Punk style, Welsh boyfriend (well, husband), mad money, and lots of attitude - what more does a girl need? The air outside of Betty's is thick with things. Here's a couple of boys snogging just outside, not able to keep their hands off each other til the cab's arrived. Over there, a girl primly waits for - someone; her costume's that of an anime princess, complete with too-short brightly coloured PVC mini-dress and improbably high boots, paired with pig-tailed hair to her ankles a colour you don't find in nature.
     Inside, it's thick with lots of things - and lots of people. Lust is here, as a tangible force even if not exactly embodied. It's visible in the cat-green eyes of a girl whose unnatural contact lenses have slits for pupils, and in the young man with piratically pierced earlobes and tattooed chest. It resides in the thumping roll of the bass line and drum beat pouring from speakers, along with a certain restlessness; an edginess of people who are all there for ... something.
     "My tribe," Fiona murmurs, lips twitching as she heads inside, chest first, dragging at your hand. "And a good place to start something off, don't you think? Everybody," she waves a hand, a sketch upon the air, "here is looking for something. They're restless. They feel there's something they want - underneath the lust, the barely palatable dance. They want dreams, Davy. They settle for drugs and sex, and a side of rock and roll, hold the gravy or those spandex and leathers will never fit. What do you want to drink?"

     You can't imagine how he sees the interior of a club like this. He couldn't even describe it to you: how he sees movement, each and every movement by each and every person, as this interconnected organism, with a pulse and a rhythm all its own; how each motion is seen in its many fractions; how he can hear conversations and heartbeats and yet can pick out the sound of your voice, the sound of your heart clearly and separately; how he could, if he wished, move upon the dancefloor and cross it by walking between the moments, by strolling through those fractions and fragments without being brushed by so much as a finger.
     He can see it in its divisible parts, the human swarm, and he can see it in its singleness, the motions, however distinct, that create a unisoned mass. How would he describe such a thing? How could you conceive of it? It makes his ears ring. His eyes go wide as he stretches the muscles of his sockets and clears his sinuses of all the smells and sounds. "Bourbon, straight, no mucking about," Davydd rattles out. His mouth cuts a slant as he glances around, trying not to look overlong at the bounty of female flesh. But he's only a man.
     Everybody is searching. As above, so below. Aristotle said that, I think. He looked no less. Though maybe a tad less noisily. Dark green eyes sparkle in a wink. Those eyes no longer reflect the worlds he rules. They are deep and forested but only in their color. He stops himself before he gets too philosophical. It is easy to do, so crowded with humanity displayed so vividly, so wildly. "It's like the amazon forest in here," Davydd mulls.
     Giving his body to the bar, he glances around, lastly to you and then the bartender. Davydd sticks out here like a sore thumb -- thumb and hand and all -- and he prefers it that way. He is distinct and yet he is as much invisible, hardly remarked upon by those who wander around in their costuming, their PVC, their modern armory. No doubt some on the upper floors are hearing rumors there's a copper in the club. Ha, riot. Davydd chuckles at the thought, looking at you in and among your people. "I like the madcap," he notes easily enough. "All it's missing are the flying monkeys and it'd be as close to the amazon as I'd care to get."

     She is unaware. She is as living and breathing a thing as you will find anywhere; no vampire, this. Maybe there are vampires here, but she would have no way of knowing it. But there is something to her, here, in a place like this, which has been missing for a while. Some vital spark. She breathes in, and exhales out an energy - it is present in her sudden laugh. "Bourbon," Fiona murmurs. "I'll leave you to it, though I'm tempted to get plastered on my usual." Vodka, her usual. "My old flame. There's a little death in every bottle, but isn't that why we drink? To flirt with death, forgetfulness, and imagination? Well - maybe not."
     You get bourbon, and she decides not on vodka after all, but instead on a mixture of creme de cacao, Frangelico and vanilla schnapps over ice which she calls "A grown-up snowcone - even if it isn't summer anymore, it's hot enough in here, don't you think? - Monkeys don't fly unless it's in Oz, Davy-bach. So you finding downstairs enough of an eyeful," she is goading you, "or shall we head upstairs for the tour?"
     Oh, but there is something of wildness and mischief moving through her tonight. Fiona leans forward against the bar casually, letting the world look at her as if she just doesn't give a fuck. She runs her fingers back through her hair as she straightens, both hands going to her jeans back pockets as she stretches her shoulders back. Eyes closed, she lets herself sort of sway to the music - such as it is - as if attuning her blood, her heartbeat to it. "Chantel," she announces. "I like him okay, but he's a bit derivative. It all is, though. So." She turns her head to look at you, eyes opening lazily. "What do you think?"

