is at snikting all the bubs" - the point is that dragging Gangrel into a coterie with anyone else and making them functional involves dragging them away from what their "clan culture" is all about.

Weirdly, I think this Clanbook does more for the Sabbat Gangrel, simply by running through the Paths and showing how the Gangrel can integrate with them. Bloodlines are mostly stupid, mechanical impact for animal flaws reifies the clan curse in a good way (kinda similar to the contemporary Malkavians). There's a lot here but none of it makes me want to play a Gangrel, for some reason. I suspect it's that the core fantasy isn't really one that interests me, and if I'm going to play that hard against type, I'd rather start from a different base altogether.

Lasombra: the throughline of Lasombra history delivered through a series of in-character lectures is a neat device, foregrounding the contradictions better than usual. Likewise, the detailed depiction of Lasombra Embrace and education protocol and internal factions builds explicitly and confidently on the corebook's limited vision and their role within the Sabbat. The dot by dot breakdown on Obtenebration teaches you how to play one systemically and how to ST around this overtly supernatural Discipline and more of the books need to do that. One of the better suites of premade characters, too (and the Student of the Abyss is a dead ringer for my first girlfriend). It's been a long time but I think this is the book that made me like the Lasombra as a clan rather than a power set and story function.

Also:

Sabbat are not wholly their own masters. No vampire stands altogether free to choose his behavior, thanks to the Beast and the fundamental requirements of vampiric survival. The Sabbat makes matters worse with its beliefs and practices, which repeatedly push participants into acts that erode conscience (and Conscience). When you play a Sabbat vampire, you take on a distinct set of challenges. It’s not necessarily more “adult” or “sophisticated” than any other sort of vampire, nor is it automatically more “juvenile” or “indulgent.” Sabbat exist within tighter boundaries than most independent or Camarilla vampires. Not everything you’d like to have your character do, or that he would plausibly want to do, is actually within reach.

Because some of us really do need telling.

Malkavian: for sheer style, for refuting the kookiness and fae nonsense and artsy layout of the second edition volume, for actually being substantively useful in playing the clan, this one makes the grade. Has one of the best metaplot beats with the antitribu's grand justification for mass Embrace and thinning the blood. New Derangements, better than the ones in the core book if I'm honest, especially the specifically vampiric ones that move away from "playing something straight out of the DSM."

I'm going to mention powers again here though - I wish the Revised devs had caught on to the idea of alternative powers at lower level, as some of this stuff (like Babble) shouldn't have "be seventh generation, i.e. not a starting PC, i.e. probably having done a diablerie to 'level up'" as their prerequisite. Weakest part. Also, I love the Moirai. Favourite brood. Probably sold me on my love of brood coteries.

Nosferatu: I like that a Nosferatu calls out Kindred history on its Eurocentrism! And much like the Gangrel, this book gives you some hooks to hang your clan weakness on - Merits and Flaws that reify aspects of the Nosferatu aesthetic. I don't think these are all necessary, but they are cool. A similar breakdown of Discipline usage to the Lasombra, again showing and telling how to Nosferatu as well as what is Nosferatu. That's the distinction with the good Clanbooks, I think - they remain focused on playability and using these ideas rather than just telling you about cool shit. I want to play a Nosferatu after I've read this book.

Dishonourable mention: Tremere. The Tremere Clanbook doubles down on a central bugaboo with the clan - if their hierarchy is sevens and sevens and sevens all the way down, your city should be crawling with Tremere. To have all these internal agendas and subfactions represented in a meaningful way - same. I'm aware of Grician bias, I hate the 1:100,000 "rule" with the force and fire of a thousand suns, but this book really needed to show you how one or two isolated Tremere work and it fails to deliver.

Tzimisce: I don't like how overcooked this clan is, with its Koldunic Sorcery and its Old Clan and its revenant families and its two different versions of "your signature discipline is a disease" that are both high concept shit far removed from Playing Your Lil' Guy - but that material undeniably exists and if you want to refer to it... well, isn't half of it in the Sabbat guide? I don't know where I stand on this one, but Tzimisce fans generally want as much as possible to chew on and there's More In Here.

Ventrue: Much like the Brujah and the anarchs, a lot of what the Ventrue have going on under the hood can be read "as above, so below" with the Camarilla as a sect. To know one is to half understand the other. The Ventrue codify the unwritten social rules of their sect, or rather their sect unknowingly imitates the code that organises the Ventrue.

The difference, as ever, is that the conservative and hierarchical side of the coin is much easier to detail than "imagine your way out of authoritarianism", and as such Clanbook: Ventrue has a great deal more direct, didactic, actionable material in it than the broad and vague concepts of the Rabble. Titles, organisation, spheres of influence, clear lines through the medieval to the corporate: read this one.

There is more to the Ventrue than you ever imagined - so much that they almost fall into the same hole as the Tremere do, but they don't have the hard number for the brain to latch onto and worry at. Even now, I'm describing this very good and self contained Clanbook by comparison to its peers - that's how the Ventrue get away with it.

I'm not just saying this to blow smoke up @biomechanicaltomato's ass, either. It's genuinely one of the best books; I think only Lasombra and perhaps Gangrel and Nosferatu are on the same level, and in very different ways.

[cherry-dr0p]

Old men upon ye' >:]

Yes I gave Orlok a mini little cape thing, I think personally he deserves it /pos :>

Cat reference Knock

I will never ever forget how a little over an hour ago my friend saw this drawing and looked me in my eyes and said to me; "Is that Nosferatu as a catboy?"

I mean .... close enough I guess

No, he has not watched Nosferatu, which makes this 10x funnier to me

Reference credits for this base I referenced from; @/mellon_soup on TT

That's all I have for now c:

[toast-plays]

The Nerdy Ladies with Opinions Podcast has been blogging. Including this timely post about our recent watch of Nosferatu! Featuring first time guest blogger: Tyler

[jeonginsleftcheek]

Stray Kids with an S/O who is a huge horror movie fan

pairing: ot8 x gn!reader

genre: fluff

disclaimer: this is as always just my opinion :)

a/n: as a huge horror movie fan myself, I had to write this! enjoy!🩷

Chan:

As he said before, it's not like he's scared of horror movies, he just doesn't think they're interesting to watch. But, you're interesting to him and he loves you so he will definitely try for you. He also thinks he won't get scared cause 'nothing scares him' but oh boy was he wrong. You have to promise him extra cuddles because he's not gonna be able to fall asleep that night. Will also try to dissect the plot with you after the movie, and try to find meaning in the story just so it's less scary to him.

If he was never really invested into the horror genre, you could show him the classics like The Shining(1980), The Omen(1976), The Amityville Horror (1979), Psycho(1960) and then also some newer iconic movies like Get Out(2017), The Ring(2002), Sinister(2012), Hereditary(2018) and The Conjuring(2013).

