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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 10, 2009 8:39:49 GMT -5
He liked the sound of her laughter. It had him smiling, stepping closer to her so that, for the briefest of moments, his arm brushed hers. He made sure to keep his hands to himself, however, as much as he was tempted to do otherwise.
It was comfortable, this kind of interaction; she was still uneasy, this much Tarquin knew. Ever since he’d held her in his arms, he continued to watch her, to listen to her and smell her. She was the north pole, and he was the compass—all his senses were pointing eagerly in her direction. And through them, he could tell that her heart continued to beat a staccato rhythm, continued to pump adrenaline, or fear, through her system. But she was doing her best not to show it.
She did not give him her name, which was as expected. Honestly, he had no idea, as yet, how he could discover it. Perhaps he could bribe Rima—she was good with technology. Surely she’d know some why to find out this woman’s name, if Tarquin at least gave her the red-head’s address?
And then, again, she called him Versace. He did wonder why she would not call him by his own name, as he had given it to her the night before. He came to the hasty conclusion that real names, if shared, were an intimate form of knowing strangers. Perhaps she wasn’t ready for that kind of interaction. Perhaps she preferred to think of him as a stranger, a stalker whom she could shuck at any given moment and never have to think of again.
“Versace... who is he this.. Versace?” He asked, brow furrowed in confusion as he searched his mind for some kind of translation. Perhaps it was a word he’d missed, somewhere. Perhaps there was a meaning attached that he was not understanding.
“Does he... make your heart beat so fast, too? Is he someone to be afraid of?” He asked—he was genuinely curious, but at the same time he just couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help wanting to alarm her, wanting to make her afraid, if only to stir her intrigue. He wanted her to want him. If he remained stoic and mysterious, perhaps he could slowly bend her to his will.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 10, 2009 14:42:04 GMT -5
[/i] this man? Her heart? He could hear her heart? How could he—a man of means, style, and class—be this out of tune with the modern pop culture? Amandine came to the conclusion that the true meaning of his words were lost in translation. Still, she made no attempt to speak Italian. “No... why should I fear a clothing label?” Her tone was stern and her face, albeit being bloodstained, straightened into a serious expression. Amandine’s brow was arched as she watched him with continuous prudence. She wanted to find out what had caused him to be this disengaged, but the door to her apartment complex was right behind her. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she blindly reached for her keys in her bag, keeping her eyes on him as she awaited an explanation to her absurd question. [/JUSTIFY][/ul]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 11, 2009 5:20:30 GMT -5
She told him that Versace was Italian, and Tarquin started to wonder whether he needed to brush up on Italian popular culture—he was supposed to pull off Italian, not Ancient Roman. People were going to think he was odd if he couldn’t keep up with the colloquial lingo. Which meant he would probably have to learn modern Italian, too. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before, but he made a mental note to ask Rima to help him find a suitable means of teaching himself.
The above thoughts flitted through his mind momentarily, fleetingly, like tufts of cloud merging but not making themselves completely known until a later time.
For the moment, he had something else more disturbing to think about. He tried to remember whether this particular outfit was one that he’d bought himself or one that had been bought for him by Rima. The accountant (and personal assistant, as she should really be considered) had told him all the clothes were brand new. Or at least, he’d assumed they were brand new. He had no idea that he was wearing another man’s clothing. It made him want to immediately shed the garments and find the poor soul who was now going without.
His brow and furrowed into a frown as he contemplated the name on his sleeve, wondering why a person should think to put their name on every piece of clothing they owned. But, he supposed, it was probably a good thing this ‘Versace’ had done so—he had indeed lost his clothes, and now Tarquin had some clue as to who he could return them to.
In his confusion he’d completely forgotten that he’d mentioned the state of Red’s beating heart; she asked him why she should fear a clothing label. When he again looked up, he found that they’d reached the apartment complex. It seemed to have taken them a much shorter time to get there then it had taken them to get to the cemetery.
