[]Don't[]Play[]By[]The[]Rules[] [Chaos]

While the virility in this room is enough to make you want to leave in a storm of smoke and soft fabric, you stay from the overwhelming desire that builds in the center of your sternum. There are no familiar dulcet tones of women here to serenade the ears of men; no, it seems you're the only one. You remain hidden in the off-black umbrage that coats you much like a shield, swishing an unknown liquor that makes you feel all fuzzy inside. Why you can eat and drink is a strange phenomenon still not comprehendable, but you certainly aren't complaining as the feverish liquid trickles down your aching throat. You're always irascible on these nights; where the urge becomes almost too much and your selection becomes much less refined than you would care for. The memory of a certain conquest makes you shiver and wrinkle your nose in distaste - partly from recollection but also from the smell that's lodged itself into your nostrils. Lips caress the tobacco that burns ever so slowly, releasing it in slow spirals. Life is good.

Well, not entirely. A fight draws your gaze, and a moist tongue runs over supple lips as drops of lifeblood spatter onto the grimy floor. The light is knocked over in their show of masculinity and it creeps over to your table for a moment; your eyes bloom an outstanding shade of mahogany as the coruscation bathes your features in lukewarm brilliance.

It seems that the light shuns your body, for you return to your original aphotic state. Fangs that should be there but aren't twinge in amusement, revelling in this state of obscurity and watching them wallow in their own self-pity. You yourself enjoy the ocean and the way it touches your face in all the right ways (because humans never seem to) but it seems that they'll die without it. Adumbral beings thrive in this setting, and you're no exception as your eyes - now nothing more than shadowed sockets overtop a smirk that is just as iniquitous as your thoughts - fall upon the younger of the duo that disrupted the whole bar. All nine fingers busy themselves with doing something as the floating smell of his sanguine fluid deep from under his supple skin makes its way towards you, and you try ever so hard not to splinter your nails as it creates a feral moaning in your gut.

Saliva pools in your mouth but you instead take a small sip of whatever liquid you have now, watching him with an interest that doesn't translate to the outside world. With arms stretched over the back of the booth and legs crossed at the ankles, you feel powerful. He will succumb to your charms, not the other way around.

Perhaps it's the way the light falls upon your mane or how your nails glow off-white from the distant ambience, but one brute takes a cursory glance around the bustling bar and spots your lithe frame. It's almost amusing how quickly he bolts up from his seat and makes his way towards you, guided by an intense pull in the center of his hips. You take a passive draw of your smoke and watch his lumbering way through lidded eyes. You arch out your chest slightly with each breath you take because that's what you do, you're Gabrielle and you tease. He swallows and pulls at his collar - undoubtedly old enough to be your father but still eyeing how your shirt dips into the hollows of your breasts. This man will never touch your body that is now nothing but a tainted temple, sullied by those who were not worthy of your attention.

"Hello thar, missy." It takes all you have not to hiss at the hulking figure that's suddenly invading your space, mixed with the abominable scent of booze and lies. Instead you glance up in mild distaste, safely lodging your cigarette between your fingers. "What do you want?" Your tone is clipped and cold, but still holding the undercurrents of svelte seduction which always lurks. He shivers in anticipation.

"Well, I was just gon' ask--"
As you finally place his face you allow whatever he says to become nothing more than a pleasant drone in your ears - you avert your eyes and gaze past his shoulder at the crepuscular establishment beyond. Unbidden, your lips quirk up into a vicious smirk at their dazed and despondant faces. They will be nothing more than lambs to the slaughter.

Again you close your eyes as the boy with the false arm shifts and sends a wave of tauntingly sweet aroma towards you. The beast lurking inside your chest screams with want and your body responds in kind, twitching to get up out of its seat and drain him right here. However, you don't feel for getting arrested, and it's no good to make a scene. A distant murmuring confirms that this despicable man in front of you is still talking away, but you fix him with an unwavering stare and he slowly stops. Yet, it does the opposite of what you could hope. He takes it as a sign that you're interested in whatever small package he has to offer, and you frown as he invades your personal area with his unique scent of sweat and pigsty. To distract yourself from the pitiful human you again take a sip of your drink, noting with dissatisfaction that it's now empty. Goddamn it, why is the booze always gone.

