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Post by Quin Contiello on Jan 29, 2010 10:07:35 GMT -5
Tarquin came to a slow halt, blinking as he turned to Amandine, trying his best to understand the nonsense that spilled from her lips. Yes, she was angry. She had a right to be angry. But she was acting like a child. The children Tarquin had grown up with were more mature and adult than Amandine was now. Decimus had been more adult than child—an adult, trapped forever in a child’s body.
Tarquin suddenly realised that he had no patience for children.
Patience he had in spares, lots of it, gathered together over the centuries he’d lived. Patience was a necessity when one was immortal. It was something that would be learned, whether one wanted to learn it or not. But he’d always been patient.
But his former vows were somewhat reneged. She was not going to choose for herself. She was not going to give in to her nature. She was not going to make this easy on either of them. So a little force would have to be admitted if she was ever going to learn. It was tempting to simply walk away and let her deal with things on her own without any help whatsoever. If Tarquin had no patience, that’s exactly what he would have done. And it was only tempting now because his mood was not at its best due to his exhaustion and thirst.
Maybe that was why she was being so difficult. Her mood was being soured by the thirst as much as his was. Surely.
So instead of allowing his frustration to take control, Tarquin laughed. It was a slow, low laughter that tried its best not to be mocking.
Come, Red. You are a child. He did not try to grab her or force her in any way, even if it might have been necessary. He took a few more strides in the Easterly direction before turning into a well-placed alley. Not exactly the most hospitable of places, but it was dark and well hidden. The best kind of place if things got out of control. There were three kinds of people usually lurking in these alleys: the drunken lovers, who somehow stumbled there after (or before/during) a night of debauchery, thieves and drug dealers who made use of the dark space to do their deals, or homeless men, gathered around a makeshift fire.
But before he could discern whether there was anyone present, he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Amandine was following. Maybe they’d find no one and would have to traverse the maze that was the alleyways of this city to track a meal down. Maybe they’d be lucky. But Tarquin couldn’t very well be a sire and teach Amandine if she was not by his side.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Feb 5, 2010 1:39:40 GMT -5
Children were far more innocent than Amandine, their caprice often due to immaturity, not calculated derision. The hate children referred to was simple, devoid of complexities, whereas hers existed on multiple levels. Glaring at his back, the mocking smile she had sported in order to deliver her minced diatribe ebbed as her lips frowned, soon becoming nothing more than a thin line upon her face. These emotions did not suit her, but it was hard to find any joy or amusement in the company, let alone the rest of the list she had yet to sort through. Inhaling sharply, she watched him walk down the sidewalk as her fingers curled into fists at her side. Fuck this she muttered, stepping away from the curb and taking another route. What was the point of following him around if she gained nothing from it? Surely there was much to learn about coping, but how could she have him as a teacher when he didn’t practice the lessons he would preach? Stretching and flexing her fingers, Amandine walked in direction of her apartment. Her footsteps were heavy, the sound of her heels echoing deafeningly off the buildings of the narrow roads she moved through to get to her direction. Occasionally she glanced back over her shoulder, but the redhead was not being followed, at least not in a manner that was tangible to her senses. Reaching the front door of the building, her fingers fumbled for the button pertaining to the apartment number she and Alice shared. There was no response. She tried three times, but it was to no avail—Alice wasn’t home, and Amandine would have to find another way to get in. Stepping back into the middle of the sidewalk, she looked up to see if there wasn’t a loophole. None, at least not if she wanted to keep herself from breaking any limbs. Well, immortality would surely be an insurance against her dying when she did set her mind to climb the wall. Later...