For a few moments his face was blank as he tried to comprehend her question. Clothing label. Yes, the name ‘Versace’ labelled the jacket—there was no reason why she should fear a little bit of cloth and a few letters. It was only then that it dawned on him. The jacket had to have come from somewhere. Tarquin remembered that the clothing in this day and age seemed to be mass produced. This jacket, along with all the others like it, must have come from this man ‘Versace’. He must have been their creator, or the owner of the factory they’d come from.
“Ah! Versace is...I understand, now.” Tarquin said, the smile on his face broad as he chuckled heartily at his own expense. And, after he’d finished laughing at himself, he remembered that she’d asked a question.
“No, you are right. You should not fear a clothing label.” He said.
There was a momentary pause before he reached forward to wipe the smallest bit of blood from Red’s face, the only part still wet and not dried to her features. “Go then, Red. Go inside and see that your friends are safe.” he said as his calloused thumb gently swiped her face. He winked at her, before stepping away and back onto the street proper.
“I will see you.” he said, continuing to back away but not wanting to look away just yet.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 11, 2009 5:52:15 GMT -5
[/i] touch upon her warm face. The air was crisp, no wonder his fingers were cold, but it still surprised her to feel them against her flesh once more. Before her body could overpower her rational mind, Amandine cleared her throat and stepped towards the door. “I shall, thank you for... walking... me… home...” the pause between her words grew lengthier as she ended her sentence, brow furrowing as she realized she had not meant to thank him for his stalker ways. Clearing her throat, she turned her back him and fussed with the door before pulling it open. Glancing over her shoulder once, she disappeared behind a corner, soon reappearing around the flight of steps. Amandine was tempted to stop and look over the edge, see if he was gone, but instead she tried to push out the images of his face in favour of her friends’. Licking her lips as she opened the door, Amandine did not expect what she saw. Apparently the girls weren’t either, for they jumped as soon as the redhead announced her presence. They had left her. Alice denied it had been a practical joke, and claimed to have no idea as to who the man Amandine spoke of, was. They insisted they had had no choice than to leave her there; and that they had since called the police to go to the scene. Disturbed by the realization that something had indeed happened, and that her stalker Versace had no part to play in some grad comical scheme, the redhead grew further annoyed at their cowardice. What if something had happened to her? What if she had been killed? Raped? All she got were apologizes, nothing that would satiate her annoyance. Jennifer followed her into her room, refusing to let go of the conversation as long as she was to blame for something. The bickering grew louder, Iris and Alice made their way through. There was no way to resolve this, and though it was probably not the safest night to go wander around the empty streets, Amandine preferred it to this. Time, it would need time. Snatching a tote bag from her closet after slamming her room’s door in their face (and them out to the hallway), she shoved her costume for the play rehearsal tomorrow morning into the bag along with undergarments and another shirt. Reaching into the drawer where she kept herhis money and her ID, the redhead shoved her toothbrush and inhaler into the side pockets of her bag as she stepped into the shared bathroom. Without a word, she made her way out of the apartment, keys in one hand and cell—no, damn. She had thrown her cell phone at him, and now would not be able to call up the motels and check for availability. Groaning under her breath, Amandine stomped her ways down the stairs as she pulled her hair up into a messy chignon. Her claret curls bounced around her face, framing it delicately. She had no idea where she was off to, it was merely quarter past nine, or so the clock at the entrance had indicated. [/ul][/JUSTIFY]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 11, 2009 6:29:19 GMT -5
It was only after he’d lost sight of her that Tarquin turned around and made a conscious effort to either head home, or toward the city where he’d find an adequate meal. It was another thing he’d discovered upon waking up to this century; he did not feel the need to feed every single night. Of course, he always wanted to, but he was better able to keep control of his bloodlust than what he’d originally been used to. He lifted the thumb to his lips, the one that had the tiniest drop of Red’s blood on it. He sucked on the thumb, seemingly contemplating the taste of it. He realised he didn’t want the blood of just anyone. He wanted hers. And so he’d made up his mind to go home.
