#VTM Fanfiction

[viskarenvisla]

Thirst - Chapter 5: His Fatal Addiction

Chapter 5 is a switch of perspective over to Yusuf Mizrah. We get a bit of insight into the Werewolf brain, how it functions and what he's experiencing in the midst of this tawdry, utterly forbidden affair with Monroe Carter. Yusuf is an unusual Werewolf in that he runs alone - this isn't an expression of strength so much as dysfunction, one that, to another werewolf, is shameful. He has his reasons of course, but in the face of the survival of species in the face of a circular, terrible cycle of cannibalism and predation among Accursed Beings, they aren't good reasons...at least not to one of his own kind. Enjoy.

“Are you full and sated?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Shh…don’t ruin it, you loudmouth…”

Yeah yeah fine. She had a point though. He closed his eyes and placed his cheek against the top of her head, the roughness of her braids catching against his thick stubble, almost like velcro. Her arms were wrapped tightly around his torso, face nestled against his chest as she took in his scent. “Mmm, don’t go thinkin’ you’re somethin’ yet …just cuz you smell good.” Her lips were cool against his chest as she pulled his shirt down, pressing the chilling warmth of her kiss against his clavicle, and she looked up at him with begrudging sweetness.

You’re so pretty…why, why do you have to be dead?

“Take care of yourself, Monroe. Seriously…don’t let the wolf blood go to your head, alright?” He smirked at her, and she returned it with a smoldering smile.

“Get outta here Mizrah, go drink a bunch of water, kill and eat something.” The blood-flushed beauty of her smile faltered, crossing her arms under the sport bra covering her chest…the only thing she was wearing, in fact. “I don’t need you to be my blood-doll, you know. I can hunt just fine.” He wondered if she ever postured like this to anyone else, and Mizrah figured it was not part of her normal behaviors…such a petty declaration wasn’t necessary before him. She’d been this way for far longer than he’d been Afflicted, of course she could feed herself. He felt disturbing guilt quite suddenly; she’d called him something, a ‘dealer’. Getting her hooked, and he knew what the source of her addiction was: his blood.

Seconds passed as they held each other’s gaze…mortals may feel awkward in such a situation, but not for lions walking amidst the sheep; he was about to say something pithy when she stepped in, rose on her toes and interrupted him by pressing her dark lips against his. Mizrah descended into her kiss; passionate. Hard, deep, she released him and smacked his hard belly. “Go.” He didn’t bother with words, just fixed her with a smoldering leer that she returned before he opened the door to the motel room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she barely whispered. He acted as if he’d not heard her, shutting the motel room door and swaggering confidently toward the elevator, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. When the car finally arrived, it was truly an effort to keep it together, and he stabbed the ‘close’ button fiercely until the doors closed.

THUD

The elevator shook, but thankfully didn’t halt its descent as Mizrah collapsed on his back, colorful spots swimming before his vision. The musician had maintained lucidity as long as he could and longer than most of his kind could maintain under these conditions, a particular survival advantage unique to his Strain. However, the Enkindled was badly drained. She’d been considerate and only taken small amounts each time they’d met, unlike the first time when she’d nearly killed him; the problem was that when she drank from him, it wasn’t just blood cells and plasma she was lapping up with that skilled, pretty tongue.

She tapped the primordial echo that thundered in his heart, the ill-omened howl at the beginning of time that warped and distorted flesh and soul; it manifested in the load of microscopic entities soaking his blood, his flesh. While they outwardly and genetically resembled Lyssavirus, it was all just a facet-manifestation of the Curse itself, excitations in that dread, multidimensional field that soaked all of reality with dynamic misfortune. Clearly, these excitations also affected the thirsty dead.

“Gotta…Hunt…Gotta…Fffffffffffuuuuck man…” Mizrah couldn’t let anyone see him lying on his back like this in the elevator when it opened - someone might steal his wallet, or worse…call 911. EMTs and cops were, outside of Head-Taker Conspiracies, the last mortals any Afflicted wanted to encounter, and they couldn’t always rely on Bedlam to do the work of muddling memories. Especially when paperwork was involved.

A willful thrust of his fingers up onto the metal handlebar…and they slid down the side uselessly. He flailed once again, feeling far less a deadly Night-Creature and more an up-ended turtle until, with a hiss of frustration, he willed his fingernails into talons and jabbed them into the metal. Hauling himself up carefully and almost giving in to the siren call of nausea, Yusuf made sure he was leaning casually against the elevator wall, summoning single-minded focus to stride with easy, confident charm past the welcome desk. “Shkran. Murih jida,” he thanked the trendy looking girl behind the counter in her paisley hijab. She gave him a look of mild disgust, inching away from the key card he tossed on her desk before stepping through sliding doors and into the muggy night.

The City.

Humanity and others called this warren of barren concrete Home or Feeding Grounds, but for Werewolves, The City held a special significance. Despite being incredibly dangerous because of its overpopulation of aggressive food-stuff organisms, something about the place spared it the horrors of the Lunar Strain. The alien things Lunatics summoned, Outsiders that descended upon ladders of foul moonlight, could not find purchase in this place.

The Curse and its accompanying burdens had, over the years, rendered him unable to properly absorb the nutrition and symbolic reinforcement of his nature from whatever the mortals ate. It was the eventual fate of all of his species to give in to Lalith’s Call and solely devour the flesh of other great predators; Mizrah thought he had a couple of years at least before he got to that point, but times of competition and bloodletting between the Strains and different Therids - that is, any shape changing beast - had refined the Monster caged in his heart through brutal survival.

The stink of The City’s streets pierced through the veil of his sensory filters, and he registered the stench of unwashed, chemical-soaked, deadly humanity. It would be easy to pick out one of the weak, drunk, or lost and draw them in, in a way similar to how Monroe had reeled him toward her, but Yusuf had long despised the act of devouring people.

Humans were often just as bad as your average Turnskin, each one a hateful little collection of petty wants…each ruled by a terror of being devoured by one of their own, since they were the undisputed rulers of the world and had nobody else to concern themselves with. In the Jungle, down here on the streets with the other Skinchangers, the same rules applied. As before, Mizrah had little choice but to participate in the cannibalism, or be cannibalized himself. At least he’d had like-minded Werewolves around him, once before, and it’d made night after night of violent, bloody hunts survivable…bearable. Sometimes even enjoyable, but thankfully Starvation numbed his consciousness to that loss better than any drug, or even the Vampire’s Kiss.

Yusuf fell in among the crowds, and it was like throwing a stone in a river. The extremely perceptive might pick up on the way people seemed to subtly move around him, avoiding his presence the way a herd of gazelles shun a lion that isn’t hunting. He had a destination in mind, only a few blocks away - despite its size, everything in the River District was within walking distance, more or less. Even if it wasn’t, at night the winding, ill-planned roads had a way of drawing you along until you eventually found where you were going. The River District was an obscene feast of vice upon which rich and poor alike glutted themselves to sickness, creaking on a concrete table in an ever-precarious state of near collapse; somehow, more souls ended up in its stifling embrace every year, and like a painted whore utterly drunk on herself she laughed that she could take more. Drugs, sex, drama - these could be found in the crevices of most cities, but it was their sheer abundance and the edge of danger that made the River District famous.

The Metropolitan Police rarely bothered with the area, and it was well understood that the relative peace - or at least enough stability for business to take place - was a result of dangerous, armed individuals willing to enforce it with hot lead. While most Werewolf packs kept their hunting grounds and expedition zones a guarded secret, there was enough abundant prey that certain areas were considered free-entry…a sort of open pantry of struggle.

Still…the food had been getting increasingly wary, and better organized. Alone, in the grips of blood-famine, he was just as likely to get killed as he was to bag dinner but…it wasn’t as if he had a choice. Not if he wanted to avoid being a maneater. That’s why he hopped on a crowded tram, squeezing through to a window as it moved down Water Street and made a swing to meander over the Stadtler Bridge…his stop was at the edge of the blight in a place colloquially known as The Barrows. Barrowster Heights, as it was properly known, was a spit of the industrial tombyard that had built this city. It was where residential areas and dangerous workshops, foundries and refineries had clumped together, and where old rent-control laws from the 70s made the apartment towers some of the most affordable in The City. Even with the departure of decent paying jobs to the ruins of former Communist nations and ‘liberated’ colonies, a lot of people still scratched a living here amidst the moldering concrete and steel.

Where there were impoverished, desperate people, there were Skitterlings. Colony. Nakhten. All were viable prey, but seeing as Mizrah was hunting alone lately, he’d have to go for whatever was weakest. Vulnerable, alone and stupid; and he’d have to be fast. Come on Yusuf…game face. You got this big guy, you haven’t eaten treifa in a whole year…what would mom say? What would mom say, indeed, if she had any idea her son was like this?

The tram announcer’s voice crackled over the intercom: “ Stadtler Bridge and Faulk, please watch your step as you exit the tram from the rear, thank you .” The message was repeated in Creole and Spanish. He slid through masses of people that tempted like hanging sides of beef by the time he’d shoved his way through the back door, before the street car chugged its way back across the bridge into more civilized territory. The tracks ended here because the roads were too pitted and marred for any semblance of public transit besides buses from the 20th century.

A lot of rough neighborhoods in American cities had a sort of flat quality to them; chainlink fences torn off their hinges surrounding overgrown yards filled with trash…parks built with well-meaning tax money that soon became needle infested and dangerous. The Barrows was different; most of the buildings on this crumbling rock were at least twenty stories high, many higher than that, with entire self-contained communities inside. Most had been constructed in the early 1990s and had that blocky, segmented look; forty years of harsh oceanside weather had corroded some of the abandoned ones down to their girders. The whole place felt like a gigantic Jordan Downs, or a district-wide Cabrini-Green, but the city’s architects couldn’t help themselves when calling upon the original builders’ French-Gothic roots.

His saunter became a careful walk as he pulled his hood up, hands in his pockets. A lot of people were just getting home from their jobs, and those who had the money crossed back over the bridge into the River District to gorge themselves on whatever was worst for them. Those who didn’t either languished here where the drugs and booze were cheap but shitty, and where a working girl was just as likely to mug her client as suck them off. His darker skin helped him fit in - an unfortunate reality down here in the Land of Traitors as much as in Yankeetown Milwaukee - but anyone from The Barrows recognize an outsider; almost nobody who didn’t live here entered if they could help it.

Tonight, he went relatively unharassed, aside from being cased for a while by a rusty, dark green Yukon with tinted windows; Mizrah just kept walking, kept his eyes on the concrete and his ears open, ready for the sound of doors opening or safeties clicking…people didn’t usually shoot first out here, but he wasn’t keen on being rolled up on, subjected to a street interrogation. So far so good as he hung a left and followed the broken concrete ribbon to the southernmost point of the neighborhood, where the old Stadtler-Grimes Park occupied a good portion of the oceanfront.

Stadtler-Grimes Park was The City’s attempt at Coney Island, although Theodore Grimes’ notorious fascination with the grotesque had colored his judgment as he aligned its interests with an old executive from the defunct Paulie’s Pizza Warren. The same old problems from Paulie’s had come to roost at Stadtler-Grimes, with mass cases of botulism from tainted pizza sauce, mysterious disappearances of toddlers on the Cheese-King’s Tunnel ride, and of course hosts of terrified, screaming children. The whole Pizza Warren franchise had actually, in fact, been a clever feeding mechanism for Skitterlings - the least fortunate of their kind. The Aspect of the Rat had robbed them of functions and habits that were prerequisites for being in proper society, and the Curse drove them to Nest in places like this; their position near the bottom of the food chain made them undesirable, if plentiful prey - the difficulty, as with all things for a Lone Wolf, was a limited set of tactics against their cunning.

Where the city’s attempts at governance had failed, a community of the least fortunate had…well, ‘flourished’ wasn’t the right word. Tents and shacks jutted like broken teeth underneath the ferris wheel; slats of wood had been nailed crudely between the ride’s spokes, granting some respite from the sun for those who huddled beneath. His heightened senses were keenly aware of eyes peering outward at him suspiciously, scanning him as mark or threat…but most of the locals had come to understand that outsiders were dangerous, and usually didn’t want anything to do with them. Besides, getting mugged by some mortals was the least of his concerns…these weren’t his Hunting Grounds.

The peculiar, sour scent of Skitterling grew stronger as his footsteps echoed between the empty fare stalls. None of the original merchandise was there and anything saleable had been stripped down to the nails; the din of the city was strangely far here. There was the crawling, churning gnaw of the ocean, biting slowly away at the concrete levies that kept The City from falling into the Gulf. Nobody came out to harass him so…he closed his eyes and changed the structures in his ears to better listen for that telltale skitter, their chattering communication

At first…nothing but the roar of the sea, the clatter of cars and the sound of old, defunct pipes and infrastructure squeaking and rusting in the wind. Mizrah was about to drift toward another spot when, underneath the old ferris wheel, he heard voices…coming up from underneath the grating he walked upon, unsurprisingly. Mizrah played it cool, even as his instincts screamed for him to rip up the street and chase the prey down to its nest…that only worked with a pack of his own, though. So instead, the dusky musician sat down on a concrete pylon that once held some statue (cut off at its plastic, molded feet) and sparked an American Spirit, letting the smoke float draconically around his head as he listened…the telltale odor of other Turnskins reached his powerful olfactories.

“...telling you man…the answers are Janet Jackson, Pink, Nikki Minaj - ”

“Are you kidding me Taps? What does Minaj have to do with any of those artists? You been hangin’ with that weird Fetters girl, she’s putting nonsense in your head…pass me the paste, would ya?” “Man don’t go trash talking her.” “Yeah I’m like…literally right here, Jove.”

They were clanking about noisily. Mizrah’s ears picked up on the crackle of one of those radio stations truckers and other traveling, working folks listened to, coming over a smartphone speaker. He opened his eyes, already ringed by amber as the Change began to work its subtle magic on his body. He could smell cheap beer, and the sound of a PBR can popping open meant they’d be pounding down tall boys…one of them, at least, would need to take a piss.

