After the incident in the hallway on the first floor of the warehouse where István did promise Lux that he would not influence her actions again without her permission the place seemed as if it was an inappropriate place to teach another. Neutral ground would be better for them. Someplace where they would not feel their footing was unequal to the other's. Where they knew they would be safe come morning should they stay where they were until sunup.
Someplace where the drinks were easy to come by and the walls were thick.
They had such an excellent time the last time they were at the Oxford Hotel that István books not the same room because that would be difficult at the last minute but a similar room with thick light-blocking curtains and a large bathroom. A large television that does not interest him.
After they've slaked their thirst so much as they can ever claim to have slaked their thirst they meet back at the room. Card keys easier to care for and use than the metal keys he remembers. Not so much threat of their being tripped. István is drying his face in the bathroom when Lux returns. No blood stains it but that's because he did a thorough job.
"Fancy to be seeing you here," he says as he returns the hand towel to its place and steps out of the washroom.
LuxLux offers István the edge of a smile (knife's edge - isn't it lovely? As bright as Troy's gilded beams, charring, shadowed; as sharp as a star to the eye), and perhaps it is conspiratorial. She has just closed the door behind her. She is in her stocking feet, index and middle fingers of her right hand slipped through the strap of her improbable (architectural [art]) black shoes. They're heels: or wedges? They're so sculptured it's difficult to say: when she has them on it looks like she is walking on black foliage, just gilt: Dyana of the shadows. She tells him something in French, the conspiracy drifting out've her smile like smoke through a window, and then translates (?) into English - careless:
"Why, István," like his name's a treasure, "just be sure not to tell anyone you did. I'd hate for everybody to be seeing me when they're not even invited, huh?"
Lux tosses the shoes at the bed, in the general direction; follows them shortly, but just so she can flop back onto the bed as last time - though slightly different, huh? This time when she flops back, it's less of a flop and more of a languish, so that her head's hanging off the bed and she can look at the window and the room upside down and blood rushes to her head.
Blood does rush to her head; but it feels different than it might have when she had a heartbeat. When it wasn't sorcery wicking her into life; when she wasn't a beautiful curse.
IstvánAnd the man is still done up like a secured building. So many layers one would have to get through in order to find pulse points that don't promise vitae anymore and yet the vitae is still there. Old boy like him has strong-strong blood and to lock one's fangs onto his wrist or his neck would be enough to sustain a body for a long time. Not even to suck down his soul along with the rest of it. Just to feed.
A three-piece suit doesn't afford one much in the way of protection from fire or bullets or wooden stakes but from teeth. It would take some effort to bare flesh.
He's still wearing his shoes when he comes out of the bathroom with the light left on behind him and tucks his hands into his pockets. Traipses closer. She on the bed like a creature invited and not expected.
When István stands before her he is upside down to her. Peering curious at Lux from this angle and amused so much as he always appears amused by her.
"Yes," he says, "that would be dreadful, no?"
Dreadful. That's a fancy new English word.
Lux"Get the curtains why don't you," Lux says, once he's stationed himself in front of her, peering down. She's not peering up; she's just looking up. Her hair is loose tonight, tumble, tumble, tumble to the floor; trail. Different shades, but isn't it interesting? How things are darker at the center. "And sure it would." A smirk; it's sharp, too. Sharp enough to cut, if you please, mssr István, make him bleed. "Are you making fun of me?"
IstvánThe curtains. István knows right where they are and what to do with them and yet he gives them a glance askance as if they aren't his concern right now. Them or the eyes in the windows across the street. Up in the air. He's not concerned with who might be watching but she bids him close them and his lips cut an answering-sharp half-a-smile before he steps back from the bed.
As for whether he is making fun of her he waits until he is at the windows hiking the curtains into place to ask:
"Why in the world would I make fun of you, my gem?"
Lux"I don't know; why wouldn't you? I hear it's awfully fun to make fun of people."
István"Ah, see, I did not hear this thing. But the word 'fun' is right there, no? In the name of the thing?"
