#I was telling someone else about Meph the other day
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hi, op of the vtm hc post! i love hearing about other's characters- do you mind telling me about the Malk one of my headcanons reminded you of?
oh yes I’d love to!!!!
so these Malkavians are Alexander (nicknamed Faust) and his alternate personality Mephisto!
Faust was Embraced by chance because he was. Well. A murder victim to something completely unrelated to kindred. His sire was reacting to the violence in his domain and discovered him bleeding out, and in a moment of impulse decided to Embrace him.
Thanks to the whole “Just Died In A Violent Murder” thing right before the Embrace, he has a very unfortunate mixture of total amnesia and his derangement/bane being a second personality.
Faust unfortunately did not adjust well to kindred life and has not personally fed the entire few years since he’s been Embraced. His blood bond to his sire takes the form of fear (since I headcanon the bonds can be any positive/negative emotion and not just love/hate), so he rarely spends time with his sire and stays at another haven in the city.
Mephisto on the other hand, who only started existing the moment of the Embrace and has no memories of being human either, adjusted easily and considers himself as a protector or big brother figure to Faust. He’s the one who does all the feeding, he’s the one who visits their sire, he’s the one who manages to get the compact in trouble by taking action. Thankfully for the two of them they’re aware of what the other does.
Also they have a fun twist on the Cast No Reflection flaw where their reflection is just the other personality with a mind of their own. They talk to each other in the mirror a lot and other people can see the strange reflection. They share the same physical and mental stats though their social stats are swapped, and they have different Humanity ratings (which is why Faust constantly has the Blush while Mephisto does not).
While that game was going on they were some of my favorite NPCs and I’m very glad my players enjoyed them too, even if it took a while for their characters to discover they were a pair and not a single guy.
#oc stuff#vtmposting#so happy to talk about my OCs#I was telling someone else about Meph the other day#Not sure if I could ever get away with them as a PC but it’d be funny#this is leaving out the entire fun of Brujah Mom’s Childe Services#but I didn’t wanna detail the post#also since idk if/when it’ll pick up again#(too many games)#I’ll go ahead and share their last secret in the tags#They’re a Dominate Malkavian ahaha
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have mercy, pt. 02
(CW: Brief mention of child endangerment.)
ll.
The shadow of Mephistopheles crouched low behind the glass. The cat’s ears were swept back and flattened as he sat atop the package in the front seat, and for a brief moment Vic’s attention shifted from Mercy to the small, helpless creature he’d first picked up off the street at a sickly three weeks old.
He wanted to tell Meph that it’d be alright; that there’d always be someone to take care of him no matter what happened. He wanted to shove the man next to the car away, get in and pet Meph’s ears and ignore everything that this meeting meant as though the man called Mercy was no one and this whole thing meant nothing.
But he wasn’t no one.
Vic turned his gaze back to the older man. <“Got somewhere picked out, do you?”> he asked in Italian. The devil sounded remarkably calm; he couldn’t afford to be shocked or dwell on the years of feelings that welled up behind his heart like the betrayal was still fresh.
<“Yes.”>
Vic hated the weight in Mercy’s voice-- like he cared. He hated the bright, sad eyes and how little they’d changed since Vic was fourteen years old and stepping outside a classroom to see his uncle in the hall, smiling with those same bright, sad eyes and an outstretched hand.
He’ll hurt you, an instinct had whispered then. You know he will. He wants to.
In his youth, Vic had been hurt many times by failed promises--but this was his forever family, wasn’t it? His new dad had sworn it (and Vic wanted that to mean something.) His new uncle had only ever been happy to see him. Vic had decided to have faith like they always said you should and believe in something... something like family.
So he'd taken Killian’s hand against his own strange instinct, because he wanted to believe.
Killian had led him from the school. The other Saints had been waiting outside.
Cycles.
In the present day, Vic didn’t respond further and popped open the back door to toss the drinks he’d picked up inside the car. He watched Meph slowly slink around to the backseat when the door closed. Mercy, meanwhile, stepped to the side and observed him with that same expression of heavy serenity. Vic didn’t spare him another glance.