When he returned his hand to his pocket, however, he found that he still had Red’s little mobile phone. He stopped, looked at the foreign object, then smiled. It gave him an excuse to go back. Not that, as a self-proclaimed stalker, he ever really needed a reason to go back.
Tarquin returned to the complex and glanced up at the apartment belonging to Red. In the window he could see shadows moving back and forth, and with his heightened preternatural hearing he could detect raised voices. His smile turned into a smirk; she’d found her friends, then. She’d realised he hadn’t done anything to them. She was now furious at them for leaving her behind. Well, good riddance, he thought.
Instead of climbing the stairs to the apartment in order to knock on the door (he would have been able to get into the complex, if he had half the mind) he simply waited out the front, leaning against the wall beside the front door. He assumed, sooner or later, Red would come back out again. Either that, or one (or more) of her friends would. He was happy to wait. If she did not come out, he would go up. If she did come out, he’d accompany her wherever she wanted to go. Simply because...well, he wanted to.
Soon enough, he could hear the clopping of feet down the stairs, and upon focusing on the entity who made the sound, he was able to hastily conclude that it was, in fact, Red. Her heart beat the same rhythm, and he caught a whiff of her scent as she opened the door. As soon as she emerged, he straightened up and wordlessly offered her the phone.
On his face sat an expression of mischievous triumph; would she be a little more trusting of him, now? It was a look that said ‘I told you so’. He needn’t have said anything to accompany it.
Instead, after she’d taken her phone, he gestured to the street and offered her his arm, cocking his head to the side lightly as his expression shifted into one of enquiry; it was a look that said ‘Shall we?’, even though he had no idea where she planned on going.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 11, 2009 13:05:32 GMT -5
[/i] wellbeing, but she did realize her wariness towards him had somewhat faded—he had been right, he had stuck around at the cemetery, and he had brought her phone back. Amandine couldn’t help but wonder if he could read her mind or see the future, for his actions were beginning to fill the nooks and crannies to her life. Reaching for her phone with a straight face, she did not bother retorting his smugness with anger or sarcasm. Stuffing the keys and phone into a side pocket, she moved to rearrange her jacket as he offered his arm to her. This was dangerous, this series of interactions with him; she did not trust him, but she wanted to. “I want to dance, Tarquin” She had surely mispronounced his name, but it was tinted enough by her native European accent that it didn't sound too off. She didn't want the hype of techo and dance clubs, but something more subdued, intimate... She wondered if she should elaborate further, but she assumed he'd say if he didn't have a clue. In fact, she didn't really care what they did, so if he were to make an alternate suggestion, she would have followed willingly. All she wanted was for the enthusiasm to materialize itself between now and their destination; her interest in the company was already mutual. Her gaze lingered on his features as she stepped away from the door. She could hear bickering, someone standing at an open door and having an argument half-in and half-out of their complex. It wasn’t the people she knew however, or at least she didn’t recognize their voices if it was. All she wanted was to get out of here. She was disenchanted today, and could not find the energy needed to arouse any sort of interest other than what was provided to her by fate. Though she took his arm, she somewhat manipulated his own until she could bury her cold hand in her pocket, their forearms flush together. It was only then that she realized her military jacket (which she had hastily retrieved from the back of her desk chair), matched his—their styles similar. Smiling to herself, she allowed the bag’s long straps to slide down her free arm, and held up the large purse where he could see it. “This is Versace, too” she felt the need to educate him, broaden his knowledge as to what set a normal clothing brand apart from the haute-couture. Versace was far better known for their purses and sunglasses, she hoped he either already knew that, or had now grasped the idea that Versace wasn't limited to clothing, “They make many things...” Slipping the stuffed bad back up to her shoulder, fingers curled around the strap, Amandine tentatively stepped closer to him, hoping to steal some heat off his strapping body. She was glad she had opted for a jacket as the wind had picked up, ruffling the curls that cascaded at awkward angles from the messy bun. She sniffled and wiggled her nose as the chilled air subdued the ache she felt. Breathing through her nose was hard, and so she parted her lips instead, exhaling lengthily, her breath carrying the scent of the blood she had licked off her lips. [/ul][/JUSTIFY]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 12, 2009 2:42:10 GMT -5
As she said his name, the smile he offered was a genuine one, white teeth glinting in the half-darkness. Though, Tarquin never did things by halves—every action he performed was genuine. There was no reason for him to hide the way he felt. There never had been, and he wasn’t about to start hiding it now. He liked that she’d called him by his own name. To Tarquin, it meant that she was willing to accept him, and his company. Never mind that as the word passed her lips, it sounded different to when he’d given it to her. That didn’t matter to Tarquin. It was a quirk that he’d no doubt come to enjoy.