The curtains are drawn up tight and not a sliver would push its way in if they were to drop off before returning to their own safe places. This bed was a safe place once. Neither of them found themselves in combat with each other. No weapons to fight off.
István doesn't strictly need a weapon to harm another creature but they do come in handy.
He returns to the bed and he sits down beside her where she is still tipped wrong-way down the bed. Reaches an arm across her torso to plant his palm on the duvet beside her and considers her face. Her throat.
"I find it very difficult to be funny in English. No fun made."
LuxThat conspiratorial edge of a smile again - vibrance, you know; vibrance contained. "I suppose I'd rather be made fun of than made light of; or would I? I don't know, it's something of a trick, choosing, isn't it? But the name 'Lux' might give people a predisposition."
The art of talking nonsense is to talk it with sincerity; to speak it like it's the truest godamned thing, that you're being reckless with words, but like you know all along what you're saying is nonsense. C'mon, kids. Be drawn in. Compelled. He sits down and Lux lifts her head to watch him, although she doesn't scoot herself more properly onto the mattress yet.
She is studious; a scholar. "Hey, István." Intensity; sea-glass eyes all narrowing, focused. Fixed.
IstvánAnd he cants his head to one side. Curious and suspicious and her eyes can focus all they want but he isn't going to fall for whatever she's about to lay down for him. Or maybe he will. She has tried to walk him into one before or he has made it easier on her by starting towards one on his own.
They do talk nonsense sincerely enough. Perhaps he is expecting more nonsense though they're here because she wants him to teach her. To be her teacher.
"Hey, Lux," he says. Does not imitate her accent this time.
Lux"I want you to tell me to do something again."
Her tone is opaque, too; or perhaps just intent. Because: fuck doing what people say.
István[manip + intim: FOR A THING]
Dice: 6 d10 TN10 (2, 3, 3, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) [WP]
István"You want me to tell you to do something."
Well. He did promise. This is permission if she is asking him to do this. Telling him she wants him to do this. Close enough. English evolved to allow for ambiguity.
"Okay." He removes his hand from the duvet so she has her range of movement back. "Dance."
LuxLux did ask. This time István puts his will behind the command, too - and why? Because he can. Because it nearly didn't work last time and he saw that? Tonight. Tonight Lux's mind is as sharp as ever it is: as set against - as intractable and willful. But it doesn't matter, being prepared. He removes his hand from the duvet and tells her to dance. Lux's pupils go to pinpricks. Her mouth presses into a firm line: resentful, rebellious - she lingers for a moment, glance troubled, jaw set.
Then she covers his hand with her hand. Uses it as a lynchpin when she sits up, swings herself up and off the bed. Does not let go of his hand: peels it up, pulls the Warlock up, eyebrows lofted, and strength kindled into greatness by blood used, blood pushed just so, and Lux - fine. Dance. Fine. She is not glaring at him, even if her mouth is pressed so sharply together, she's still intent.
Can't dance without a partner. "Reprehensible," she says, all a fall of light on venom lovely. "Aren't you at least going to sing?"
Lux[Oh! -2 BPs to streeeeength.]
István[char + perf: lol he might sound like a poisoned cat there lux. +1 diff because he's got no skillz.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 5) ( fail )
IstvánWhen she hauls him off the bed he does nothing to fight her. Does not burn his dinner so that he can resist her fury. Because she was furious last time wasn't she. Of course she's going to be furious this time. Will bent against her. Anyone would be furious.
Risen by her power not his and he begins to lead her around the room. It is a strong compulsion and she will wish to dance for several minutes before the urge fades.
István never learned how to sing. Didn't see the point. There was plenty else he needed to learn how to do and besides if you don't breathe for long enough you forget how to control the breath and that's a principle part of singing.
He does not sound as if he's singing. He sounds as if he's yawning while speaking. In Hungarian. He has to be doing it on purpose. Out of spite.
"Reprehensible," he says. Agreement once he's dropped the act. "Little one, I can carry no tunes."
