[Dice Testing for Verna! How many times does she strike out with her shy self at seducing tasty people?]
[Appearance + Subterfuge, diff 6+2 (shy) -- The approach]
Roll: 5 d10 TN8 (3, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )
Verna @ 3:32PM
[Wits + Subterfuge + 1 success dice, diff 6+2 (shy) -- Witty repartee]
Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (2, 3, 3, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Verna @ 3:34PM
[Charisma + Empathy + 3 success dice, diff 6+2 (shy) -- suggestive conversation]
Roll: 9 d10 TN8 (1, 2, 2, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Verna @ 3:35PM
[Wow, go Verna. Okay, how hungry are you? Roll + Generation]
Roll: 1 d10 TN8 (10) ( success x 1 )
Verna @ 3:36PM
[No, you have to be a little hungry...]
Roll: 1 d10 TN8 (5) ( fail )
[And thus, we find out that Verna had no trouble at all... Roll 10s much, eh?]
It's a little past nine when Verna catches sight of her prey for the evening. She's alone at a table in a bar, listening to jazz and feeling like the world owes her a massive favor or five, dressed in black leggings and a short, red dress with a wide belt. He's a blond, lanky thing in a grey suit that doesn't fit, but she's willing to overlook some things. At least he's wearing a suit. That's a plus. And she has a thing for blondes.
She watches, pretending not to care while he strikes out one after another with each woman he strikes up the courage to hit with a pick-up line or free drink. He's terrible at it. And that's just perfect. There's something about desperation in a man that's such a turn-off to most women. To Verna, it's like a neon "drink me" sign. She might not be able to land him, but hey -- at least the odds are better.
Her odds get even better when he gives up, slides up onto a barstool and starts telling the tender such amazing things as "Why is it always the man's job to do all the asking? Just once I'd like to be asked out. Is that too much to ask?"
She roots around in her purse, goes for a compact and her lip stain, and whiles away a few minutes making sure her appearance is in order, practices what she's going to say when she walks up to the bar. Self-assuredness. Calm. Stature. Grace. She can do this. She's done it before. It will all work out, because it has to.
Her heart doesn't pound anymore, she doesn't sweat. The only thing to worry about as far as tipping her hand is her mannerisms. She has to try hard not to squeak or stammer, she reminds herself. The first few steps in his direction are timid, but the rest aren't. It's a matter of survival, this. She gives a smile to the bartender, who's doing his thing, being an impromptu therapist as is a part of his profession.
"Hi. A drink for the cute guy. On me," she says, and slips a twenty onto the bar. This is followed by a smirk at the direction of the prey. Yes, she heard all of that, and she's going to very well use it.
"And what will you be having, miss?" asks the tender. Of course, he has to. The other part of his profession is selling product. It's tempting to respond with 'Him'. But that's too obvious, a word her prey might roll over in his head later, wondering about. What did David say? That she'll be expected to at least pretend at social events to consume something other than blood? A glance at the specials menu, and Verna finds a thing called a blood martini on the list (supposedly made with grape and blackberry), which raises a brow. If only. This place must know its clientèle.
"Lavender lemon drop, please."
She smiles at the man to her left, who's looking like he can't believe what just happened. That, and it seems he's a bit disappointed at his luck. Perhaps he was expecting some bombshell of a woman to come swooping in and sweep him off his feet. It's the kind of thing Verna waited for for a long time. It just doesn't happen. "So, what do you do?" she asks. It's better to get them talking about themselves. People love talking about themselves, usually. And it avoids her having to lie through her teeth about her own situation.
Turns out, Michael is in finance. Michael makes enough money that he feels like women should be crawling all over him. But Michael is a bit of a prat, a thing that's obvious within the first few minutes of his opening his mouth. Verna just smiles and listens and agrees with everything. There's plenty who would stick around for his inanity for the chance at his money, except that he goes on about gold-diggers and prenups and how he isn't going to get caught. Verna fake-sips at her lavender-lemon-flavored drink and makes a face. Far too lemony, she says. Not sweet enough.
Michael ends up drinking it instead, which is perfect. He's tipsy when they get on the subject of his desires.
"I've heard a lot about what you hate about women, but what do you like?" Verna asks, and looks into his eyes while sliding a foot over to touch his ankle.
"Redheads," he says. Verna's not a redhead. What a charming specimen, no? But she keeps up the pretense of being interested. "They're fiery, you know? Hotheaded in more than one way?"
"So you like a woman who takes charge?"
"Absolutely."
"You think I could take charge, despite my horrible black hair?" she says, and slides her foot up his leg.
He blinks, looking a bit sheepish. "It's not horrible." Then, he leans in toward her, going for something a bit more intimate than footsie.
Oh, no. Verna leans back on her barstool, trying to keep his lips from reaching hers. He'll notice the coldness for sure. Hands are easy to explain away as poor circulation, but lips? Tongues? How is this supposed to work in practice? She slips off of her seat.
"What the hell? I thought we were getting somewhere," Michael says, his fingers curling into a fist on the bar.
She grabs on to his shirt, pulling him in so she can level her lips to his ear, and reminding herself of how important this is. "If you don't follow me to the bathroom in five minutes, I'll be so disappointed."
How's that for taking charge? Has Michael ever seen a woman just jump from casual conversation right to 'meet me in the bathroom' before? Likely not. She was never this easy as a mortal. As Kindred, everything changes. It has to. She just has to remember who she's doing this for. If she can manage this, she can tell David -- not everything -- but he'll know how she hunts on her own. He'll be happy. Certainly, someday, he'll be happy with her. She won't just be the dead albatross hanging from his neck.