The apartment was empty, which had allowed Amandine to go about returning to her usual routine without being pestered about her whereabouts the previous night. Now showered and in far more comfortable clothing, the fledging reached for her dress in the washer and tossed it into the dryer alongside other pieces of clothing before making her way towards the living room. The wariness was getting worse despite her newfound comfort, and she could not be bothered to truly watch anything, opting to make herself some food whilst a soap opera rerun played on the tube. It only took a few minutes after she finished a large bowl of pasta and canned tomato sauce for the discomfort to start. Nearly tipping over the chair she was sitting in, Amandine speeded towards the bathroom with a hand cupped over her mouth. It wasn’t only tomato sauce that floated about in the toilet, for the taste of blood was fresh on her tongue. Gagging, well aware that there was surely more undigested food to make its way up, she clutched her stomach through the large hoodie. She had never had such a reaction to food, in fact, even when pregnant she had managed to control the morning sickness successfully. Pushing herself away from the toilet seat, her hands shaking violently as she tried to gasp for air in hopes the pain in her chest would cease, the redhead cursed him. I swear I’ll fucking kill you—ugh her thoughts were caught off as another cupful of bloody dinner made its way past her lips. Clutching onto the ceramic, she coughed up violently, mentally cursing the pain in her abdomen as she lowered one hand to her stomach again, gasping the fabric tightly.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Feb 5, 2010 3:19:39 GMT -5
He scanned the alley behind him. Amandine had not followed. He backtracked and out into the open street, only to see her retreating backside as it rounded a corner. Tarquin shook his head and sighed. He took a single step after her, but thought better of it.
She did not want to believe him, and her reactions were fair and to be expected. It had not been hard for Tarquin to accept. He’d grown up in an atmosphere of Gods and Demons, action and reaction. A blood-drinking siren of the first was easy to believe in, and his fate had never been his to decide anyway. He’d always been in chains, and probably would have died in the battle had it not been for his ebony-haired goddess.
But in this modern world, mysteries were explained as coincidences, Gods were myths and children’s stories. People lived their lives in calm confidence that nothing could harm them but disease or accidents. The supernatural didn’t have a part to play. But Amandine would realise, sooner or later. It was hard to let her go, because he did worry. However, as childlike as her reaction seemed, he knew she would be able to take care of herself. It was in her strong nature.
So instead, Tarquin decided to finish what he had started. He sauntered back into the alley until he found an appropriate meal or two. He sated himself until his weariness had dissipated and the familiar numbness had returned.
The entire time his thoughts returned to Amandine, and each time her face appeared in his mind, he felt the urge to find her, to make sure she was alright. But he couldn’t. She needed to come to him. She hadn’t done so at the beginning of the night, but this time he wasn’t going to give in. Well, if it went three nights and she had not returned, he’d find her. But until then...he’d try and go about his life.
He sauntered along the street, no particular destination in mind, when her voice vaguely pushed through his meandering thoughts. It made him smile.
You can try. He shot back, scratching at his scalp as he did so, rounding the corner onto another nameless street. Well, it wasn’t nameless, but Tarquin chose not to pay attention to what it was called.
She may not have spoke to him on purpose, but Tarquin chose not to recognise that, either. She had to learn somehow, even if it was by accident.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Feb 5, 2010 4:28:39 GMT -5
You can try
Amandine turned her gaze to the bathroom’s door suddenly, eyes widening as she gasped for air. Using the back of her hand to wipe her lower lip, she scanned the small bathroom for any sign of him, eyes bloodshot and teary. Swallowing unpleasantly, her throat raw and swollen, she leaned forward once more, but her hand this time reached for the flush instead of the ceramic edge. Watching the dirty water spiral down the drain, she reached for the edge of the bathtub and pushed herself up, stumbling back against the wall to keep her weight off. Palm flat against her chest, she made her way out of the bathroom, standing in the hallway between her room and Alice’s.
Where the fuck are you?! she called out, eyes narrowing as she stepped unsteadily into her room, only to find it empty. Pulling the closet doors open, she pulled nearly every hanging garment to the ground and found nothing. Backtracking towards the hallway, she flung Alice’s door open and turned the light on, immediately glancing over at the window; but it was shut. Once more, she returned to the hallway, making her way into the kitchen and living room. Amandine was sick and tired of the games, frustrated by this unconcerned attitude he had towards everything.
Then it hit her, she hadn’t spoken out loud. Was it all in her head? Was she imagining all this? Unable to control the anger than coursed through her body, she swung both arms along the countertop separating the kitchen and common area, sending every magazine, stray knickknack and object to the floor and wall. This had to stop, this paranoia and the irritation it caused, the lack of control was making her restless. Curling her hands into fists, she decided upon the most unexpected of things. There was no way to deal with the problem if she didn’t confront it.