LuxLux doesn't require torturing herself with his 'singing'; she claps one of her hands over his mouth to signal yes, all right, cease. The line between her eyebrows isn't going anywhere. Lux you'd think would be an intimate dancer; somebody who knew just how to drape herself, knew just how to make herself an adornment - she's an awfully decorative girl. But tonight she's a rather aloof dancer; wonder why. Maybe she always dances like that with her partners- distant, cool, precise: a heart-break, Lux.
"You do fucking suck," she tells him, pleasantly, and then that's done: disengage; she doesn't push him onto the bed although there's a moment when it looks like she wants to; instead she rakes her fingers through her hair, dragging it to the back of her skull, holding it there.
IstvánNot after he just forced her to do something against not just her will but her very soul's protestations does István expect that she would drape herself over him while they danced in a hotel room four stories above the city. A mile above the sea. If she had danced with him of her own choosing perhaps he would expect some draping. Not now though. This was just a demonstration. Just more proof that she hasn't had much luck resisting his impulses once he's planted them.
Maybe if she practices. Like an instrument. No one ever mastered anything without failing several times first.
And when she tells him that he does fucking suck István suppresses a smile but cannot keep his brows from lifted nor the beaming light from his eyes. Aha! that expression says. I recognize that expression!
"The bad suck! Not the suck with which we are cursed." He taps his temple. "I remember this." Stands straight again hands behind his back even as she looks like she could knock him to the bed if she wanted to. Like she does want to. "I find this very curious that you do ask me to do this and then it angers you that I do it. I did say to myself, István Jákob, she is trying to trick you. It is a hardship, this being right all of the time."
LuxLux puts her other hand on her hip. Her fingers curl into her hair: a luxury. The shadow of a smile [blood and foam], sans conspiracy. Her chin ticks up an imperious notch. Carelessly cant. "But ván, darling, what trick do you think I played on you? What sort of trick is it to make you anger me?"
Then: the kissing curl of a grin; there is a shadow of caressing malevolence, sure. But it's just a shadow, sublimated. "Deplorable. What the Hell song were you torturing? Don't you know if you can't carry a tune you should hum like a gentleman?"
Lux might be angry; angered. But it's all impulse. Lux. If she believes in anything at all [and she's no Visionary; she's attracted to them, bespelled by them- a spell for them; but she's not a Visionary] it's that if you set your mind against something you can tear it the fuck down you can be unordered and uncommanded and the individual is all.
István"And don't you know, my dear, that I am not a gentleman?"
Teasing still. If she's still angry he is still entertained by her presence and her flame-lick reaction to the things his presence does to hers. Once she might have begun to think him always amused. Not so after that night at the warehouse. He would have turned on her if she had saw fit to fight him in his own haven.
The Tower still casts its shadow over him. He will argue until dawn that laws are constructs and the only just laws are the ones that are come about organically and yet. Their people did not come about organically. Their Curse was not something risen up out of nature. No one knows where it came from.
He was not a gentleman in life. He was the son of an almshouse physician and a midwife and through some endowment or another found his way studying physics in Budapest. He was not cultured and his existence was not charmed. All he has ever known is talking nonsense with people who believe the nonsense. Dressing well and combing his hair so people do not treat him as the dirt from which he sprang.
"I am a peasant, yeah? Peasants do not sing so sweet. They sing like sweat. Like beasts." A contemplation. He flicks his eyebrows at whatever conclusion he reaches. He reaches it in silence. What harm can humoring her do.
He starts to hum. No skill in it and no passion. He is dead. He's been dead a long time. Yet all of the folk music of his people has a haunted air to it anyway. Even the lively dances. This is not a lively song he hums. On an instrument piloted by one who knew what they were doing it might have been a beautiful song. István just hums.
LuxLux watches István without recourse to movement now. (Go ahead, draw her.) He says that peasants sing like sweat. Like beasts. Lux is about to say something in response, but then István begins to hum, and she says nothing at all. Watches. Watches and, after a second, after two, takes her hand from her hair, silk filaments all a-fall, a slow-tumble, the curve is a most lovely line, and she closes whatever space is now between, the better to unknot his tie. Efficient. Precise. Take it off. The collar will go, next.
