Forsaken [Tarquin]

[Amandine Rossi]

[/i]... And then she felt it, slow and protracted, but there—once more her heart beat, and she felt as calm as it tricked her to believe she was.

Amandine dislodged her tongue, savouring the aftertaste and realizing she wanted more, no, needed more to soothe the dull aches in her body. She was intoxicated, unable to grasp control of her mind as it insisted on playing cat and dog; her human conscious was the dog, and the cat was some new façade she had yet to catch hold of. Frustration consumed her and the darkness became unbearable.

And so she opened them, her cerulean green eyes. They shined brighter than ever before, possessing a new cyan-like glow that was reminiscent to a shallow ocean in the tropics. Her face had been drained of colour, the dusty cerise blush that had been natural to her since birth was now gone; her cheeks flawlessly pale and smooth, like the finest porcelain. Her lips were pale, a sign that she was weak, in need of substance. Parting her lips, she exhaled lengthily, inhaling once more out of habit. Her nostrils burned as she was assaulted by the multitude of smells around her. Strangely enough, though she felt inexplicably drawn to him, her attention was captivated by the other scents; she was distracted by this new found aptitude.

Lethargically, she reached towards him single-handedly as though testing her limbs—she felt so weightless; mindset greatly flimsy. The thumb settled on his lips, dragging his lower one far enough to reveal his lower teeth. Before her hand dropped, she pressed her palm against his chin and pushed him out of the way to gaze at the source of such sweet smell. There were so many smells that she could taste on her tongue, some less pleasant than others, but her bloodlust allowed her to focus on the one thing that smelled so illicitly good. Taking a mouthful of air, her chest heaved as she pushed herself up against the back of the couch—absolutely disorientated, though her gaze reflected her determination albeit the confusion.

Her fingertips settled on the exposed skin at his collarbone, tickling their way up until she cradled his head single-handedly. Amandine’s gaze shifted from his face to the blood smudged over his neck, and a low purr sounded in her throat. Her second hand reached for his lips, fingertips delicately tracing the outline of his mouth—she wanted. Licking her lower lip, she traced her way to his chin and gingerly cradled his jaw, leaning forward to plant an airy, bloodstained kiss upon his tinted lips. Her attention was completely his, so much so that she didn’t hear the glass besides her break.
[/justify][/ul]

[Quin Contiello]

Tarquin watched with a child-like fascination as Amandine opened her eyes; she wore vampirism like a new outfit, and it suited her like it suited no-one else. And this was only her first run in it—Tarquin wondered whether she’d continue to wear it well. He wondered how she was going to react. For all his recently acquired naivety, Tarquin was definitely aware that she’d not said ‘yes’, that she hadn’t believed in a word he’d said. There was a very good chance that she was going to be furious—that she was going to remain disbelieving. But Tarquin didn’t care. She was absolutely stunning, and she’d never be rejected again, if she’d ever been rejected before.

Tarquin remained perfectly still as she started to become aware of her new surroundings. Well, they weren’t completely new; they were the same surroundings, only seen through new eyes.

He watched as she bypassed a perfectly willing human male to cling to Tarquin. He leant toward her as her actions drew him toward her like a moth to a flame. Of course, he was unaware how true that worn cliché was; he could definitely be the moth, and she could definitely be the flame. He shuffled closer to her, ever so slightly, responding to her airy kiss in a passionate fashion. His hand grasped at her waist while the other reached forward to tangle in her hair; his tongue trailed over her bottom lip, parting her mouth so that he could claim her completely.

But he could see the blood-lust in her eyes, could feel it buzzing through her body. He knew what it felt like. He’d been consumed by it when he’d first been turned, and he’d been consumed by it only months previously when he’d emerged from his torturous tomb.

He reluctantly pulled away, pushing her away as he did so. He too had been so consumed by his attention for Amandine that he’d missed the smashing of a glass beside her. Unknowingly, she’d knocked the drink from the table beside her, and the drunken man whom it belonged to was finally rallying himself to demand a new one. The situation hadn’t escalated yet, and they didn’t have many onlookers. There was a good chance they had none at all.

Tarquin tried to steer Amandine toward the gesticulating male. If he assumed correctly, her instincts would take over. And if they didn’t... well he’d just have to help them along.

There was plenty of time for the rest of it later.

[Amandine Rossi]

[/i] and understand what he was saying. The music was too loud, and she found herself unable to disengage her sense of smell and taste.