And so, within the hour, the redhead found herself in front of the superfluously designed household. For many minutes she stood on the sidewalk, glaring up at the building. Hoisting the duffle bag over her shoulder, she allowed her bare feet to guide her towards the side of the house. Letting out a dark laugh, she made her way into the house through the open glass door she’d not closed upon their departure. As much as she wanted to hunt him down, the couch she passed looked far too inviting, and reminded her of how exhausted she was. Pushing the strap over her head and dropping the bag to the floor, she collapsed into the furniture and sunk into it as her day caught up with her.
Cazzo... she sighed, tipping over so that her head could set upon the pillows propped at one end of the couch. Slipping her hands into her sweatshirt's front pouch, she drew her legs upwards as she clutched onto her upset abdomen. Amandine had sworn she'd get back to him, she would, but first she needed to prepare herself.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Feb 5, 2010 9:01:42 GMT -5
He’d set out tonight with the plan of buying more clothes, the kind that he might find comfortable. It was a distraction that he grasped at; oblivious to the confusion or anger that he’d caused Amandine. He meandered toward the area that he knew housed the late-night department stores. But when he found them he frowned, and could not pass through those large, flimsy glass doors. There were a few people inside. Not many, but a few. And they were all brightly lit by those fluorescent lights that had the ability to completely unnerve Tarquin.
No, he was in no mood to shuffle down those aisles, not alone. Perhaps he’d just delegate the task to Rima, and just tell her what he wanted rather than allowing her to buy what she thought would look good on him.
So instead Tarquin rounded the block and wended his way home. It was probably the best place to be, besides. If Amandine did decide to attempt to take his life, or seek help from him, it was the most obvious place she would look. It was best that he should wait there, even if there was little to no entertainment within those walls. Sometimes they seemed to close in on him until he felt he couldn’t breathe, even though he didn’t need to. But maybe he’d read. He’d do something to distract himself.
As soon as he walked through the door he kicked off his shoes, undid the belt at his waist and unbuttoned the shirt. It took all his control to keep from tearing the buttons from their carefully sewn places. But he couldn’t stand the material against his skin, and it was his house. He could walk around as he pleased.
And only after he’d shucked the most annoying items of clothing did he catch her scent. All along he ought to have known she was there; the bond they now shared declared it, like a golden presence there in the corner of his mind. As tempting as it was to enter that room and mutter something along the lines of ‘I told you so,’ he instead sauntered toward the downstairs bathroom, where he proceeded to wash his face with cold water. He was pretty certain the excursions of his night had not left any evidence upon his face, but it was his habit to wash. It made him feel fresher, even if the cold water did absolutely nothing to invigorate his skin. He was still adamant that, should she want help, she would come to him. Until then, he would leave her to her own devices.
But he was glad she had decided to come back, regardless of her intentions.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Feb 8, 2010 18:58:11 GMT -5
Amandine rolled over onto her side into the fetal position with her knees pressing up against the back of the sofa, ready to slip out of consciousness; the pain however would prevent any serenity from attaining her. She tried to hold her breath in hopes that the cessation of all movement would give pause to the throbbing in her belly, but it was to no avail. None of the expected consequences of asphyxiation surfaced, but she still felt compelled to breathe; it was natural, and not to do so felt far too odd. Wincing her eyes shut, perhaps wishing the act itself would ensue her drifting, the redhead brought one hand to her sinus where a dull ache was seemingly taking up residence permanently. Running her tongue along her front teeth, she could taste the remnants of tomato, red wine and blood, all ironically the same colour, though their aromas did not well matched.
Upon hearing the front door, and the sounds of someone fiddling, she glanced over her shoulder and tried to discern who it might be. Her senses were overwhelmed by her muzzy state, but she was still able to somehow recognize the presence. Perhaps it was because she was expecting him in his own house, or perhaps it was due to some unspoken link they now shared which she could not be bothered to inquire about. Pressing her palm against the supraorbital margin of her forehead, her fingers slid into her hair and gripped the damp roots. Most of her hair was dry, but it was so thick and long it often took a few hours to completely dry. Raking her fingernails back against her skull, she let out a sigh and pushed herself into a seated position, one hand still tucked into her pouch, palm flat against her tummy.