The operating stand underneath the ferris wheel…it held a little metal shack that he supposed grew hellish in summer. Remaining quiet was something of a chore for a man like Yusuf, who would have preferred the loud approach to…anything, really, but without backup he couldn’t rely on that. So…he had to be patient, and wait for a chance. Yusuf carefully tried the door handle to the operator’s shack - it simply came off in his grasp, and he caught it before it struck the metal platform, which would have surely sent the Prey scampering. The door scraped open unpleasantly as he tried to control it, squeezing his shoulders through and into the dusty, humid dark.

His eyes adjusted to the lightless little metal box; it stank of dust, hot metal and expired grape soda. A truly miserable little enclosure, he was already sweating by the time he slid the door shut, hunkering down with his back against the studded steel wall. Now there was nothing left to do but wait…his least favorite part. Yusuf Mizrah was not an ambush predator by predilection and lacked the patience to play this role but if he wanted to eat something that was actually satiating, he’d have to wait.

Nothing but the heat, this tiny space, and his thoughts. Without something specific to focus on, they tended to flow chaotically from one idea to the next, or sometimes they were just a jumble, crashing against each other like treacherous waters.

Monroe …she was so pissed off at him earlier, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to disarm her every time with the heat of his passion; not without dipping into the Enkindled magnetism that was a facet of his Strain, but that was meant for Hunting, or use against others of his kind. The thought of ghosting her for her own good furtively intruded his thoughts, and he smothered and killed it. What if her weird, ghoulish kind got wind of the fact they were seeing each other and she was getting all hopped up on his blood? “I’ll kill them,” he mumbled like it was the obvious answer but down that road lay a short, bleak future of being hunted through the streets like a dog with silver. He had to quit her, but he just couldn’t face the sober reality of his isolation.

Dad …he hadn’t spoken to his father for over two years. It wasn’t as if things had ever been straightforward between them; there was too much difference, and especially after what happened to Mom the resentment was just too great. Memories of the man rose and fell vaguely; marinating lamb flank in Winter. Blowing into the shofar on Yom Kippur. Arguments over which friends he kept, arguments about his political views, about his musical tastes, about where he wanted to go to school…so much contention. Dad had no idea of the Curse that had befallen his son, he just kept on teaching and living that quiet, angry life.

Yusuf thought of other faces from his past, dredged up against his will and also because he didn’t want to hold back anymore; he whispered their names to nobody in the darkness, staring ahead at the featureless metal wall. “Mikey…Sadira…Avi…” as if saying their names would somehow conjure their ghosts, and in this world of flesh-shifting monsters…demons clawing their ways down on ladders of moonlight…the walking dead…you’d think there was a chance, but nobody came. He knew where they were…they were amidst the bodies floating in the Great Lake; he belonged there, with them, face down in the water, but he’d run away after the dust settled and he was the only one left standing. He never said their names out loud to anybody, like they were fragile and to do so would damage them beyond even death.

There was nothing left of those three, not even their families…he had nothing - many, many photos but he didn’t dare access that account to look at them. Mikey, Sadira and Avi had been his everything; they weren’t even like, romantic or sexual or nothing, just four souls in The Jungle whose song had harmonized perfectly…and now he was the only one left howling, down here on the Gulf Coast.

“You’re so far away…” he whispered, hating that his voice shook…hating the rumbling hunger in his gut that reminded him he’d been barely living.

“ I’ll be right back assholes, and don’t touch the purple pipes. That’s my project, you hear? Mine.” Mizrah’s attention was hauled away from his emotions, hearing hyper-attuned to the particular tenor of a Skitterling’s voice…their disguise was imperfect to creatures who could sense these things - scraping the bottom of the broken food chain that defined an Accursed Being’s relationships, their anxiety and paranoia did something to their voices…their movements…their dirty scent, lots of little hints that combined into one big, flashing neon arrow-sign that read EAT .

The tears dried in his eyes as his mouth watered, peering through the crack in the steel door at a skinny, tan man of indeterminable ethnicity emerging from a ditch. Squeezing himself through a hole no larger than a raccoon, it was hideous to watch as the concrete birthed him. The Prey wore a sweat-and-grease-and-trash stained gray pinstripe trucker shirt that read 𝐻𝒾 𝐼'𝓂: 𝒮𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒. He wondered if this one was Taps or Jove…Fetters was a girl. It was a pity he’d heard their names because now the Prey was more than just a hideous simulacra of a man pulling his legs out of the drainage hole and shaking himself off. Mizrah watched as he pulled up his pants with jerky, meth-head motions, head dipping between his shoulders as his nostrils twitched. The rat-monster’s human disguise was imperfect to his practiced eye, and pressed quietly up against the metal door, staring through the crack as sweat dripped into his eye and over the hooked bridge of his nose. His mouth watered as he made out the little details.

The sickly green tinge in the corner of the Prey’s right eye.

The scaly, pink texture on the back of his hands.

The greasy smell of his flesh moving underneath his skin.

Then again…this Food had people he was close to. It wasn’t like in a video game, or a movie where the people who died were just extras with no story, even in this nightmare life he lived. Wolves, Rats, Cats, Gators…all the things that were associated with the Curse, they couldn’t just parasitize their Prey like vampires. A human could live their lives as prey for Bloods, completely ignorant (if not happy), but an encounter with a hungry Therid like him, or like this one he was stalking, ended in maiming at the very least; more often the Prey had to be killed and devoured.

Man-eating was something he never wished to do again, but it wasn’t like this was much better. What choice did he have, if he didn’t want to starve to death? At least Monroe, or Mikey Sadira and Avi didn’t have to see him doing this. Mizrah rose very carefully as soon as the male before him ducked before a dumpster to take a leak; the sound of his urine, its stench would hopefully mask his approach

Mizrah flexed a muscle no human had; his canines became long as a human’s last finger joint, his nails blackened and became cat-sharp hooks. The Change caused his eyes to unhinge as adrenaline flooded his bloodstream; heat soaked his body, the Enkindled Strain making this little closet a hotbox as muscle packed on

Move in for the kill.

It happened in the space of three seconds.

00:01: He burst from the metal locker, throwing the door off its hinges and badly scraping his arm against a jagged edge; the Prey looked over its shoulder, fear reflex spiking the air with adrenaline stink.

00:02: He was already on the other Turnskin, and they were tumbling and rolling on the concrete; Mizrah was by far the stronger, and had his talons digging into the Skitterling’s shifting face, muscles heaving as he pulled his head back and exposed his throat. 00:03 The Rat-man’s fingers found Mizrah’s forehead, scrabbling for his eyes to rake them desperately - he responded by biting down, cracking the joints and tearing them away, prompting a choked scream of pain.

It was delicious. Control, pity and mercy couldn’t feed him but this perfect set of ingredients could.

“ N-NO DON’T! PLEASE, PLEASE I DON’T WANNA DIE! ”

But it was too late. Mizrah’s jaws clamped down on the other man’s throat, silencing him as he dug into his windpipe, but he couldn’t close them all the way…he just couldn’t . Instinct drove him to be strong; guilt, human softness made him weak, punishing him with the lash of empathy.

Mizrah felt the Skitterling’s other hand come around and stab a thumb into his left eye, dirty claw popping it and splattering hot blood across the concrete - blinding pain as the Skitterling tore its claws across the side of his head, sending him rolling onto the concrete with pain. “AGH SHIT YOU BASTARD I WAS GONNA LET YOU LIVE!” the Werewolf shouted - the prey was already shifting though, turning into a fucking rat about the size of a small cat. With a flash of protean energies, he took the shape of a long-limbed black wolf and dashed after it, snapping his jaws shut around The Prey’s tail as it squeezed through a crack in the door of an old, closed down staff house. The Skitterling shrieked in high-pitched pain as he tore away the bony appendage, blood spurting briefly into his mouth. He crunched upon it, swallowing it down root and fur and all. It only inflamed his hunger…but by now the fucking thing had crawled into a pipe, or a crack he could never reach through. Mizrah growled and threw himself against the wooden door between himself and his meal, but even as a great wolf his strength flagged.

The other Skitterlings had probably heard the struggle up above and scattered, likely ringing alarm bells all through this part of the Pier and making his hunt all the harder…basically impossible. The black, bristle-furred wolf’s tongue hung from his mouth, mauled eye slowly reforming to stare with disappointment at the Park, now essentially an empty pantry. If he wanted to soothe his hunger, he’d have to get across the inlet to the old, closed down on-site mall but that was a far more dangerous bet since other Predators made their homes within.

Spider-Ogres, a coven of them in the deep parts of the mall…Nachten, roosting in the upper stories…in the flooded lower areas that were once meant to view the harbor’s mutated, strange marine life, Sobeks prowled for intruders and looters. With a Pack, all of these unnatural, changing beasts - some far enough from humanity that killing and eating them didn’t invoke the horrors of cannibalism and murder - were on the menu, and every Turnskin knew to fear wolf howls in the night.

Howls, plural…a lone Wolf was a pathetic thing, and he knew this. Everyone knew it, but Monroe didn’t - all she knew was the vague reputation for violence and struggle that came with him, but she had no idea how hard it was for him to Hunt, or the humiliation of doing so. Was this what it was like for her, when she drank from him? She’d been subsisting on his blood for the better part of a week now, careful sips after the initial glutting but he’d been avoiding eating properly because it was such an awful, unglamorous thing…and now, finally, it’d caught up to him.

He missed her. That, he hated.

Mizrah took his human shape, his left eye popping and sizzling as milky white gave way to a new, reformed iris and pupil. He leaned against the wall in the alleyway between buildings, feeling his strength starting to flag again; his will failing. A mortal would be easy to catch and kill, but how could he bring himself to do it again? Would he have to give in to Frenzy and sate himself that way, picking up the pieces afterwards or simply running away?

“Fucking pathetic…” the Enkindled chided himself, shaking his head and bending down to pick up his jacket; he heard footsteps coming from behind, down the pier and nearer the water.

“Fucking pathetic,” came a low voice - resonant and strong, spoken through gritted teeth. Mizrah looked up and quickly resolved the details of the other man coming his way. Bright red hair, neatly styled and combed…piercing green, no-nonsense eyes that glowed like acid…and of course, the few inches and crucial couple-dozen pounds of muscle he had on the musician made him easily recognizable. His face was stately and proud, intensity written across his expression - every movement seemed like it was restrained, as if truly unleashed he would break his environment.

“Big words from a big lackey, Adam,” Mizrah growled, tossing his coat back down on the off chance the coming confrontation didn’t ruin it utterly. “I don't have time for this again - ”

…but by then Adam was already peeling his apple-green polo shirt off his head, for the same purpose as Mizrah shucking his jacket, throwing it casually over the rail of a fire escape. The pale man was absolutely ripped , brutally and terrifyingly strong. No piercings, no ink, nothing but the patchwork of freckles along his broad, rippling shoulders; Adam's muscle-bound cuirass of a chest was cut down the middle by a stripe of crimson hair, disappearing underneath his leather belt supporting a pair of slacks that had to be hot in this weather. The Rabid Strain had a tendency to produce juggernauts such as this, who by their Fury relied on even blunter tools than he did. “Show throat, Yusuf,” he demanded, even as fur broke through his shoulders and chest, as nails became bone-white speartips, as he took a killing form that threatened to dwarf Mizrah’s…but it was a formality. Yusuf never showed throat, even though he knew Adam hadn't come alone.

He was already shifting into his black furred, deadly killing shape - there wasn’t much of a physical contest to be had, unfortunately; while he was somewhat faster than Adam, and able to flip a car with ease, the Rabid was more than able to tear a tank apart

Barreling at him like a train engine, he somehow seemed even bigger to Mizrah than last time they danced this bullshit tango; starved of the primal, deadly energies that gave him an edge, it wasn’t much of a contest. He hated that the other Turnskin somehow managed to make everything look all noble and knightly, even his anger had the tinge of some honorable righteousness to it

Any Werewolf could fight to some degree, and every lycanthrope's body grew specialized through survival…and he'd grown powerful hunting his own kind when the Lunar Strain had come. He fought them the same way Adam made to take him on, and while he had an advantage over the other Firstblood in the interdictions and incantations of their kind, his Rage was a quiet, subdued thing on an empty belly; as he was, he couldn't take his physical might beyond the bounds of his Killing Shape.

Adam's claws seemed to break the air as they came for his shoulders, but Yusuf caught them in his grip. The huge, crimson monster snapped his jaws at Yusuf's wolven face as he forced him to his knees; Mizrah's musculature bulged as he strained and twisted his body with a fast coiling motion, sending Adam slamming into the wall of the ferris wheel's metal shack. The red-furred monster’s weight caused the little building to simply disintegrate, and taking the only advantage he'd likely be able to tease forth in this fight, Mizrah's black-furred arms wrapped around Adam's throat and hauled him back, locking the monster in a half-Nelson and cutting off his blood supply.

A most non-werewolf thing to do, and it was working as Adam pulled forward, choking under the Enkindled's grasp. His acid green eyes stared at the sky, bugging in their sockets as his windpipe was crushed against his spinal cord…the Goliath began to falter..

Adam’s thigh muscles bunched, and he leapt upward to land on his back, smashing Mizrah underneath him and pressing the impression of his body into the pier…also a non-werewolf tactic, admittedly. The rockstar felt numerous bones simply shatter - ribs, sternum, his pelvis…dislocations and punctured organs as well. His body began to regenerate the damage almost immediately but it was enough for Adam to turn and maul him.

At this point it was over, but Mizrah wasn't the kind of Werewolf who gave up…a major problem for creatures of dominance and hierarchy. His strikes seemed almost disciplined and lined-up as Adam shredded through flesh faster than it could regenerate, smashing bones quicker than they could reseal.