"You're not a peasant," she says. Faintly mocking, the Ventrue she thought he was until recently: "You, with your brilliant family, your rock of the ages shadow. You're a Lord of the Night. Lord István who will be forever."
"Of course I don't really believe in peasants. They're like Santa Claus; once you reach a certain age, it's just silly, isn't it?"
IstvánAnd he knew before he even stepped foot on the property that Lux intended to drink of his blood this night. She was not joking when she said she wanted him to be his teacher. Though she mocks and she jests and she goads that isn't something about which she would joke. Or if she would then István has not figured this out about her yet. But he knew coming here tonight that she had not been joking.
They were here last to catch up. Figure out how they would talk to each other in person when all they were used to was communicating via written correspondence.
István stands still as he always stands still but his stillness has a purpose now. Memory returns with less difficulty later when one is actively observing the events. His eyes follow her hands as she works the Windsor knot apart. Come back up to find her face before she starts in on the buttons of his collar.
Half-smirk at the designation. Lord of the Night. Not a peasant.
"What else do you not believe in?" he asks. "Hmm?"
LuxHe could cut his wrist and bleed into a cup. Does the Oxford Hotel provide glasses to its guest? He could do that instead. Lux doesn't suggest it. Doesn't Lux know her way around a shirt-buttons? Does. Unbuttons the collar. Steps forward to make him step back too. To knock him onto that bed as anger promised mere moments before: it's not anger now, though - nor is it human. Deliberate. If he does resist, perhaps she will use force. Perhaps instead unbutton his jacket. Get rid of it. She's sick to death of men in suits. Where's a guy in a teeshirt when you want one?
"Lords," she says. "Santa Claus, but I said that already. I don't believe in mirrors; barely believe in good whiskey; have failed to believe in the sneaker. I do not believe that there is a difference between desire and beauty and the human spirit."
"I don't believe in kings, either. Or injustice. Or that everyone can get away with wavy hair."
IstvánNo he does not resist.
If she decides to use force anyway if she decides to unbutton his jacket he does not resist that either. But the bed is large and neither of them are large. He takes a step back and it is not an accident that he drops back onto the bed. Does not loll across the bed as Lux did earlier.
The creature Lux has chosen as her teacher does not have submission woven into his nature. His submission is just as deliberate as her force.
If she does not unbutton his jacket then István does it for her. Shucks the thing down off his shoulders and tosses it aside so blood will not splash it later. Not one of her humans feeling the anticipation before her lips hit his. No signs of arousal because he is not aroused. He is watching her and sharp but he is not caught up in a wash of hormones.
"That was more than seven things," he says. Mild observation. He did not specify that it should be seven things. He never gave her the seven things in which he trusts either.
She has to remove a waistcoat before she can get to his shirt. No wonder she thought he was Ventrue for so long.
LuxLux is not hurried. That's important. Lux: if she's going to drink another kindred's blood -- she wants to savor it. Lux: she wants to feel it. She wants to feel the texture of István's waistcoat and how cold its buttons are. She wants to hold one of the buttons on her tongue and let the edge cut her. She wants the fun of unwrapping a gift: so she takes it -- the fun. He isn't one of her humans, but so what? Off with the waistcoat. Off with the shirt.
If she's going to drink another kindred's blood.
"Are you sure? I don't believe it was," Lux says, waits a beat. And then an impulse-driven smile, compass-needle tugged; sublimated radiance, see the shadow of it?
"And if it was, I don't believe in Mathematics." Now she is just needling him. "István, love," the smile leaves; it's smoke, replaced with more glass-cut intensity. "What do you want?"
IstvánHis skin has taken on a shade closer to fresh-death if only because he has recently fed. Beneath his skin his veins are slack because his heart does not provide pressure to them. With his jacket cast aside the cuffs of his dress shirt are snug about his wrists and the waistcoat stands in contrast both in color and in cut. In purpose. A waistcoat provides another layer of warmth. Something else to camouflage him from humans who would otherwise learn something was wrong with him by the chill in his trunk.