Minho:

Loves it. Loves to try and scare you while you're watching a movie together. At first, you're so happy that you can share your love for horror with your significant other. And you know he really doesn't like jumpscares, so you try to find movies that don't have many of those. But if they do and Minho predicts a jumpscare, he'll grab you at the same time it's happening, making you jump out of your skin even though you saw the movie already. You kinda start regretting watching horror movies with him because he annoys you on purpose. He thinks you're so adorable when you're mad at him, but he wont push too far and he'll always make it up with cuddles and kisses later. Overall, 10/10 experience.

I feel like he'd watch almost any horror movie cause he's a curious cat (hehe) and you'd both share your favorites.

I don't know why, but I also feel like Minho would appreciate good old silent horror movies. I just think if he's a horror fan he may enjoy seeing the roots of horror. Like The Cabinet Of Dr. Caligari(1920), Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde(1920), The Phantom Carriage(1921), Nosferatu(1922) and Häxan(1922).

Changbin:

I don't think he's too scared of them but I think he doesn't really care for them too much? Though, if you have some interesting thriller or detective movies to recommend he will definitely wanna watch them with you. I think Changbin likes a movie that has an intelligent story with a plot twist. He likes to guess what's gonna happen next and when he's actually right he'll be so happy and proud. He'll keep talking about how he guessed the plot and how smart he is and how you have to give him extra cuddles now. Either way, you're cuddling and snacking the whole time while watching and it's just nice and cozy.

I think he'd enjoy thrillers like The Game(1997), Fracture(2007), The Machinist(2004), The Double(2013), Shutter Island(2010), Zodiac(2007) and 1408(2007).

Hyunjin:

Miss him with that shit cause he ain't watching it unless you manage to coax him into it. It's gonna take a lot of persuading until he finally gives in but you have to be careful in choosing the right movie for Hyunjin. He doesn't like loud noises and he doesn't really like to feel scared. He'd rather watch something for the story, especially if it's an emotional one, and he also likes character driven stories.

I think he could watch artsy or slow creepy movies that are more drama-like but have elements of horror like Pan's Labyrinth(2006), Dark Water(2005), Windchill(2007), It Follows(2014), The Eyes Of My Mother(2016), I'm Thinking Of Ending Things(2020) and Case 39(2009).

Jisung:

Okay, with this one you can go crazy. Any weird horror movie, anything kinda disturbing, deranged or unhinged will be right up his ally. As a horror and anime fan himself, he's seen some pretty weird stuff so experiment, I guess. I also feel like he'd like fun horror movies, idk how to explain but ones that are disturbing but fun at the same time, like you can't look away even though you're looking at a train wreck.

Movies like Funny Games(2007), The Ruins(2008), Suspiria(1977), The Perfection(2018), Perfect Blue(1997), May(2002), Audition(2000), Saw franchise and Terrifier series would be fun for him. Also, since he mentioned Paranormal Activity, found footage horror movies would be fun to watch with Jisung too like Creep(2014), REC(2007), Unfriended(2015) and Cloverfield(2008).

Felix:

This is just not happening unless you can bribe him with cookies, gummies or any other sweets and ofcourse many cuddles and kisses, even more than you share usually. You'll have to practically beg him to watch a horror movie with you or make some kind of compromise that you'll participate in some activity he likes more than you later. He's not gonna sleep all night if you make him watch anything too scary, actually he wouldn't even be watching that. He'd probably be hidden in your neck the whole time and even the creepy sounds coming from the tv will give him nightmares.

The only way to make him watch horror movies is if they're mixed with comedy or they're so bad that they're funny. Like the Scream franchise, The Cabin In The Woods(2011), What We Do In The Shadows(2014), The Happening(2008), Tucker & Dale vs. Evil(2010), Housebound(2014) and ofcourse zombie comedies like One Cut Of The Dead(2017) and Shaun Of The Dead(2004).

Seungmin:

Kind of indifferent towards the scares but I think he gets annoyed with plot holes and characters acting stupid. Rolls his eyes at every over used trope or cliche sentence. You actually end up laughing while watching horror movies with him because he's too cute when he's annoyed.

"How is this killer still alive? He's been run over by a truck ten times, this is stupid!" or "Okay but why is he going towards the sound? Is he that dumb, he's gonna die!"

He does like dry humor though so he'd like some black comedy movies with horror elements like American Psycho(2000), Parasite(2019), The Lobster(2015), The Menu(2022) but also if you want to annoy him on purpose (because he's cute when he gets worked up) show him slashers like the Halloween franchise, Friday the 13th franchise and Black Christmas(2019).

Jeongin:

With Jeongin, I feel like it can go either way and it definitely depends on the theme of the movie. Also, he will probably try to act brave in front of you (until he jumps at a loud sound and then gets embarassed). For some reason I don't have an exact subgenre of horror for him but for some reason I feel like he'd like newer horror movies like Us(2019), Nope(2022), Last Night In Soho(2021), His House(2020), Host(2020), The Invisible Man(2020) and Fear Street film series.

[sharoo]

Thinking about Don Quixote in light of the revelations of Warp Express drives me insane.

Don's colour is Oblivion Yellow. Oblivion signifies both destruction and the state of being completely forgotten. I can't stop thinking how "Rocinante" is written on her shoes in that shade of yellow, the yellow of purging from history and memory.

Vampire Don has been on screen for less that 5 minutes and I already feel so much about her. She's a second generation kindred, meaning she's likely been bitten directly by whatever has caused the Bloodfiend to come into existence. She's the purest blood since Nosferatu.

How old do you guys think she is? How long has she had to live this way, feared and shunned and not fully in control of herself because of the endless hunger?

Don Quixote the book is a satire poking fun at the hero's delusion that his violent, uncontrolled actions could ever be seen as anything but despicable. But there's also the interpretations of Don Quixote as a dreamer who wanted to do good. And I can't help but think about how, in his madness, he truly wished to be noble. And now I'm thinking about both the stances being possibly true.

The impossible dream of becoming a hero because what you actually are is monstrous and hated. The entire fantasy being, perhaps, a desperate effort to redeem yourself in the eyes of the people around you. You want others to look at you and see a hero, you want the press to cover your stories of chivalry. Why?

Because that's way better than being the teeth in the dark, the horror story told to children so that they do not go out at night. You're so old, and you're so tired of living the way you do and so, so hungry against your will.

I am of the opinion Don should have a Big and Will be Bad Wolf E.G.O. for this reason exactly.

And I think her wish will have to do with her state, helping her control it, accept it. And it will require the understanding perhaps only Dante can provide.

[paarthursass]

also "silent protagonists aren't immersive" my "immersion" in a game has been broken so much more by voiced protagonists saying The Wrong Fucking Thing than it has been by me having to use my brain to read dialogue options.

vtmb may be buggy as hell. it may have textures that load incorrectly sometimes so you've got doors that are half a stop sign. but i still get so drawn into the story that the ocean house hotel level manages to scare me every time. it's still so so tragic to watch how heather descends into her obsession with you if you make her your ghoul. it's satisfying to be able to have 5 different ways to tell lacroix to go fuck himself. and it's fascinating how, depending on which clan you pick, you have an entirely different experience - not just playstyle-wise, but interaction-wise as well! there's certain dialogue with maximillian strauss you only get if you're a tremere. your opinion of gary golden is going to change MASSIVELY depending on whether you play a nosferatu or a toreador.

voiced protagonists don't create immersion. fancy bells and whistles don't create immersion. good writing does.