With one hand clenched domineeringly on Tarquin, Amandine lowered the other and reached towards the drunken chap. Her gaze shifted back to him as she hesitated in her actions, but he directed her towards their unruly neighbour. Furrowing her brow, unsettled by the unnecessary heightening of his voice as lewd comments began to drip from his mouth, her hand clamped over the stranger's mouth. He tried to shake it off, but she was adamant about keeping him quiet, even if the saliva spreading over her palm was disgusting her ever so slightly. Letting go of Tarquin, the redhead turned her back to him and lifted herself onto one knee to face the bloke. His muffled insults were paused as she pushed him back onto the couch, lifting her second leg to straddle his lap. By now her dress pooled at her hips and rump, pale thighs exposed as they pressed on either side of his.

One of the hands that gripped at her wrist dropped to her knee, warm fingers groping the flesh blindly as he looked at her with a wide and dull eyes. Amandine tilted her head minimally, uncertainty written all over her face as she pushed harder against his mouth. She glanced over her shoulder at her personal prowler, seeking some form of guidance—the human instincts within were beginning to stir in the face of her hesitation. Opening her mouth to speak, she dropped her gaze as her tongue ran along the new dental silhouette of her upper teeth. Sharp, unfamiliar canines, and then another pair of equally sharp, though less imposing teeth caught her attention. Running the tip of her tongue along them, she was about to ask a question when the sot’s second hand reached under her dress.

Rage flickered in her eyes as she raised her free hand in the air, lowering it in one swift motion. Amandine punched the man square in the face, possibly breaking his jaw, though definitely shattering his nose. A loud cry sounded against her palm, and he slobbered further. Leaning backwards, she watched him for a few seconds, blinking as her brows furrowed—what was she doing? Her conscious had no time to make a lasting impression as blood trickled from the man’s nose, instantly awakening something within her. Any notion of deliberation was wiped clean off her pallid face as she dove for his neck. Her fingers curled into his curly mane, snapping the guzzler’s head into an awkward position as her opposite hand tore the cloth that was in her way.

Like a feline, her back arched and her hips drew nearer to his as she sunk her teeth into his flesh, tearing it apart. The mess only furthered her desperation, and as the blood sprayed everywhere, she pressed her face further into his neck. Amandine was too caught up to notice his flailing motions had come to a stop, and so she continued to drain him until she could no longer keep anything down. Gagging some of the warm liquid, she leaned away from him in sheer terror at what she’d just done.

The light was dim enough in this corner that no one would notice the pool of blood that had gathered at his shoulder and spread down his shirt and the couch. But, the most disturbing aspect of it all was that the blood was all over her. Glossy red tainted her lips, coursed down her chin to the exposed valley between her breasts; even her cheek and hair were soiled by the cruor. Amandine jumped off him and the couch, causing the entire table to tip over as her heels threatened to break under the sheer force of her landing.

[/ul][/JUSTIFY]

[Quin Contiello]

Tarquin watched Amandine’s actions with a mixture of fascination and jealousy; he wanted her all to himself. But his fascination far outweighed the jealousy. He had been the one to direct her toward her prospective meal, and he was intrigued by the method of seduction that she adopted. In Tarquin’s experience, every vampire hunted in their own unique fashion. Some revelled in the blood and gore, and lost more blood than they gained. Some liked to put the fear of God into their prey before taking them—they liked to play with their meals, as it were. Some liked simple and pure seduction. Tarquin was one of the latter. And watching Amandine, he wondered whether she might not be the same.

The human was befuddled, confused as to why the woman he was trying to berate chose to straddle him in an attempt to shut him up. Well, it worked, for a little while. Until he thought he could take advantage of her.

When Tarquin caught sight of his hand trying to creep up her dress, he felt the possessive urge to kill the guy himself. But he let Amandine handle the situation—and handle it she did. She gave in to the instincts he’d gifted her with. She remained the fiery creature whom he’d fallen for, and he found himself inching closer to her, wanting to whisk her up into his arms and take her to some private corner.

From the bar there approached a lone female—her steps faltered as she squinted into the darkness of the lounge they occupied. Tarquin guessed that she belonged to the male. Tarquin swiftly stood, leaving Amandine to pull the female into a tight embrace. He took the drink from her hand and placed it upon a nearby table. He swung her onto the dancefloor. She was confused, but she did not resist. She tried to get a view of her boyfriend, but Tarquin turned her so that she was facing away. He did not want to leave Amandine alone for too long, however, so even while he danced with the young girl he kindly relieved her of life giving liquid until she fell limp in his arms.

Unlike Amandine, Tarquin made no mess.