Is he sure. She doesn't believe in mathematics. He does.
In this low light his eyes are not radiant. Their color tends to follow the wash of whatever is going on around them. Darkness makes them look darker. Rare that she sees him in full illumination but when she does his eyes are the color of water.
Her smile leaves and his eyes stop laughing.
"What do I want?"
Such a broad question. She knows what he does with broad questions. Now he puts a hand on her hipbone and tugs her forward. Urging but she's stronger than he is right now. If she decides to climb up onto the bed with him István will slide back so she is not so precarious in her nearness to the edge of the mattress. Get rid of gravity at her back though she does not believe in mathematics.
"I want for you to remove my shirt."
LuxIt wasn't meant to be a broad question, but after all, they have certain habits: ink-habits which have taken another shape here in the flesh-and-bone-and-blood. He urges her forward; Lux resists at first, because she wishes to look at István. Just look at him; the shape he makes, as dishevelled as she has yet seen him and yet not dishevelled. Then she follows, knees on either side of his thighs, fingers just below his clavicle, like to keep him down although she is not pressing or pushing. Lux finds his skin, enjoys the feel of it because she is a hedonist or pretends to be so well it doesn't matter that she is not at heart a hedonist; finds the edge of his shirt; slides it off and he'll have to sit up if it's actually going to come off. "But what do you want after? Later?"
István[perc + subt: what do YOU want after, weirdo? / why are you asking me this]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 8, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 5 )
Lux[Uh.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 8, 8) ( success x 2 )
IstvánHe is not of her clan. Never in all of her nights would she even suspect that he was and yet he does not deny her her wish to look at him. No idle arrogance or narcissism. Their kind spend their time hiding from light and hiding from humans and hiding from truths that would come back at them as sharpened wood.
An anarch trusting one of the Tower would be foolish. Yet more foolish things have happened before. Warning tales echo through the ages of children born of the same sire who fought across faction lines. Of lovers who were on opposite sides of the blade. No reason for her to trust him.
István does not have many tells. That sideways cant of his head when he sees something in a new light though. He doesn't realize he does it. Might be he's done it enough times in front of the Toreador now that he's going to have to take pains to curtail it in the future but he does do it now when he realizes. Nothing human in his eyes to give away what he thinks but they do tick to her neck. It's barer than his even now but then it always is.
When she slides the shirt back from his torso she does not find an undershirt in the way. He does not sweat and does not need anything to absorb the sweat. In life he was not a soldier or a criminal. He was an academic. He has an academic's build. His eyes go from her neck to his own bareness and then back up to her face.
One hand leaves the mattress first but then he sits up of his own volition to help her remove the second sleeve. Takes hold of her hand once the shirt is shed and brings her wrist up to where he can see it. Runs his thumb over the thin skin on the inside. Clinical at first but then the pressure gives itself up and it's as a feather running over the flesh.
If she has not stopped him by then he brings her wrist closer and presses his lips to it. No teeth but she can extrapolate what he wants after she's taken from him from the kiss alone.
Lux[I don't know. -Can- she?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
IstvánFor a change István is not trying to lie to her. There is a tenderness in the meeting of his lips and her wrist. It lies beneath the experimental air all of his actions take on as if he's just doing what he's doing to see what will happen. He isn't just kissing her wrist to see what will happen. He knows what will happen. She is a sensualist and both of their senses exist in a state of near-constant loftiness as if to boost the deadness of their nights.
Their kind lost their right to feel normal sensations and feel normal emotions when their sires came to lay a claim on them. To damn them.
István thinks of her in a positive regard. But he wants to feel fondness for her. Actually feel it and not just think it.