Inhaling through clenched teeth, she leaned back into the couch and tentatively set her bare feet on the cold ground. Dropping her hand from her mane, she pressed the cold hand (chilled by her moist hair) against her drained cheeks. It felt very much like being sick, unable to keep things down, drowsy, stomach knotting up due to hunger.. or thirst. Sighing loudly, she listened for any sign of approach, and concluded he had not noticed her—why should he expect her anyways? Perhaps he’d shoo her out, though that would be a contradiction of what he had said the prior.
Lazily making her way to the lit area at the core of the house, she leaned sideways against the wall and watched him as he washed his face. Her eyes scanned his flesh, taking in the battle scars that littered his skin which she hadn’t been able to see prior. Despite the gruesomeness he embodied, the artificial light giving his textured back an unnatural appearance, he still appealed to her. Tarquin’s shoulders were broad, his physique lean and well-constructed, all corporeal attributes she sought in a partner. His countenance wasn’t his forte, but surely a little prodding would reveal the location of a button or two to press. Her vindictive plans were cast aside temporarily however, and she pushed herself off the wall and walked towards the open door in somewhat of a trance.
It wasn’t particularly him she wanted, it was the glow he carried. His scent was potent, far more than it had been hours prior, and she could make out whether it was because she was closer, or because he was stronger. Narrowing her eyes, she calculated the amount of time it would take for her to complete the task that her body was commanding. Amandine’s cerebrum remained a core commandant of her conscious self, but the more focused she became on his form, the greater control her “eloquent” brain gained. There was something he had that her body lacked, and she wanted it, sufficiently so that she was determined to take it by force if needed.
Considering she lacked a considerable amount of energy however, she did not delve into an attack, but made her disposition evident as she came to stand right up to him with her arms folded over her chest. She cast a fleeting side-glance at his face, but instead focused her eyes on his neck. We need to talk
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Post by Quin Contiello on Feb 9, 2010 3:25:44 GMT -5
Talk. It always came down to talk. Tarquin didn’t know what else she wanted to hear from him. He’d answered the questions she’d asked, and he’d told her his history, or the pertinent parts of it, in the very least. He’d told her what she was, and what she would have to do to survive. But she still wanted to talk. And her words completely contradicted what it was she wanted physically.
Tarquin had been a vampire for a very long time, and had lived much of that time with other vampires. He knew the signs of a vampire who had not fed all night. The skin was paler than it ought to be. The smell of death was far more prominent. And, the fact that she was staring directly at the main vein upon his neck was a dead give-away.
Now... did he give her what she wasn’t asking for, or did he talk to her?
Tarquin decided on the former. If his own behaviour earlier was anything to judge by, he doubted Amandine was in a very good mood. The blood-lust had a way of turning vampires into monsters. And there was no way someone could rationalise, or talk, with a monster. And, there was the small matter of her wanting to kill him.
Who knew how serious or determined she was? It could have just been a random thought that had no substance. People had those kinds of thoughts all the time. But Tarquin had meant that she could try. It might prove to be a challenge. Something new to entertain him in this dull life he led.
Talk. He nodded, slowly. Sure. Before he opened his mouth to talk, however, he reached over the sink and opened the cupboard above it. Out of the cupboard he picked up a razor. He flashed a smile at Amandine, before placing the razor over his wrist, where the blood flowed freely through his veins.
He was going to slash it open without a second thought, but his hand hovered; he’d changed his mind. He couldn’t just go ahead and give her everything she wanted, whether she asked for it or not. She would not be able to survive in the world if she only ever got her blood from him. And besides, he’d just regained all his energy, and he didn’t particularly want to give it away again and suffer weariness through another day. Not without good cause, anyway.
He dropped his hand to his side, though he still held the razor.
Talk, then. He said. Yeah, there were things he could say. But they wouldn’t be the things she wanted to hear. So he waited to hear what it was she wanted to hear. Else, he waited for her to attack him. It mightn’t be such a bad thing. She could be taught her own strengths and weaknesses.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Feb 9, 2010 4:31:59 GMT -5
Amandine did not like what she saw. As much as she wanted his blood, her savage side did not control her entirely, not yet at least. The scars upon her own wrists told a story he surely would not know of unless he insisted upon being told, and the sight of a razor blade made her visibly squirm. She had stopped shaving many years prior, and now resorted to waxing in beauty parlours where she would not be prone to self-injury when her past plagued her psyche. Letting out a forcefully controlled breath, her eyes darted back towards his face as he spoke once more, absolutely unaware as to how comforting it was that he had not proceeded. A sinister thought crossed her mind, and as she looked up at him she took note of where the blades were lest she ever decide to end whatever life he had provided her with.