She told him that she wanted to dance. Tarquin’s skills in dancing were limited. Oh, he knew how to dance—he knew how to step and twirl his way around his enemies in the gladiatorial ring. But there wasn’t much use for that skill any more. He had not grown up in the aristocratic sphere of Rome, either; he knew that the rich had had their balls, but never had he attended one. Never had he had any reason to learn the dances.
But Red wanted to dance, and so he would acquiesce with her request. It couldn’t be that hard, right? They started walking, their steps veering toward the city. She wanted to dance, so he assumed she had some place in mind. He certainly had no idea where to go. The bars he’d acquainted himself with—but those places with the loud, hardly-discernible-as-music music playing, he chose to avoid completely. He only hoped it was not to one of those places that she would lead him.
She was then showing him her bag. Versace, again. He’d hoped that subject would be dropped. And she only managed to confuse him more. The bag was Versace. The man... was a bag, and was never a man at all? Versace... they. His mind did a full circle, again producing an image of a factory somewhere. It was not owned by one person, then, but run by many. Collectively, they were Versace. That was how Tarquin chose to make sense of it in his mind. And once he had, he nodded his understanding.
After which, he lifted his gaze to the road ahead, a smug look on his face as Red pulled herself closer to him, her arm tight around his own. He was victorious. She just couldn’t resist...
“You... lead us to the dancing.” He said lightly; he was in an aloof kind of mood, and was suddenly grateful that Red’s friends were such cowards. If they had not run away, she would not be here with him now.
And even as they walked his body tilted toward hers slightly, and though he didn’t need to breath, he did so in order to inhale her scent.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 12, 2009 3:39:19 GMT -5
[/b][/COLOR] the place was called. It really appeared to be just a hole in the wall, and with such a colloquial name it didn’t appear to live up to the standards set by the newer, fancier jazz bars in the area. It was what she wanted though, something dim and intimate, someplace where she could allow herself to follow through with this crazy succession of events. In all honesty however, the last thing Amandine wanted to do was think about the various things that had happened this evening; even though she should sort it out, she needed time to let herself cool off. They rounded the corner after many minutes of walking in comfortable silence, and the glowing, cherry sign came into view. The city was bustling with life this evening despite being a Sunday; as they walked along the crowded sidewalks, she leaned closer into Tarquin. Few people were waiting to get inside, for most favoured the flashier places such SUAV37D, another jazz club across the avenue. The real blues & jazz lovers came here though, for Harry’s had retained its authenticity and continued to welcome some of the best and most underrated artists in the genres. Amandine was glad she wasn’t carded, for it would have been embarrassing to shuffle through her bag in search of her wallet and ID—not to mention she did not want to share her name with her company quite yet. Mystery was the very reason this entire situation remained just a little more captivating than creepy. As soon as they stepped in, they were greeted with a dark and slightly stuffy atmosphere. The walls were covered in framed and signed photographs of famous artists who had played here over the decades. In the 1920s this had been a centre for the rich to drink and enjoy themselves during a time of restriction. It had become somewhat of a new age, indies joint, but it didn't bother her- electronica was her favourite genre of music. Amandine detached herself from the company, slipping past him and guiding the way through the crowded entrance and hall. They eventually came to a small room, reminiscent of a cavern—the ceiling low and the lighting dim. A few couples were dancing leisurely, whilst most groups settled around the low tables and deep armchairs, and the solitary souls kept to the bar. Licking her lip, Amandine glanced around and felt quite underdressed—she was still wearing the dirt-stained clothes she’d worn to the cemetery, hardly an attire fit for this ambience. On stage, a female vocalist pressed her lips to the microphone, voice high pitched yet deeply sensual. The louder jazz and blues bands were often booked on Fridays and