[s1aywalker]

꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ little miss scare all. ꨄ

↷ ✩ —— sam monroe x alt! girlfriend reader headcanons. (nsfw 18+)

notes: a little slutty a little smutty! minors do not interact or else i'll collect your kneecaps. can we please stop kidding ourselves... this dude wants a goth girlfriend. and it's my duty as the resident metalhead mommy to serve my community. one alt!reader fic at a time.

| | | | she's got a date at midnight with nosferatu. oh baby, lily munster ain't got nothing on you. ⋆˚࿔

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe is, first and foremost, a fucking hater for the fun of it. the type of dude that calls anyone who doesn't listen to anything he deems cool a poser. the type of dude that sees a chick wearing a metallica shirt that she got from the thrift store and, with a straight face, tells her to name three albums without missing a single beat. so he thinks it's pretty fucking sick to have a girlfriend that can keep up with his, perhaps to most, acquired tastes in music.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe who is ridiculously stubborn but secretly loves when you introduce him to new bands. he always acts like they're just okay after you popped the cd you recently bought into his stereo, and sometimes he'll even lie and say he already knows who they are. that he discovered them months ago. but then it's a few songs deep into the album, and wait... why is this actually fucking good?

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe who is an absolute nightmare to argue with. even when it's not serious, when it's just having differing opinions on silly things like which vocalist is better, which album is the best. he's so stuck on his own likes and dislikes and everything is, as fred durst would say, his way or the highway. it's almost like he enjoys arguing with you... and maybe he does, because you can be just as stubborn when it's a topic as passionate as music, and he thinks it's cute when you stand your ground. he stopped actually caring about the argument ten minutes ago, and now he's just trying to piss you off because he thinks it's funny.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe who has broadened his musical horizons thanks to you. bands like type o negative and h.i.m that constantly incorporate very obvious "romantic" themes into their songs never really did anything for him because he thought it was lame and corny. until he had to endure you constantly listening to them. now he'll claim his enjoyment of them is from a form of stockholm syndrome... but maybe he just never had a person that he could relate them to before he met you. he thinks about you when he hears be my druidess or for you. plus, they're one hell of an aphrodisiac, and he quickly discovered just how easy it is to get a hand under your bra or in your pants when they're playing.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe who loves fishnets... maybe to an unhealthy degree. every time he sees you wearing them, he can't help but think about how good they make your legs look, how good he knows your ass looks under that skirt, and the thoughts of him tearing them to shreds instantly begin to flood in. and that's exactly what he does, the second he gets the chance. those poor tights never stand a chance in the same room as him... he'll promise to get you another pair while he's slotted between your legs and your hips are lifted, a promise he only keeps half the time. as his fingers dig into the fabric and start ripping them apart like it's the easiest thing in the world. like that's what those little tiny holes were made for. it's foreplay to him. but sometimes he's too impatient to even get them all the way off. sometimes he'll rip the crotch and push your panties aside to fuck you with a nice view of your legs still covered.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe who encourages your piercing urges. you mention wanting a new hole in your ear or nose? he's on board. when you mention wanting your tongue pierced? that's hot. immediate filthy thoughts of what it would feel like when you guys are sucking face nasty style. or better yet, what it would feel like rubbing against his cock. when you mention wanting your nipples done? he thought he was going to have a stroke on the spot, and he's offering to make the appointment for you if it means seeing that in his face as soon as possible. he'll even hold your hand and let you squeeze him until your knuckles are white while you're getting them done. but once it came time for the boring aftercare part, his excitement drops the second he hears about healing time.... weeks? he has to wait weeks to put them in his mouth? but he'll make those weeks worth it once you've given him the go ahead. he's actually fucking feral about it when you do.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe who lets you do his eyeliner. honestly, he's a little envious how good you can make yours look. effortlessly sharp and smoky. and you've always teased him about how shitty he does his. how he holds the pencil, how he has zero technique and just smudges it on with his fingers and doesn't even wash his hands afterward. so you jump on the chance to do it for him... it's only a bonus for both of you that you get to sit on his lap and be inches away from each others pretty faces. he's grumpily telling you not to poke his eye out and pretending he's not getting hard from the proximity alone. you notice... it's literally impossible to not feel it. and now you're trying to hurry this little makeover before you get the urge to ride his fucking thigh... but that's what you end up doing anyway. he's got one eye done and that pencil is long forgotten while his own hands are guiding your hips as they drag across his leg, searching for more of that friction his jeans provided. whining and desperate while he's saying how cute it is that you just couldn't wait five more minutes.

𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sam monroe who fucks you in the shitty venue bathroom, one covered in stickers and flyers and permanently tainted with the stench of beer, while the equally as shitty opening band plays. it's not romantic. it's hard and fast, sloppy and impatient. because he has you bent over in the stall, repeatedly slamming his cock into your cunt and not caring about how loud it might be. the downtuned guitar and blast beats raging on outside the door works as both a brutal soundtrack to his brutal rhythm, and to muffle every grunt and moan that reverberates against the cramped space. there isn't enough time to be sweet and caring, because this set is about to end and you guys still have to secure a good spot in the pit... but he'll still kiss you and rub his thumb at the mascara bleeding under your eyes, while he's stuffing his cock back into his pants and you're wiping the cum dripping down your inner thigh.

[diableriedoll]

Because how many ask games are too many? Trick question, there's never enough! We all know we adore talking about our Kindred and hearing about others.

Send as many Clans/ Cults of your choice to the reblogger, plus their OC name, let them answer the relevant questions about their Kindred. The questions are based around the Clan/ Cult rather than you have to send the cult or clan the OC is in. ♥️🩸

Add your OC's names in the tags and share!

Don't forget to send asks to the person you reblogged this from!

Clan Inspired

Banu Haqim - What's the worst punishment your OC has received? Have they given any punishments out? How was it handled?

Brujah - What is something your OC will always fight for? What's the reason?

Gangrel - What is your OC's Beast like? Do they get along.. more or less?

Hecata - Does your OC have a family? Be it through blood or chosen. Tell us about them.

Lasombra - What's the most ruthless thing your OC has done? Why?

Malkavian - Think of your OC as a mortal, pre-embrace. If someone showed them what's going to happen to them, from the night they were turned to now, would they let the embrace happen or would they try to avoid it?

Ministry - What's the best/ worst lie your OC have ever told? What was the reason? Was it believed?

Nosferatu - Your OC is now cursed. Again. Their favourite physical thing about them has been changed to their worst nightmare. What is it?

Ravnos - Is your OC a daredevil or are they more cautious? What's the most chaotic thing that they've done?