He easily carried the girl back to the couch without looking too untoward. He let her drop beside her friend, whom Amandine had only just finished with. Seemingly realising what she’d done, she reeled away from the fresh corpse and Tarquin caught her before she could break an ankle over the table. She’d find that, as a vampire, a broken ankle would heal within days. But it would still hurt, and Tarquin didn’t want her disable quite yet.

Winding his arm about her waist, he all but lifted her away from the scene of carnage and searched for a back exit. Once he’d found it, he steered Amandine toward the abandoned alley, allowing the emergency exit to close behind them, allowing them no access to get back in. He then released Amandine, giving her some space.

He expected that she’d perhaps act violently, so he held his hands up in a semi-defensive fashion. He peered at her deeply, inquiringly. If she needed more, he’d happily take her to some spot where she could feed more deeply. But for now...

He simply waited for her to react.

[Amandine Rossi]

[/i], was enough of a stranger that she could place a personality upon him which suited her dream. Yes, that was it.

Lifted off the floor and then tugged in an unknown direction, Amandine’s words pooled on her tongue as her heels clattered against the ground. The music was too loud for her to be able to hear the clattering of her heels, which strengthened her notion that this was but a dream. Stumbling outside, she braced herself for the cold. It wasn’t cold, even though her breath was clouded, her bare skin was warm. Looking up at the handsome stranger she’d danced with, she scrutinized his face in search of blood. He didn’t look like a vampire, but then neither did she...

“You turned out to be my own personal Edward, huh...” she muttered under her breath, looking him over. Never mind that she had forgotten her belongings inside, that would be of no consequence. Catching sight of her bloodstained hands, Amandine glanced down at herself, brow furrowing as she found herself covered in blood. Shouldn’t this disappear if she wished it to? A thought coursed through her mind: perhaps it will if you let the dream take it’s course...

Her hair resembled that of a lion’s mane, and her piercing stare and bloodied features matched quite well her silvery skin. She didn’t say or do anything as she waited for the dream to take its course once more. Furrowing one brow, she glanced up to the sky as though expecting something to happen.
[/ul][/JUSTIFY]

[Quin Contiello]

He did not understand her. Not one bit. She did not react, at all. He had no idea who this Edward was, nor could he understand the way she was looking about herself, as if she was expecting something to happen.

For weeks after he’d emerged from the coffin, Tarquin had been plagued by a rather rabid case of paranoia. He was determined to believe that the vampires who’d shut him away in that sarcophagus would still be looking for him. And he was so terribly afraid of being shut up again, that he allowed his fears to overwhelm his sanity, and even his precious masculinity. It had taken Kali that long to realise what it was that Tarquin was afraid of, and once she’d found out it didn’t take her long to sooth him of his fears. The trip to Italy had been a bit to make him realise that none of the vampires from his past were still around to torment him.

But standing here, watching Amandine seemingly expect something to happen...for a split moment he felt the urge to reel away from her and run. Had it all been some elaborate set up? Was he about to be attacked from behind, from above, forced to sleep again in that godawful coffin? He straightened his posture and followed her gaze upward, stance rigid and defensive. There was no one there, however.

It took Tarquin a few seconds to regain his composure. It was doubtful that a human would willingly sign up for such an elaborate task, knowing that she might become a vampire at the end of it. It was doubtful that she’d act so calmly at having been turned, if that indeed was not the planned outcome. The whole idea was idiotic. She was not some hunter sent to recapture him. She was Red. His Red. And she was making him worry.

But she wasn’t afraid of him, either. So he took the opportunity to reach forward in an attempt to wipe the blood from her face. It did no good. There was too much of it for him to clean from her. So instead he removed his jacket from his shoulders and made a move to drape it over her shoulders, to wrap it tight around her to hide the majority of the bloodstains. They’d have to make it home before sunrise, and he was taking her home.

But before leading her from the alleyway, he leant over her, kissing her cheeks, the contours of her mouth, her lips, his tongue lapping up the blood that clung to her warmed skin. The temperature of her skin did not surprise Tarquin. Not yet. She had just fed. Their skin happened to become flushed and warm after a good meal. He assumed that was the case here, too. And in between his kisses, he mumbled in her ear;

”You’re not alarmed, Red.” It was not a question, it was a statement. But he wondered what the cause was.