     "I get drunk to get drunk, not see god and all his winged host," Davydd cracks, giving a nod to the bartender. He slides a platinum card to her and taps it. Start a tab, dearie. "Though," he grins, his weight still given to the bar, "...a time or two I did hear Gabriel's horn." Eyes widening a touch and eyebrows arching, Davydd taps his glass to yours, "...or maybe it was just Edward's car horn. It's been a while since I've been drunk."
     That sounds like a challenge.
     With a glance given to the stairs and what's visible of the floor above, Davydd takes a swallow of his bourbon. He pushes off the bar with a half-nod and a ghost of a grin. "Sure, let's check it out. Should I shot Freeze, police! and see what happens?" The idea tickles him, but he's only kidding. "Just a sec," he counters, finishing the bourbon with a swallow, "let me refuel. Another for the road, darlin'," he says to the bartender, sliding his drink to her. She refills it with a smirk and a glance to you. He's kidding about the whole copper thing, isn't he?
     He is a bit more bemused than you, as if he's taking it all in (that's where his son gets it afterall, well both of them). Maybe it is simply the presence of so many heartbeats. So much distraction. His eyes are never still, though they return to your face frequently, their cool color warming.
     Bourbon refreshed, he surrounds your shoulders with an arm, leading you to the winding, iron stairs. "Looks like the Gory's crowd made this their oasis. I know a few of these faces," he says at your ear. He's grinning when he looks at you, not inhibited in the slightest. "You look happy amongst your brethren," Davydd adds. You've missed this. He's missed seeing you this way. Young. Alive.
     You feel his hand at your rear, patting you forward as you reach the stairs. You first. Please.

     She shoots you a glance, sidelong at the challenge, and then she smirks at you. "If we're going to do that, I am switching back to vodka. This stuff's good, but - too syrupy to stick to." Fiona straightens away, polishing off her drink with a slurp and a rattle of ice against her teeth. The glass is spun towards the bartender, and with a forwards lean, she changes the order. "No shouting of police. I don't want to get banned. Besides, in a place like this? It's exactly the same as shouting 'fire' in an auditorium..."
     She isn't bemused at all; she's been here too often, even if not for a while. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, not angrily but with something of anticipation as she leans up against you, rubbing at your side like a cat marking territory. "I don't know if they're my brethren, exactly. Nine out of ten wouldn't know me from Eve, and the remaining one would probably confuse me for someone else," Fiona murmurs to you, easing forward as she takes up her vodka. "But ... much as I do like Powis ... I can't be that all the time. Parts of me fall asleep, and when they wake up, it's all pins and needles and agitation. Not exactly what you look for in a wife, mm?" Her smile up at you is both friendly and mocking. She heads for the stairs, planting one booted foot and propelling herself upwards.
     "Whatever you do, don't look back, or it's Lot's wife for you..."