Saturdays, but Sundays were far more relaxed. The sound bounced off the ceiling and walls, suppressing the buzz caused by the conversation of the various patrons; occasionally a group would burst into laughter, drawing a few glanced, but it was rather quiet. Inhaling deeply, Amandine came to a stop by a few empty stools at the bar. Tarquin seemed disoriented or distracted, so she reached for his hand and pulled him as she rose on her tip toes to speak into his ear, “I’ll be right back...” She gestured to the empty seating as her delicate hold of his fingers slipped. There were many women exposing their shoulders and sporting deep v-necklines, though the style remained rather casual. Amandine slithered between the people, making her way across the room towards the ladies room. Following a narrow flight of stairs, she caught sight of her reflection in one of the many mirrors lining the way—it was a good thing she had decided to step out. The light in the room was pale and bright, quite a contrast to the deep reds, blues and purples that illuminated the rest of the joint. It took her nearly ten minutes to get ready, her hair now styled back into a fuller, yet wild, bun. She used water to keep her untamed waves parted to the side and back. Her clothes were now folded and stuffed in her purse, bra included. The dress she wore had been custom made for her character Clio, so it fit her to a T. Luckily her knee-high black boots went well with the deep green cloth, else it would have surely looked awkward. She had been wearing leggings, so her feet were clad in socks and her knees were bare—the dress cut off an inch above her knee cap. The reflection that stared back at her was relatively plain—unadorned by the usual jewellery she was accustomed to when dressed as Clio on stage. This would do however, it was still casual, yet a bit more dressed up than her previous attire. Holding her coat and purse, she made her way back to the bar, hoping that he had settled down and ordered himself something—the line to the restroom had been longer than she’d expected. Quietly, she made her way to him, setting her coat and purse on the seat besides him as she slipped up against him to seat herself—the stools were very close together. She smiled at him as she raised her hand, beckoning the busy barkeep mutedly before glancing back at Tarquin; her smile widened as she took in his expression. [/ul][/JUSTIFY]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 12, 2009 4:35:06 GMT -5
They hardly spoke while they walked, though it wasn’t something that bothered Tarquin. In fact, he didn’t even notice it. Conversation was something that he wasn’t all that accustomed to, nor was he fond of it. Sure, if he liked someone, he was curious. He’d ask them questions about themselves, to try to discover who they are and what makes them tick. And he’s perfectly willing to answer questions put to him about himself. But he didn’t bother asking Red any questions because it was doubtful whether she’d answer them honestly. She still had not given him her name. So although he considered himself victorious in gaining her company, he had not yet succeeded in gaining her trust.
That, however, could be worked on. And having her hanging on his arm was a single step in the right direction.
Tarquin kept a close eye on the places they walked by, and on the street numbers and names. He liked to know his way around, and he liked to know how far away he was from home. It was never good when was stuck on the other side of the city near dawn, with no energy and no scrolls to get back home again. He had to keep a careful eye on the sky and on his own whereabouts.
Red didn’t lead them too far astray, however. They passed a few places crowded with people—bars, clubs, cafes. But she continued, until they reached a place called ‘Harry’s’. Tarquin was dubious, at first. He was distrusting of the exterior, and he wondered what kind of people could be found inside such a run-down place. Once they’d stepped past the door man, however (whom Tarquin flashed a disarming smile at, exerting only a little charisma so the guy would let them pass un-hassled), he was pleasantly surprised by what lay inside.
He was immediately captivated by the music, relieved to find that it was something he could stand. Music was a universal language if it was manipulated properly. Although he couldn’t name the instruments from which the music emanated, he could feel the kind of mood that the music proposed. It was languid, smooth, and though he wasn’t tense to begin with, it allowed him to immediately relax into a cloudy state of mind.