I cannot kill she admitted in a sombre tone, glancing towards the razor blade between his fingers once more as she continued, I just... I don’t know how to be, like you...
It was evident that Amandine was trying to speak frankly, to give words to her feelings, though she could not find the right ones. Shuddering, she swallowed thickly as a hand reached up to her stomach; it churned. There couldn’t possibly be anything more to rid herself of, could there? She surely hoped not, for she was feeling beneath the weather as it was, and to purge before him was not her idea of talk. Stepping towards him, nearly bumping into him as she continued to close in on him, the redhead lifted her eyes to his again.
I don’t want to be a vampire, Tarquin. I’ve read about them in books, they are fantastic, but I’m not a killer, I can’t... I’ve been a mother, a wife, a daughter... How can I murder someone for the sake of surviving? How can I kill a son, or a father, or a mother?
She had revealed more than she wanted to about herself, but it was of no consequence, at least not now; her main concern was the thirst. Swallowing thickly once more, she set a hand on his chest, her flesh feverish against his, and traced the valley of his chest to his neck. Tarquin was taller, but not by much, her toes would aid in reaching if it came to it. Amandine felt like she could consume a river of whatever would stop the ache in the back of her throat, but her rational side only wanted sufficient to sate the thirst and subdue her wounds.
If I drink from you, you won’t die... she whispered, her thumb tracing the vein at his neck. There were many sides to her, and the lack of blood only made transitioning from one to another erratic and nonsensical.
I’ll learn if you teach me not to kill, but until then... she reached upwards, lifting herself to her tiptoes as her second hand placed itself against his chest for stability. She breathed against his neck, her cheek and chin warm against his collarbone as the hand which had travelled the same course previously now rested at the base of his nape. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to inhale; the beast had been held back too long.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Feb 10, 2010 5:42:27 GMT -5
She spoke, and she was surprisingly calm. Of course he’d guessed as much earlier; she’d asked whether blood could be taken without killing. As an answer, he smiled down at her and shook his head from side to side—he was not saying that it was not possible that she not kill, but he was amused. For he had been taking her to teach her how she might be able to take blood without killing. But she had not followed. She’d disappeared.
But it was something he could help her with. If it was how she was going to deal, he would do it. But it wouldn’t be easy.
And he’d have told her as much, but she continued to talk. Talk. What she’d wanted to come in here to do, even though her proximity was sending a verifiable warmth through limb and loin that Tarquin had to try to ignore. It wasn’t something he was used to, ignoring his passionate urges. He no doubt fit the Italian stereotype without realising it, without caring.
Books. He said, waving his hand in the air in a dismissive gesture; the information got from books, especially fiction, ought to be ignored. Tarquin had read through such books—a way to learn the language, and learn about the modern human perception of his kind. And he’d found them laughable.
He’d inched backward as she’d inched forward. Ultimately, he knew what she was after. She wanted his blood, and he was resisting giving her what she wanted. His resolve wouldn’t last long.
She spoke about being a mother and a wife; he noted the past tense (something he’d had a lot of trouble with, to begin with, but now believed he understood perfectly). She was no longer a mother or a wife, and Tarquin knew as much. It was information gathered while he’d stalked. There’d been other girls, but no men. No children. He was curious. Her past, it seemed, could very well be just as sordid as his.
There was something more pressing between them at the moment, however, and he didn’t have the heart to question her. He would do so later. When she wasn’t so close, so hot, so in need. But he did not understand how she could be so hot, though she hadn’t fed at all. His hand reached forward and cupped her neck, pushing aside her hair, fingers inching beneath the shirt (which he found so unbecoming). Yes, she was hot. Clammy, and hot. Like a human, almost. He frowned, confused.
But he’d never turned a human before. Maybe it was a side-effect. Something that would fade with time.
No, I will not die. he said—he meant to be amused, but the frown remained.
And you will learn, I will teach. But until then... He repeated her, whilst winding his arm around behind her back, helping her balance. He tilted his chin upward and his head away, allowing her easier access.