     "Actually, pins and needles and agitation is exactly what I expect to find in a wife," he rumbles behind, and as it happens in a climb, beneath you. He can take two for every one of yours, so he doesn't lag behind. He doesn't look back or down -- there's too much to focus on right in front of his face. Davydd smiles like the devil in the midst of cheating at cards.
     There are a number of rooms, rooms within rooms in this old brownstone cum nightclub. He can hear the sound of cracking whips, of leather and lashes. He can smell more than you'd care to, he can hear more than he'd care to. Ha. Riot. But the sensibilities of a vampire are... different. Where he might have railed against the display before -- or rather made fun of it -- now there is intrigue. He can smell blood and sweat and excitement.
     "Let me guess," Davydd's voice rolls out as you and he come to the top of the stairs, "Rhodri brought you here." His second choice was Dot, but he figured the virginal you would've beaten Dot down for suggesting such a thing. He sips at his bourbon, he in his nice suit and nicer shoes. It is not for the trotting up the stairs that his still quite living reactions quicken. His gazes fixes greenly on you, tugging like the tendrils of thick ivy, as leather sounds and moans echo in reply to it.
     If you were looking for embarrassment in his features, a blanching look upon his face, you will have to learn to live with the disappointment. Rather than cracking wise, Davydd turns to you, his lips forming a slanting, mercurial smile. "What would you like to do... or have done to you?" He is chuckling, the sound rumbling in his throat and chest as he tips his head back in the draining of his second bourbon. With a sigh of satisfaction, he hands the glass off to a wandering waitress. "Thanks, love," he coos to her. "You have this route or should I seek another girl inside?"
     "Oh no," her south-side accent lifts above the sounds from the nearby rooms, "... I can take your order. I'll find you. Another bourbon? And you?" She looks at you, too.
     "Oes," Davydd grins, "...another bourbon. The tab's open, under Llywelyn."

     "Hmf." But she's grinning. You can hear the grin beneath the miffed sound, her lips pursed and rounded to bite back that delighted smile. Oh, she likes you like this. She likes you like anything, but here... her energy is running high, reaching out as if to envelop and swallow the world. There's a sway to her hips which the virginal her never would've allowed save unconsciously, and as she reaches the top of the stairs, she turns to you with one hand curling around the bannister as she spins to catch the look on your face.
     "I came here on assignment, first. Working. Where I first started to fall afoul of my own weaknesses," Fiona murmurs, eyes sea-grey and just as wild as she stares up at you without timidity, fearless. "Remember getting called at five in the morning with a what the fuck about a guitar and the man playing it? That man, I met him here. Me in my Little Red Riding Hood. Him as the Icelandic wolf. Big Bad and Little Red. Except you were the Big Bad I wanted in my bed. I just - didn't let myself know. Maybe I was hinting to you then, with that phone call? I don't know. I don't, you know; I was just tied up in knots."
     Her smile curves much as her hand curls back into that fist. It may have been the first time she was tied up in knots, but as you and she both know - not the last. Inwards knots or outwards...
     "Rhodri took me here later. After he admitted to me how he felt about me. I didn't know how to deal with that - to be honest," she leans in towards you, whispering, "I still don't. Love is still this strange and magical kingdom, you know - I move through it and half the time I'm dazed, drunk, drugged, barely knowing what the fuck is going on around me. I'm a self-absorbed little twit, I suppose." She straightens, sipping her vodka and then downing it as a shot, handing off the glass and stretching her arms up over her head with a mighty yawn. Her cheeks have gone pink.
     "There was a boy I once knew," Fiona tells you, turning from you to the waitress. "Another vodka, thanks. On his tab." A thumb is jerked at you, her impudent smile turning from waitress to you and then back. "There was a boy I once knew who said that all women fit into one of I think it was four categories. I don't remember all the categories; I was horribly offended at the time, though I mostly was polite enough not to show it, which should tell you how young I was back then, I actually gave a fuck what he thought - but he said I fit two of the categories. So, of course, those're the two I remember."
     She spins on a booted heel, hands lifting to pluck nimbly at your shirt front. "One was 'put me up on a pedestal and worship me'," Fiona informs you, lips pursing with remembered indignation and a certain bubbling, brimming mischief and laughter, even at herself, "and the other was 'use me, abuse me, make me like it'. I think now that it's a bit oversimplified... but I can't say he was entirely wrong, now can I?"