He was distracted as he tried to focus on the words of the song, to understand them. Even though he’d learnt the English language to a satisfactory level, he still had trouble with lyrics, sometimes. The words were joined in such a way that distorted their meaning. Besides which, it was hard to even hear the words through the music.
He glanced down at Red as she bade him pause, and he had to force his attention away from the music in order to hear what she wanted to say. She had already left him when the words finally sunk in. She would be right back. She’d better be. She’d better not think of running off without him... because he would track her down.
The thought made him smile as he slid into one of the empty stools, leaning his elbows upon the counter as he warily watched the room behind him in the mirror over the far side of the bar. The tender came to ask him whether he wanted something to drink, and Tarquin ordered a whiskey ‘on the rocks’. The first time he’d gone to a bar he’d had no idea what they meant when they asked him whether he wanted his drink ‘on the rocks’. Now, it was a drink he ordered every time.
Once the drink arrived, Tarquin took a single mouthful before turning around on his chair to face the room. His elbows leant idly against the counter behind him. He kept his eyes focused on the female singer; his blood lust must have been rising, or bubbling just beneath the surface, as he found himself wondering what her blood might taste like. He wondered whether she would be his meal for the evening. It was just as he was starting to ruminate on the possibility, to start scheming, that he felt a touch on his arm.
He’d had no idea where Red had got to, and it was only now that he noticed that she’d gone to change. His eyes widened as he leant back a little in order to fully appreciate her outfit; the dark emerald was appealing and bright, and it made her blue eyes sparkle. But the style...his heart, though it beat excruciatingly slow, did a little dance in his chest as for a split moment he was transported back in time, back to the Rome where he grew up, but more specifically to the time he’d spend there with Antonia.
Antonia, he’d not thought of her for so long. He felt the guilt, and yet he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by this woman who was...well, she wasn’t entirely different to Antonia. She didn’t look a thing like her, but she had the same temperament. Strong willed, for a woman. Stubborn. Fiery. And yet Antonia had still admitted to needing Tarquin, although she was able to fend for herself.
And he could only hope Red was the same.
His expression was shock; it shifted to anguish, before turning to mild surprise, and then finally settling on admiration.
Red waved down the tender, to order herself a drink.
“I though...you want to dance?” He said, teasing, while slowly shifting his position in the stool so that his body faced Red’s; his attention was solely upon her, and on nothing else. Again, his gaze drifted down the length of her body, and he made no attempt to hide the fact that he was admiring her. He had to admit—the style, though similar, was vastly different. He’d never have been able to see that much of Antonia’s chest. And... well, he liked the modern style better.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 12, 2009 5:10:16 GMT -5
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 17, 2009 0:00:41 GMT -5
She did not answer Tarquin. Instead, she ordered her drink and took a single large mouthful before sliding from her stool and slinking toward the dance floor. For one second Tarquin wondered at why she should have ordered the drink to begin with if she wasn’t going to drink it. It was a waste of money.
But the thought was fleeting; it disappeared due to Tarquin’s realisation that money—it didn’t matter one bit, as he had enough of it to last him several life times. Money wasn’t a problem that he bothered himself about. And secondly, the thought was erased by his severe contemplation of the woman who’d just left his side. He was presented with a healthy view of her backside; he watched as her body swayed easily to the music, as if the music had wrapped its tendrils around her and kidnapped her for its own purposes.
Tarquin didn’t have a choice but to follow her. His body, and his instincts, wouldn’t allow him to do any different.
And even as he did follow her, his long strides smooth and predatory, he was remembering how much he wanted her, how much he needed her, and how much that complexion of hers would suit the vampiric change; those eyes of hers would be brighter, and that skin would be like the smoothest, most flawless porcelain. And her hair—well, that couldn’t very well be improved upon. Sure, it would be smoother, it wouldn’t knot so easily; but it would retain its colour forevermore. And Tarquin wanted it. Forevermore.