Her lessons would begin right now.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Feb 10, 2010 6:12:07 GMT -5
Amandine ran the back of her fingers along his collarbone, digits inching towards the curve of his shoulder where she would be able to grasp for stability. Her head tilted as he reached for her neck simultaneously, his tapered fingertips venturing past the collar oversized, v-neck shirt she was wearing. Sighing against his tepid flesh, she parted her lips to taste his skin as the unfamiliar canines extended inexplicably. Inhaling sharply, she tentatively bit his skin, but found the surface too plush. Pulling away slightly, she licked her lips and tried again, angling her head a bit differently in hopes of piercing the flesh successfully. It was to no avail, but she didn’t give up, for the beast within was growing impatient. The third time was a charm luckily, and fuelled by her thirst, she managed to gnaw at the skin before making an entrance. Getting the fangs out was tougher than expected as the muscle she bit into tensed, seemingly trapping the tips of her unfamiliar canines. Setting both hands upon his shoulders, she all but shoved herself away from him in order to part with the wound.
Glancing down at the rivulets of blood that were beginning to make their way down his neck, she leaned forward and dragged her tongue along the stream, chasing the cruor back to its source before attempting to wrap her lips around the marks. It was an odd angle, for she had somewhat jumped to add force into her bite, and was now faced with a distance issue as well. Groping blindly for the sink besides her, she shifted her weight so that she could curl her legs around his hips to gain better access, more control. Wrapping her arms loosely around his shoulders, she slouched forward to envelope the wound and suck the blood out.
A low growl sounded in the back of her throat as the thick liquid cascaded down her oesophagus. The taste and satisfaction were not the only things fuelling her lust, so were the images she saw when she closed her eyes. His thoughts, his memories... Little from the precedent night had remained in her mind, but witnessing fragments of their zealous dance, she dug her nails into his flesh a bit further. There was no need to breathe, and quite frankly there was no need to stop this delicious ingestion, but the feeding that to end nonetheless.
A relatively rough surface pressed against her rear as her weight was set on a cold surface, strong hands reaching towards her to tear her away. Amandine didn’t go down without a fight, but her strength was nonexistent when compared to his, and her hold upon his flesh had to be relinquished. Leaning back, she licked her lower lip, blood staining her mouth as chocolate cake would an enthusiastic child. Taking a mouthful of air, she loosened her hold on him and allowed a distance between them as her legs remained wrapped around him.
Well, I’m not taking it off was all she said, reaching for the corner of her mouth as she swiped some blood away with her thumb.
Straightening her back, she rolled her shoulders back as the blood began to take effect immediately. The burning sensation in her chest was gone, and the sharp abdominal pain was beginning to dissipate. Not to certain why she would say this, she had spoken the words just as she changed her mind in their regard.
Thank you...
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Post by Quin Contiello on Feb 12, 2010 6:45:13 GMT -5
Usually, Tarquin was not averse to others biting him. Well, he had never been averse to Antonia biting him, but she’d always been so fluid and adept. So although he was relaxed to begin with, Amandine’s inaptitude had him tensing and clutching at her arm. He hissed, and was about to push her away, somehow teach her how it could be done properly, before she finally hit her mark. Only after she had done so did he relax, even shuddering ever so slightly as her tongue slid tantalizingly across his skin.
With ease and a natural kind of fluidity, Tarquin had manoeuvred Amandine onto the sink—she had better access to the untoward wound that she had created and, to Tarquin’s pleasure, could see her progress in the mirror behind her. Mirror’s were a fascinating commodity to Tarquin—the only he’d ever had access to were never quite so clear or reflective. These modern ones, however, were well up to standard.
Not that he could really see what she was doing. The position f her body and head kept him from seeing her mouth upon his neck. But this kind of closeness dictated that he close his eyes anyhow. He did so, if only to keep focussed on his own body, keeping check upon how much blood she was taking from him. There was only a certain amount that could be taken from a human without killing them, and that was how much he’d allow her to take.
When she’d reached her limit, Tarquin grasped at her arm, pushed at her shoulder, forced her away from his neck. He made no attempt to cover the wound, and only released her once he knew she hadn’t turned rabid on him.
At least she seemed to be in a better mood. At least she wasn’t trying to kill him.
At first he had no idea what she was talking about. She wasn’t going to take it off? But then he realised. That uncanny ability to give thoughts away by the consumption of another’s blood. Her shirt. He’d been thinking how much he didn’t like it on her. It was unbecoming. He just shrugged his shoulders.
