Disclaimer: The setting and elements of the plot, along with recognizable NPCs, are property of White Wolf and Troika, and I am making no money at all off of this. Which begs the question of why I do it.

Author's notes: And here - we - go. This little fanfiction is the most dire and depraved of things: it is the story of ~*my bloodlines PC*~, because you all care so much. The plot will more or less conform to the events of the game, though it will diverge in places, and I'll try level best to skip over the boring bits that we all know about. Ultimately this is a character study infused with plot to add a little body, since I like telling stories about neonates.

The world will conform to oWod and Bloodlines mechanics and lore except when I decide it would be more interesting to make something up.


Flicker.

Flicker-buzz.

Flicker.

The metal frame of the refrigerator was cool and vibrated slightly against her skin. Black and white linoleum tiles blurred, merged, and returned to their proper place. Her forehead was started to go numb.

Her head hurt. And her stomach.

Flicker.

She had wanted ice cream, but now that she was standing in front of the uniform line of frosted glass doors opening them and choosing a pint seemed an insurmountable obstacle. And she'd probably puke it back up again. Yeah. Better to go home, curl up, and wait to die.

Flicker.

Buzz.

Flicker-buzz.

Flicker.

She coughed, hard, and felt her cranial vessels contract. Her stomach lurched. Deep breath. Expand the diaphragm. Inhale the sharp ammonia cleaner, feel it tang the back of her throat. In and out. She was not going to vomit in the freezer aisle of the twenty-four hour grocery. The fluorescent lights were swaying slightly.

Flicker.

Someone touched her shoulder, cool above her sleeve, their thumb brushing the nape of her neck. Her skin screamed at the contact, relaxed, and yearned.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," she said, turning. "Yes. Headache." The fridge door was too cold against her back, no longer soothing.

He took her hand and raised it as though to kiss her palm; instead he pressed hard on the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. She gasped. The pain in her head loosened.

"Does that help?"

His voice was faintly accented, and his eyes were the color of the space between streetlights. She made an indistinct noise and nodded.

"Excellent." He smiled and bowed over her hand, never breaking eye contact. "It distresses me to see a beautiful woman in pain."

"Who are you?" She laughed as she said it. The whole thing was corny as fuck – but charming somehow, and utterly sincere.

"My name is Lucas. And you?"

"Elizabeth."


The coffee was hot and burnt the roof of her mouth. Once the fire faded down her throat she tasted the last remnants of the drink itself – the cream and sugar and bittersweet grain of the coffee itself, moist and dry at the same time.

"And what is your occupation, Elizabeth?"

He never stopped watching her. The weight of his regard was at once overly intimate and soothing. It covered her, shielding her from other eyes while laying her bare under his.

"Professional student." She took a bite of her croissant, chewed and swallowed. It crackled on her tongue. He hadn't ordered anything. "Everything but the dissertation."

"Your major?"

"Art history. Ancient art, to be specific."

"Any particular period?"

"No. Hence the perpetual studenting."

"Not such a terrible fate, is it?"

She shrugged. "Ask my trust fund managers."

"What about your parents?"

"Dead." The shock of that had worn off years ago. She drank again in the pause, letting the dark burn slide slowly through her mouth and down her gullet.

"I am sorry."

"Don't be."


His lips followed the thin traces of her veins from her wrist to her shoulder to her heart and back again on the other side. Careful. Delicate. As though she was something that could be broken. She grabbed at his back and urged him on, whimpering and digging in her nails. He laughed and smoothed her hair as he gripped her hips and entered her.

"I want to show you something…"