Even in the Killing Form, he could comprehend the pain; the feeling of being utterly crushed. Both hands struggled to hold Adam’s one claw away from his face; the other dug into his guts, pulling them out in a fistful of red, writhing snakes, casting them across the concrete with a wet splatter. Mizrah’s hand reached out, seizing the other wolf’s face and closing down to tear away his flesh in a fur-and-muscle tinged splatter. Adam barely seemed to notice.

Surrender , the scarlet monster demanded…and Mizrah fought on

He snapped his jaws down on Adam’s wrist, twisting and snapping until he degloved it, tearing away three fingers that regrew before his eyes. The Rabid clenched his fist, slamming it like a wrecking ball across the black furred Enkindled’s face. Pounded into the rock, teeth sent skittering and regrowing, skull smashed and reconstituting...slower.

Surrender! Adam commanded once again.

Never . His body was starting to shut down…grievous injuries to his neck, his head and his guts were more than his body could keep up, badly underfed like this. The monster’s jaws were coming down toward his throat, even as he lifted a shaking, taloned hand to hook against his fangs to push back.

SURRENDER!

He refused, up until the moment the other werewolf’s fangs closed around his neck. His windpipe gave in with a crackle, and he choked on his own blood as Adam throated him brutally. Panic took the Killing-Form, his unnatural body struggling to repair itself as the other monster held him there, bleeding and gurgling, the fight leaving him rapidly.

Beaten, Mizrah struggled in his human form to close the rent in his throat - messy ligature and flesh wove together, giving him the luxury of being able to breathe again but he’d lost so much blood - again! - that he couldn’t make sense of his surroundings without remaining still. He didn’t even notice when Adam returned to his human shape, simply standing there with his arms crossed, glaring down at him in disdain; half his face had been clawed off, bloody strings of tissue showing his unnaturally white teeth…he hoped it hurt. Statuesque asshole , Mizrah wanted to spit, but the best he could manage was a choking growl.

He pushed onto his knees, coughing and holding his guts as they wound up into his stomach again. Fangs regrew painfully in his mouth as he cast a hate-filled glare up at Adam, who simply put a dress-shoe clad foot against his ribs and pushed. “Just stay down . I hate kicking your ass around every single time, but so help me Mizrah I’ll take your arm off - ”

“Enough, Adam.” A soothing, low voice broke quietly through the muggy night air, but it might as well have been the crack of a crystal-spiked, writhing whip. The Rabid backed off but all the same, cast a frustrated glare toward the voice, coming from a window, one story above

“Ariadne, he’s worthless, couldn’t even kill a Rat. We’re wasting our time on him.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He’d become used to this refrain, and wondered if they were playing good-cop bad-cop with him, only the distinctions blurred strangely when it came to these two. Yusuf’s vision cleared enough that he could make her out in the dim night, backlit by The City’s glow.

Ariadne’s lithe form rested in the frame of the window, looking down at them with almost feline distance. A lightweight, dark green midriff jacket sat on her shoulders, worn open with the hood up. It cast shadows across the teardrop-shape of her face, eerie heliotrope eyes staring through a veil of barely perceptible disturbance in the air as she turned and effortlessly pushed off the windowsill, descending to the ground with barely a disturbance of dust. She straightened…tall for a woman, nearly 178cm, her long, graceful body had the quality of a longbow carved from pliant, caramel colored wood. “What’s going on with you Yusuf?” Her even voice was, by all accounts, beautiful and smooth, accented by her sweltering homeland of Maranhão…subtly, for creatures who could hear over higher and lower frequencies than the human ear, they could pick up a hint of distortion. The subtle, reality-warping nature of the Behexxed was a constant warning at the edge of his senses. “Letting your Prey slip like that…and you usually put up a much better fight - nearly had Adam last time.”

“He did not,” the Rabid one countered with a raised eyebrow, frowning as Mizrah finally closed enough wounds to push to his knees and speak.

“ Klhhh… ” the tawny skinned musician tried, swallowing painfully as vocal cords reformed in more or less completion. “Been kinda busy trying to pay the rent, y’know? Sometimes life doesn’t leave a lot of room for chasing cats, bats and crocs.”

He hated how she looked at him with disappointment…he hated that she was attractive, her firm, pert chest clad in a dark blue sports bra against the heat, the coffee-colored flatness of her midriff and belly exposed; her lower abdomen was inked with the shape of a python made of 0s and 1s, drawing his attention to her hips…even beaten and humiliated like this.

I’m a fucking masochist.

“You should stick to what you’re good at Yusuf…music. Boxing. Being the beating heart of something important; not lying.” Ariadne shouldered a red backpack whose contents smelled incredibly alluring. Yusuf’s pupils dilated, and even his stomach and intestines - freshly torn and pulled back into his body cavity - growled with hunger. He was getting desperate, enough to consider accepting what he knew to be charity.

Adam’s judgmental, veridian stare from behind his Alpha, however, hardened the broken remnants of his resolve and dignity.

“I like being my own beating heart, thanks,” he continued to lie, legs shaky as he forced himself to stand…he almost couldn’t, digging his fingers into the edge of a dumpster. “You just have a way of catching me at the least advantageous moments…totally unplanned of course

She wasn’t buying it, he could tell as she raised a dark eyebrow. “Two weeks ago you took down the Lynx of Forsythe on your own. The packs were rambling about it, and barely fourteen days later you’re struggling to kill a single Skitterling…I recognize a starving Wolf.” Ariadne’s voice softened as she put a hand in his and pulled him fully to his feet, even going so far as to catch him when disorientation almost pitched him forward. "Forget about ideology, whatever hangups you have; you're gonna get yourself killed."

"Welcome to the Jungle baby, where everyone's someone's meal," Mizrah said with a wry smirk, lightly pushing her shoulder to take a step back - Adam glowered dangerously. He couldn't let her get too close, she'd break his resistance…she knew his loneliness, any perceptive werewolf picked up on it and most reacted with pity or disgust - her empathy was dangerous.

"That's childish. Just why, Yusuf?" Adam questioned with exasperation, but they'd been down this road before. "It isn't all about you man."

"Ohhh okay Adam, tell me who it's all about then," Mizrah countered, giving in to the worst aspects of his nature and already stepping up to the bigger Werewolf confrontationally - to his credit Adam Godwin didn't rise for the bait, so he pushed harder. "Everyone knows who ashed the first Blood, even if the others are too scared of your temper to say it." There…now the pale Celt was flushing with rage, shame.

"Enough, you two - "

"She bit my sister Yusuf."

"Yeah man, lotta good it did her. Look at how many are dead because you're a fucking savage, that's why I won't hunt with you - "

Adam's talons slashing through his face and sending flashes of red pain through his already battered form made him grin, even as he was nearly sent off his feet. His bright red blood stained the wet, dirty concrete, and he felt the other Wolf's fingers grab his collar…fury bright red in his eyes.

Do it. End it you piece of shit.

"ADAM!"

Ariadne's voice had the quality of a jaguar, roaring through a veil of ill, deadly will. She was on Adam, her own clawed fingers digging bloodily into the Rabid’s shoulder and pulling him back; the pain, and her dominance gave Adam cause to release the black haired musician, frustration and shame hardening his features…knowing he'd fallen for the provocation, given Mizrah yet another reason to proudly, arrogantly snub them.

"Go cool off by the water," she instructed him, pulling her claws forth from his powerful shoulder, flicking his blood off; he barely seemed to notice, the marks closing in seconds

"But I - "

"Shh. I know…I know." The Brazilian woman returned Mizrah's handsome, bloody sneer a distant, reproachful gaze. I know what you think you're doing , her hex-filled eyes said. She was an incredibly patient, persistent, stubborn Therid, even for the supremely assured Behexxed for whom fortune twisted and sang like the strings of Delilah's bass…but he was determined to be the snag in that web of assurance and control.

Adam made an inhuman sound, deep in his chest. With a release of heat and unlight, the green-eyed juggernaut became an enormous, red furred wolf. Head held proud, his wolven expression held fast his malice and frustration for the other Firstblood.

For a long time, neither said anything to the other…typical standoff for their kind

She didn't break the quiet because she was too good for that, and instead she untied the bandana around her arm and used it to wipe the blood from his face. He couldn't really deny her the inherent humanity of the gesture, and he contented himself to simply examine her elfin face. He couldn’t deny that the purity in her eyes was beatific, and he could tolerate letting her close because there was no malice in her and the armor was up over his heart. Ariadne was the only Accursed Being who fit this description.

"Alright, fine. You can have this one, since it means so much to you to win," she finally said, lowering the bandana and looking at him from behind the veil of dischonoia . "But you're wrong in the end, and you always will be."

Mizrah gave her a long suffering look as he picked up his jacket - thankfully untorn - from where he'd thrown it, shaking it off with a clank of metal buckles… ew , he thought with a displeased expression at whatever stained the sleeve. "I've seen what you're trying to do, and if it worked I'd say you're the one to pull it off Ariadne. But it doesn't work, we don't make governments. We're monsters. You don't even need to, the Food is plentiful but they don't stand a chance against a Pack…and like all you guys say in the ads - "

" No Outsiders ." They said it at the same time, but her tone caught him - something different about it. She was tenser than he could recall, and her hackles were rising, all atypical behavior for the Behexxed.

"What? What is it, what aren't you telling me?" He demanded, his tone finally souring.

"Shamrys went missing."

"So? Shamrys likes her quiet time." He knew the young, eccentric Night-Howler was almost obsessed with remaining unseen.

"She doesn't duck and run on her Pack in the middle of a Hunt."

That was true, but he'd heard stranger. "So maybe she got gotted - "

"She reappeared two days ago - rather, Theo tracked her to West Cardiff. She was building a 'Fane', wouldn't stop."

That was…alright, that was cause for alarm. His kind didn't usually engage in building projects - that drive was given to frenetic Skitterlings and carapaced Myrmidons, and really he knew where she was going with this. Werewolves were beasts of twisted mysticism and reflected a grand cosmic principle of accursed change; German metaphysicists and Plato had gotten closer to the nature of their existence than Darwin or Nachmanides and religious attitudes were unusual among most Firstbloods. The exception to this rule was, of course, the virulent, gibbering madness of the Lunar Strain.

Anxiety dug at him; the fall of Chicago had been predicated by the unstoppable spread of the Lunar Strain’s manifestation there, and those moon-maddened Werewolves completed their occult construction before he’d been able to unite the packs. When the Gloaming Stairway had been completed, a stilted, spiraling thing of crystalline moonlight and stretched, warped skin that crawled of its own accord toward the face of the moon, the Vicar had come down from the sky

The moon had turned red. The Vicar’s howl split the sky, and so many of his friends lost their dreams, their minds, everything that made them individuals and not the mat-furred, eye-rolling, gnashing freaks they’d been turned into. Those who'd avoided or resisted the Change…he could still see them, their bodies floating at the end of Navy Pier.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” he was getting tired, running out of excuses and ways to avoid dealing with this…he always had Adam’s poor temper as an excuse to refuse what she wanted, because he knew what Ariadne was always angling for, even if she never said it directly. Would she, now that he’d asked the Behexxed directly?

“Nothing, right now, because you can’t do anything about it. You’re too weak.” There was no accusation, no judgment, just the simple truth that raked his ego. He felt his cheeks redden with wounded pride, but she gently shushed him, shaking her head…he could see her think about reaching out to touch him, but she thought better of it. He wished she would; Mizrah’s emotions for her were complicated. No denying that he felt a pull toward her physically, the way her body moved with effortless vitality - it kind of reminded him of something graceful moving with diaphanous motions through the sea. She was elegant and tall, and her skin looked so smooth…for Prey she was a terror but for one of his kind, there was respite to be found with her, which made her rare.

He shouldn't have been thinking these things…fine to have multiple mates, but he already had an unhealthy thirst for a creature of the night - why further complicate it by falling for someone whom the Curse had especially touched? She probably didn't even think of him that way. Stupid thoughts…but the desire was there.

The structures she represented though…trying to bring together bickering, bloodthirsty groups of monsters who congregated in ultra-tight cliques into something resembling…functioning government? It wasn't natural. It didn't work for Turnskins - he'd tried and the price he'd paid in blood and dignjty…only to see everything fall apart into screaming, gibbering madness anyway.

She offered him the bag, reeking with Therid meat - he wasn't sure which - but Mizrah, with an even greater act of will than was required to stay on his feet, turned his nose up at it and pushed it away. "Keep your charity, and just quit tryin'. I'm not in the game anymore, especially not that game where you're set up to fail from the start."

"Yusuf…" that look she gave him, behind the chaos-flecked veil of her heliotrope eyes was at once utterly inhuman and yet far too close to his heart for comfort. Was she hurt that he was rejecting her help, and thereby rejecting her? Again? He didn't need to feel guilty because they were fucking monsters , but…he hadn't meant to.

She dropped the backpack, hands sliding into her pockets as they regarded each other.

"Don't let whatever sorrow you brought from Chicago kill you. We're not meant to run alone." The Behexxed turned on her heel, trailing after where Adam had stomped off and leaving him, again, in solitude. When she was gone, he stayed and wrestled with himself, torn between starvation and pride.

"See me now?" He muttered to the one who was once always there, watching, hearing him. "Sure hope not…" Mizrah swore this was the last time he'd accept this kind of charity. Ripping the top of the backpack open, he reached inside, took a handful of something rich and warm and twitching…it gripped him back, even as he lifted it to his mouth and gorged on the Accursed flesh.

[lesbianrenjiabarai]

VtM: Bloodsport

Summary: Renji is pretty done with the whole vampire-thing. Being a creature of the night and preying on humans really lost it's sheen after a century, so he’s perfectly content to mind his own business, disappear into the woods, and become another weird footnote in Japan’s long ledger of cryptids.

However, the underground society of Kindred is a spiraling, troublesome web that doesn’t let anybody get out unscathed. And to avoid war in Tokyo, Renji agrees to take responsibility of a very valuable asset for an influential Anarch baron.