István[NOBODY LAUGH self-control]
Dice: 5 d10 TN8 (4, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
LuxIstván is sitting up, holding her wrist to his lips. Lux is straddling his lap, watching him without once blinking. He'd had to arrest a gesture of hers in order to take her wrist and run his thumb across the skin. The gesture -- put his shirt on now that he was divested of it. Put his shirt on while he answered her. But this is all right, too. She'd rather abandon fabric however fine for such a touch while waiting for an answer, and then the touch became the answer. And that sudden understanding cant of his head; she'd watched it all and reaction was smoke, see, a stain of darkness in her eyes, a lick of shadow that didn't do anything to make their green more lucent than already it was. What she thinks she does not say and István isn't that in-tune with emotions anyway. What decision she comes to he experiences because Lux disengages her hand and runs both of her hands through his combed hair, undoing it in a wild scruff, and turns his head to the side with a relatively gentle thumb to his jaw. The thumb traces his jaw. Then traces the artery she is probably going to pierce. Finds his collar-bone again, and then his chest, even so his ribs, his waist, his academic's body, as if trying to decide just where - and so on: she wants to touch. There's a faint line between her eyebrows: as of concentration. She isn't looking toward his eyes to see what if he's sidelong looking at her or anything; he may as well not exist.
Who cares what prey think as long as they're caught. And he is prey right now.
Isn't Lux lovely even in this? And even if she weren't, there is something so intent about her in these moments, it is a suck in and of itself, a draw, a dark-star heart, you know, magnetism - she's not a Fall. She's the towards other things fall to - yeah?
There are other people having good times in the Oxford Hotel. Lux's good time right now is letting her fangs out and holding her hair back and finally sinking her teeth into István's neck. The pulse-point that isn't. He can feel the pain of it but the pain's not just any pain it's accompanied by something so exquisite. Ecstasy. They've given that name to a drug but it's become they don't know. Ecstasy, something to reverence. The Kiss isn't fair. István was right to be impressed by René escaping it because there's no way to escape it if you're a mortal and even most Kindred cannot do anything except allow the experience to possess them. Ecstasy, you know. And agony, but it just feels so good -
Lux makes this first drink last for a long time. Takes slowly, makes some little wondering and intent noise once. He can feel the wound licked close just so she can tear him open again and, before pressing her open mouth against, watch him bleed, catch a rivulet with her fingertip, gaze at the stain, breathe in the moment.
The good suck, eh?
And when she is done, done with his throat, Lux sits back and licks the side of her thumb and then sucks on her fingertip like his blood is a dessert, savors that too, eyes finally closing happily. Lux holds her thumb between her teeth for a second, before leaning forward to kiss István on the mouth. The couple two doors down are celebrating their tenth anniversary; they're watching a movie. When Lux kisses the Tremere, his blood is laced between her teeth, her tongue's coated in it.
Blood, blood, blood:
Euphoria. More.
[István! -6 BPs.]
IstvánCombed and cleaned up as he tends to be István presents himself to the world as a mannered man well and well-off and judging his age is near to impossible. His hair is dark blond and his eyes are alight in the wonder he experiences at the world around him and sometimes he smiles or smirks or goes so far as to laugh and that is when he looks of a particular age the most.
Not until Lux musses up his hair does his youthfulness in death bubble up. His hair was not so long as to require shearing every night to keep this up but long enough that the comb calms it. Product helps give it a new shape and as Lux musses it he looks like a young man in the prime of his life. No older than 30.
He submits because he wants to submit. She looses no power on him that will make him sit still while she sits astride him and examines his body before she leans over him. Never has anyone leaned over him like this. 150 years gone since his sire dragged him across.
When he tightens his hold on René it does not do this to him. René does not have fangs. René does not Kiss. Whatever he and René do is between the two of them but René knows well that this is more pleasurable than anything else in his mortal experience. He wants to live though.
This first time lasts. And it can last. He is an old and powerful being. He has fed this night. He does not writhe and gasp beneath her. Does not go into the same powerless throes that a human would. Yet he does feel something. He feels a euphoria he hasn't felt since he died. And Lux can feel when the first shudder of reaction goes through him. A lash of rage at first followed by a slackening and an acceptance.