Salubri - Ignore how many dots in Humanity there are. In your opinion, what's your OC's humanity like?

Toreador - Describe your OCs aesthetic in the worst way possible, then tell us what it actually is.

Tremere - What is something your OC wanted and got it for themselves, no matter how selfish or high the cost was?

Tzimisce - What's your OC's most prized possession? How long have they had it? Why is it important?

Ventrue - Does your OC have any influence or sway anywhere? Are they respected?

Caitiff - Would you say your OC is quite individualistic or do they conform to their Clan stereotype?

Thin-blood - Has your OC ever been shunned or cast-out? Are they currently an outcast? Or have they ever shunned someone else? Why?

Cult Inspired

Ashfinders - Does your OC use social media? If so, which platforms and what's their following like?

Bahari - How well does your OC cope with physical and/ or mental pain?

Church of Caine - Does your OC have any religious/ Kindred beliefs?

Church of Set - Is your OC able to be their true selves? If not, why? Is there anyone they can be real in front of?

Cult of Shalim - What's the worst thing your OC has suffered so far?

Cult of Mithras - Has your OC been in a blood bond? Are they currently in one? Do they have anyone bonded to them?

Nephilim - What pleasures does your OC get out of their (un)life?

[mekanikaltrifle]

Hi, What are your Nosferatu, malkavian ocs and juniper's views on autism? Also their view on bunnies?

(Oh hey, good question! Big thoughts there-- this one's complex. I do have other nossies and malks but I feel this would get massive if I included all of them :D I'll stick to Goblin, Glass Man, Lina and Juniper for simplicity's sake.) Glass Man stays perched up in the roof space with a pigeon like the very normal man he is. Everyone else is just choosing not to look at him.

"The speed that medical academia and psychology have changed and re-changed their understanding of neurodivergency and autism is actually fascinating-- though I won't say I think it's at all perfect... Still, many of my colleagues in the medical field have been somewhere on the spectrum and always brought with them good ideas. I sort of miss my old work, sometimes." Goblin is hidden under a pile of cushions, typing away on their laptop. "Autism didn't exist when I was alive. Or, I suppose, it didn't have a name until decades after I died. Never saw it as an issue though, if someone's working that way. As long as you can gather secrets and don't piss me off, I'm alright with you," they shrug. "Bunnies though, I like their burrowing and their fluffy little faces. Cute little guys. Wish I was cute like that." "Being Malkavian comes with weird insights, and heightened senses that sometimes just do not behave regardless of what you want them to-- I think I get some of what it's like," Ms Meijer muses from her spot by the window. "Also being a bit of an outcast. I wish none of us had to know that one, truthfully, but perhaps it comes with some advantages-- you know who actually wants to be your friend, for one. Even if you don't always get it. What was the second question-- bunnies?" She considers bunnies. "Oh they're sweet... I mean, in the physical sense." Nobody needs to know about how many wild rabbits she might have eaten. Juniper meanwhile is just about tolerating the presence of the vampires, though she's maintaining a careful eye on Glass Man. Doesn't like the look of that one.

"Autism? Some folks ask me if I have it. Never got tested, so I do not know. Wouldn't change me any more knowing or not knowing. I am what I am. Real gay, and real weird." "Rabbits are nice I guess. I don't know how to handle 'em, but at least they ain't secretly monsters like some other animals I've seen... Don't trust dogs these days."

(Fun fact: Juniper is on the spectrum and is the team's resident autism creature. She just would not have been tested, given she was raised in a very conservative religious household in the 80s-90s. And now that she's a hunter and has been on the move for so long, she's no way of getting testing, nor the inclination.)

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Roasting you based on your favorite of these German Expressionist films

(this post is a joke; don't take it too seriously lol)

Metropolis: You've got spicy political opinions and daddy issues. You were doing great in life until you found out how corrupt capitalism is sometime in high school or college, and it's absolutely mind-boggling to you that nobody else is batting an eyelid at all the injustices of the world because they're too busy defending the concept of a 40-hour work week. You're constantly checking your privilege and everyone else's, too. Or you just want to bang a robot. That's probably it.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari: Okay, I could make a joke about you being emo, or you liking the most basic film on the list, but that's not really the issue here. Your Hot Topic fashion sense and shitty drugstore eyeliner are nowhere near as concerning as the fact that you have no idea who the hell you are without them. You constantly overthink everything and are great at solving everyone's problems but your own, and you're averaging like 4 hours of sleep on a good night. You can't get your intrusive thoughts to leave you alone and if you relate to literally any character in this film, you need to get help. It's okay; I promise your therapist doesn't secretly hate you.

M: You're a surprisingly sweet and empathetic person for someone whose favorite film on this list is about a child murderer. You care deeply about others and are very much in tune with yourself, but unfortunately, everything you say is so off-putting that most people don't get that vibe about you. If they actually gave you a chance, they'd find that you have a great personality, but they don't, so instead you're stuck at home stalking your ex's vacation photos on social media.

Dr. Mabuse the Gambler: You like the finer things in life. You're high-maintenance, your tastes are classy and expensive, and you actually know how wine tasting works. However, you're way too into conspiracy theories and pyramid schemes for your own good, and your cultured proclivities are deeply undercut by the fact that you probably got into Bitcoin when that was a thing. Your two career paths are either "businessperson" or "cult leader," and it's concerningly difficult to discern which one you're on.

Nosferatu: Your sense of humor relies entirely on recycling memes that are at least a decade old, and the fact that you communicate nearly entirely in pop culture references is your attempt at disguising the fact that you're really bad at socializing. You think you have lots of great ideas that make perfect sense, but most people don't know what the hell you're going on about. However, you've got one or two ride or die friends who love you for who you are, cringe and all. Keep being you, Nosferatu fan. Never change.

The Student of Prague: I'm not sure this one is actually anyone's favorite film, but if this was yours, you were into shipping the Onceler with himself when that was a thing. You're super competitive, but you have a tendency to overwork yourself and burn out quickly, so now you're living off of Top Ramen and protein bars. People love to tell you that you "have potential" and "just need to apply yourself," but what they don't get is that you're stressed 24/7 and won't give yourself a break because you're trying so hard to satisfy your own impossible standards. Please take a nap.

Der Golem: You're great with children, small animals, and potted plants, but that's because literally anyone else you have to deal with fucking pisses you off. The absolute audacity of everyone around you means you're never not two seconds away from throwing hands, but honestly? You're always right and you should say it. You're actually a really nice person, but people keep pushing you to your limit and you're sick of it. On an unrelated note, you probably work in customer service.

