Vampire the Masquerade Bloodlines Imagines

“I don’t mean to say I told you so-”

“Don’t-”

“-but I told you so.”

She rolls her eyes, an expression so seamless she seems born to it, and one so frequent as to be utterly impotent to him by now. In fact, he seems amused, which is one of his most frequent, and thus most annoying, expressions.

“You don’t have to be so smug about it.”

“Of course I do. Don’t they teach you anything in those chantries anymore? The older you are, the smugger you have to become.” He chuckles, a short, quiet sound.

“You’re an asshole,” she mutters.

“Indeed.”

He adjusts the collar of his coat, looks over the edge of the cliff. Mount Lee is as kitschy as ever, but the cliche seems to suit them both. Clinging to old glamour, ignoring the mud-filled slushie cups and used condoms that litter the grass. The glowing letters blaze down on the city, the two of them hidden behind its light.

She crosses her arms, taps her fingers on her elbow, worries the loose thread at the seam. It needs attention.

“I must admit, I didn’t think I would see you out of those walls anytime soon. Did Strauss let you out on a night pass?”

She can feel his amused smirk on the side of her face. A muscle in her cheek twitches.

“No…” he answers for her, moving to stand beside her in the dry, flattened grass, his hands in his coat pockets. “A solo venture, then.” He pauses. “What would your master say if he knew you were associating with doggerel kindred like me?”

“He’s not my master,” she barks.

Silence passes between them.

“There was something I wanted to say,” she finally admits.

“Oh?” His eyebrows raise, just slightly, his eyes cutting sideways toward her from behind his sunglasses. “What was it?”

She returns the glance, then looks back out over the busy, glittering halo of Los Angeles nightlife. Self-assured, intelligent, free of outside demands and obligations. If she lives long enough, she might claim the same, one of these nights. Might even feel safe enough to give voice to the feeling she doesn’t quite trust inside herself yet.

But this poor unlucky childe has had the misfortune of falling neatly under whip and lash of the Ivory Tower and, alas, is learning on their feet, no time to sleep or consider their next move for fear of delaying too long to make another. And all this without even the cursory watchful eye of a sire.

Still, they find time to dawdle near him, careful not to impede his work, his examinations of the sarcophagus, always just out from under his elbow, the nervous, copper-rich, dead smell of them filling his nose to the point of excluding all else.

“Must you linger?” he says, a bit more gruffly, world-weary, than he perhaps intended.

They seem taken aback, perhaps insulted, perhaps hurt, affronted in some way. He could have been gentler, but then that’s never been his style. 

“Sorry. It’s just quiet.” They rub the back of their neck and glance aside. “Reminds me of home.”

“Here? This self-indulgent wasteland of taste?” Beckett snorts.

“No. Well, not here, exactly.” They shift next to him; he feels the movement of their clothes, unwashed and thin with too much wear, not enough clean and rest. “I just meant. You know. Everyone else wants something.”

“Everyone wants something,” he corrects.

“No. Not you. Not from me, anyway.” The fledgling bristles, almost like their namesake ruffling feathers in irritation. “I’m sick of it,” they continue in a rush. “I’m tired of being used. I don’t like being his pawn. I can’t stand it. I hate it — I wish I’d never been changed!”

Beckett waits. Studies a pattern of markings on the sarcophagus. The fledgling breathes erratically beside him, and he waits. For that reflexive breathing to slow and even out, for the echo of their words in the fine, aggrandizing halls of the boy prince’s tower to fade away.

“Are you finished?” he asks, finally turning to look at them with his piercing red eyes.

The fledgling nods, their eyes brimming pink with tears. Frustration? Sadness? Despair.

“Good.” Beckett adjusts his glasses. “Now listen: It isn’t this life that you hate. This existence. It’s the kindred you surround yourself with. They’ll make any existence miserable. So you have to bear it for now. So what? Time marches on, immemorial. And so do we, if we’re smart.”

He regards the fledgling coolly, though there is something like affection stirring grimly in his chest.

somebody once suggested that deb is actually a nosferatu and ever since then i can’t get it out of my head. if it was you, let me know so i can give you my everlasting thanks

she doesn’t actually broadcast from the station, but from the depths of the city’s sewer system beneath it — it’s a piece of cake for a nossy to override a radio frequency

sitting in the studio in the fanciest of fluffy pink lingerie while her regular callers make fools of themselves over her is completely nonthreatening knowing that she could easily just tear their heads off

like, you know this thing?

that thing

also, it’s hilarious to think of these obsessed dudes slavering about her when she knows they’d run screaming if they saw her

(and they should, because she’s GORGEOUS)

andrei calls in regularly and it always creeps her out

she gets really irritated when people keep harping on the vampire thing. once is funny, twice is exasperating, anything more than that is too much

whenever she goes to commercial break it’s actually because something important came up on the schrecknet and she has to do damage control

velvet velour: “are you sure that’s what you want? well, if you say so. i suppose i’ll be the one doing you a favor this time... the customer is always right, after all. hmm... tell me, is she any good at pouring drinks?”

damsel: “whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa, you want me to watch after your blood slave? no way. no way. this is — so fucked. does she even know what she’s doing here? does she know — what we are? no. with everybody sniffing around and crawling halfway up our asses and you want me to watch this poor little — ugh! … whatever. it’ll probably do her some good getting away from the rest of you cammies for a while.”

jeanette: “ooh, what a lot of fun we’re going to have. oh, don’t worry, duckling, — your little pet will be perfectly safe with me. i don’t bite, remember? at least not things that don’t belong to me, anyway… mostly… oh, you should see your face! i’m teasing. go on, go on then. we’ll see you bright and early… or is that dark and late?”

therese: “do i look like your babysitter? never mind — don’t answer that. i don’t need to know any more about your messy little hangups. … ugh. fine. but you owe me. and i’m not just talking about working for peanuts. believe me — whatever all important mission this is, is going to look like a church basement cakewalk compared to what you do for me. remember that.”

pisha: “someone should tell the girl how little you care for her. not me, of course. wouldn’t want to scare her off. … how do you feel about the most dangerous prey?”