It was clever to do this so publicly. It meant neither of them could cause a scene because that’d invite innocent people into this or risk exposing people that Vic knew to the Saint, and the devil wasn’t about to have that. Mercy knew too much just having seen the car. What else did he know? Vic was certain the Saint hadn’t been around his house, at least not while he was there, so there was that.
<“Get in,”> Vic snapped. Only one of them would be driving this car and it wasn’t the traitorous (traitorous? do you still feel betrayed?) relic.
Mercy nodded and moved around to the other side of the car. Vic resisted ripping the driver’s door open and let his eyes fall on the package opposite. He slid into the car and picked it up before Mercy had a chance to sit. The Saint’s eyes flicked over it.
Vic smiled with all the attitude he could muster. “None of your fucking business,” he said before setting it in the back seat. When he retracted his hand he fanned fingers out to catch Meph’s silky fur. The cat pushed his head into Vic’s hand and his fingertips trailed down the length of an ear before pulling away.
Would that be the last time he touched him?
“Of course,” Mercy replied with a glance back at the seat. He finished settling in, dropped a large satchel at his feet and buckled before looking around the car. Anger flashed through Vic’s veins as he watched the Saint’s gaze travel over every small detail because he shouldn’t even be sitting here much less looking.
There was nothing in the car that outright betrayed Tom’s identity, at least (Vic confirmed with a quick glance around the cabin.) Fuck. Tom.
(What would their last touch be? Vic flicking the vampire’s nose ring and winking cheekily as he walked out the door? Their last words: telling Tom you’d better be waiting for me over text? He deserved more.)
Vic’s gloved fingers dug into the steering wheel when the radio switched on. Mercy’s expression didn’t change as their playlist blasted out of the speakers and Vic felt the same anger lash forward over it feeling like evidence and that the Saint didn’t need to hear it. An impulse swept through Vic to turn it off like that could protect Tom, but at the same time—
Fuck.
(It’s just the two of them ripping down the road with the windows down and the music blaring. The wind whips and roars; Vic feeds him a peach ring Tom can’t even taste and smirks. It’s a good memory.)
“Your tastes haven’t changed much,” Mercy spoke up like this was some kind of happy reunion.
“Shut up.” Vic revved the engine and pulled out onto the street. Part of him wanted to turn the music up until it drowned out the sound of the other man’s breathing and his own heart but he was going to need directions to wherever Mercy had picked out for their…
… for this.
He’ll hurt you. You know he will. He wants to.
Vic wasn’t stupid--he knew what was about to happen. He’d been prepared for it since leaving Italy, or so he’d thought. Maybe he hadn’t been prepared enough to have things he didn’t want to lose.
He thought about his dad. As if on cue his phone vibrated and Vic’s heart panged.
“Turn right up here,” Mercy suggested with the same kind, even tone he’d adopted since they’d locked eyes outside the store. Vic flicked the blinker and said nothing. Several seconds of silence passed with nothing but the low drone of the radio playing between them. Vic caught Mercy gazing into the mirror and studying the crouched shape of Meph in the backseat.
The boiling in his blood intensified. Vic took the turn a bit sharp and the Saint’s attention flicked to meet the stormy grey that glared at him from the mirror’s reflection.
He wants to.
<“I love you,”> Mercy told him.
The fiery feeling rippled cold down Vic’s limbs. He gazed out over the road and felt his teeth snap together. <“No you don’t.”>
Mercy followed his eyes to the road. <“There are many kinds of love. Some are greater than others. They must be.”>
Vic said nothing.
<“You know the story…”> Mercy trailed as the streetlights passed. He indicated another turn. <“When God told Abraham to bring his beloved son Isaac into the land of Moriah to be made a sacrifice. Do you think he was happy to do it?”>
<“Always thought that was a special kind of sadistic,”> Vic snapped back.