Different from the Others: If this is your favorite film and you're a member of the LGBT community, that's perfectly understandable. It was a monumental achievement in LGBT cinema in the early 20th century and, despite being somewhat dated by today's standards due to the time period it was created in, largely holds up as an educational, yet tragic, piece of cinema. That being said, if you're a straight/cis/allo person and this is your favorite film, what is going on with you. I want to study you in a lab. How did you find this film. Come to think of it, how did you even get into German Expressionist cinema to begin with. I just want to know

Der Januskopf: [REDACTED]

Genuine: You're a "Caligari" fan who doesn't want to seem basic like the rest of the "Caligari" fans, so somehow you ended up here. You don't actually like this film aside from the visuals. Nobody actually likes this film. You want so, so badly to like this film, so you lie to yourself, just like you do about everything else.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER SIX: SALT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink

This is chronologically the sixth chapter in the series (I'll be changing the titles to the chapter names included on ao3 soon)

---

Another day begins in the cenotaph of Dr Lecter's house. That he doesn’t immediately speak of your night in Will's bed seems intentional, a tactic to keep you on some treacherous edge.

Though you look askance at your abuser across the breakfast table, he speaks only of the day's work ahead of him, and that which he has put to you.

“I’d like you to read the book I left in your room,” he says, observing as you dice poached egg into cubes so thin as to be the crystals of a snowflake. “I see that you have not touched it yet. As part of your treatment, I intend you to follow a curriculum that will provoke healthy conversation and—I hope—reflection, afterwards.”

You spread a quantity of egg white to the furthest edges of your plate, hoping to create the impression of having eaten more than has, in fact, travelled your oesophagus.

“Dostoevsky,” you say, at length. “Isn’t he really depressing?”

Hannibal smirks, and reaches across to gently remove the fork from your plate.

“That is indeed a perspective of his catalogue, but not a conclusive summary. Fyodor’s life, like his work, was frequently besmirched with misfortune, and yet he proclaimed beauty and worship as his driving forces, endeavouring to appreciate both even at the direst junctions of his existence.”

Dr Lecter forks the clandestine shrivels of egg towards your lips, which remain in a steadfast line until you discern the quiet threat in his oaken eyes. While yolk waxes your inner mouth, your fists wrench your skirt, as though you might twist your captors throat through mortal telekinesis.

You think of cartilage closed beneath your fist, of gargled breaths, and quiet, and cringe from the knowing of what would truly come. Dr Lecter’s hand would make a paper crane of your wrist, or else his cock would tear you through you like God’s hand rending the rib of Adam to make Eve.

With you as his Eve, he means to make an Adam of Will, it seems.

You sit, and you eat, and feel the weight of it crawl up your belly on many legs, such vermin.

Presently, you ask, “Can’t I choose something else? A different novel? I’m not much of a reader anymore, and it’s pretty long.”

Truthfully, when you do attempt to read, it is often the same sentence over and over; your hunger has robbed this from you, also, a nosferatu in its thirst for thought.

“If you complete this volume and share your thoughts with me, then you may request a title,” says Hannibal, smoothly; perhaps he has prescribed this book for its preposterous length, as well as its content, an occupation for months to pass. “For now, I would like you to finish The Idiot. There is a character within that I suspect you will come to understand as well as yourself.”

You decide that you despise his pretension as much as his torments, the naked self-absorbtion that comes of filtering experience through such narrow tastes and opinions.

Still, you cannot challenge his word so soon after promising your obedience, and thus finish your breakfast without further word in order to excuse yourself from the table.

Alone in your locked room, you scream against your impotence, knowing well that there is no one to hear or help you. Hannibal has fortified this beautiful room as he might a trove of sapphires to inhibit your escape, and whatever neighbours he has keep their insular distance from it unless invited in.

If a passing stranger did glimpse you there, you doubt that they’d be moved to your release. You are but a poor mad girl, shut away to heal in the home of a doctor so esteemed. There is no word to be had against his, even that of the law, which he has cleverly declawed.

You pull a chair to the window to read, accepting, in sulking resignation, that there is nothing else to do but pace, or sleep, which you will not do, afraid to lose all sense of reality to repetitious acts. The book is as difficult as anticipated; tracing your finger across each page, you hope to anchor your thoughts to its complex and numerous appellations, shadowboxing the eternal fog of food that eclipses all things, even the rapes.

If you accept what has been done to you, and what has been taken, then you must accept the abyss that is to be a slave to circumstance. So, for the following days, you think only of the novel and the view beyond your room, in which the trees weep browning leaves like the blood of a decaying God.

You see little of Hannibal, which you are glad of. His work runs long into the evenings, and the brief visits he makes to your room are merely to ascertain that you’ve eaten. The meals remain small, suggesting a caution in Dr Lecter not to overextend the limits of your disease.

You elect not to tell him how your heart palpitates each time you touch morsel to tongue, how desperately you cram mouthfuls past your teeth, swallowing before you can stop yourself, standing, petrified of your base weakness, which you’ve less and less ability to resist.

There is no secondary option to upturn its pale belly to your taking, nothing but the damnation of the men that rewrite your purpose as love letters to one another, or poison pen notes, one and the same.

Friends, enemies, paramours, or rivals— what they are, if not one or all of the four you cannot interpret.

When Hannibal comes to you on the morning he claims to be Saturday with news of Will Graham’s imminent arrival you are almost pleased, the chance to observe these monsters in repose a thrilling distraction from your sequestered numbness.

“I apologise for my neglect,” says Hannibal, glimpsing something of this eagerness in your expression. “My clients have proved themselves to be uniquely demanding, recently. I hope not to face similar struggles in my home.”

You are, at this time, in the parlour, looking about you for where to pour away the hot chocolate that Dr Lecter has placed into your shaking hands for you to finish. The mug is charmingly presented, towering in whipped cream and shaken cocoa, its contents thick and sweet as Ethylene; you feel you might equally die from it.

Hannibal says your name, and you jump, slopping a little of your drink over the rim.

“How do you feel about Will joining us this afternoon?” asks your captor.

Shrugging, you rub at the spilled chocolate with the cuff of your sleeve, aware of Dr Lecter’s eyes locking to the stain on your dress. He cannot abide mess, or disorder, another quality he accepts in Will, who is not nearly so put together as his companion, even at his best dressed.

“I hate Will,” you say. “That's all I feel.”

“Then why did you choose to share a bed with him?” asks Hannibal.

He knows, then, and likely set this trap on purpose.

“I had a nightmare,” you say. “I needed someone. I still felt... weird. From the meds. I guess it made sense to me, then.”

Hannibal appraises you with interest.

“You could have come to me.”

You cannot restrain your rictus of disgust.

“No way. You brought me here. You brought Will to me. Told him what to do. What he did... it was you, doing it through him.”

“Certainly not,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “I am the dowsing rod that comes upon water underground. Will’s potential, and taste for violence was already there. Still, there are other yearnings to be mined from that plentiful well. You know this: it is why you went to him for comfort. There is a father in Will Graham, craving to give love to a child.”

Again, you grimace, and Dr Lecter releases a sound of soft amusement

“And why that look? Because of the intercourse? Not one of the three of us shares blood with any other. Although it was known amongst some ancient kings to wed their daughters.”

You set down your mug with a punctuating clink.

“You’re not kings.”