They say that idle hands are the Devil’s playthings, but Ichigo is keeping Renji very busy.

Pairings: Renji Abarai/Izuru Kira/Shuuhei Hisagi

Length: 21k+

Warnings: Mature violent content, implied sexual content

[field-cryptobotanist]

I remember some years ago reading about how the baali turn their fledgling (they're not in v5 for obvious reasons) and thinking that it was cartoonisly evil and very edgelord, borderline unplayable.

But like if you told me Daniel Molloy was almost drained completely of blood and thrown in a pit of decomposing corpses and told to find the one that had with a heart full of vampire blood so he could turn

I would tell you absolutely, with zero followup questions asked would definitely do it

Especially if he go to spend eternity researching forbidden and occult knowledge and summoning demons.

So I take back previous statements about the baali maybe they make sense.

[pattons-second-cookie-v2]

The Blood That Binds- A Sanders’ Sides X Vampire: The Masquerade AU

Do you like Sanders’ Sides? Do you like vampires? Have you ever wanted to read about the Sides as chaotic vampires? Well YOU’RE IN LUCK!

I’m currently working on the premise of a SS story centered on the TTRPG/video game universe Vampire: The Masquerade. VTM is a gritty and intense game that explores a lot of dark themes, and I’m already cooking up some juicy scenarios to put the Sides through. But I figured I’d give a little starter pitch before getting too busy with writing.

The Sides are all vampires of varying ages (mostly late 20s and early 30s) and from different eras (1940s-present day). The only human (at the time I’ writing this) is Virgil but don’t worry, he won’t be for long.

In VTM there are two main sects of Vampires, the Camarilla and the Anarchs. The Camarilla are mainly old world vampires who are set in the ways of the old traditions that are structured to benefit the elders and those with power. The Anarchs are the rebels, typically new age vampires with a common goal to deconstruct the Cam and establish free states for any and all vampires. The methods and influences of the two sects vary from city to city.

The Sides are a healthy mix of Anarchs and Camarilla, as well as a nomad or two. Expect to see lots of secrets and backstabbing. And perhaps even some enemies to lovers ;)

If you have interest in this Vampire AU, let me know on this post or my DMs and I’ll set up a tag list. First chapters won’t be up for a while, but I will be setting up some character profiles and drabbles before beginning the main story. I’m hoping to get the story officially started by Halloween (very fitting for vampires, I know)

Below the cut, I’m including a list of possible triggers/tropes I may end up using. Please note that not all of these are final, but they all have the potential to be used.

Story May Include: Body horror, blood, gore, descriptions of death, major character death, hallucinations (auditory and visual), verbal abuse, descriptions of panic attacks, kidnapping, bondage, power imbalance, harm to animals

[hedgewitchh]

Eternity is a long time

Lucy has lived a long life, it had grown boring even her research couldn't being the thrill it used to. A trip to Houston finally might promise a difference in routine.

Lucy's days were full of monotony, waking up at sunset, going to the temple and doing her job. Every day for years and years it went like this, she worked on rituals for the church and worked her way up the ranks quickly. She was transferred to Houston. ‘They need to be whipped into shape, I hear a few childer are unruly this year.’

So she went, always the obedient kindred the perfect Tremere. She hated it, she wanted to do more, be more; but a rebellious church member didn't get far and she'd be damned if she let the power she clawed for slip away from her. She bought a quaint house in a gated community. She planted trees around the property, and she used rituals to help the growth of the plants.

She settled into her new home, decorating the way she liked and hired a contractor to renovate her basement for her magical practices. She moved her sanguine servant to her bedroom for the time, placing her on the desk. Zoey was the one person or homunculus she could talk to about her wants and how boring meetings are.

Days passed before she went to the church, drawing it out as much as possible before she had to be a proper church member. 

She dressed in a pencil skirt, stockings, a blouse that she left the top buttons left undone and kitten heels. A cross laid on her neck showed off proudly, most of the Tremere wore religious iconography, some were more bizarre than others . Some based their entire outfits on the symbols, some like her were more discreet. She threw her hair into a low bun, looking as professional as she could.

The church was imposing as ever, she could feel the wards that surrounded the place and kept the public away from it during the day. She saw the stained glass windows, it looked like a mockery of an older church used for perverse rituals by beings damned and forgotten by God. She pushed the large doors open, heavy even to her supernatural strength.

The interior was spacious, high ceilings and burning candle light. There were no modern appliances to be seen, they were probably ones for the technomancers somewhere; she didn't need to worry about it. She walked up to the receptionist, a young man with dark hair. He looked up at her, bored though he gave her a quick once over. “Yes?”

“I'm Lucy Grey. I was sent from New York, the pastor should be expecting me.” She was curt with her words, not caring to make small talk.

His eyes widened, “You're Lucy Grey? Regent of the sixth circle? That Lucy?” 

She sighed, she was old enough and powerful enough to be known even here. “What? Expecting some old crone? Yes, I am her. Now tell the pastor I am here.” He nodded dumbly, staring after her, probably wishing he made a more memorable introduction, wanting to gain favor with her now that he knew she was a high ranking church member. She heard him make a call off the rotary phone and talk quickly, before calling out to her telling her to wait in the meeting room. She stared at him before he seemed to understand that she didn't know where to go. 

“Yes, apologies follow me.” He paused, “Please.” He added quickly, she stepped behind him.

 “Yea, yea old man I'll do it. Calm down.” Was heard before a body knocked into her own, pushing her against the opposite wall. “Shit.” Lucy stood up and looked at the man.

“You idiot, do you know who you just ran into?” The receptionist whispered yelled at the mystery man. She looked at him, he unassuming in height standing not much taller than her, a trench coat swished around him. He was handsome enough in a gangly way but she was more interested in his eyes, they were full of light and mischief. His skin was bright and flushed unlike most of the other kindred he was around, his smirk vanished as he looked down at her. She didn't miss how he looked at her breast for a brief moment.

“No? What some big shot in the church here to yell at me?” His mouth curled into a half smile as if it was always meant to be present. 

“She is a regent and you will show her respect!” The receptionist raised his voice slightly.

The man scoffed and then bowed as sarcastically as someone could. “Oh pardon me. Your regentness how will you ever forgive someone as low as myself?” He straightened himself almost to full height, shoulder pushed back.

She stepped closer to him, heels clicking against wood. “I assume you're a childer? Not yet use to the way the church works. I can overlook it this once.” She gave him a once over. “I can't imagine with your attitude you'll make it very far through the test.” Her smile was sickly sweet, she watched him bristle at her words.

“Yea sure, we'll see won't we?” He muttered and stormed away from her.

“Who was that?” She turned towards the receptionist.

“Christopher Sepren, he’s a few months old and is due to take the test soon with the others. He has yet to learn manners.” He sounded tired of Christopher already. 

She nodded and continued to follow until they reached the wide doors, the receptionist opened the door for her. She thanked him and walked in, the pastor already sitting at the head of the table, the doors closed with a heavy thunk. She took her own seat at the other end of the table. “Pastor.” she greeted softly, smiling at him. The picture of prim and proper.

“Lucy, it's so lovely to see you.” His voice rumbled out of him like thunder, his smile was easy going. “I trust your stay has been a welcome reprieve from the hustle and bustle of New York.”

“Houston has its charm, that's for sure.” She replied easily, not interested in small talk. “Tell me about this year's batch of childer any unruly ones I should pay attention to and any outstanding ones I should also watch?”

The pastor thought for a moment and rattled off some names, describing who he thought had a chance of becoming an apprentice and those he thought wouldn't make it past the first test. He paused on a thought, “The only one that is unknown is Christopher. He has a true talent for blood magic, able to pick up the intricacies of rituals but he is defiant to his sire and has no respect for traditions.”

“I ran into him just earlier, well he ran into me. He was arrogant to say the least, and didn't like being looked down upon.” She rolled her eyes at the thought of Christopher. 

“Yes, that's the one I'd like for you to pay attention to.” 

“What? Why shouldn't I be helping a childer with discipline issues? Why him?” She was shocked at his words, was she being tested? 

“He has true talent, he just needs a guiding hand and unfortunately Arthur isn't the right hand for Christopher.”

“And you think I am?” She crossed her arms. “And if he fails? What then am I to be punished for a mistake?”

“You'll probably lose the chance to be promoted.” He shrugged unconcerned with her future. She narrowed her eyes at him but knew she would have to accept the task, she couldn't turn the offer down unless she wanted to hear from her Lord. 

“Fine, I'll get him to pass those tests and I expect Arthur to thank me for my help with his childer.” She stood up, “I'll corner Christopher now, while I have the chance.” She left without a goodbye and strode down the hall towards Arthur's office, she opened it without warning. He found the older man over a woman, drinking from her neck as she moaned under him. “Arthur, good to see you haven't changed. Here in the church? How scandalous.” She leaned against his bookshelf inspecting her nails as she waited. The smell of blood was all she could smell and taste, it made the beast inside of her rumble in never ending hunger but it was quickly quieted. 

He released the woman who whined at the  loss of the pleasurable bite, Arthur held her down with one hand. “Lucy, good to see you're as dead as ever. Can't even make yourself express desire for fresh blood? Are you that dead? Can anything make that heart beat again.” Arthur looked her up and down with lust, he had the blush of life and with the intoxicating scent of blood his libido had to be higher than normal.

“I am, nothing causes my heart to flutter like it used to.” She had no doubts, the life left her long ago along with any desire for pleasures of the flesh. It was a means to an end, to satisfy the beast. “You don't strike fire in my loins. Now tell me where to find your childer.” She looked up from her nails to stare at him.

He bared his fangs at her, “What do you want with him?” He spat at her

“I've been told to deal with your mess and it seems while promising he is trouble. The pastor thought I'd be a more gentle hand to guide him.” She crossed her arms under her breast pushing them up to prove her point. “Seeing that he seems to be blushed still, womanly guidance is sometimes better.” She looked down at the woman, “You would know.”

“Fine you can find him at home more than likely.” He told her the address. She wrote it down and walked out of the church making her way towards the small apartment Christopher owned. She went to knock on the door but stopped before she touched the wood, the hairs on her arm stood up feeling warding coming off the door. Her teeth bared in defense before she calmed down, knowing she wasn't in immediate danger as long as she didn't touch the door.

She heard a door creak open and she turned to Christopher at the other end of the hall, it seemed she didn't need to track him down. He looked guarded and stopped moving as he saw her, “What are you doing here?” 

“Pastor sent me, seems you need my help.” She smiled sweetly.

“I'm doing just fine on my own, you can ask Arthur.” He said his sire's name with disrespect.

“I did, he's about as happy as you are about this. He doesn't want me to take credit for helping you succeed.” She scoffed impatiently “We are going to be working very closely together, might as well make this easier for both of us. I'm Lucy Grey, your teacher from here on out.” 

“Chris,” He walked closer, taking out a pair of gloves and opening his door. “Come in I guess.”

The lights were off, but fire came to life in some lanterns as he lit one. She flinched at the unexpected fire and she heard him chuckle behind her, she whirled at him ready to scold him. She stopped when she saw his full smile, she couldn't stop from staring at the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, he looked truly alive in that moment as if darkness had never damned him. Firelight made his brown hair glow and his eyes danced with mischief again, she couldn't help but want to be closer to that warmth; that feeling of being alive.

She saw his mouth moving but heard nothing, she shook herself, “I'm sorry what?” She asked, she sounded breathy even to her own ears.

“I asked if I scared you too much, I would be surprised with how much candle light is in the church and-” He looked her up and down, “based on how you dress, you have to be there often.”

“There aren't exactly days off when you work for the chantry.” She felt like if she could blush she would, his gaze felt like fire on her skin and she couldn't understand the sentiment. She has been dead for too long to care about some childer, to care about his desire. 

She quickly changed the subject to how she would teach him, making him memorize everything he needed to know for the test and how he needed to impress if he wanted to survive. He seemed confused at the thought and she explained those who didn't impress would be used for rituals and never advance to learn the ways of blood. 

She was strict with him, but learned he was more likely to learn if she praised him and was encouraged by her words. She would sit on the couch and watch him hunch over a book she gave him, she would ask him random questions on the subject. He sometimes stumbled but never got the question wrong more than once, she was impressed the pastor was right he had great potential and seemed more at ease when not at the church. More willing to learn and listen in the privacy of his own home, it was commonplace that she waiting for him when he got home as he was the only childer assigned to her. He got over his initial surprise and sometimes anger at the invasion. 

She slotted with him in a way she didn't expect, he's made her genuinely laugh for the first time in maybe sixty years. She smiled easily around him and her gaze lingered on him longer than appropriate, taking in his figure when he didn't wear his jacket and the way he leaned back in his chair when he was talking with her. He started making crude jokes her way and she played them off as if they did make her dead heart feel something.

“You seem less straight laced, what happened to you? Find a nice fleshsack to spend your nights with, didn't know you had it in you.” One of the teachers asked as she passed, it's not the first time someone's made a comment. Though it was the first time someone asked her directly, it seems it wasn't unnoticed that she felt lighter than she had in years and someone thought she was soft enough to approach. 

She scowled at the teacher, “No, I have no interest in ‘shacking’ up with some mortal.”

“Then is it your new pet?” He leered at her, “What the blush really gets you going? Is that all it took to make Lucy Grey go soft? Maybe I should take him for a spin to see what makes him so special.”

She bared her fangs and stalked closer to him, unexpected anger springing in her chest “Think I've gone soft have you?” She moved her hand toward a plant near them and watched it wiggle to life, lashing out at the kindred and wrapping around his wrist. “Nobody touches what is mine. Do you really want to try your luck?” She had the plant tug on the kindred, making him stumble trying to free himself from the plant's grasp.

“Let me go.” He demanded, she shoves him back with a hand gripping a fistful of his shirt. Her face was near his.

“Have you ever tasted ash before?” She sneered at him, almost nose to nose with him. “Touch Christopher and every drop of blood you ever drink again will turn to ash on your tongue. Until you go mad with hunger and then I'll be there to put you down.” She released him and let him go.