<“My love for this world—my love for the hurt and downtrodden. My faith... These must be greater even than my love for you. I know you cannot help what you are.”>
<”What I am,”> Vic repeated. <”A thorn in your fucking side? A devil? What about a man? What about your nephew? What about a kid? I sure was one of those once!”>
<”Dangerous,”> came the reply.
He wanted to laugh. <”And you aren’t?”>
<”I know you are trying to get into my head,”> Mercy quietly rebuffed. <”I know that’s what you do.”>
<“What’s in the bag?”>
That question had the older man pausing. Vic continued:
<“Is it full of all the love you fucking feel, or is it full of what you plan to kill me with?”>
Minutes passed in silence. Then, a response: <“Both.”>
Streetlights. Buildings. People. The world hazed around them as lights flicked by the dashboard and over one curled, gloved hand gripping the wheel and two weathered, calloused ones folded gently over a lap. Nothing felt real. Everything felt distant.
Vic had no intention of making this an easy fight. He’d fight tooth and nail to survive.
Afraid of dying?
(He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He’d accepted that a long time ago.)
Tha-dump.
His heart was in his ears.
(They’d all be taken care of. Vic wouldn't fail them. Hadn't.)
As the drive continued, part of Vic wanted to ask if Mercy had spoken with his dad. He wanted to be snide about it; dig the daggers in while he could and see if Mercy still had anything left to bleed. He wanted to ask how long he’d been here and what he knew.
But there would be no illuminating answers from the Saint just as there hadn't been any in a dream, and the devil’s silver tongue was now under lock and key because he refused to give even a sliver of detail to the Saint that he didn’t already have. He’d get nothing.
This is why, when they finally parked under the shadow of an old warehouse that was Killian’s own personal Moriah, Vic pulled out his phone, met the older man’s eyes with hot steel, wrapped his fingers around it and let it melt.
The casing buckled under the devil’s touch as metal glowed and dripped from his hand. The home screen (a picture of Meph being held up by cheerful olive hands) flickered and blackened along with the notification from Emmett that had vibrated his phone. Vic crushed it until it was a barely discernible hunk gripped in his palm.
Mercy hadn’t budged or flinched as this occurred but a shadow did cross his scarred face once it was done.
(They’d be protected.)
Vic dropped the husk of a phone on the floorboard. Mercy studied his face for several long moments before his bright eyes grew dark with sorrow.
Vic cut the engine and the music lapsed into silence. He popped the driver’s door open and felt a ticklish sensation cross his hands as he climbed out. A quick glimpse down revealed Mephistopheles slipping out of the back seat as smoke. The devil’s heart squeezed when it brushed against his legs. “Go,” he said.
The cloud at his feet lingered. Vic could hear the passenger door snap open as Mercy climbed out. The building above them blocked out most of the sky.
“Go,” Vic whispered again.
Meph knew where to go and who’d take care of him. Vic had made that clear, even for a cat. He’d be okay. They’d both be. He just wished…
Fuck.
Vic shut the door both in reality and on the sudden well of feeling that threatened to drag his heart, whatever it was made of, straight through the ground. The cloud at his feet rippled, dipped, then rapidly shot away. Vic turned to find Mercy standing in front of the car holding the bag he’d brought. The old man’s eyes flicked with the movement of the dissolved cat vanishing down the empty lot.
The Saint looked like he was about to say something but decided against it.
“After you,” Vic told him with no small amount of scathing.
Mercy didn’t argue. Vic followed him up the cold concrete to the second floor.
(…And wished so many things were different.)
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For the ship ask! Mefiama~
4 (I've been dying thinking about the first time Amaimon formed and his first meeting with Mephisto, nevermind that Meph probly saw him popping into existence a million timelines lol)
29 (bc one of my favorite things in Unbecoming was how Amaimon acted the minute he sensed weakness in Mephisto ;D)
and 39 for a given definition of "love" XD
Gonna answer these a bit out of order because it hurts my brain not to.
WARNING: If you're looking for fluffy stuff you won't find it here. (You know me). Samael has serious trust issues, and quite literally has poison in his name, so is in my mind incredibly toxic on multiple fronts.