“If only we were,” says Hannibal, cheerfully. “What palaces we would have built for us. Ah, well. In my mind, at least, they exist.”

He picks up your mug and places it back into your hands.

“Drink your chocolate. If you finish half of it, I will take it away.”

At this, you brighten.

“Really?”

“Of course,” says Hannibal. “As long as you eat some of the cream.”

He loiters until you are finished, never seeming to lose his fascination with your person.

“A valiant attempt," he says. "Now, let’s get you out of that dirty dress. Wouldn’t want Will thinking I’m not taking good care of you.”

You make as if to go to your room, but Hannibal stands in your way, an immovable wall.

“Raise your arms for me, little one.”

“I can dress myself,” you insist, and wilt as Hannibal’s goodwill visibly wavers.

“Alright, doctor.”

After easing the dress up over your head Hannibal stands a moment, considering your nudity before him. One hand frisks you ribcage to breast, taking measure of your form, and you find yourself shifting from foot to foot, appalled by the coal of arousal that simple touch has spurred.

“So many pleasures could be yours,” says Dr Lecter, “if you would only embrace them.”

You look away, and allow your turned cheek to be your answer.

*

By the time Will enters the house, Hannibal has you drawing on a large sketchpad in an armchair— art therapy, you suppose, but you are no fool. Through it, he means to infantilise you further, making you all the more susceptible to the two of them in that, in all things, you are a child. Theirs.

You’ve been told to draw whatever your feelings dictate to you, but out of pettiness you scratch down caricatures of your tormentors, taking great satisfaction into making each look particularly mean and unattractive.

Will sits at one end of the living room couch, his full mouth in a cantankerous downturn. He doesn’t make even brief eye contact as he greets you; indeed, he pretends to the best of his ability that you are not there as he accepts a glass of wine from his host, a curt, plaid-shirt clad shoulder squared in your direction.

The night you spent in his bed embarrassed him, you realise, as though he were your hostage, and not the reverse.

Thus, he has chosen to hate you for it, and it is as you scar his pencilled image into a graphite scowl that you decide to goad him, in response.

Hannibal—coolly debonair in a pressed rust suit—looks at you throughout his conversation with Will, analysing each haughty exhale and flip of a page in their colourful feeling.

Each time Will speaks, you make a point to drop a pencil with a disturbing clatter, or else stare at the back of his head until he surely feels the pressure of your gaze. It is childish game, to be sure, but one that cannot easily be halted in the name of misbehaviour.

The young man twitches and stiffens with gratifying agitation, his squared jaw a lance of disgruntled solidity. Hannibal’s eyes bear the shine of withheld mirth, and you comprehend that although this man cannot abide rudeness, he is not above the lowbrow if it is in the name of vengeance.

It does strike you as odd, however, that he does not intervene on his ally’s behalf; this, too, you are darkly curious to understand, his passive participation in the prodding of a humming nest.

At last Will snaps your name, one fist brought down on the arm of his chair in a cushioned thump.

“If you want something from me, then you’d better say it out loud. It’s not as if you’re known for being shy about your feelings.”

“You know what I want,” you mutter, drawing your chin up under your knees. “But you’re too chicken to do anything he doesn’t want you to.”

This directed at Hannibal, who merely hums neutrally, and leans in at a subtle incline.

“You’re right: I’m not taking you home,” says Will. “You’ve barely been here a full week, and your collaboration with Dr Lecter is half-hearted, at best. Don’t expect freedom when you haven’t worked for it.”

“And don’t pretend to care about solving crimes when you’re here, committing them,” you retort. “You really put the fucking bullshit into the FBI.”

Will’s eyebrows rise in disbelief, his forehead a graph of harried lines.

“Careful,” he grinds out. “I ought to wash your mouth out with soap.”

Snorting, you pick the sketchbook back up and shake it open across your lap.

Your pulse is ringing with adrenaline, with the fear of where this brattish turn may lead, but with Hannibal silent and quietly interested in one corner, and Will stiff and seething in between, there is causality to your tantrum that you do not care to challenge.

“You wouldn’t,” you say. “You’re too scared to touch me without your friend holding your hand the whole time.”

Will becomes very still.

“That is a very dangerous assumption to make," he says, and suddenly you are almost blind with miserable fury.

It makes you quite reckless.

“So do it,” you say. “Wash my mouth out. Do it!”

“Time to prove that you’re a man of your word, Will,” says Hannibal, from the corner. “A parent that does not reinforce discipline holds no power.”

Will stands up quite abruptly, rolling up his shirt sleeves in terse motions.

“Alright.”

A darkness passes over his eyes, and you realise your mistake.

“Wait,” you say. “No. I didn’t mean it.”

You shriek as Will tries to take hold of you.

“Hold still,” he says. “I don’t want to break your arm. It’d be easy for me.”

He drags you into the downstairs bathroom, slamming on the cold faucet with a free arm and holding a cake of soap under its stream.

“No! No!”

You bring your legs up off the ground and lunge forwards, pitching your attacker into the washbasin.

He pivots you in his grip, one shuddering hand squeezing your collarbone. The other cracks your cheek with an impulsive force that steers you back against the sink, just as you threw him, all your righteous attitude let out of you like pulp from a gourd.

Will stares at his own hand in abjection, his eyes a harrowed eclipse.

His voice stutters, trembles.

“Oh, I— did I— I shouldn’t have— what am I doing?’

You fold to the floor and crawl away on three limbs like a dying animal, one hand clutched to your cheek. Hannibal emerges from where he has been observing from the doorway, gesturing soundlessly for you to return to the parlour. He doesn’t appear angry; rather, the feeling that inhabits his eyes is so unlike any other you’ve yet perceived that dread turns your innards out of you as surely as one of his knives.

You should run, you know, barricade yourself into an unlocked room to wait out the squall.

Yet something—a sense, an instinct—compels you to lurk in the hallway beyond the bathroom to eavesdrop on the conversation within.

“Will,” says Hannibal— through a crack in the door you see him caress the younger man’s quaking arm with the sensitivity of unbridled love. “You are distressed.”

Graham lifts his hand, still flushed red from the blow.

“I made a serious mistake,” he says. “Indefensible.”

“She was antagonising you,” says Dr Lecter, plainly. “You punished her. That is all.”

Will shakes his head, battling to articulate himself.

“No. No. I reacted. It was... inelegant.”

“I agree the soap was perhaps too literal,” says Hannibal, reaching across to turn off the faucet and set the soap bar straight in its dish. “It was a little gauche.”

“Gauche,” Will repeats. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

He laughs shakily, relaxing under Hannibal’s consolation.

“A musician might be expected to produce many flawed pieces in his early career,” says Dr Lecter. “In this case, however, there is a fault in the instrument.”

Drying himself on a hand towel, Will appears pensive, unconvinced.

“And you think it can still be played, this instrument?”

“You have demonstrated it just now. While your first motion was unsophisticated, the second was a symphony. A bullet, a palm; each you have delivered to adversaries with the same instinctive force, and certain beauty.”