 He looked at her with fear as she stood over him, this is who Lucy Grey was, a woman to be feared with a path unknown that only she held the key to and would never part with. She rose the ranks with her research and ability to make every kindred cow to her if she wanted, her complete control over the green world around her and an unknown power that she clawed for.

It wasn't the last time someone threatened to take Chris from her, though after a few unfortunate and mysterious disappearance of their students. They eventually quieted down, she watched as they slowly turned their ire to Chris since they couldn't do anything but spit poison at him. He took it in stride, already disliked due to his mouth this was nothing new to him it seemed; that didn't stop her from scolding and threatening anyone from being so outwardly hostile to him.

She was walking to the church's library when she heard someone talking not so quietly. “You think just because Lucy favors you, you get to walk around with no consequences? You took a book I was grabbing, now apologize and give it back.”

She heard the familiar sound of Chris’ laugh, she slowed her pace until she was just hidden behind a bookcase. “I grabbed it first, you didn't want it until I was walking away with it. Seems you're just upset that I could impress her while you aren't even a blip on her radar.” She could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. 

“You're not that special, you're the same as the rest of us, a nobody. A nobody who's going to fail and become another useless bloodbag.” The kindred's voice was a little higher pitch in anger, a woman probably one of the newly sired.

“Then why have I gotten my own personal teacher? Why is mine a high ranking church member?” She heard the sound of his footsteps, “It's not pure luck, I clearly have the skill that just doesn't come naturally to you.” She heard an indigent huff and the sounds of heels clicking away, she watched the woman leave studying her as she went. 

She heard the sound of boots draw closer, she stood motionless until Chris almost passed her when she shot her hand out and twisted him to press his back against the bookshelf. He lashed out immediately which she was glad to see, making her proud that he wouldn't be pushed around. He stopped when he recognized her, “Lucy?” He was breathless as he asked in surprise, his voice a little louder than normal.

She reached to cover his mouth and pressed a finger to her lips, “Shhh, this is still a library after all.” She smiled at him, she put her hand down standing close to him, chest to chest.  She could feel his slow heartbeat against her, it echoed in her ears. Though as he looked down at her, she heard his heart begin to beat faster, her chest on almost full display, wearing a black lacy bra that she was sure he could see the top of.

“Dressing up for me? Could've just asked how I wanted to see you.” His voice thick with want, his mouth curled in a half smile she wanted to see all the time.

“Now Christopher, hitting on your teacher isn't that a bit cliché even for you?” That didn't stop her from moving a bit closer to him closing the already small distance

“You're the one you slammed me into a bookshelf and pressed yourself up against me? Can you blame a guy for appreciating a beautiful woman throwing herself at him?” Though his words were seductive his hands stayed planted against the bookshelf as if afraid to touch her. 

“This is just more practice, gotta keep you on your toes.” She moved away from him, letting him stand away from the bookshelf, “Never know who's around the corner.”

“Apparently I should walk around blindly if this is the treatment I'll get.” 

“While I'm having fun, I'm also serious. The test has already begun and you don't know it. The moment you started showing potential it started and other kine want to remove competition and you're proving to be heavy competition.” She looked up at him, “You'll have to start taking them out as well, I and Arthur can only do so much. Prove your standing.” She brushed a hand against his arm before quickly withdrawing.

“Arthur is helping me?” He sounded surprised

“Of course, he made you and doesn't want to lose a precious childer or look bad in the eyes of the church. This is as much of a test for us as it is for you and I plan on passing, you better as well.”

His eyes turned serious as if finally understanding, “What about after? Will I see you after I pass?” 

She feels a pang in her chest, she doesn't know she wants to lie and say she'll stay in Houston with him. “I don't know, the church may send me somewhere else. I go where they want me, I don't have a say.” She whispered, looking away from him.

“You're telling me even Lucy Grey, the one I keep hearing them praise and fear can't make her own decisions?” She saw his sneer from the corner of her eye.

She shook her head, “If I refuse, I won't climb the ranks. They'll demote me.”

“As if that's the worst thing in the world in exchange for doing what you want. What do you want?” His words demanding an answer from her

“I don't know, I want to continue to research and learn.” She felt a pain in her chest unlike anything she felt since she died, she knew what she wanted but she couldn't admit it even to herself. Unless she wanted to spiral into Tremere madness once again.

“I'll pass the tests, I want you to decide how you want to live your undeath.” 

He walked past her, he moved quickly out of the library quickly and she was left standing there, emotions swirling in her chest unlike anything else and it tore her apart. The madness felt ever encroaching, words spun in front of her eyes. Magic unfurled in her mind, “I want you.” She whispered to the air. “I want to be around you, be your everything, make you obsessed like you make me.” She gripped the books in her hands feeling them creak and bend in her grasp. A door slammed behind her and reality snapped back into place causing her to stumble in place as every sound and feeling crashed into her, she leaned onto the shelf in front of her. Doing everything she could not to fall to her knees and make a scene. 

Chris passed his tests, gaining praise even from the pastor for some of his feats and the way he took to his teachings. Arthur and Lucy were praised for how Chris succeeded and how they whipped him into shape, it almost made Lucy giggle she knew Chris was not going to stay this way. 

Arthur walked over to her, looking uncomfortable. She felt smug, “Yes Arthur?”

He bared his fangs for a moment, before cooling his expression. “I was told to thank you for helping me with Chris. I fear he would've failed without you.”

She looked out to the crowd, easily finding Christopher. “He wouldn't have, he was always going to succeed, they just wanted him to follow more rules.” She looked back at Arthur who watched her with a guarded gaze, “I trust you'll keep him safe? I don't want to have to come back and make good on my promises.” Her smile was full of venom.

“You're leaving? So soon?” He looked surprised

“They want me back in New York as soon as the season changes.” She crossed her arms and put on a smile when Christopher looked at her, “Don't tell him, let him enjoy his new position.”

He nodded and she made her way over to Christopher, he didn't even look at her as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders easily. It felt like that's where she was meant to stay there, it pained her that she knew she was leaving probably without warning but she couldn't bring herself to tell him and watch his disappointment. “Here she is, the reason I was able to make it this far.” He said loudly, it was all static in her ears. The smile she planted on was fake and she didn't even know if she replied to people's congratulations. She soaked in his warmth against her ice cold skin, not knowing when she would be near him again. 

He led her back to his apartment after the party welcoming the apprentices into the pyramid. He opened the door and turned on the firelight, she stared around the apartment memorizing everything that made it Chris’ place. She sat on the couch, leaning against the arm when Chris sat down as well she stretched her legs over him. He rested a hand on her knee, he was staring at her face. “You wanna tell me what's going on? Or are you going to make me guess?” 

She looked into his eyes. “What do you mean?”

He looked exhausted for a moment, his guard seemed down. “You think I wouldn't notice? You were off all night, it's like you were somewhere else. I've been around you almost every night for months now.” He ran his hand up and down her calf.

“I…” She swallowed, “I'm going back to New York, when spring comes I'll be going back.” She watched his face closely.

“That's in a week.” He stated and she nodded, “You're just going like that?” His face became rigid, “Were you going to leave without a word?”

She stopped moving, “I didn't want to…”

“You didn't want me to try and stop you? Is that it?” His hand paused and clenched and relaxed quickly, it almost hurt.

“No I didn't want to ruin the experience for you, it should be a time to celebrate. You've made it, be proud. You don't need me around, you'll do just fine.” Her words were shaky.

“Do you think I only got close to you for what you could do for me?” His voice rose in anger, “I wouldn't have stuck around you, I would've kicked you out. You think I have a problem telling people what I think?” 

“That's not what I meant, I wanted to comfort you that you don't need me.” She made a movement to touch his hand but decided against it.

“You didn't do a good job of it.” He muttered, “I just want you to decide for yourself and whether you stay here or go back to New York, I don't care. As long as the church doesn't control you.”

They didn't speak after that and as she felt weariness set into her bones, she didn't move and neither did Chris. Like both of them wanted to savor this moment, one moment she was alert and then she felt the heaviness set in and she was out.

The next moment she was awake and Chris was gone, he must raise earlier compared to other kindred. He was at his fridge with a blood pouch in his hand, he was looking at her. When he saw she was awake he brought a blood pouch to her, she thanked him and drank deeply until it was gone. It was cold and not the most pleasant but it satisfied her hunger for the moment.

The week passed with Lucy tying up loose ends in the church as well as spending time with Chris, they went out and he showed her Houston as she didn't get a chance to see it since her life was consumed by making sure Chris made it to the pyramid.

Then she was back in New York, the next few years passed in dull monotony. She kept making payments on the house in Houston, hoping one day to return. When she returned she made the request to go back to Houston, she waited for the word that she could return. She's never asked for anything and yet it took years for them to get back to her, when they did they approved her request. She put her apartment up for sale and packed her life up and went back to Texas. They made sure she worked for it, and she grinned and bore every task they threw at her. Whether it was a simple delivery or a ritual they needed done, she did it all without complaint.

“I want to return to Houston. I believe my time there will be useful. It is a smaller sect that could use a reagent around. I’ve already been there so I’d be a good fit.” Lucy stood in front of the primogen of New York. He was an older man, in his forties. His hair was just starting to grey at the temples.

“Lucy, you’ve been asking this for years now, what draws you to Houston? It’s not Camarilla ran, the Sheriff doesn’t abide by our laws.” His voice was rough as if he was a smoker before he turned.

“And yet he lets us stay there and conduct our business as long as we don’t interfere with him. I believe I can bring us closer to the Sheriff and maybe get a Camarilla foothold,” She looked around the room, “Though maybe we can make the Tremere presence stronger there before the Camarilla has a chance to take the place.”

“You think you can pave the way for us to take Houston?”

“It’s a long shot and one I don’t know if it’s possible, the Sheriff is known as the fastest shot in the west and I don’t think it’s just a euphemism.” She leaned forward on the table, her elbows resting as she looked at the primogen. “The Tremere are needed, our knowledge is invaluable even to the Sheriff.”

“Fine, you may go. With my blessing, bring Houston to us.” Lucy nodded and stood up, “Though Lucy remember to continue your own research for the good of the church. Let me know if that path will take you from Houston.”

“Of course father.” She nodded and walked out the door.

When she made it to the church in Houston, she met the pastor and let him know she was there to stay and she waited till the end of the conversation to ask where Chris was. She watched surprise flicker across the pastor's face, “He doesn't come around very often, chooses instead to be a P.I. he still pays his tithe and hasn't cut ties. He did fall into the same trap most young Tremere do and courted madness too closely for a year or so.” She wasn't surprised to hear the news that he went mad, a year was a short amount of time compared to some including herself. “Maybe you'll help him come back to the fold, I remember how close you two were.” His smile was gentle, she wasn't naive enough to believe it was a harmless blessing, he wanted her to convince him to bring his research back to the church, hating to lose such a precious resource.

“A P.I? Surprising. Thank you, I will take my leave.” She stood up, and walked out the door. Some seemed surprised to see her and some stayed out her way, probably fearing she came back for a vengeance.

She called his business, “Hello, thank you for calling, what can I do for you tonight?” A woman's voice was on the other side, for a moment worry spread through the pit of her stomach. Maybe he wouldn't be happy to see her, maybe he forgot her completely, he was young and she wouldn't be surprised. “Hello?” 

Lucy snapped back to reality, “Uh yes, I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Sepren?”

“May I ask what it's  concerning?” The woman's voice was soothing, low and sweet.

“I wish to hire him.” She lied on the spot, not knowing what would allow her to talk to him.

The woman transferred her call, it rang a few times and she got worried he wouldn't answer, but then the line opened, “Christopher Sepren speaking, who is this?” His voice was deep, just as she remembered she could imagine him leaning back in his chair, trench coat hanging on a coat rack as he sat with a button down shirt. Her breath caught for a moment. “Hello, listen if this isn't a serious-”

“It is, it is.” She rushed out, “This may be better to speak in person, should I make an appointment?” 

“I have some time tonight in about two hours, can you make it by then?” His words flowed over her like water, it was refreshing. She was well and truly fucked.

“I can, I'll be there thank you.” 

“I didn't-” He was cut off as she hung up the phone. 

She was so nervous, she didn't know what to do with herself for two hours. She checked and double checked that she looked alright, her pencil skirt beginning to wrinkle with how much she fretted with it and she couldn't decide if it was appropriate to show cleavage. Then the time came for her to leave and she couldn't worry about it a moment longer. She drove and parked in a nearby parking garage, fixing her lipstick one last time before stepping out and heading to the building. She walked up a few flights of stairs, thankful that she couldn't get winded. 

She walked up to the door with frosted glass and opened it gently, “Hello? I um have an appointment?” She said as she stepped in, she saw a pretty blonde sitting at the receptionist desk. Her hair was curled and styled, she looked alive but it didn't help to settle her stomach that Chris had found a mortal to pass time with. It wouldn't have bothered her but it meant her chances lowered a lot.

“Hi!” The woman, her desk read Mary, was much more bubbly in person. “Yes, I was told to expect you. You can wait in Chris, I mean Mr. Sepren’s office. He should return soon.” Her smile was easy going, Lucy thought maybe she could like Mary if for the moment the beast didn't growl and wanted her to rip Mary limb from limb and drink her dry. She swallowed unintentionally and nodded walking to the office door that was pointed to. 

Lucy stepped inside and immediately recognized Chris’ cologne, she breathed deeply and looked around. His trench coat was gone and the office was minimal if a bit messy, she took a seat on one of the chairs facing the desk and straightened her skirt. Her mind raced a mile a minute, wondering what kind of reunion she could expect, if it went poorly she didn't have a back up plan. She would have to hope that he avoided the church as much as the pastor said he did. She couldn't stop herself from fidgeting with the necklace she wore, she moved it back and forth. Before she heard heavy footsteps and Mary’s bubbly voice through the door, she dropped her necklace and sat her hands in her lap hoping she didn't look as nervous as she felt. 