All night Tarquin had been dropping vague hints that he was not human. He was unsure whether she’d picked up on them, or whether they’d made an inch of a difference in her perspective of him. But he suddenly found himself impatient; he was infected by the music, by the mood and by her unearthly beauty that he just had to taste her blood. He had to do it tonight. He’d never been the type to reign in his desires; he didn’t try to exert any kind of control upon himself.
He slipped through the bodies on the dance floor; he came up behind her, hand grasping at her waist before trailing across her lower back until he was standing in front of her, his body flush against hers and moving in direct unison with it. One hand remained upon her waist while the other reached up to burn a path down the length of her arm.
He leant forward to place a single soft kiss upon the main vein in her neck. He pulled away only enough so that his mouth was parallel with her ear;
“Do you want be sempiterna--eternal--Red? Do you want to be forever young, and beautiful? Be a vampire, Red...” He whispered the word, so foreign on his lips. He seemed to plead with her, though he knew that even if she said no, he’d do it anyway.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 17, 2009 2:43:54 GMT -5
[/i] And so, she approached his skin with the best of her knowledge at hand. Her intentions were merely to give him a hickey, a fat bruise he could be proud (or ashamed) of, but as his blood broke to the surface, she found herself sucking on the flesh harder in hopes of attaining it. Amandine broke away to breathe, her heart jumping in her chest and pounding in her ears. Had it not been for the change of songs and applause, she may have very well forgotten they were in a crowded room. Yet the realization was distant, and she found herself light-headed, her mind clouded as reason and inhibition lost themselves in the steam the opposed temperatures of their skins created. Licking her lips, she returned her attention to the spot she’d claimed, throwing caution to the wind as she tentatively gnawed on the bruise—it didn’t look as violent as it had been minutes prior. She wanted him to bleed. Her fingers curled around the cloth at his chest, her body flush against his as she reached to cradle the side of his head, index finger hooking behind his ear as she rose to her tiptoes. The blood rose to the surface once more, and she dragged her tongue around the mark, breathing heavily upon it as her hips arched into his. It was all in good fun, an act according to his fetish, but little did she know that there was no turning back now, that if she wanted to step away, she wouldn't. She couldn't. [/ul][/JUSTIFY]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 17, 2009 3:07:36 GMT -5
She did not react to his statement. She simply told him that she did not believe in vampires. She did not pull back or look at him strangely. Instead, she continued to sway and slide in unison with Tarquin, her hands reaching forward to tug him closer to herself. She did not believe in vampires, but she intended on acting like one—at least, that was the only conclusion Tarquin came to.
He wound his arms tightly around her, feeling the significant urge to hold her weight, to lift her off of her feet and cradle her as close to him as he could, so as to claim her completely as his own.
She had taken to chewing upon his neck. From what he remembered, when he’d first tasted Antonia’s blood he’d at first been disgusted at the very notion. He may have been a Gladiator—he may have been in the habit of killing people in cold blood, but he was no cannibal. But the blood had tasted so damned good—as if it was enchanted, or laced with some intoxicating agent. He knew that if Red succeeded in breaking the surface of his skin, well... she’d no doubt find it very hard to pull away.
But Tarquin had to consider what he knew and what he was still in the dark about. He knew that before he had consumed Antonia’s blood, before it had had the chance to work the change upon his body, Antonia had drained him to the point of death. It was the only way he knew a person could be changed. He didn’t know if simply consuming his blood without being near death first would change Red, whether it would sufficiently infect her blood.
So he drew her closer still, bending down in order to give her freer access to his own neck, his own lips exploring the silken surface of hers. There was a sharp pain where her lips massaged his skin, and he could only assume she was tasting his blood. So, without any further thought (and because his every nerve was screaming for him to do so) Tarquin’s lips curled back to reveal the canines that lengthened at the thought of sating his blood lust. They pierced her skin, right over the artery. He retracted his teeth immediately so as to cause the least amount of pain—he smothered her with a wave of charisma and touched her mind with a burst of telepathy; but he was so disoriented by his need that he could not control the images she saw.