She closes her eyes and takes a sigh of a breath on her way to the men's room. Ready for this? Would anybody be ready for this? She tries not to let her doubts seep into her body language as she goes, but it's tough. How do you appear confident when you really aren't? But, head held high, she strides into the forbidden zone of masculinity, and goes to refresh her mascara in the mirror.
Michael finds her bent over the sink, appearing to stab at her eyes with the mascara wand, and she catches him checking out her ass. Mirrors are wonderful things like that. He comes up from behind and puts his hands on the counter to either side of her, leaning his body onto hers. He's so warm. So close. She puts the mascara away, tucking it into her purse.
"You don't have to do that. I like it when girls don't wear a lot of make-up," he says, grinding against her backside.
Verna squirms her body around in order to face him, not bothering to try to disguise the hunger she holds for his warmth. He might take it to mean a different kind of hunger. "I thought you said you liked a woman who takes charge," she says, and worms her hand down between his legs. "Go pick a stall and put your hands on the wall, or I will leave you here. Understand?"
Oh, his eyes go wide, and he gets the stupidest of grins on his face, expecting a thing that is not going to happen. He backs off and trundles off, and she follows him close behind, the smell of his living body drawing her onward. She wants him, but not for the reasons he thinks. Alcohol has made his decision-making sub-par along with his standards, and this man who worries so much about getting caught is about to be.
It's she who leans her body atop his after she enters the (nice mahogany stained-wood) stall. He looks at her with a shit-eating grin on his face, so she grabs him by the hair and gently drags his head in another direction. With the other, she closes the stall door, locking it with a click. A glance at the wall he's leaning on shows that he's facing a freshly-drawn rendition of a cock-and-balls with a smiley face in Sharpie marker. Apparently even at a high-class place like this, boys will still be boys. So, she smashes his nose into it, making him get real close and personal, so she won't have to see it.
"You like this?" Verna asks, a bit incredulous.
"Why don't you cop a feel and find out?"
Verna rolls her eyes, can't believe she's doing this, can't believe this man. But then, that's the reason she had him facing the wall to begin with, right? He won't get to see her or how she feels about trading sex for food. She tries to make it good for him, sliding her hand over his clothed body slowly before getting to the engorged thing at the front of his pants. He likes this. And she's too close to his thudding pulse to care about how indecent it all is anymore.
Her arms wrap around his chest to undo the buttons of his shirt, and he starts breathing hard with the anticipation. She makes it down to his pants, and unbuttons those too, unzips and slides her hand inside, and he tenses at her icy fingers touching that soft skin so flushed with blood. "Hey! Ow! Cold!" he exclaims, and tries to back away from the wall.
"Hands on the wall or I stop," she says, hoping the command sticks.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good boy."
His warmth bleeds into her chill as she wraps her fingers around his shaft and slides a firm grip up and down the silken skin, pulling it out of his boxer shorts. Soon, her fingers aren't ice anymore, thanks to the warmth of friction and a heavy pulse. He groans out the name that she gave him. Rachael.
Someone else opens the door to the bathroom, to Verna's momentary mortal terror, but whoever it is beats a hasty retreat from the obvious noise going on.
It's time, she thinks. Michael won't question an orgasm now. The interloper has retreated. So, she resumes her grip on his hair and pulls his neck into reach.
"Oh, God," he says, panting with the spike of pleasure. Somebody walking in on them didn't seem to stem his tide. She unsheaths her fangs, eyes the leaping pulse at his neck, and lets out a tiny, shaking moan in the effort of holding back just long enough to make sure she does this right. And then? She's not holding back anymore. Her bite is quick and precise, and as soon as her fangs penetrate his flesh, he's gone in the haze of the deepest, most intense experience he's ever known -- unless she's not the first vampire to get to him.
Verna's rather unprepared for the flood of bright, rich blood into her mouth. She hit the vein, and he's so worked up, his heart going so fast it squirts a hot beat into her, and spills out from the corners of her lips. She latches on harder, trying to keep from missing even a drop, as his cock lurches rhythmically in her hand, plastering the wall with another primal bodily fluid.
Oh, God, indeed. Blood flows down, hot and heavy, warming her from the inside. She wants to take it all, to feel so full of Michael she could burst. If only he could survive it. The thought that really makes her stop is the promise of what would happen should he die. Her fangs retreat, and she licks the holes closed again, swallows the last mouthful. His neck is a mess of drips, which she goes after with her tongue to clean.
"Jesus, Rachael," he stammers. "I'm sorry, I uh... This never happens to me."
She steps back, wipes her arm across her lips. "It's fine," she says, and then wipes at her mouth again with her fingers. "Besides, it's not like I didn't get anything out of it."
He tries to turn around, but she's still afraid she looks like a rabid animal, mouth painted with blood, and tries to stop him. "No. You made a mess. You should clean it up."
"I think... I..." Michael stumbles back, rests a hand on the wall, breathing heavy still. "Need a minute."
She didn't take that much. At least, she thinks she didn't. But he's still breathing, and he's not passed out. It'll be fine. Fine. She unlocks the stall and steps out, closes the door behind her so she doesn't have to see.
He tasted like lavender lemon drop.
"Can I get your number?" Michael asks, his voice echoing on tile.
"No. Can I get yours?" Verna replies, while checking herself in the mirror. She feared looking like a beastial thing, but she only sees herself, sad and pale. No streaks of red to mark her for what she is.
"Sure."
No comments:
Post a Comment