“I shouldn’t have hit her in the face,” Will insists. “Too dangerous. I could have deafened her. Given her concussion.”

“Then next time you must put her across your lap,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “That way there is no chance of serious injury.”

A charge conjoins the two of them like a lightning bolt, marrying the earth to the sky.

“Right,” says Will, at last. “So, what do I do with her now?”

You scuttle into the living from before either man realises you’ve been listening and throw yourself down on the couch, your body going into little spasms of terror at the many possibilities of what fate your ire has earned you.

Shortly after, Will passes through the door, inspecting your prone form with a fragile caution. He sits gingerly beside you on the couch and clears his throat.

“Well,” he says. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it.”

You neglect to answer.

Sighing, Will takes hold of the quiet.

"You have a bone to pick with me today. Bigger than usual."

"I could say the same to you," you mutter, and Will's lips tighten into an unpleasant smile.

"You’re upset because I didn’t want to talk to you when I came in. I don’t know what you were expecting from me. When I found you in bed next to me the other night, I knew exactly what you were doing. Didn't Hannibal tell you about my acute empathy?”

Sitting up on both elbows, you shake your head.

"No. What does that even mean?"

"It means I know how insecure you're feeling,” says Will. “And what you think you'll achieve in breaking me down. But you won’t. I don't appreciate being used, One."

He spits the latter half of Dr Lecter's nickname for you as though it's rather beneath him to employ it, and this egotism alone reignites the desperation in you to best him, to raise yourself from the dirt-ground bottom of a pyramid of three points.

Ignoring your repulsion, and the throbbing welt of his handprint on your cheek, you struggle up onto Will's lap and kiss him, your fingers a bow at the nape of his neck.

For an instant he kisses you back, his cheeks in bloom, all gasping and piteous desire. Then he pushes you down onto the floor by the shoulders, his expression drawn, and severe.

"One," says Will. "No. You know the rules."

You stare into the sullen lakes of his eyes until they skitter aside.

"No," you say. "No, I don't, Will. Dr Lecter hasn't explained anything. First I'm a patient, then I'm your daughter, then I'm— I'm something you can just hurt? I don't understand what I am to you people, or what I'm supposed to do."

"You can start by not kissing me," says Will, and he wipes his lower face with one coarse hand as though drying himself of sudden rain.

"Why?” you ask, and the young man leers with distaste.

"You don't even want to. You're manipulating me. Trying to, at least."

"Like you've been doing to me? You want me here. Otherwise, you'd take me away.”

Your voice dries into in a plaintive croak. Your fingers clutch and cleave to him.

"Prove me wrong, Will. Take me to a real hospital. Please, Daddy, take me away from here."

You almost feel him waver, under the spell of your weakness, its call to him. Then he jerks his chin in stubborn resistance, twitching your hands from the fabric of his trousers.

"I'm not going to disrupt your treatment. I have to trust that Hannibal will get through to you. Can't help thinking he's wasting his time."

"Your rules don't make sense," you say, rudely changing the subject back to its previous line. "How come you get to touch me when I can't touch you?"

"Because you'll use it like a shovel to dig your way out of here," says Will. "Or to drive a wedge between me and Hannibal."

"What if I just want someone? I'm alone, here. I can't be alone. I can't cope."

You reach out to Will, forcing a passion for him that is not there. He feels your cold, and flinches back, the genuine emotion you'd felt extend towards you snapped like a pine needle under a hunter's boot.

"Don't do that," he says. "I won't be twisted around your little finger. If you want me on your side, then you can apologise for disrespecting me, and you can use your mouth to do it."

His meaning beats you in, a bruising horror.

"You don't mean that," you say. "Do you?"

Will smiles again, this time with a chilling irony.

"I think I do."

“Why?” you ask, again. “Because he told you it was a good idea?”

With slow purpose Will leans forward, wearing his darkness like a helm, a power, till now, unseen.

“Because you need to learn that I’m not the soft target you think I am. I feel for you, and I want to help you, but not nearly as much as Hannibal does. I lack his patience. The harder you push me, the further I’ll close against you, and the last thing you need is another locked door in this house. Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

It is the threat of an echoing night, a decade forgotten underground, as in your dream.

“Yes,” you say, unsteadily, and you see Will warming to his role in a subtle tightening of his posture.

“Then you know what to do.”

You look at his trouser button, gleaming like the tusk of a boar charging unavoidably through some murky underbrush.

“Can we do... something else?” you ask, in a whisper.

“Why?” asks Will, sharply. “Afraid of the calories? Considering Dr Lecter’s been lenient with you today, I think you can afford the addition.”

The cruelty of this takes you aback; you cannot yet determine its cause.

“Why do you hate me, Will?” you ask. “I’m just some girl. You don’t even know me. I never hurt anyone on purpose before I got here. Why am I the bad guy to you?”

He says your name with a dangerous finality.

“You’re stalling. Look, I can walk away and leave your punishment to Hannibal, but I can’t guarantee that he won’t be harder on you than I am.”

“What would he do?” you mumble.

Will pauses, and you get the sense that he’s editing his answer.

“What he believes I’d like him to do.”

“Worse than this?”

You regret the question as Will unbuttons his pants and sits back, all moody arrogance.

“What do you think?”

You envisage yourself running from the room, throwing a screaming fit, or making your attempts at violence upon this delicate man, anything but set your mouth to task, as he desires.

But you have sensed the devil in Hannibal Lecter, have dreamt of it; its spectre is the hand on the back of your neck as you reach into Will’s open trousers and lure out his arousal in your grudging fist.

His girth rises from a thicket of curls, already straining against your touch, as it had been the night he watched Dr Lecter ravage you on the table top. Three strokes and Will is sucking his breath through his teeth, his hands scratching at the sofa, his eyes raised to the ceiling as your mouth closes over the head of his cock.

He grasps the back of your skull and coaxes you clumsily down upon his heated desperation, needing, thirsting, a street mutt brought in to eat.

The first taste of salt upon your tongue has you straining back against him; Will is right in that you fear the numeric value of his excitement, as though the very flavour of him alone might deconstruct your physical being like a wound in space, eating stars and worlds with similar appetite.

The young man is too strong for you; he keeps your mouth, your throat upon him until you give in, fearing he may snap your neck entirely by accident in his ferocity.

He says nothing, only breathes harshly above you, quite beautiful, still, an angel in his ecstasy, his sculpted features catching the soft light of the room, burnished to their most perfect state— you loathe him for that same symmetry, hate that you must hold his thighs in the bastard sibling of an embrace to steady yourself, or else fall upon his lap in bowed debasement.

The noise of the act—wet coughs and rasps, the rattle of saliva sieved through your teeth—takes on the rhythm of a waulking song, all repetition. Your eyes lose their vision to your tears, perceiving nothing but light, and Will’s gloomy outline above you.

His inhales shorten, a sawing in, in, in, of saccharine air, and both palms close upon your cheeks as his small hips rise, and your mouth is full of him, like the crest of some foaming wave.