     The waitress puckers her lips in a Quite Right smile and heads off. No worries. She'll find you.
     His eyes narrow as you spin your tale, which seems every bit as fabulistic as Red Riding Hood, but then his mouth pulls wide and warm. "I wasn't really awake," he murmurs at your ear, leaning in to make sure you hear him. "And I was in bed with another woman. But I do remember ... something... about a guy and his weird guitar or sommat." His eyes are distracted by all he is seeing as you and he head glassless into the first of several rooms.
     Crime and Punishment...
     Who knows what 'crimes' those within have committed, if any. There is no doubt as to the punishment, however. Dominatrix, Dominus -- there are women and men dressed in leather here, commanding attention, doling out discipline, rewarding surrender to those who, like the dispensers of their relief and release, are dressed in leather and vinyl. Flesh is displayed even where it is not visible -- it is known where it is squeezed.
     Unseen but beckoned by this display (and by the welling of blood to the skin of those so pleasurably tormented), his canines slip from the sheaths of his gum's skin. "Do you like to come here and watch?" he wonders. His arms surround you, he turns you in his hold as if the two of you will dance through the various rooms. "Did he tie you up to the wall and profess his love for you, your Husband?" Green eyes smolder like underbrush on fire. The thought of you hanging on the wall like the girl in the pink vinyl is almost more than he can stand. He's not sure whether to be insanely jealous or incredibly hungry. Or both.
     Can you just stand here and gawk or do you have to partake? Davydd is grinning as he bends, his mouth plucking at you. You feel the distended teeth, he wants you to feel them. They prick at your lips as he sips the flavor of vodka from them. Around you, the squeals and moans of those being spanked, whipped, paddled, squeezed, and the hiss and growl of orders and commands.

     "Yes, well," Fiona murmurs, attention barely noting the waitress' departure as she focuses on you. "You weren't awake, and I just fucking wasn't able to cope... I don't know what was going on. I didn't know then, either. I'm alright with not knowing." She is with you, glancing around, taking it in casually at first but with a heightening awareness. Heightened not because of herself, but because of you. It is a new first, being here with you, And when new eyes see even an old dance, it brings ... newness in its wake ...
     You turn her, and one hand goes to your hip, her other to your shoulder, as if you and she are about to waltz. Her skin goes pink, eyes threading with blue as she looks up at you. "Sometimes I like to, sometimes I don't. Should I tell you how watching makes me feel?" Fiona tips her head back, slanting her gaze to your face at an angle; back, up, sidelong, a small smile tugging at her lips. "He didn't tie me to the wall. Not then."
     It is a mutual sort of torment; you with your hunger and jealousy, her with her reactions to you, talking of such things. She is, compared to most, vastly overdressed - but no moreso than you. You are if anything more overdressed than she.
     People do watch without taking part. Do you think these people would come here and make a show of themselves if they didn't want to be seen? Her lips press to your own, a hint of hunger as you press sharpened canines to her roseate lips. Go on, ask me whatever you want. I dare you. Fiona pulls her head back a scant half-inch, grinning with that wildness in her eyes.
     I double-dog dare you, Davy...

     "I think you should tell me how watching makes you feel," he chuckles, moving you out of the main walkway to one of the plush padded benches around the room. The chamber is crowded. The benches are no less used than the walls and the tables. "Though, I'm a smart man," Davydd continues in a crooning tone, "...I bet I can make a good guess."
     In the shadows around the room, those purposeful shadows, there are couples in various stages of coitus. Colorful hair, colorful clothes, colorful positions. It is a carnival to the senses. Everything is on display. Even you and he, Davydd realizes. You, a punk girl with your colored hair leading a proper gentleman around by the cock figuratively and likely, soon, literally. He's cheating on his wife, many assume, he's looking for the excitement of non-traditional sexual roles and role-play. Look at him, in his suit, coming to join our fold.
     If they only knew...
     "What're the other rooms about?" he wonders. But he seems, strangely, in no hurry to leave this one. Piling onto a bench, Davydd pulls you back to sit on his lap but faced away from him. No, you have to watch the same as he. "You want me to tie you up like that poor lass," his mouth brushes against your ear as he speaks, his head nodding to the woman directly in front of you, tied with her hands over her head, her legs shackled to the wall, spread widely. Clamps upon her nipples, she has been stripped down to the bare basics of her fetish gear: the tightly strung corset that makes her waist seem bizarrely small and her boots likewise impossibly tall. All else removed. She is being worked by a man and a woman. The man is masked, but the woman's identity is hidden only behind her stark makeup.
     "What about it excites you? The life and death, or the inability to escape. Even if you don't want to. Personally, I like your hands and legs free." His tongue teases against your ear and you feel the drag of a fang along the soft flesh of your earlobe. "I find independence so much more sexy than imprisonment..."