She heard the door open, and the rustle of leather. “I apologize for making you wait.” He said as he walked to the side of her, not yet sparing her a glance. “Some matters took-” He finally looked at her and her stomach flipped. She stared at him, of course he hadn't aged a day since she last saw him. His eyes were still bright and his skin still flushed with life, his hair was windswept and he was still handsome and gangly. “Lucy?” His voice a whisper, he stood motionless waiting for something, his eyes wide with disbelief.

It's like time stood still in a way kindred don't often experience, she wanted to keep this moment. The moment of indecision where any possibility could be reality, the moment of quiet before everything turned upside down. Their eyes never left the other, both searching for something. “I made a decision.” She whispered, not wanting to break the silence but it did. The moment was lost forever, too late for any regrets.

“Did you?” He sounded incredulous, an eyebrow raising.

“I did. I wasn't sent here, well I mean not entirely. I requested to be sent back here,” She paused, watching him “Permanently.” He angled his body slightly away from her, she took it as a bad sign, “Uh, I'm sorry for not mentioning it was me earlier. I didn't know what the reaction would be.”

“And what did you want the reaction to be?” He was guarded, taking a seat in his chair leaning forward and steepling his fingers in front of him. 

“It's already better than I expected, to be honest. I expect to be thrown out immediately.” Her eyes didn't leave his face, watching for any negative reaction.

He was silent for a few minutes, which made her mess with her skirt again before he stood up and it took him only a few steps to reach her. He leaned down to her height and she prepared for the worst, but instead she was enveloped in his arms. She didn't move for a moment before wrapping her arms tightly around his back, she felt him press his face into her neck breathing deeply. “I missed you.” He whispered, she could his lips move against her skin and if she was capable of crying this would've made her. She gripped him more tightly against, almost knocking him off balance and onto the floor.

“I missed you too, even though you're an absolute nightmare to teach.” She breathed against him, she could feel his slow heart beat against her, his pulse beneath her mouth. They stayed like that for a few minutes, time slowed for Lucy.

“You loved every moment of it.” He pulled away from her, keeping his hands on her shoulders. 

She placed a hand on top of his and squeezed gently. “I don't know if I'd say love.” Her smile betrayed her, he returned it.

Life wasn't so monotonous anymore.

---------

Meet Lucy Grey, probably not her real name, a old Tremere. She was mostly suppose to be a receptionist but as games progressed she became a real character. Maybe I'll write a bit more of her backstory someday.

Let me know if you enjoyed! This was written awhile ago so my writing wasn't as refined and I did change some Tremere lore. I liked the idea of magic making you go crazy for a time because their brain is trying to comprend the magic they use.

Next week is my favorite OC, hope you looking forward to it. Let me know if you want to see anything else. I'm very open to prompts tho I make no promises <3

@tippytappytyping @belladonna-lavender @froggyishere @ellie-anor @nikijakalope @pent-tent

[lente-ment]

VtM Fanfic - I Wish I Didn't Crave You - 35/?

👉 Chapter 35 available on AO3

Or start from here 🩸

With Laura finally awake, she and Iriam have a heart to heart talk about their lives. The two agree to please and help each other, until an unexpected visitor arrives.

Rating: Explicit

Category: F/F

Relationships: Laura/Iriam

Words: 284,954

Fandoms: Vampire the Masquerade, Original Work

Tags: Vampires, Blood Drinking, BDSM, Power Play, Lesbian Sex, Porn With Plot, Blood Bond and 15+ more tags...

Summary: A young Whip from the clan Brujah didn't exactly plan to share a blood bond with a Toreador Primogen, but she didn't mind either. The woman fucked her well and looked amazing. But tonight, the Primogen decided to spice it up.

[sloan-baux]

Wham bang whoosh! ⚡💥✨💫

You teleport to a random world, any world, any place real or imaginary, right now just as you are when you're reading this. Where are you and what's happening?

[chickenleafs-world]

One of my fave things with fanfic is when you combine multiple worlds in a way that oddly works with the lore.

Like, there’s no proof Lilith’s attempt to save her lover in Obey Me didn’t create the vampires from Vampire: the Masquerade. And there’s technically nothing saying that Digimon don’t exist in OM, when in their world the internet has existed for at least like 5000 years. It makes perfect sense for Yuu from Twisted Wonderland to be from the Pokemon world, they don’t know about Disney and they’re pointed out for her ability to deal with Grimm. Technically, Honkai Star Rail and Steven Universe could be in the same universe, considering how big space is.

I just like my silly little crossovers that have a frustrating amount of feasibility. Crack fics are the love of my life, but my fave crack fics are the ones that I can pretend are canon because no one can stop me.

[coiled-dragon]

I need people who are both into BlackIce from Rise of the Guardians AND into Vampire the Masquerade so I can brainstorm this silly AU where Pitch is a Lasombra vampire who falls in lust with picks up human!Jack and makes him a ghoul because he's bored

[cyrilphd]

Debut Oeuvre

Cyril is tired of being out of the loop when it comes to the teachings of vicissitude, his sire is being difficult but promises more information if Cyril completes just one vaguely defined task. 'Let's just get it over with' He thinks, not fully understanding the consequences of what 'it' might be.

Finally finished this thing and came up with a title (big thanks to the ST for help on that), i wasnt sure how i was feeling about this near the end but the first reactions to it have me hopeful ! as always heed the warnings and have fun reading about cyril being a little neonate (120 years ago !!)

[viskarenvisla]

Thirst - Chapter 1: Her Quiet Revolution There can be no real affection for the Damned, and the ravening Moon Beasts are doomed to tear the world apart around them...this is especially true for such forbidden things as romance between vampire and werewolf - both of them, predators after the same prey, respective boogeymen for the other...but what happens when they look past these things? Can there truly be love, or can monsters only descend into perversion and eventual bloodshed?

This tale is a semi-AU for my character Yusuf Mizrah, who features in Law of Blood. I decided to depart from Forsaken and use my own werewolf universe, but fill in the spaces for Vampire lore from Vampire: the Requiem...

Chapter One

Four nights ago, down at the river

By the standards of the normally rowdy syndicate, It had been a rather orderly gathering. Nobody showed up openly brandishing weapons or anything of that nature - both officially and within their still-beating hearts, Kindred blood shed on the balmy concrete, or bodies turning to ash were the last things anybody desired. She knew better, however, than to trust in the members’ individual senses of propriety, and that was why they’d concentrated their petty hopes and dreams onto Monroe Carter as their representative. Not that she was complaining.

The thirty or so Kindred who'd come together on this night were as motley and differentiated a band as could be expected from those whose only real ties were death and servitude. Despite the segregation and censorship imposed by their ‘betters’, their hunting grounds ‘leased’ to them at the edges of their masters’ domains and the loathsome blood tax they were forced to pay, they’d become a cohesive thing. The Cause had grown from little more than a whisper of rebellion, shared in near silence among those who lined up weekly to give Communion unto their dread rulers. Slowly it’d turned into secretive meetings where resistance to their individual vincula was slowly built among the gathered. Debates and lectures about "the Natural Rights of the Unnatural" stretching into the night forming the mental cornerstone that would become the fortress of their resistance.

Finally, it had come to this.

The bonds of servitude and death were surprisingly strong, enough to overcome divisions that had, more often than not, been purposefully placed there by their own Overseers. Vorath the Thricefold’s old rivalry with Manny Vaull was once fierce enough to set their teeth gnashing in the other’s presence; now they stood side by side. It was the same with Corra Wilson and Nettletongue; an unlikely jealousy between the two over a shared blood doll, given the scarcity of appropriate prey, had been replaced by something nearing as close to comity as could be found among the Dead.

Monroe stood at the head of the silent gathering of eclectic individuals, pulled from The City’s rusted shadows here to meet the Overseer Committee as they returned from conclave with their own elders. The Red River, flowing like a fat, wriggling worm through downtown, out to Ashland Port and into the wine-dark, thrashing waters of the Gulf, was usually reserved for shipping liners carrying refined gas, steel, and other byproducts of the state’s industrial blight. Such was the pull of the Overseers, however, that the waterways were cleared for their entry.

She was like a cold-forged, steel torch in the night, beat bright and unyielding against an icy anvil. A black bandana was tied around her forehead - something the syndicate's members all shared, whether worn on their arms or looped through a belt - holding her many-colored, gold clasped braids back in a complex knot. The dark green, midriff-length jacket worn over her torso was weighed down by the fire-hatchet within, her tool of choice in the regrettable event that negotiations failed and this became a violent confrontation; more than likely, given the difference in age between the Overseer Committee’s members and their own, it would be a savage rout. Still, seven against thirty was good odds, and they’d surely pull at least half the elders’ number down with them.

Monroe was confident in herself, in the strength of the Cause. It was a crossbow bolt with a red-hot iron head, pointed threateningly at the hearts of their oppressors; their message would be heard, and their demands met. 

For now, they were silent, waiting patiently. It wasn’t your typical protest or picket like she was used to, with marching and signs, slogans shouted for cameras…that sort of thing wouldn’t get through to the Elder Dead, who were beings of an earlier time. They intimately understood the balance of power, however, and the message would be entirely clear when the Overseers laid their eyes upon their servant-livestock, staring them down and wearing black, with Monroe leading them.

“Look,” breathed Harlowe, pointing down toward the bay when the first glimmers of the luxury yacht’s fog lights cut through the springtime haze of pollution and condensation. Although the gathered Dead barely moved, everyone felt it…that anxious pressure that preceded a confrontation with authority. That terror was understandable, though quieted by their unity and a certain understanding shared among The City’s common vampires: if anyone was going to take the blame and end up an example, it was Monroe Carter. Rhymes with martyr . An old lover, long lost to the years, had once said that, and that’s what she remembered instead of his (or her?) face.

To Monroe’s Spartan sensibilities, the garish festoons of the superyacht showed how the Overseers, in their vast view of time, laid the trappings of the new over the old and familiar; while the massive boat was smooth and white, sleek and covered with blaring, soulless lights, their servants had gone through the trouble of carefully interweaving Tatarian Honeysuckle across the decks in bright, purple petaled magnificence. Bright red silk ribbon was intertwined among the railing. By its streamlined form, it was the most modern boat that old, musty money could buy; its spirit was that of the old pleasure barges of nobility whose largesse had, since the time of the Egyptian Old Dynasties and the Kings of Xia, been supported on the backs of the masses.

Now…for the grand act. “William,” she called in her alto voice, muffled by the warm, foggy air. “You’re up.” She congratulated herself at resisting her inward giddiness; never had she sent a message of defiance such as this.

The hairless, fishy-fleshed man that hunched beneath his long, concealing coat obliged silently, stepping from the gathering and leaping into the river, barely disturbing it. When he emerged, he’d coiled one big, dripping end of the cold-forged iron chain fitted in Harlowe's Machine Shop around his torso. Its bright-green links were the size of a small box television, and in William’s skinny, yet stunningly powerful arms, they dripped with the chemical-rich flow of the Red Rock River. Little John, towering over everyone present with his gentle voice and boyish face; Melinda Arsanova, always dressed proper and presentable no matter the event; and Sherman, his arms thick like tree-trunks from feeding on this very dock’s workers. They stepped forward and pulled hard on the chain, secured on other side of the river with a great iron stake Harlowe had shaped himself, and soon there was a neon-green painted barrier of links presented before the superyacht. One might look here and see an impossibility, four bedraggled oddities attempting to cut off the passage of a yacht, but Monroe knew them as some of the strongest Kindred in the city.

She waited with baited breath. Here, based on the whim of a dead thing hundreds of years her elder, the Brujah’s whole plan could come tumbling apart…but there came the booming sound of a foghorn, and the yacht’s forward wake churned a crimson foam in the Red Rock River as it slowed its ponderous, floating bulk to a halt. Another shaking, drawn out howl from the foghorn, like an indignant cry whale’s cry.

The chain remained stretched taut across the river.

Minutes rolled by…nearly an hour, testing their resolve before the first of the Overseers deigned to make an appearance upon the deck. Monroe knew who it would be, before his over-long, pale fingers curled around the steel bar struck into the deckposts, fingernails clicking odiously against the side of the yacht. Vasco Isidoro was, in her view, the weakest of the Seven, and he reminded her of the guy from the insane asylum in Beauty and the Beast…you know the one. The man with the tonsure and stooped posture, the furry eyebrows. Vasco was also well dressed in his black, pinstripe suit, but he still looked like a bag of bones and spiders supported by its own conniving will.

His eyes were green like pea soup, and his voice had a similar wet quality. “A fine evening indeed to you, Siervos ,” Vasco called in a disarmingly cheerful tone, accented by his native Curitiba. His smile was entirely like that of some predatory lake fish’s, concealing hundreds of needle-sharp teeth. “You all seem to have misplaced your charming, green chain, directly in our path…perhaps you require assistance recovering said chain, that your betters might be on their way?”

Isidoro’s words were like a slow-falling, poisonous net; it was only after you looked behind his lips and saw the anxious malice squirming beneath that one felt uneasy. Monroe could feel the syndicate’s members stirring uneasily in the line…authority had been so beaten into them by blood-bond and fear that each defiance was an act of desperate will on their parts. Stretching a harbor chain across the path of the barge along the river was more than a mere defiance.

 “You ain’t wrong,” she answered, acting as their courage. Monroe Carter was loud enough to be heard above the din of The City’s night hum, as well as the idling of the barge’s engines. “We require your assistance but I’m afraid the chain stays until we’re done here.” She didn’t flinch or even squint as one of the ship’s lights swiveled down to shine upon her; if it was meant to intimidate and separate her, the spotlight had the opposite effect. Always had.