Also this post is really long.
First the Neutral one:
29. How do they handle emergencies/injuries/sicknesses?
Independently. Neither wants to be anywhere near each other if they are inhibited in some way. Both are predators inhabiting the bodies of prey, and while Samael sees weakness in others as a hindrance to himself, Amaimon is a scavenger with a big appetite and a not too fussy diet. He also is triggered by his instinct to fit into a place in the pecking order, which means if there's an empty space above him, he will be inclined to fill it.
Now on their own, Amaimon will lick his wounds in as solitary a confinement as possible, preferring to retreat underground, or barring that, to be as far away from contact as possible. It depends a lot on the circumstances, but he would typically rather be alone. However, if he is offered help he is surprisingly cooperative about it. His isolation is less a matter of pride and more a matter of safety, and while he will get very grumpy and defensive at first, he will gladly accept aid that proves to be no threat to him. After all, the longer he is injured for, the longer he is out of the running, and ironically , the more attention he brings to his absence, particularly by Samael.
Samael is a nitroglycerin laced cookie when it comes to injury or illness. He puts on a placid face and pretends nothing is out of the ordinary, but truth be told he's an anxious, boiling mess inside, and spends 99% of his time in a state of forced disassociation. He doesn't like to be seen as weak or vulnerable, which is why he battles the instincts that tell him to hide or retreat; like Amaimon, his absence would draw more attention to his wounds than his continued presence, only there are far more eyes on him, adding to the pressure. That said though, one can only fight those instincts for so long. Samael is the master of masking his pain and discomfort in theory, but the fact he does so only adds to it; eventually the stress must find a release, making him wildly unpredictable and prone to snapping at people with varying degrees of violence with seemingly no warning. He professes and complains to be doted on and given every comfort possible, but again, this is a ruse, meant to fool himself as well as others into believing he is capable of swift and smooth recovery, or that he isn't as badly hurt as he actually is. It's a placation of the masses of watchful stares and suspicious muttering. The truth is far more ugly however, and the more hurt he gets, the less able he is to hide his distress and discomfort. He accepts aide as a platitude, but is a very uncooperative patient whenever serious matters need to be taken into consideration. He's also mortally terrified of anesthesia, because it strips him entirely of his autonomy, and that is ultimately what makes him difficult to deal with as a patient as well - lack of control.
39.a Who initiated the relationship? b. Who kissed who first? c. When was the first realization of love made?
A. According to the fic/headcannon lore I've got jotted down somewhere, (explaining Amaimons initial incarnation) Samael technically was the one to initiate it, as he is the one who pulled Amaimon from the North Sea. However, it was Amaimon who began the unfortunate series of events surrounding his affection for Samael. The boy wanted his attention and praise, and began seeking it out in various ways, ultimately and accidentally developing his now typical courtship routine in the process. This routine has variability depending on who he is wooing, but is basically a combination of showing off + gifts (usually starts with food, if that fails then he finds what works) + excited body language / suggestive body language + touching, raking, nipping, grappling, suggestive attempts to mount, etc. Rinse and repeat as many times as necessary.
B. Amaimon did not understand what kissing was until Samael "explained" it to him, so there ya go.
C. This is where things get really dark in their relationship. Samael 1k years ago is not as kind or tolerant, and is terrified beyond all reason or sense of being close to people. It took a long time for Amaimon, who is also afraid of closeness, to open up his shell and find that he felt some intimate connection with Samael, who for all the world wanted to ignore that connection and will it away. When that did not work, and Amaimon began to foolishly take the initiative to really deepen their emotional bonds by way of persistently courting him and, in the way of any naive child, cling to him, Samael did not know nor care to even try and understand how to handle it. Amaimon loves him - that fact stared him in the face every day, no matter how much he willed it away, so he began to push. Verbally, emotionally, and physically, he pushed Amaimon, pushed his love, away. Violently, viciously at times, he pushed him away, until it drove him away. Amaimon eventually gave up and left for greener, less painful pastures, coming back together with Samael after many centuries apart.