     She half-purrs, the colour going to her face and staying there as you lead her off to the side. She purses her lips at you - that look which you know means she's fighting a grin that would spread to reveal teeth and maybe even tongue. "It twists me up inside. I get embarrassed. Me. Stupid, I know, but ... parts of me're still private." Her eyes glint at you as you lead her to your lap, an arm lifting to around your neck, her weight leaned back against you. There is tension in her spine, not of mistrust, but of excitement and maybe mild trepidation. Fear of the unknown. Bracing for it.
     Even if it does turn me on...
     As if you didn't know. Conflict. Controversy. Even within her, it is the same - it is who she is, and she isn't apologizing for it. She turns her head to rub her cheek against your lapel, then looks back to the woman you point to. "Other rooms? Mm, Sense and Sensibility - less pain, more focus on ... texture. Velvet. Honey. Rubber. It all feels different. Focus on the feel rather than rising above or sinking below, with or without pain." Fiona explains it, and then grins. "I don't describe it very well. Imagine a naked girl straddling a cushioned seat, hands tied over her head to help her hold still, while her lover paints scenes on her body with his fingers and with a brush. That's one example. The point, I think, is to make it ... well, not be banal. Once any of this hits the point of being plebeian, banal, it loses its meaning, its value. And there - I'm done with philosophy for the night. Dammit, I need another drink."
     But she hasn't answered your question yet; she squirms back against you, breath shortening for a moment. "Life and death... and the struggle. I wouldn't ever like to really be a slave. Permanency doesn't have much appeal. But ... there's something ... exciting about knowing I can be overpowered. Even if it's that I choose to put myself in that position." Her free hand descends, stroking against your thigh as she lets her weight rest a little more heavily against your chest. "I like my independence. But sometimes, I like a little of that, too. Not every day is all. But - I like a lot of things."
     Remember when you hunted me down? That was an imprisoning, in a way. Even if it wasn't that you tied me up. But the spirit of it's the same. Conquest. Surrender. Life. Death. Feeling things change...

     "I suppose I've seen a little bit of everything," Davydd remarks. It is a serious remark. Bloody hell, by now he should have seen just about everything. "Coming from where," actually When, "I come from... this sort of thing just ...never had any allure for me." His arms surround you, their grip strong. Tight. "Though... I do like a good hunt and chase. That's a bit different. Pursuit is always interesting."
     Drinks materialize in front of you as your amused waitress returns. Balancing the tray precariously with one hand, she hands you a bourbon and vodka, each of you in turn, as she begins to sashay away. No commentary given, none required. Everyone enjoys the anonymity of Betty's Boobs.
     Davydd brings the glass to his lips, sipping at the bourbon before holding it against your thigh. His mouth opens at your neck, teeth scraping. I can hear everyone breathing... every heart beating. I like to feel yours flutter beneath your skin. Right here. One hand braces his bourbon on your thigh. One hand slides against your other, pressing against the denim as his mouth marks its way to the crook of your shoulder and neck. Your blood obeys the call, rising to the surface of your skin. He can feel it warming beneath him, but he does not make it flow. Not yet.
     "Sense and Sensibility? Is there a Great Expectations too?" Davydd chuckles. "A Tale of Two Titties?" Riot! He can't help but rumble laughter at that, his body moving beneath and behind you. "Hmm... let's ...wander to the room with feathers and honey. You can pamper me."
     Davydd rises with you on his lap, pressing against you as he moves you and he both in the same motion. The wool of his suit folds around him, gives way as you push back, revealing as much as it conceals. He sips at his bourbon as he wanders from Crime and Punishment, the strikes of whips and the garbled cries of pleasured pain sounding behind him.