Vasco’s thin, shiny lips drew wider across his long face, splitting to reveal where his fangs had grown in place of his incisors. She knew he was enraged, a creature set a whole class above and apart from them, but the lowest of his kind - and now, facing disobedience called siervos ? Monroe could empathize, she also liked things to be orderly, and for that to happen all the moving parts had to work and obey . “My dear wards, certainly you understand the value of our time. Each moment’s value eclipses your combined years as we work to keep you safe…protect your posthumous rights. To waste such a valuable vintage as ours, surely you can see both the folly and danger inherent in such a thing. Now…Would you care to release your chain?”

To drive the point home, Monroe took note of the ten or so men that stepped up to join him at the edge of the deck, pointing loaded M4s their way; clad in faceless, visored black helms, moving in perfect unison, these humans - maybe even ghouls - were the preferred servant for the Overseer Committee. Unquestioningly obedient, tied by their own addictions and contracts, they still didn’t have what old vampires like Vasco and his ilk required: Kindred blood. That, of course, was their bargaining chip…if not her own trump card. “‘Fraid not Mister Isidoro.”

She smiled internally as he bristled; these older, dead things, they demanded the honor of titles even in this day and age from their Childer. “We tried your ‘official channels’; we were stonewalled. We wrote to y'all, we signed petitions, and we even sent y'all messengers that you returned to us in them little wooden boxes. ‘Member that?”

Behind her, Tucker growled under his breath. His best and only friend, the oldest member of his coterie, had been among those messengers returned to them as little more than finely ground ashes and bright, gleaming fangs. The icy lake of their fear cracked, thawed by memories of their own old resentments. Suddenly they weren’t quite as afraid of those white-phosphorous bullets.

“A regrettable misunderstanding and little more of course. We would all hate for similar misunderstandings to happen over the matter of a mere green chain, especially since, as you know, the Oversee Committee dutifully handles petitions - ” 

“Yes yes, on individual basis, we have heard before,” Old Vlacha gruffly complained.

“Yeah…you can think of this as somethin’ more like us filing a class-action suit,” Monroe put it out there in words that would disturb the corporatist in Isidoro. “That’s why I’m speaking for everyone here with one voice, make sure there ain’t no more ‘misunderstandings’ like there was, Mister Isidoro.” The young Brujah got a kick out of the way his face shivered under that smile every time she called him that.

She didn’t really need to say more for him to infer precisely what she meant; that they were prepared to enforce a blood picket, if their demands weren’t met. That’s what the consequence of ‘misunderstanding’ meant on their end, since they couldn’t really challenge the Overseers with force and hope to succeed. The Overseers were old enough that the blood sustaining them had become a concentrated, unnatural thing of arcane fusions reliant on the unliving force of other Kindred; human blood, though a heady draught for any vampire, no longer sated them. That’s why they kept the common Lick chained. Los Siervos . 

To Monroe, who’d always chafed at being born at the bottom and struggling against the weight of those saw fit to keep her there, the irony of their unlives was how the clock was turned back at the leisure of older, more powerful Kindred…as if the liberties people had fought and died for were illusions, like the ones they’d woven to keep the Kine ignorant of the monsters drinking deep from their veins and souls. She was as unable to keep her mouth shut in death as she was in life, and the unfairness had become simply intolerable.

Isidoro’s smile changed, leaving his eyes; the corners of his lips slackened. It gave him this leering, wild aspect, like a villain from a children’s tale in her eyes. Monroe expected fear from those gathered, or for the wiley old Nosferatu to turn the power of the Blood against them, but nobody broke from the picket and the chain remained taut. 

All according to plan . 

“Miss Carter, I would like to suggest once more…that Mister William, Mister Jonathon, Miss Arsanova and Master Sherman release their grip on their misplaced chain and make way.”

Isidoro raised a hand and the safeties were simultaneously clicked off on the pale-flame rounds pointed their way; international language of terror. A few gasps of reticence and sounds of hesitation rose unbidden from the gathered Dead, and they wavered. The seconds seemed to drag on during the standoff, just as Monroe planned, and at just the right time, before everyone’s eyes, she broke the tension.

“We’re tired of being your serfs,” she said, blunter than creatures like Isidoro were used to.

The phosphorus-loaded M4s remained pointed their way; she could feel one of the Overseers’ soldiers, looking down his reticle and pointing right at her heart, and although the Beast’s instinctive aversion to Final Death clawed echoing and squealing in the back of her throat, she continued. “We’re tired of you drainin’ us to the bone while we can barely get by on the dry, over-policed barrens you expect us to trough in.”

“I almost fell into torpor last week after Lady Shira took her tithe,” called little Samara Green, bedraggled and rain soaked slip of a thing. “You think it’s easy for someone like me to hunt out there ?” She pointed upriver, far back toward the smokestacks still working into the night. “They barely have enough people working third shift for me to feed on, and there’s something crawling in the gutters .”

“Yeah!” shouted Tucker, a fellow Brujah who had a loose grip on his Beast than she. “When you’re not ashing us for trying to talk to you, you aren’t even protecting us from the stuff in our hunting grounds!”

Monroe didn’t let herself smile, but victory stirred in her heart as their complaints filled the air, overcoming their collective dread for the Nosferatu. 

“Your friends shipped my job to Mexico and I got evicted!”

“I still haven’t gotten compensated for the storm damage to my haven, the roof is caving in - there’s a fucking beam of sunlight shining in the middle of my living room!”

“A pack of Lupines moved into my turf!”

Soon their voices were raised in a cacophony of rising anger, indignance at their lot channeled through Monroe and upward above the smog. The traditions of the syndicate were born during the French Revolution, when many pale lords and ladies the Overseers had once known personally were put to the stake just as readily as the guillotine; their fear was born from personal experience. Isidoro himself had come close to having his head stuck through a little window, and based on his better judgment lowered his hand.

Without a word he disappeared from the deck. The rifles were still pointed their way as the syndicate’s voice rose, a cacophony that signaled clear as the murderous light of day: there were only two choices here as Monroe had presented them.

The first, the most tried and true and obvious, was to simply fire upon the syndicate’s members and scatter the survivors back to their corners and miserable little havens. The truly, finally dead would be annihilated by burning rounds, atrophied organs turning to ash and scattering before sunrise. Bloody monsters’ tears would be shed both for their loss and out of despair for their unchanged state. 

The second was, of course, a far harder pill to swallow: to step down from the pedestal of exclusivity, of elite entitlement, and negotiate with lessers, for in the end Monroe held one truth over the elders’ heads:

The greater parasites required the lesser ones for sustenance, while the lesser ones required the protection of the hoarier, longer-toothed Kindred. Some of them were even their Sires, having sung the first notes of their Requiems in the wind. A great, dysfunctional family devouring itself from head to toe like a grotesque, rotten snake, dressed up in faded silks and tarnished ornaments. 

As before, the Overseers made them wait, this time under the threatening rifle barrels of their gendarmes. All eyes were on Monroe, waiting for her to flinch, but she simply stood her ground. Waited.

The minutes passed, tension dilating them into hours before, with a sound of grinding metal, a ramp was slowly lowered from the superyacht toward the concrete levies upon which Monroe stood. Isidoro reappeared, and with a wordless gesture, split his palm open. The red of his blood spilled into the river - a universally recognized guarantee of safety.

Although she never showed it, striding up the ramp, her converses clanking with each step, a relief greater than any she’d known drained the tension from her unliving muscles. I win…this first battle, anyway .

When she walked free, it would be carrying the prize she’d set her attentions upon, unwaveringly. Greater rights and freedoms…fuller bellies and warmer beds during the daytime. A revolution that would be won without spilling a drop of blood.

None that would be seen, anyway.

[iphiloupe]

"Habanera"

[A small oneshot based on the events of a VTM campaign called Sang & Vin, part of a Bordeaux By Night chronicle created and set up by our GM. His version of BBN was originally loosely based on the one made by @.secretsofthemasquerade, then branched off into his own version that no longer bears any direct relation to it. All characters except for those of the party members (the Toreador Tristan, the Gangrel Vulture and the Ventrue Jane) belong to him.]

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. 

Although the expression at its core speaks true, it was unfortunately often not the case for Clan Toreador—and Oscar Wilde, himself a notable member, seemed to have forgotten that when he wrote those words.

The art and beauty that the Roses swooned over was one of widespread appreciation among them; it was their art, their aesthetic. Clanmates who decided to find magnificence in things far stranger or grimier were never taken seriously, or in more severe cases forced to adhere to a disgraced antitribu outside the safety of the Camarilla sect.

Appreciation of classical beauty was key to the Toreadors' entire existence and Clan functioning. It was a necessary bane and compulsion that drove their free-spirited and vain nature inside and out.

It was only understandable those they Embraced into their Clan were of a similar mindset—and if they were as talented as they were handsome in face, well, then that was simply a bonus.

Tristan was no exception, his nickname Soleil d'Or earned through both physical and artistic means. With long, curling golden locks and a musical prouesse able to put far more than a couple of thrushes and nightingales to shame, he could awaken anything he wanted, whenever he wanted, and do so with a brilliant glimmer and glow.

A true Toreador, and the accidental nature of his Embrace was soon forgotten as he strived to prove himself worthy among their ranks—and despite his youth and inexperience, seemed to be doing so relatively well.

Therefore in the tent, his gaze had unsurprisingly first landed on Maurice, the second eldest of the Logralle brothers, all three hailing from the rebellious and outcast Clan Ravnos.

He was tall and well built, a fact he was openly proud of. Bold choices of clothing as well as the way he purposely flexed his arm defined his muscles and the thick veins straining against his pale skin. Well kept hair and a thin, trimmed beard as dark as ink took a number of years off his immortal age, and his dark, long lashed eyes were the kind that would make any mortal—and admirative Kindred—fall into a lusty daze. Everything shrieked of danger. They were good looks made to hunt the living and manipulate the dead, and succeed in doing so. 

Both blessed and cursed with a magpie-like fondness for beautiful treasures, it wouldn't be the first time a Toreador was left to drink up Maurice's image with that instinctive, soul-quenching thirst known only to their Clan. It wouldn't be the first time someone would want him as a muse for a love-stricken poem or song, a lavish painting or a paragraph of detailed, passionate prose. 

In hindsight, it likely explained why he seemed to be more than simply begrudgingly tolerated in the Toreador-dominated Elysium.

Tristan's intense focus on the tall, dark and handsome Ravnos was therefore nothing but an instinct, one of the many the Embrace had burdened upon his shoulders. 

Yet, something felt wrong.

While his soul was consumed with beauty, his body was with something else entirely. It was a strange, magnetic pull that routinely dragged his attention from one Ravnos to another. 

That other being Luc Logralle, the youngest of the trio.

The one who was nothing like his brothers.

He had neither Maurice's handsome features nor the authoritarian disposition that the eldest, Romain, had rippling through every flash of malice darting across his eyes. He hid behind unkempt hair, salt and pepper locks of black and gold matted together or cut unevenly, a shoddily shaved beard and an overall negligent and uncared for appearance. Thinner and shorter than the two others, he seemed to fade into the background in their presence, even when the situation at hand involved him directly. Draped in patched up, scratchy cotton clothes hanging limply over his frame, he was nestled in a chair half-cloaked by shadows, silent and out of sight.

Maurice spoke well, his voice just as sharp, cool and handsome as the rest of him. Luc said nothing. Tristan had practically forgotten what he sounded like, the only thing he could recall being the slight grate tearing at the edges of some syllables.

To any accomplished Toreador musician, it would be enough to turn their nose up and discard him in disgust. Tristan on the other hand found himself dreaming of managing to replicate his timber on the strings of his guitar.

He also liked the Ravnos' silence. 

He liked…everything about him.

Luc was invisible, inconspicuous, nothing in the grand scheme of things or in the eyes of those who knew of him.

And yet it was a Toreador, of all the Kindred in the Camarilla, who noticed him. 

Who took interest despite the lack of aesthetic worthy of the Clan of the Rose's tastes.

Who felt something burn.

At first, Tristan wondered if it was guilt. 

That was the reason they were here, with Jane held at the sharpened point of a machete, the calm and domineering nature of the Ventrue slipping by the minute as Maurice's weapon came closer; Vulture watching on in animalistic, paralyzed fear; and Val—the Gangrel's Sire—simply standing back and letting it all unfold. 

It was all to solve a misunderstanding. 

A misunderstanding that involved a car accident and a fit of panic. 

A fit of panic that had had them crush Luc under the tires of the Ravnos' own car.

Twice.

It of course took more than that to kill one of the Kindred, and Luc seemed to have healed overday without a single scratch on his person pertaining back to the incident. The memory of the ordeal, however, had become a prominent scar on each of them, and on the wider peace reigning in Bordeaux.

The humanity Tristan still had in him would understandably feel something, remorse more likely than not.

But this was not that.

This was something else.

It carried a smouldering sentiment unlike anything Tristan remembered feeling in his unlife, but close enough to be more than familiar to him. Something bleeding through a crack in his aura from a time long gone, infused with the wild, rich taste of life. 

Of humanity, however distant.

He could get drunk off the feeling alone, the nostalgia of a time and a being he had forgotten he missed, smoother and sweeter than the most delectable of mortal blood. 

Luc's eyes burned with fire, too; dull enough to stay somewhat subdued, yet still dangerously active, ready to strike.

The thick, heavy presence settled around Tristan's head gripped his shoulder and his heart with cold, clawed grasps. 

Tristan leaned into them.

Yes, it was the Ravnos' contempt searing him clean open, a stake in the heart and tearing down his torso. 

It was the savage beauty of an unbridled hate, the passion of a frustration bottled up and itching to be released with the strength of the Beast. It was the anger that bled through theatrical tragedies, into the brash red paint streaks slapped across a dismal canvas of war and chaos, and in dry, scarily precise and detailed words that could cut harder and deeper than any blade. It was the cold control Luc seemed to have over it, so unlike the fury he let loose when they had first met.

Tonight, away from blinding headlights, suspicious red drugs and failed diplomacy, Tristan truly saw him.

Luc took note of him right back.