She no doubt saw images of the Gladiatorial ring, of Antonia and Decimus and their deaths, images of blackness and panic as he was shut away in the sarcophagus. The important things.
His blood burned upon his tongue—it was far warmer than the blood of the average human; it was like consuming a scalding hot meal, delicious and savoury. His fingers dug into her waist and her shoulder, crushing her to him like some exotic animal. He moaned lightly as her blood caused his nerves to sing, invigorating the entirety of his body.
He strengthened his pull on her blood as he felt an even sharper pain at his own neck; she was draining him of his own blood, and it was what he wanted. But he wanted to do this right. The last thing he wanted was to screw this up and lose her before he’d even gained her.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Dec 17, 2009 3:43:37 GMT -5
[/i]. Cerulean green eyes we glazed in tears, face red as she held back her emotions. Another memory, this time of the dotted night sky, strands of red fluttering into her line of sight. A feminine hand appeared, her own, pushing the hair out of her sight. Then a man, a boy, perhaps no older than nineteen, eyes as blue as ice, came into view, hovering over her with sleepy grin—bare of clothing on his torso. Her arms reached up around his neck, and she closed her eyes. Distant giggling sounded somewhere in her mind, as did the hissing sound of cloth against skin. Then, darkness. A series of inexplicable memories flashed behind her eyes as a serene expression settled on her features. Amandine then lost her footing, head lolling back as her hair cascaded around her dormant features. The barrette that had held her hair up clinked against the ground, but the music had started once more, masking the sound. One final breath parted her lips, and then she simply hung from his arms, chest dotted with the blood she'd coughed up, no longer heaving as her heart came to a full stop. [/ul][/JUSTIFY]
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Post by Quin Contiello on Dec 17, 2009 8:09:06 GMT -5
Tarquin lost himself in memories that were not his own. He wanted more. He wanted to know her, so completely and so thoroughly, that she could not escape him had she wanted to. And amongst this jumble of memories, of red-headed little girls, he discovered her name. Amandine. The name sounded like it ought to be some kind of fruit—and to Tarquin, she had become a fruit. She had become a thing from which he gained sustenance, and the vitamins he needed to survive.
He was so lost in these memories of hers that he lost grip on the here and now; he lost control of what he was doing, and only regained it once the memories stopped, and there was only darkness. Pure darkness. And then the slow, crooning jazz music crept in the edges; the sound of class clinking against glass, laughter in a corner—and he realised where he was and what he was doing.
And Amandine was limp in his arms, that plush mouth of hers tainted red and drooping open, those sparkling eyes of hers closed and that fiery red hair cascading around her.
Tarquin’s unneeded breath caught in his throat as he stopped moving altogether. He realised that he’d actually stopped dancing quite some time ago. But he was horrified as he stared at her, searching for any kind of spark of life. There was none. Her heart had stopped. To all appearances, she was dead. Had he gone too far? Had he taken too much blood? Had he pushed her frail body too far, that it could not survive?
An incomprehensible sound rumbled in his throat and slipped from his mouth as he swung her up into his arms. The people around him grimaced, smirked, laughed; they assumed she’d drunk too much, that she’d fainted, and in such dim light they could not see the sinister blood which dappled her white skin.
Tarquin carried the lifeless body to a nearby couch. His blood was still singing, and he felt drunk on the taste of her blood. He was disoriented, and didn’t quite know what to do. He placed her gently onto the couch, swiping the loose tendrils of hair from her face as his hand cradled her jaw. He was half kneeling on the couch, half standing, as again he stared intently at her, focusing all his energies on trying to detect some sign of life, some way in which he could bring her back to life.
And then he heard it. It was so slow to begin with, so laboriously and agonizingly slow—but it was there. A heart beat. It mirrored his own, which was why it was so hard to hear. But he grinned, victorious; he caressed her face again, fingers trailing from the hairline to the jaw as he waited for those eyes of hers to open.
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