[Amandine Rossi]

[/i]?” she repeated, this time louder, adding the emphasis on the last syllable as her face contorted further. What sort of name was that anyways? And why was she ruining such a blissful moment with nonsense? Parting her lips, she did not repeat his name again, and instead lowered herself from her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his softly. Closing her eyes, her hands reached over his ears and hair, meeting one another at his nape as her willowy fingers intertwined.
[/JUSTIFY][/ul]

[Quin Contiello]

This was a side of his Red that Tarquin had not seen before. She was eerily calm, and nothing like the fiery temptress he’d pinned her to be. She was not angry, excited, or confused. She was just...calm. It worried Tarquin. Had something gone wrong? Had he ruined her brain, somehow? The way she cradled his jaw and contemplated his features whilst repeating his name several times confirmed the opinion that somehow, he’d broken her.

Tarquin pursed his lips and frowned down at her. As much as he wanted to take her, right here in this dank alleyway, it just did not seem right. His passion had retreated in the wake of her calm.

He hoped it was only an odd reaction to the turning. He expected that she should feel ill; maybe he’d underestimated the kind of illness. Hopefully, it would pass. He’d take her home, he’d clean her up, he’d answer any questions she might have to the best of his ability (though she didn’t look like she even comprehended what had happened to her).

The other hope was that she’d known of the existence of vampires and she’d wholeheartedly accepted the offer that Tarquin had expected that she’d laugh at or turn down. This could be the purest form of acceptance. He’d expected awe, wonderment. But maybe he was wrong to expect anything.

All these thoughts ran on repeat in the back of Tarquin’s mind as he reached upward to gently tug Amandine’s arms from around his neck. He responded to her soft kiss only enough so that she would not feel rejected. But he then took a step back and wound a possessive arm around her back, steering her toward the exit of the alley and the street beyond.

“I am going to take you home.” he told her, sternly. She may have assumed he was going to take her back to her home, but he was not. She doubted she’d want to return to her traitor friends, anyhow. No, he was taking her back to his home, where he could keep a careful eye on her.

“We will clean you up.” He mumbled, even though that was the last thing on his mind.

[Amandine Rossi]

[/JUSTIFY]
[/ul]

[Quin Contiello]

They sauntered along at an average pace, though Tarquin was accustomed to moving much faster. He was tall, and his legs were long. For some, a single stride of his would equal two of theirs. He had to monitor his pace to keep alongside Amandine, and not make her feel as if he were forcing her onward. Even if that was exactly what he was doing.

As much as Tarquin didn’t care much for the lives of humans, he was still averse to drama. The public scene in the club he’d only allowed because there were enough distractions that the humans wouldn’t sufficiently realise what was going on. It was something they could get away with. He could see Amandine eyeing off the pedestrians, but he wouldn’t let her do anything about it—the space was too open, and there were still too many people around. If she really wanted someone, he’d sort something out. But they couldn’t tarry too long. There were still a few hours before sunrise, but distractions always led to more distractions.

“Yes, I live alone.” He said, rounding the next corner so that he could see the lights of home just past the next block. They were almost there.

“Living alone...is overrated.” He said, brow furrowing as he gestured for no reason at all. Tarquin didn’t realise just how Italian he appeared in that moment.

“I think, perhaps...your friends do not make good company. You should help me, so I live alone no more.” He said, smiling as he kept his gaze on the house in the distance, as if it were the lighthouse guiding him home. He’d grown to love the place. It was warm, and welcoming. It was an antiquated haven away from the modern world. As vast as the modern world was, it often made him feel claustrophobic.

His train of thought was derailed when they passed the next alley, the entrance to which was shadowed and sinisterly inky. Within it, however, Tarquin spied a pair of beady eyes, a glint of metal. A thief. He was waiting there, for some easy prey. He’d faltered, thinking that perhaps Tarquin was too large a man to take on. He was a coward, as most thieves were. He turned his mouth down to mumble into Amandine’s ear.

“Red, are you still thirsty?”

[Amandine Rossi]

[/size][/ul]
[/JUSTIFY][/ul]

[Quin Contiello]

The concerns crowding Tarquin’s mind slowly filtered away as Amandine swivelled to face him, her hips flush against his own as she looked up at him with lust burning in her eyes. Every other noise faded into a background hum as his attention focused primarily on this woman, who yesterday was only a stranger and who today was linked to him in a way that he couldn’t quite explain just yet. He lower lip pouted, and though Tarquin didn’t understand a word she said, he smirked anyway.

He leant forward to take that lip between his own, gently biting it though careful not to draw blood. Yet. The thief in the shadows of the alley still lurked—he watched the both of them, like some pervert getting kicks out of voyeurism. As long as he didn’t make a move, however, Tarquin ignored him.