The moment they crossed one another's stare was brief, but it was enough. It was enough for the Toreador to question everything, from his perception of beauty to the justice being dealt out before them both. 

An agonizing urge to say something, to beg, climbed up his throat, but fell off his lips as nothing but a forced breath from deceased lungs.

Run away with me.

The words were strangled in their cradle. 

Luc kept staring. He didn't move, as immobile as a marble statue Tristan would have been all too happy to carve if he had been blessed with the skills.

His presence frightened him—Tristan couldn't tell if it was because he loved him.

Love, something he never thought he'd feel again. Not obsession, as his Kindred self replaced it with in his unlife, but love. The soft, human affection that came and went when it pleased, that flew high and proud like a capricious, rebellious bird, that surpassed the boundaries of aestheticism and appreciation of superficial beauty. 

Not obsession.

Not obsession, but just as soul-consuming and difficult to cast aside.

It was one sided, he was sure of it. Luc's glare was focused far more with deep interest than a form of intoxicating passion, but it was close enough to make Tristan's dead, withered heart beat again. 

The dark entity continued to writhe and slash at his being, but for the first time could not cloud his senses. 

Another force was already there, just as powerful, just as consuming. It took control. It strangled him with bright colours and the suffocating scent of roses, rich enough to make him sick, strong enough to break his will into two.

He shouldn't have been feeling any of this. It was a direct offense to the dark laws the Kindred's souls bowed down to.

Yet, Toreadors better than any others knew the sentiment had been romanticized by mortals and immortals alike.

L'amour est enfant de Bohême

Il n'a jamais connu de lois

Tristan finally understood not only the words but the soul of Bizet's "Habanera". He felt every chord of its melody pump through every single one of his veins, every strum stirring them back to a vibrant warmth he had never fathomed he'd feel again.

Love—if that was truly what it was—conquered all, even the living dead.

[pattons-second-cookie-v2]

Relationship Map for The Blood That Binds- A Sanders Sides X Vampire the Masquerade AU

There's a title now!!! From now on, posts under this project be titled and tagged with The Blood That Binds.

2 weeks ago I posted a poll asking if people would like to see Character Profiles or a Relationship Map first. The results showed a majority rule for the Relationship Map, which I am sharing today! But! I will be uploading the Character Profiles as well some time between now and the publishing of Chapter 1 (which I do still plan to release on Halloween).

Anyway, I've rambled enough- HERE'S THE MAP

So I know this is an absolute mess to look at so let me further explain how it's set up. Each character has their own color (I am aware of the shade similarity between Patton/Logan and Roman/Thomas but I genuinely couldn't think what other colors to use). The symbols next to most characters are their Clan Symbol- which I will further explain in the Character Profiles.

Characters connected by solid lines have interacted directly at least once. Characters connected by arrows have not interacted, but will interact in the beginnings of the tale. Below the cut, I've included some further explanations of the relationships.

Patton and Virgil

This is the dynamic that made me want to write this story in the first place. In this AU, Patton is Virgil's biological father. Through a misfortune that will be explained later on, Patton became a vampire when Virgil was still a baby (late 90s). Virgil grew up in the city believing his father to have passed away, all while Patton has been silently observing him from the shadows. At the time where our story takes place, Virgil has returned to the city after a little over 6 years away. And Patton is going to have a totally normal and rational reaction to seeing his son again.

Roman and Thomas

I knew I wanted to toy around with the supernatural power dynamic of a Sire Bond. And I knew I wanted Thomas specifically to be someone's Sire. In the context of the story, Roman was once Thomas' love, and was given the gift of immortality as a means to stay together forever. Thomas himself was still quite new to vampirism, and he quickly grew to regret making Roman. In the modern day, Roman is more like a lackey to Thomas. Following his beck and call in hopes of earning his favor once again. It has been over 70 years, and still Roman very much has the desperate hero vibes about him.

Roman and Virgil

Roman has spotted Virgil, and where the story picks up, he's beginning to close in. The only issue is he can't decide what exactly he'll do once he gets close to Virgil. He could make him a mindless Blood Slave. He could string him out as a forlorn lover. He could recruit him to his vampiric faction, as either a Bonded Ghoul or a fledgling vampire. His decision will drastically reform the dynamics of all those around him. But he's a little too lovestruck to realize the potential damage he could cause.

Logan and Patton

A healthy relationship?? In my toxic vampire romance? Yes, actually. Logan found Patton as a terrified fledgling who'd been abandoned by his Sire. Having roughly two decades of vampiric knowledge to rely on, Logan was quick to lend his talents to guide Patton. It became rather apparent that Patton did not take well to vampirism, and Logan's levelheadedness eased him into his new existence. In the modern nights, the two are inseparable. This is mostly at Patton's request, as he begins to grow paranoid in Logan's absence.

Janus and Remus

Janus is power-hungry and Remus is easily controlled. Janus has a few years of seniority over Remus, which he is quick to remind him of. Remus is also the only character who is beginning the story already Blood Bound. He has been Janus' thrall for since the 80s, and after spending over 30 years unbound, he just feels grateful to be noticed. He thinks being close to Janus gets him closer to Roman gets him closer to the command and power he truly craves. He views his Bond as a necessary evil. Janus views it as a means of controlling a scary guard dog.

Janus and Thomas

These two are both members of the Inner Circle, a sort of Sect within the Sect of the Camarilla. Those in the Inner Circle often interact directly with the Prince of the city (or whoever is in command) as well as following out any jurisdiction placed by the Prince. Janus and Thomas entered the Camarilla at roughly the same time, as well as being welcomed to the Inner Circle during the same night of Elysium. Their specific roles within the inner circle will be explained later.

Janus has always viewed Thomas as a potential adversary, believing that their power and influence combined could be immensely beneficial to the Camarilla. Thomas, on the other hand, is extremely jealous of Janus. He believes that their parallel rise to power is building up to an ultimate showdown where one of them will be forced to overtake the other. And he does not intend for Janus to have the advantage.

Remus and Logan

Remus has a 20 year advantage on Logan. At the time of their meeting, they were both strays who were not bound to any vampiric Sect. Remus viewed Logan as a fellow outcast, someone with skill and poise that could prove a useful asset in his major goals. Logan viewed himself as superior to Remus, believing his pragmatic approach to vampirism made him more appealing. They had a messy breakup, to put it lightly, and neither of them have made any attempt to reconnect.

Roman and Remus

These two are still canonically twin brothers. There's a lot to explain, which I will cover in better detail in each of their Character Profiles. But to summarize here: Roman became a vampire first, and has believed Remus to have passed away after being deployed during WWII. However, Remus did return home after the war, and had heard whispers of his brother joining a "secret society". Efforts to find Roman ultimately lead to Remus becoming a vampire himself. Rather than wallow over what had become his fate, Remus has instead spent the last few decades working to use his abilities as a means of finding Roman and taking all that he is.

Characters who have NOT interacted together!

Patton and Roman

Logan and Roman

Logan and Janus

Janus and Patton

Janus and Roman

Remus and Patton

Remus and Thomas

Logan and Thomas

Virgil and EVERYBODY

I believe that covers everything for now. My goal is to have a Character Profile posted every Friday between now and Halloween, and then posting Chapter One on Halloween as a way to enjoy the spooky evening. As always, if you wish to be tagged in this project, reply on this post or send me a DM.

Tag List: @sethlost @thearomanticsnake

Above board for a moment, I do want to thank everyone who has been encouraging this story. It's been a long while since I've written any major works, and I'm really excited to be worldbuilding again. So just- thanks for the kind words and the sharing and the support. Its really means a lot <3

-🍪

[lente-ment]

VtM Fanfic - I Wish I Didn't Crave You - 39/?

👉 Chapter 39 available on AO3

Or start from here 🩸

A calm before the storm is over. Iriam and Laura face the Camarilla.

Rating: Explicit

Category: F/F

Relationships: Laura/Iriam

Words: 4,975 / 306,241

Fandoms: Vampire the Masquerade, Original Work

Tags: Vampires, Blood Drinking, BDSM, Power Play, Lesbian Sex, Porn With Plot, Blood Bond and 15+ more tags...

Summary: A young Whip from the clan Brujah didn't exactly plan to share a blood bond with a Toreador Primogen, but she didn't mind either. The woman fucked her well and looked amazing. But tonight, the Primogen decided to spice it up.

[skeptykall]

((July 2024 edit — still looking for a *full time* RP partner that would also like to become good friends~.))

Alright. Back on my bullshit.

I am looking for roleplay partners! Someone that can make time to write relatively frequently (my late spouse and I wrote... Almost all day every day). I have very few other writing friends, and I'm always on the hunt for more! I'm ready to make more friends and write more regularly. Let me tell you a bit about myself.

I am 30 and Canadian. I won't write with anyone younger than 21. Minors DNI.

I have a masters degree in literature (Arthurian Romance).

I have been writing fanfic for almost 2 decades, probably since I was like? Eleven?

3-5 paragraphs preferred, but if we really click and want to do quick back-and-forths, I'm super down for that as well. Quality over quantity.

I also draw fanart and OCs (character design) and do watercolour painting. I will do fanart of our characters. 100%. It is almost a guarantee.

I DO write smut, trauma, dark themes, as well as goofies/funnies. I think both make a good balance. Sometimes a scene just be funny. Sometimes, you just wanna write p*rn, but I love plot-heavy stuff too.

I am kink-friendly and proship. Antis DNI.

I write mainly mlm, but am happy with any/all types of romance. I do prefer queer joy, so I support and write all the queer/trans folks (am queer and trans myself).

So, what about fandoms, ships, and genres? Below are my favourites, however, I can be convinced to write almost anything if I'm hyperfocused on it enough.

Invader Zim

My Hero Academia

Yu-Gi-Oh

Hazbin Hotel/Helluva Boss

Darren Shan Saga/Cirque du Freak

Pokemon

Vampire the Masquerade

Yuri! On Ice

Dishonored

Monster Prom/Camp/Roadtrip

Dungeons & Dragons (& adjacent content - mostly OC)

OCs either in the above fandoms or in the following genres: fantasy, contemporary fantasy, romance, horror, ABO, and can do realism stuff but don't prefer it.

So, there you've got it. A little snippet of me and the stuff I like to write. If you'd like to see a small sampling of my work, check out my AO3.

On Tumblr, I've been known as @screwtherules (inactive), @dibbeast and @izuku-broccoli-boi (two RP blogs that I'm... Vaguely sometimes active on). I've also been a member of a number of different roleplay discord servers, such as TMNT and BNHA, tons of D&D, and Invader Zim servers.

I can write on Tumblr, and have many times, but I don't prefer it. I generally use discord or google docs, but happy to work out a place that works for both parties. I can send other writing samples if necessary! Looking forward to meeting you!

[mz-elysium]

OVERVIEW

>Genre: urban fantasy, personal horror, political intrigue

>Origin: Vampire the Masquerade, World of Darkness, VtM: Bloodlines

>Tropes: vampires in 101 flavours, doomsday prophecy, everyone is a villain, hopepunk

>Themes: It is never too late to start being a good person.  Rebellion is in a constant state, to guard against injustice. Compassion builds the best future.

PREMISE

The undead lie and scheme for power, in the skyscrapers, grottos, and wastelands of their cities. Humanity, within and without, is their victim. Within them, lives the Beast of humanity’s darkest nature as the vampire’s instinct. Boredom breeds cruelty. Generations of domination and brutality become law, from the noblest clan to the lowest. Love corrodes into betrayal. Power corrupts. Whispers speak of the Final Nights, as something more than vampires stirs in the night.

In these, the longest nights of Wormwood, light can only exist in darkness.

SETTING

Young vampires rose against the corrupt rule of their sires — it is a story as old as time. In 1944, California, America, the rebels won. The streets ran red with elder blood. They called their new land the Anarch Free State. Paradise. Rebels established their new status quo. They had to create their own justice, their own laws of the jungle, their own rulers. 

A new generation of vampires has been sired into the California Free State. They’ve never known a Camarilla prince. Yet, the violent and unpredictable life of an Anarch lick feels a lot like oppression. Their barons can’t protect them from what hunts the hunter. 

In desperation, one by one, cities begin to fall into the hands of the Camarilla. The revolution is over. It failed. Some few remain to rebuild the dream under the blinking light of the Red Star.

Charlie, a fledgling Malkavian, wrestles with her humanity and the realisation that maybe the curse liberated her from the daylit world, its rules and problems. Kindred, of course, have their own, but you can’t win them all. Some of their problems are also pleasures.

Jack, a neonate Gangrel, has drifted through unlife with a thin claim to what little he owns. A curiosity and affinity to the natural world leads him to believe in its power and the harmony of all ecosystems. Including vampires. They should all just get along.

Monroe, an ancilla Ventrue, retains hope that their lives can be better and the Camarilla can be changed to foster this. The schemes and intrigue can end. The weapons can be set down. They can be neighbours, family, friends, and reclaim their lives in an honourable world.

Wormwood is the story of how these three kindred, their friends, enemies, and lovers, find themselves in the Final Nights.

WORKS

Noble Lies of Clan Ventrue (1873-2000) [44k] Monroe’s origin story, from his last sunlit days in the American military to the moment he fled from the Camarilla.

City of Fallen Angels trilogy (2003-2004) [133k, 288k, 173k] The honourable outcast Monroe takes charge of a newly abandoned fledgling, Charlie, as an LA ruled by rebels is challenged by the Camarilla courts. War is on the horizon.

Unmastered (2004) [36k] An old ghoul is entrusted with a month of autonomy in San Francisco, with the promise of more freedom threatening the chains that hold his life together.

City of Gold and Iron (2004-???) The San Francisco Bay Area chafes under the second generation of Camarilla prince, as their beloved rebel is dead and gone. Neonates find their place in the bloody yoke. Ancilla attempt to reform or hold onto power. Elders play their own games, hidden in the shadows.

Links

AO3 // tumblr tag: vtm: wormwood // Google Site