And he assumed she was thanking him for the blood. There was no other reason why he should be thanked. Right? Unless she’d finally come to her senses and was thanking him for making her what she was. But that was doubtful. He nodded his acceptance of the ‘thank you’.
That is how much you can take to not kill the human. If you want to be... not guilty, you will learn to stop. For he would not always be there to push her away. And push her away he did, though not harshly. His calloused hands gripped her legs and removed them from around his torso. If they were going to talk, he’d rather do so somewhere that was not the bathroom.
He lifted his hands in order to help her from the sink.
We will talk in the lounge. He said, holding her gaze. And although all he wanted to do was tear the shirt from her and take her upstairs, he released her, reached past her and plucked a washer from the sink, wiping at the at blood from his neck while sauntering from the bathroom, leading her toward the lounge.
He’d planned to light the fire, but he was suddenly reminded of the second time he’d met Amandine. The fire suddenly didn’t seem like a good idea. So he left it, and instead settled himself onto the couch—he didn’t think he’d ever used this couch before. Now that there was someone else in the house... at least he now had an excuse to use the furniture.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Feb 12, 2010 7:26:16 GMT -5
Amandine could have very well drank him clean, the beast within eager to consume more of that crimson cruor which she was not to live on. When he proceeded to explain why he had pushed her away so soon, she grimaced, diverting her eyes from his mouth to his neck. What Tarquin said was fair, and though she appreciated the knowledge he passed onto her, she doubted it would be of much use. How much was enough to stay alive? How would she be able to measure the maximum amount she was to ingest? Was she to pull away unsatisfied each time, or would she eventually be sated?
There were so many things on her mind, but she cast them all aside for now. They did need to talk, but she had no idea where to start. Amandine did not immediately follow after him, instead remaining behind to glance at her reflection in the mirror. Her skin looked healthier and not as grey as before, though maybe that was due to the difference in lighting between this and her own bathroom. Her mouth and chin were stained by his blood, and so she turned the tap on and cupped some cold water, lifting it to her face to remove the evidence of her feeding. She did not feel as disgusted as she would have thought she would be.
Using her sleeve to dry her mouth as she turned the bathroom light off, Amandine walked towards the lounge where he was already seated upon the couch. There was a certain restlessness about her now that her body was in better shape, bus she was still weary from the lack of rest. She approached the couch hesitantly whilst eyeing the armchairs, them to sit at the end of the couch, furthest from him. Leaning into the right alcove, she bought her slender legs to her chest and buried her toes beneath an errant pillow. For a few seconds she was silent, her gaze scanning the surroundings as her tongue continued to search her mouth for any stray droplets of blood.
Sea-green eyes focused on his face, arms tucked between her lap and abdomen as her body leaned heavily to the side. Red curls cascaded around her shoulders, framing her youthful face as she regarded him with a blank expression. They did need to talk, but she had no idea where to start.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Feb 15, 2010 2:46:00 GMT -5
Tarquin watched her approach, steady gaze drinking in every single movement, etching that face and those curved into his memory (even if the curved were well hidden by that wretched shirt). What he loved best was her hair, and from that moment on he’d insist she wear it out. It was like a halo of flame around her features, and it suited her. It suited her temperament and her personality, from what little Tarquin knew of it already.
And as she rounded the end of the couch Tarquin relaxed further into it, throwing one arm over the back of it and bending one knee up in front of him as he turned to face her. She would not sit any closer, for the moment, and Tarquin would respect her wishes. For the moment.
She sat, and would not look at him, nor would she talk. He supposed if he himself was silent long enough, she’d speak up. But he had questions, and if she was not going to ask hers first, then he assumed he had right of way.
You had...a child? He asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
Sure, he liked his perception of Amandine as it was. In his mind Amandine existed as this bright, fiery entity. She was a lone flame without a past, without any baggage to change his perception. But Tarquin, though a restless and unthinking man, still had the ability to be rational and mature. Part of him didn’t want to know, but part of him was beyond curiosity.
And who knew? Maybe she’d become far more fascinating. Maybe he’d love her all the more for her past. And what else did he have to do, right here and right now? If he knew her better, he’d better know how to teach her and ease her into this way of life. It would make it easier on both of them.