When his eyes roll shut she cannot see it. But she can feel and hear the moan that comes out of him. Surprise and curiosity and pleasure beyond pleasure in the sound. Knows the pressure of his hands as they clutch her nearer. Knows that coloration to his eyes when he gazes at her when she lets him go. Not gasping or shuddering to catch his breath. He hasn't breathed in over a century.
She doesn't have to lean forward on her own in order to find his mouth. Not a reflex for him but it feels as much an impulse after that as anything else would be. He kisses her hard at first and then deep and when their tongues meet in the midst of it he tastes his vitae in her mouth and a ripple goes through him again.
They kiss for a long time. Near as long as she was bent at his throat. István is the first to disengage. Not because the night is over. Because he is kissing his way from her mouth down her jaw. Brushing her hair back off of her shoulder off of her throat. Kissing the thin flesh there to test it before he unsheathes his fangs.
Just before he buries them there an arm slides around her lower back. Latches her to him. He drinks of her.
Lux[Hm. I just act like I totally give in to sensation, right?]
Dice: 4 d10 TN8 (2, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )
LuxLet us be frank. Lux never wants to submit. Ever. Even now. Lux laughs one of those shadow falling on silk sort've laughs (enjoyment) when István kisses his way down her jaw. He can feel the vibration of it against his lips. Lux liked the way his eyes looked after she let him go. Liked the way he shuddered when he tasted his own vitae on her tongue. Liked the way he kissed her. Liked digging her nails into his skin hard enough to draw more blood even if the marks'll heal at once. Feels alive on that old blood of his. Enchanted. Once he slips an arm around her lower back to latch her nearer, Lux: tension whispers through her shoulders, even as she wraps her legs around the Tremere, so, to help them be: so close, and the buttons of her tunic will leave little indentations on his skin. Angles her head to the side, not helping, because she doesn't want to help; frustrating, because she wants to be frustrating. Oh, what? Not that way? This other way? That makes my hair do what? It's in the way again? Oh?
The creature would laugh again, too - but his teeth turn the laughter into another sound altogether. Lux tests herself. How good it feels. Tests herself, tension in her hands, could she fight if she wanted to - ? And she could, so she lets herself be swept up in it - his mouth on her throat her blood in his mouth and if it is ecstasy to take it is ecstasy to be taken from. Bliss, again: oh, how she wants him to drink her forever.
She didn't drape over him when they danced; she drapes over him now.
IstvánTo tell a desert-exiled man to only take one sip when the entire cup is before him is not at all like each drink an undead creature takes from his victim. That compulsion to drink to the last drop of life-fluid still there but István is not exiled. He is not starving.
She drank of him deep and she drank of him such that it would have killed a human. Would have sent a neonate careening towards if not overshooting frenzy. He does not lose himself to it that he could not fight back if he had to. But the novelty of it. The feel of her thighs and her lips her fangs. Her fingers.
For all she knows he died a virgin. He never talks about his life. It was so long ago. Easier to remember a passing dream after the light has scrubbed it from the mind.
Frustrating she is but István is patient. István is content to brush back her hair on both sides. To trace a finger along her dead artery and bite without pressure at her jaw to bid her stay still. She does stay still. Giving herself over to him without giving in.
He does not cannot take from her what she took from him and yet he does draw it out. Drinks slow even if he does not drink deep. Takes no more from her than he would from a human woman and runs his tongue along her wounds to seal them up again. Buries his fingers in her hair and rests his forehead against her jaw.
"Drágaságom..." he calls her. His tone warmer than she's ever heard it.
LuxSilence at first.
And then Lux does laugh again, though it's barely more than a scrape of a chuckle. "Don't be cruel." Longing for things. "I don't know what that means. 'Bottoms up'? 'Cheers'?" - irreverent. Sounded as if she'd say another thing, but doesn't indeed. Indeed, does not; sinks back; leans back, but not perhaps before leaning into his hand in her hair.
"- enjoy yourself, sweet thing," she tells him, softly. Because this will not happen again. And there are hours yet before they need to go.
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