     "Where you come from," when, "this wouldn't be a game," Fiona murmurs. "It would be too real for these people. They don't come here to live; they come here to remember that they're alive, and to escape the humdrum and drudgery of day to day." She smiles in some satisfaction as your arms tighten around her. "It's ... not the same thing."
     I'm young enough - and sheltered and pampered enough - to enjoy it. And English enough to like being put over a knee and spanked til I cry, sometimes. A psychologist would probably say it has something to do with my father. I don't think it does, really; I just like being a girl, really being a girl in those moments, wiggling and feeling myself getting wet and knowing that it'll end with me getting exactly what I want. She takes the vodka, smirking at herself as she lets herself slide slowly further back, her arm relinquishing your neck as she lifts her glass to her lips. That's the thing, though, isn't it? This isn't my life. Maybe for some people here, it is - but I don't feel it should be. It's a spice. I don't want to make a meal of paprika and cayenne.
     Your lips travel against her skin, and she gasps; almost imperceptibly, but you can feel it. You know the exact moment her eyes close, her grip tightening on her glass so that she won't go too limp and drop it (waste that vodka? sin!). You want it. She wants it. And both of you are tortured by the want, even so easy as it would be to fulfill.
     "If there is, I don't know it," she whispers, moving to rise to her feet. "There's rooms for people to watch. And a darkroom, too. So you can't see who's in there with you. You just - feel your way around."
     Pampering? Now she laughs at you, pressing her hips back even as you move forward. "No, no," Fiona mocks, "pampering is what you get at home. Here, you get a fight. But I might allow a little bit of niceness," she concedes, "just don't expect it to be all slavish. What do you have in mind?"

     Last time you and he were here, it was he who was trembling. So much so, in fact, he had to hastily retreat or dive into carnage. Now, he is even, observant. While he wants what he wants -- neither he nor the wool can deny that -- he desires the want of it rather than the end of it. Even this slow stroll is a chase of a kind, and it is the chase that most interests him in this moment. It is the getting, not the having.
     His arm slides around your waist as he comes to walk beside you, his motion guiding you from one chamber to another, this more dimly lit than the last. There are candles and sconces, sweet smells that ease among those more musky. "Oh, I wouldn't want y' to be nice," Davydd mulls out, his earthy voice low and lingering in sound. "Besides, it doesn't come naturally to either of us. Why bother?" His smile is a comet streak, incandescent in the candlelight. As he kisses you, his eyes begin to wander.
     Soft pillows on the floor, fur rugs and cushions, make a bed for a tangling threesome. In one corner, a woman is pouring honey over an unsheathed cock. In another, a woman is becoming a work of art, with chinese calligraphy brushed in chocolate against her skin by her male lover, as a female participant lies between her parted thighs.
     It is all a tangle of flesh, legs and arms and mouths. Slow the motions of fingers, the pouring of viscous liquid upon writhing skin. Melted wax hardens on a hardening nipple. Honey soothes reddened skin. There are sofas here, most are occupied. Over occupied, to be honest. There is one more or less free -- there is only one couple on it -- and he leads you to it, the flickering candlelight playing on his features as he walks with you.
     Davydd sits upon the sofa -- the other couple don't even look up -- and he grins at you. He wallows in the energy in the room, you see him settling on the sofa, and into it as if he and it have become One Creature. Dark green eyes lock onto yours and he spreads his thighs to make an ample perch for you. Crooking his finger, he calls you to join him as he empties his glass of bourbon and sets it on the small table at the arm of the sofa.
     The sofa is a grand thing, all Rococo. In fact, the walls are painted with murals of Rococo paintings -- all sumptuous, over the top. The seating is soft, scarlet to go with the gold paint of the sofa's wood construction.

     "I can be nice," Fiona demurs, but she is with you, there is no denying it. There is that spark in her eyes, the sparkle and glisten of moistened mouth. "But no, I don't particularly want to be nice to you. Or you to be nice to me. Not right now."
     There has been such a surfeit of sweetness that the sugar still buzzes on her tongue, all these long months. The nurturer, the mother, the sweet little wife - right now, she is being a girl. Just a girl. No title needed, not queen, not princess, nothing but the girl who is in your arms. Her eyes, as yours, roam around the room, and she glances up at you. I don't need props for you to tangle my stomach up in knots. But it does tangle at me, all the same. Embarrasses me a little less, here, but I still do have my prudish side. Silly - isn't it?
     "I like how you look in candlelight," Fiona murmurs, her voice quiet, confiding. She ignores the other couple, and she moves forward, glass dangling limply in her hand as she spreads her own thighs wide and joins you, upon you, upon the sofa, upon your lap. Her head tips well back, and the glass is drained of its contents, then set to join yours on the table.
     For a long moment she doesn't say anything; she straddles your thighs, her hands going to your shoulders as she looks to your eyes, mouth relaxed or smile or snarl; and then she leans forward, brushing your mouth with her own. There isn't hesitation; just a lack of desire to make a full-on assault. The chase is too much fun to end.
     I like what and who you are.