"Look, I don't want you. Some man that is beaten by a boy half his age doesn't deserve this." To punctuate, you drag a hand down your chest and tug slightly at the fabric that covers you, dipping down just enough to expose the youthful curve of your flesh before disappearing once more. He turns purple in arousal and rage.

Amateurs.

(OOC: Just so you don't get confused, she thinks she can smell Mayson's blood from afar.)

The smile that graces your aphotic features is positively feral in its execution; eyes narrowing into half human slits that trace your prey as he makes his way through the sea of unmoving bodies to your throne. With each breath your chest hitches out of the fragile confines of your diminutive ribcage - a prison meant for a little girl instead of the woman your body betrays you as. Age means nothing in these dirty hovels, and the human that dares approach you in your territory cannot be more than seventeen summers.

The young ones always taste best,

As the liquid amber trickles down your throat, it stokes the fire that is attempting to masticate all vague traces of rationality. Even as the cool thrum of liquid agony pulsates from the safe haven of your ankle, your form shudders; a futile attempt for your mind to deny the ache that howls from deep inside the serpentine coil of your abdomen. He runs a hand through his hair and your stomach tenses with a most delicious pain, the beast in you mumbling half-coherent words of approval (yes, little lion. for one night, you shall be king) at his windswept looks. You lick rouged lips at his obvious discomfort, thriving in the fact that whatever you feel is thrown back at him with greater force.

Even as his boyish charm works for his apperance, you find yourself blocking out his personality. He stutters and appears nervous - playing with the ebony locks of his hair and flaunting his height over you. Perhaps he is over confident (or just making it seem that way?) but his seeming arrogance plays games with your already frayed nerves. If he was a silent presence you could ravish with your touch, maybe you would improve your mood. Now? You just want this ache in your throat and creeping up your thighs to stop.

You raise your eyebrow at his laugh and flick monochromatic eyes over to the other table; your gaze turns curious and slightly amused at the various shades of purple the large man is currently sporting. Still - the blatant boasting over the possession of your body does not sit well with the dominant vampire that lurks inside your soul, and your lips curl up in an incomplete hiss before regaining composure and keeping your words a careful mix of lust and promise. "Sounds like a good idea, Mayson." With your voice lowered into nothing more than a silky purr, you absently run a lithe finger down the expanse of his chest before strutting out the door, hips swaying enticingly. Once the strobed glare dissapates from the neon expanse of your flawless skin, you finally allow yourself to breath a deep lungful of frigid winter's air.

A hand runs through your wild mane, tendrils curling down your shoulders and resting in front of your eyes. For a moment you consider sweeping them back (no, succubus. you must always look enticing) but ignore the urge in favor of casually brushing fintertips along the rigid curl of the vial's lip. It seems to sing a siren's song to you; promise bottled up into visible form. Perhaps childish, but you seem to feel incomplete without it sloshing quietly by your side.

Even as the coruscence plays tricks with your brightly lit mahogany eyes you sway down into the direction of the docks, not particularily minding if he follows or not. For the first time you can remember your wits battle with your craving, one side rebels against the mere thought of leaving without what you desire, but the other portion whispers softly that he looks more trouble than he's worth. The baby eyes and boyish charms allude to the fact that when he will break ( if he does. they always do), you will be pulled down with him. It's the people with the soft expressions and lazy hearts that you avoid; they don't know the intricacies of pulsating clubs and half-lucid memories shared over potent booze and roaring music.

For a second a canopy of darkness falls over your lithe form; you suck in a sharp breath as the cold whispers across the snowy plains of your skin. What are you doing, doubting yourself? You are Gabrielle fucking Bellamonte, and always get what you came out for. The vampire chuckles its approval even as you wait for him, searching eyes gleaming cruelly in the black.