You tumble back, and turn to spit just as Hannibal’s voice cuts through the room.

“Swallow it. Though my floor is clean, I suspect that it is not quite spotless enough to eat off, which you would have to, should you deposit what you have in your mouth there.”

You glance at Will, closing his trousers with a rather sheepish air about him; no help to you, little though you would have expected him to be. With a nauseous gulp, you drink down his liquor, made ashamed by your absence of valour, a coward to grovel so swiftly to command.

“How far you’ve come,” says Hannibal. “Both of you.”

Will meets your miserable look, and this time there is no guilt in his eyes.

“Is Jack Crawford still invited to dinner?” he enquires, quite casually, as though your tongue was not still thick with him.

Brows arched, Hannibal says, “He is. Why do you ask?”

They both look at you, their thoughts a chevron formation of psychic understanding.

Will says, “She’s not ready for that.”

You shrink away as Hannibal approaches, pressed against the foot of an armchair like a beaten courtier to some mad king.

“She will have to be,” says Dr Lecter. “For I insist on her attendance.”

[mangosimoothie]

Chapter 15: 𝕬 𝕾𝖊𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖉 𝕺𝖕𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖔𝖓 (8/9)

Isadora weighs in.

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transcript:

ISADORA: Why hello, brother! Fancy seeing you here.  ATTICUS: Isadora? I specifically told Mother not to invite you! 

ISADORA: Ah yes, but you forget that I have always been our father’s favorite, so he of course begged me to come bring you to your senses. He complains to me often about your fondness for lesser creatures, among other things.

Sweet Atticus, still ever the humanitarian. You must wonder whether he thinks you a disappointment, no? To think how much more powerful you would be were it not for your soft heart. Truly—

ATTICUS: Are you quite finished? You know your demoralizing monologues no longer work on me. 

ISADORA: Well anyway, I’ve made my assessment of your wretched little mortals.

ATTICUS: That’s quite interesting, as I have no memory of requesting your input. Where have you even managed to hide yourself all night?

ISADORA: I’m even better at observing from the shadows than Father is, you know. What’s your special ability again?

ISADORA: My assessment is: you should just do what I do and keep a cellar full of thralls. It’s much less involved. 

ATTICUS: Isadora, do you have anything useful to say or are you just here to antagonize me and my company? ISADORA: Both, of course. They are all three not worth the effort. It’s a shame the colorfully-dressed one was born mortal; were they born a vampire I may actually see myself enjoying their company. 

ATTICUS: They have no interest in being turned that I’m aware of. 

ISADORA: I have little respect for turned vampires as they are inferior to those of us with pure bloodlines, but they should consider it nonetheless. Regardless, they would never be loyal enough to you to be useful.

ISADORA: Oh, and when your little pet tires of or rips apart his new chew toy, I know plenty of suitable vampiresses with questionable taste in men similar to yours who would replace her.

ATTICUS: I sincerely doubt I would approve of any of the feral nosferatu that associate with you, dear sister. 

ATTICUS: Not that your opinion holds any weight to me whatsoever, but…what of the other one? Did you observe him? 

ISADORA: Oh, I forgot about him almost instantly after seeing him, but now that my memory is jogged, yes, we did have a brief encounter. I look forward to killing him for sport once he’s no longer in your care. 

[sewer-rat-89]

i had a friend a couple years ago. her name was chloe. she was Embraced when she was 19 and she'd been dead for about a hundred years. chloe only drank from animals, blood bags, and people who hurt kids. i knew better than to ask her about that, but you could tell from the way her eyes went feral when she'd see someone harassing some woman in the street or how she snapped halfway to frenzy when she heard about men who'd been abusing their girlfriend's kids on the news that she had some history. chloe was "one of the good ones." she was genuinely one of the kindest people i'd ever met.

in 2012, she started chatting with someone on the internet. they became pretty good friends. his name was andrew and he was a hunter. she knew, but he was kind to her even though he knew what she was. she was careful, of course she was, but he genuinely seemed like he was her friend.

they bonded. despite everyone telling her she was going to get herself killed, her and andrew decided to meet up. they met up a few times, actually-- for about two years they'd see each other at least every three months, usually more. they'd fly back and forth and hang out together.

in january of 2019, chloe went to visit andrew and she didn't come back. there'd been some kind of ambush but either way, she'd been killed. she was now a known blankbody and was marked in the SI database as having been eliminated.

maybe andrew was genuine and got screwed by his superiors. maybe seven years of friendship was all just a ruse to earn her trust. either way, thirteen more of us were killed by the second inquisition over the next three years. we had to move twice and half of us had to completely cycle our identities.

this is the reality of hanging out with hunters. this is the reality of making friends. maybe us kindred are wolves in sheep's clothing, but wolves don't make friends with sheepdogs, now do they? foxes don't lie with hounds.

if you're kindred: don't be chloe. there are people who love you and your life is valuable. even if that doesn't matter to you, the collateral damage should.

if you're a hunter: look up "Andrew Carmichael" in your second inquisition database. Born june 6, 1988 in cleveland, ohio. read up about what happened to him. visit his empty casket, if you have time. i hope you're kept up at night by the pictures you find there. i hope you're sick with the fear of it. because trust me, we could've done worse.

i know i've mentioned this before but the number of hunters on kindred tumblr genuinely baffles me. like obviously they are spying on us to become more familiar with our habits and there are still fledgelings out here with their names and locations available??? also, just, the audacity. it doesn't matter how nice or catboy or otherwise woobified the hunters are, guys. they want to kill you. they want to kill your loved ones.

these hunters, especially these Second Inquisition hunters, see you as parasites. monsters. they want nothing more than to completely eradicate you and your loved ones. they want you to be extinct. they're being polite to you on the internet or making silly haha jokes with you because it makes you let your guard down. it lets you get closer to them.

kindred who JOIN the hunters are a whole other level. you realize that the SI is going to kill you next? you realize that your hunter buddies are going to kill you once they've killed everyone else? you realize that when they come for you, there's no kindred in the world who's going to step up to help you because you've killed their loved ones?

i'm not even angry i'm just disappointed.

i genuinely feel like some of the hunters on here don't get it. a couple of you genuinely seem like you've ingested so much of this SI brainrot that you think you're "one of the good ones." you think you're helping. but listen to me. LISTEN TO ME. the second inquisition doesn't care if you're "one of the good ones." they're not just getting rid of the "bad kindred who hurt people." they're not just going after the serial killers and the dormitors and the people who commit atrocities. they are going after *everyone.* they want every single kindred, YES even that nice one you know who only drinks from blood bags, to be SYSTEMATICALLY ERADICATED. christ. fuck.

[newwavesylviaplath]

here's my ranking of all the movies i've seen in theatres this year cuz it's important u guys know all my thoughts and opinions

longlegs>immaculate=abigail>maxxxine>mean girls>the strangers

anyways i'm so psyched for nosferatu yall don't get it.