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Post by Amandine Rossi on Feb 15, 2010 4:49:58 GMT -5
Amandine was attempting to collect her thoughts and find a rational place to begin this crucial conversation when Tarquin spoke. Her gaze had been taking in his form distractedly, but it instantly widened when he questioned her about Ignazio. Of course, she had mentioned his existence in passing, and now she regretted it. Immediately diverting her gaze from his, she stared at the patterns on the wall that stretched beyond the couch’s edge in silence for a moment. There was no comfort in the silence. Swallowing thickly to rid herself of the metaphorical lump in her throat, the redhead stared at her knees for a few seconds before lifting her gaze to meet his. There were no tears in her eyes, but it was evident that the subject at hand was not one that was easy to speak up about.
Clearing her throat, she inhaled calmly before heaving a lengthy sigh. Only then did she speak, her arms reaching around her knees as she pulled herself up off the pillows and slouched forwards.
Yes, I had a son. Ignazio... she paused, lowering her chin to her left knee. Crossing her arms over her knees then, she moved her head away before setting her chin over the top of her forearm. She was looking straight past the ground, obviously distracted by thoughts and memories. Her restlessness was tangible, for within no more than ten seconds of folding her arms, she unwound them and stretched her legs out towards him. Amandine shifted, discomforted by the memories.
Both him and... my husband, they... she shifted once more, reaching into her hair and taking a deep a breath. Well, they uhm... she struggled for words, blinking a few times as though expecting tears which did not come. It didn’t matter that she was a good stage actress, no amount of practice could mask the despair of a woman who had lost child, husband, and parents... all before the age of thirty. If only she knew what he was thinking, she could have reassured him for, yes, she was without baggage.
They are dead she finally managed. As much as she wanted to phrase that better, she couldn’t. She did not believe in the afterlife, not when it concerned those she loved. The best she could do was reassure herself that if there truly was a heaven and hell, or any truth to reincarnation, that all were now in a better place if they were still being...somehow.
Amandine then cleared her throat, smoothing her hands over her lap before pushing herself off the couch all together. She paced towards the opposite side of the room, where her fingers would find a chest of drawers to drum against as she watched him in the reflection of the mirror she stood in front of. It was only recently that she had put back her life together, not needed to mention her widowed state to anyone. Acting tough had become a routine, but he, he had broken her... and slowly the cracks might begin to show.
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Post by Quin Contiello on Feb 15, 2010 6:40:18 GMT -5
It was a topic she would have preferred to avoid. He would have to be blind to not see that. But she wasn’t avoiding it. She could have, but she was doing her best to answer. They had the rest of the night to talk, too, and even they entire day if they should wish it. So Tarquin was patient, and unmoving as he waited for the answer that was forthcoming. He’d lost all human restlessness within the years after his turning. His limbs did not cramp or lose blood. He could be like a statue for hours, if he had no need to move. He was a deep contradiction to Amandine, who looked as if she had ants crawling all over her, the pace at which she shifted.
The name had a vague familiarity to it. Ignazio. It had Tarquin smiling, though it was only a ghost of a smile—there was no amusement in it, just a reaction to a common language, one that he felt comfortable with. But the English was prevalent, and his focus was not lost.
She’d finally finished what she’d wanted to say, and Tarquin bowed his head, only glancing up at her every now and again—it was respect for her grief, and the fact that she didn’t want to show it. She was up and out of her seat, then, pacing the room, giving way to her restlessness. The blood he had given her seemed to have revived her, and it was nice to see. But it might not have been her newfound energy that took her away from him. It was a subject she was running away from.
He’d waited, to see if she had anything more to say. The silence stretched, and when she said no more he shifted so that he could keep her gaze in the reflection of the mirror.
You and I... we are in common. My wife, childe...they died also. Decimus had not been of his flesh and blood, but the boy had become like a son, and the loss was just as great.
Murdered. He added. It was an afterthought that slipped from his mouth; something that he had not meant to say, but that he’d wanted to. His head cocked to the side, eyes glazed over as his head was flooded with the dreadful images; he frowned, and shook his head to relieve himself of them.
How did your Ignazio, and your husband...how did they die? He asked. As long as their pasts were being aired, the difficult questions had to be asked.
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