Wiser Samael never did apologize, even to this day, but has come to terms with his nasty treatment of Amaimon. This is why he tolerates things from Amaimon that would surely see anyone else dead; (e.g punching him in the face) it's the only way he knows how to apologize without losing face. He still won't admit that he cares about Amaimon, because he tries very hard not to. But he can accept the fact that he acted the way he did out of fear, and that he did something very wrong to someone that didnt deserve it. Does that mean he wouldn't do it twice? Hell no. But he is aware it is his fault, even if he'll never admit that to anyone else.
4. First Impressions of each other?
Samael didnt know why he pulled the demon from the water, but he was glad he did. Something told him that this boy was his kin. He knew the name Amaimon, but didnt know his face until then. Being the space/time being he is, he was aware to a degree of the reputation which preceded that name, but wasn't sure who he would be dealing with at such an early stage in the young Amaimon's life. Therefore he had an optimistic but cautious approach, hoping he could make use of this lost baby demon.
Amaimon was impressed by Samael, who of course tried to make himself seem as impressive as possible. Amaimon was surprised that Samael knew his name, and how much he seemed to know about the situation he had left behind. But that's not all he knew. He knew something about everything, and had something from practically everywhere.
When they reconveined again after their separation, not much had changed.
And with that this dramatically long post draws a close. I will be posting snippets of the lore on here once it's complete.
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Sockathan fairytale au?
[Still taking these]
There were only a couple people out on the streets this morning. It was late, and cold enough that you could see your breath in the air in front of you, so it wasn’t really a surprise. Still, Jonathan enjoyed the stillness as he wandered down the sidewalk, not really sure where he was going.
He wasn’t really sure how he ended up here either. He didn’t really want to go home to his empty cold house, waiting for his mom to get home late and tired so they could silently eat dinner together, so he walked. Jonathan didn’t really mind being alone–in fact he usually preferred it–but there was something about tonight, cold and dark with hints of rain spitting down on him, he just felt sort of gross and lonely.
Most of the buildings in this area were closed or closing, so he had nowhere to duck into. He just pulled his coat tighter around himself and kept walking. Suddenly, a little patch of lights across the street caught his attention. It was different from the electrical street lights buzzing above him. It was weird though, he couldn’t quite make it out, like his eyes refused to focus on whatever it was.
He blinked purposefully and squinted his eyes. There was a little shop nestled between an empty restaurant and a closed bookstore, with warm light spilling out of the two windows. It didn’t seem new, yet he was positive he’d never seen it before. Glancing quickly down either side of the street, he crossed over and peered into the window. The place was filled with bottles and jars, the contents of which he couldn’t quite identify. Pricked with curiosity, Jonathan slid away from the window and reached to open the door. Light spilled out of the doorway, mingled with a weird tangle of scents that he couldn’t decide if he liked or not.
The second he stepped into the shop he was warm, he took off his scarf and unzipped his jacket. A little bell rung above the door as it drifted shut behind him. Jonathan peered around the little store. Now that he was closer up, he still couldn’t tell what half the stuff was. There were stones piled on the shelves by the windows and little bottles filled with colorful liquids decorated and stacked on top of each other. The whole place had a pretty… surreal vibe.
“So, wha’cha looking for?” Jonathan jumped at the voice and spun around. Standing behind the counter–that he was almost positive was empty space a second ago– was a guy with a big smile, wearing a stupid hat, and stirring what could only be described as a cauldron.
“I- …What?” Jonathan stuttered, still trying to figure out where the heck this guy had come from. He tapped the spoon against the edge of the cauldron and set it aside then used his hand to gesture around the room.
“You know, what are you here for? Got anything specific in mind?” Jonathan wasn’t sure how to respond, he looked around the shop again, trying to wrap his head around it.
“What is this place?” Looking back towards him, the guy leaned over to rest his arms on the counter, worryingly close to the flame bathing the bottom of the cauldron.
“A store.”
“Yeah, but for what?” Jonathan picked up a suspiciously green vial that just had Joy written on the side of it. He was starting to worry he’d wandered into an underground drug cartel.