     Candlelight hides a world of sins. Davydd does not close his eyes as you brush your lips at his, though his lashes lower, his gaze sweeping down to see your mouth. He does not put his canines on display to the room at large. The kisses are small , his mouth tugging at yours, suckling slowly, lightly. It is a Celtic knot -- no beginning, no ending.
     Not prudish. Private. comes the quiet correction within the recesses of your mind. His thoughts are fingertips padding against you, inside out. I don't give a shite about anyone here but you. It's fine for scenery and all, but I'd be just as happy snogging in the Jag.
     Davydd grins against your joining mouths, his eyes opening wider and his eyebrows dancing in the dancing firelight. He sucks the full flesh of your lower lip into his mouth, fangs teasing Life and Death against it. Pressing, but not puncturing, biting but not bleeding. Life and Death and all the scary, wicked stuff in between? He chuckles in his throat. And I like you being girly... with all your sweetness and your fight. Mortal and fluttering.
     His mouth parts yours widely beneath his, the kiss sudden and wild. As soon as it erupts, it fades into a brushing touch again. His hands cup you, sliding beneath your rear. "If I'd wanted a nice girl, d'y' think I'd be here with you?" Davydd winks, his mouth brushing at yours before trailing over your chin and down the slope of your throat. Your taste, your smell, the texture of your skin. He wallows in this now, his eyes closing. He does not need the scenery. He has all the Sense and Sensibility he can stand on his lap.
     Want to go to the car... for a few minutes... we can return... after. His mouth parts, his lips clamping on your neck's soft skin. His teeth scrape, his tongue swaths and smoothes, soothing the sting. He can taste the promise of your blood, he can smell it though he has not pierced the skin. He does not need to. His hands massage where they cup you, pressing between your thighs to make his fingers known past the barrier of denim.

     I'll have to commit more, then, comes her retort, swift and inevitable. But she isn't interested in the banter, all of a sudden. Her arms go around your neck, slowly, her eyes locked to your face. As long as you don't think of me as some sort of pet. I don't think I could bear it, if you did. Kept around for amusement... even if I'm young and fragilely human. Mortal. Whatever. That worries me a little, sometimes.
     She can admit it to you, though her pride keeps her spine straight, and there's a sudden breathlessness as your kiss evolves, bursts into flower. Her knees slide out, her weight committed. She licks her lips, eyes closed for a moment as her chin tilts up, arms loosening their hold on your neck.
     "I'm ready to go, actually, if you are." She whispers it - knowing you'll hear her, no matter how quiet she is. Fiona sighs, pressing forward against you as you touch her. Her pulse is a little quicker; her energy, a little more diffuse. I want you to myself. I'm a selfish bitch, what can I say?

     Davydd laughs quietly. Perhaps you can hear it over the sounds that surround you. He can hear you clearly, there is no doubt of that. "There's nothing the matter with selfishness," he retorts. His hands slide away, one patting your rear as it recedes to signal you to stand. "Let's head to Davy's," he says, rising after a moment, his arm surrounding your shoulders, drawing you in close as he heads for the corridor and the stairway. "That way we can get room service until four."
     The sounds and sights of Betty's Boobs start to fade to the background like so much white noise. He barely recognizes the faces as individuals. There are body parts, disembodied sounds. The only complete human within ear or eyeshot is in his arms.
     A hand guides you to descend before he does. The stairs spiral downward to the main floor. It has gotten more crowded, if that's possible. A signal to the bar, and the tab is being closed even as you and he approach.
     When things cease to become important, when they peel away from consciousness, everything becomes a blur. From the signing of the bill, retrieving the card, to stepping out of the club and down the street to the car -- these moments are easily lost, fading to obscurity as soon as they occur. Looking back upon this night, what will be remembered is the kiss in the car's narrow console.
     What the mind chooses to remember...
     Will the taste of your blood spring to mind? The immediate kiss might be recalled, but what of the piercing shock of the suckled lip as it was taken, tasted? A match to oil, will what started the fire be remembered?

Posted by rowan at September 30, 2006 11:03 PM