He reached up to brush a flame-red strand from Amandine’s face, leaning in further so that he could mumble in her ear;

“I do not speak Italian, Red.” He chuckled, the tone low, yet highly amused. He really did need to learn Italian. But she was his, now. She was his childe, so in a way belonged to him. There would be no secrets, not now. There was no reason to keep up the charade. It was up to her whether she’d believe him or not.

Then, unable to control himself, and doing so before she could react, Tarquin had bent low to hoist Amandine up in his arms. With a single burst of celerity he had them at the gates to his home. Once there, he places Amandine’s feet back on the ground, pushing the gate open as he dipped his hand into his pocket to retrieve a set of keys. He led them down a short path, surrounded on each side by neatly clipped hedges and solar-powered lights. The sound of lapping water somewhere alerted them to the presence of a man-made pond. At the front door he punched a number into the keypad before slipping the key in the lock and twisting it. The lights were still on inside, and they emitted a warm glow over the front entrance, and made the place, in general, feel more welcoming.

The door swung wide and Tarquin gestured inside, allowing Amandine access before himself.

“How do you say it...Home sweet home?”

[Amandine Rossi]

[/i] that?”

She asked breathlessly, rhetorically. Glancing back at the spot they had been standing at miliseconds prior, she deduced there was no plausible way that any of this was real. Turning her head as the gates squeaked open, a groomed eyebrow arched upwards as she appraised the sight before her. Of course he would live in a villa-like home... Mouth ajar, Amandine scrutinized her surroundings in awe; she allowed her feet to guide her and followed him readily. This place was to her liking, reawakening the mediterreanean roots within.

“Y-yeah, that’s how we say it...” she replied, fully distracted as she admired the interior. Licking her lower lip, she slowly peeled his blazer off her pale shoulders, bare back facing him as she ventured further into the entrance hall. Folding the jacket onto her forearm, she gingerly ran her fingers over the figurines that decorated the place, the artist within her dancing gleefully in the presence of such artefacts.

Looking over her shoulders, she reached for her hair and ran her fingers through it, smoothing it backwards as she fully took in her surroundings. “This place is...” she started, but her distracted demeanour and awestruck expression would finish the sentence.
[/ul][/JUSTIFY]

[Quin Contiello]

Tarquin closes the door behind him and makes sure it’s locked again. The thief in the alley might have seen them going into this house and might try to conjure some grand scheme. Or the thief may have been far too slow to realise where the two of them had gone. Whatever the case, Tarquin wasn’t worried. If the thief posed a thread, he’d deal with him later. For the moment, he wanted only to witness Amandine’s awe.

“One day, you will be able to do the same.” Tarquin said, answering Amandine’s question. Oh yes, indeed, he could see her gaining power. She would wear it well.

The house was just a house to Tarquin. Sure, his human life was spent mostly in squalor, and it was only the latter half of his lived immortal life that he’d actually experienced anything close to luxury. But a house didn’t make a man, nor did its objects. Of course he was proud of his dwelling, but not because of how much it might have cost him. He was proud of it because it was comfortable, and it could be called home.

There were several rooms downstairs that may or may not have interested Amandine. But, judging by her actions out on the street, he assumed there was only one room that she really wanted to see. He sauntered toward Amandine and tugged his coat from her grasp.

“We will go... put this away. Yes?” He said, taking the coat and casually heading for the stairs. The railings were mahogany, and the steps themselves were lined with crimson carpet. The carpet lines all the floors above, too, outside of the rooms. There was only one room on the third floor, and it belonged to Tarquin.

He led Amandine all the way to the top; his room was spacious, and he liked it that way. Small confined spaces—well, suffice to say, he would never sleep in a coffin ever again. Not if he could help it. In this day and age, it was far too easy to keep the windows blocked of all sunlight. And he took every precaution.

He did not look behind him to see if Amandine was following. He walked straight through the door that led to his bedroom; the thing had not been closed for quite some time. He was the only one who lived in this house, and he did not feel the need to lock himself in more than was necessary. From there, he walked straight into the large wardrobe to the left. He flung both his coat and the shirt off his back into a far corner—they both needed to be mended, or thoroughly cleaned. He emerged from the closet shoeless and with a naked torso, the belt at his waist undone and hanging limp. He was at home now, and he felt the need to be comfortable.

But he was also certain he had not misinterpreted Amandine’s need, or her lust. He was hopeful that his forwardness would not be frowned upon.

[Amandine Rossi]