“Stones, spells, potions, anything you could want really.” Jonathan turned back from the bottle to raise his eyebrows incredulously.
“Potions?.. And spells? … You mean like magic?” Now he was wondering if this guy was just crazy. He put the little bottle down gingerly.
“Magic, witchcraft, whatever you want to call it.” He straightened back up and returned to stirring the cauldron, throwing in a little dash of white powder he produced from underneath the counter.
“So… You’re a witch then…”
“Yep.”
Definitely crazy. Jonathan took a step back towards the door.
“I don’t really see anything I want. I’ll just head out.” He turned quickly to open the door, only to find it wasn’t there anymore. Jonathan stared for a moment at the spot now covered with shelves of little talismans. “-the fuck?”
“You can’t leave until you buy what you came here for.” Jonathan whirled around but the guy’s posture was anything but threatening. He was leaning on the counter again, lazily spooning to liquid out of the cauldron and watching it pour back in. He glanced at Jonathan. “Oh relax, you’re not in danger. You just need to grab whatever you need, then the door will be back.” He went back to messing around with the potion, looking quite pleased. Jonathan on the other hand was growing more irritated by the second. The whole magic thing was seeming a little more plausible. He still thought this dude was crazy, regardless.
“But I don’t want anything.”
“Sure you do, that’s how you got in here.” The witch, apparently deciding this was more interesting than the potion, turned off the burner and moved the cauldron to the back counter. Then he slid around to the front side of the counter and hopped up to sit on it. “People only find this place when they want something.” He propped his head up on his hands. “So what is it you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it a love potion? -I bet it’s a love potion, that’s what most people come for.” He continued, grinning, as if Jonathan hadn’t said anything.
“No.” He hissed.
“Fair enough, handsome guy like you probably doesn’t have any problems getting dates. So what is it then? Money? Happiness? A curse for someone else?”
“No!” This was getting ridiculous, he just wanted to leave and this kid would not stop talking. He seemed to be getting similarly frustrated and gave Jonathan a mild glare.
“Well, what then? Come on, what do you want? What’s your dream?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Sure you do.” He started gesturing with his hands, making little curves and arcs with them to punctuate his points. “What is it that drives you? What do you want most in the world? Everyone has a dream.”
“Not me.” He lowered his hands slowly to the counter top beside him and stared at Jonathan.
“That’s sad.” It wasn’t condescending, on the contrary he seemed genuinely bummed out that Jonathan didn’t have some driving goal in life, but he felt his cheeks starting to burn anyway.
“Yeah, well, it is what it is,” he spat. He stared at Jonathan a moment longer, his big green eyes pondering something, they sunk to the floor, then back up.
“I’m not really a witch yet, more of a witch-in-training, my boss is out for the day.” He pointed at the cauldron still bubbling behind him. “I mean, that was suppose to be a luck potion, but it’d probably kill you if you drank it–and I can’t really do spells either…” He trailed off, looking at Jonathan expectantly. Jonathan blinked.
“…and?”
“I dunno it just felt like the right thing to say. I was just sort of drifting around with no idea what to do when Meph found me, and I’m still not totally there yet. I guess I’m just trying to say you’ll find something.” He hopped off the counter before Jonathan could anything but gape, and moved over to one of the walls, plucking through the various items until he found the one he wanted. “Here!” He dashed back over to Jonathan, holding up some sort of pendant with a blue stone fitted in the middle. He quickly slipped it over Jonathan’s head. “It’s good luck. It’ll also help you find the shop again.” Jonathan picked up the pendant, watching the way it glittered against his palm.
“How much is it?” The witch-in-training waved a hand.
“It’s on the house.” He smiled. “Just come back when you think of something you want.” Jonathan let go of the pendant so it could gently fall back against his shirt.
“Thanks.”
“My name’s Sock, by the way.” He looked up again at the strange person standing in front of him, freckles dotting his cheeks, eyes wide and way too genuine.
“…Jonathan.”
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