Encounterlogs
Chelseas Odd Encounter Sr Dean 241020
On a rainy night, Chelsea finds herself wandering the dark streets of Willow Close, searching for an address under the dim glow of a waning gibbous moon. Her quest is interrupted when she stumbles upon a man, Damian, who seems to emerge from the shadows themselves. Offering her shelter from the cold rain, he leads her into a seemingly cozy tea shop that's closed for the night. The quaint and inviting interior contrasts sharply with the chilling encounter that follows. Damian's true nature as a vampire is revealed through his cold touch and predatory gaze, ensnaring Chelsea in a hypnotic grip fueled by his charm and compelling her against her better judgment.
The encounter takes a darker turn as Damian's intentions become clear. Chelsea's initial fear and suspicion are overwhelmed by an unnatural euphoria, leaving her unable to resist as Damian feeds on her. This moment stretches, a blend of fear, pain, and twisted pleasure enveloping her until Damian discards her like an empty vessel, sated and leaving her with a veiled threat to remember their encounter. Found weakened and barely conscious by good Samaritans, the aftermath leaves Chelsea in a vulnerable state, cared for by strangers. The closing moments paint a grim picture of Haven, a place where the night holds dangers masked in charm and where Chelsea's ordeal is but a fleeting encounter in the predator's eternal hunt, leaving her to recover from the traumatic event with the uncertain kindness of bystanders.
(Chelsea's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Sat Oct 19 2024]
On Willow Close
It is night, about 57F(13C) degrees, There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target has been selected as the next meal for a vampire.
)
Chelsea stumbles around in the dark, looking for 39 Willow Close. The poorly lit road is difficult to navigate and she chastises herself for not bothering to bring a flash light. "It should be around here somewhere, right?" She mutters to herself.
It's nighttime, with a thick layer of clouds rolling across the sky, occasionally parting just enough to reveal the pale glow of a waning gibbous moon. The streets are lined with aged cobblestones, wet from a recent drizzle that still lingers in the air. Puddles reflect the weak, flickering light from the streetlamps that cast uneven, faint yellow halos. The lamps themselves are old and worn, some leaning slightly, their bulbs buzzing with every flicker.
Sparse figures walk the streets, moving quickly under their umbrellas or pulling coats tightly around them, eager to disappear into the shadows. The few buildings lining the street are a mix of aging brick structures and dilapidated storefronts, their windows either boarded up or barely illuminated by dim lights inside. Most of the shops are closed for the night, their signs creaking gently in the breeze, but a couple of neon signs flicker at the far end, adding a faint buzz to the otherwise quiet night.
The air feels heavy, and the occasional rustle of distant movement - whether it's the wind or something else- is enough to unsettle the stillness. In the distance, you can faintly hear the dripping of water from a gutter, echoing in the relative silence of the near-empty streets.
In the depths of the shadows, just beyond the reach of the flickering streetlights, someone stalks the night with predatory precision. Their movements are slow and calculated, each step placed with care on the slick cobblestones to avoid detection. The wet ground muffles their footfalls, and they seem to glide through the darkness, cloaked in it. The figure stays close to the buildings, weaving through narrow alleyways and hugging the sides of the old brick walls, always careful to avoid the weak light spilling from the sparse windows.
The dim neon signs in the distance flicker weakly, casting only fleeting illumination across the wet street, but this figure remains untouched by it. Their body is barely distinguishable from the surrounding gloom, making them seem more like an extension of the night itself. Theres a deliberate intensity to their movements - every turn, every pause - like theyre scanning the area for something, or someone. They peer out from the cover of alcoves and abandoned doorways, watching, waiting.
The air around them thickens, heavy with anticipation, as if even the wind dares not disturb their hunt. The few people hurrying through the streets dont seem to notice the figure lurking in the shadows, too wrapped up in their own hurried journeys. But the figure isnt interested in them. They move with a purpose, guided by an unseen force, eyes fixed on some distant, elusive goal. In the silence, the only sound is the faint, rhythmic drip of water from a gutter, a steady beat that seems to sync with the hunter's pulse as they push further into the night -- closer to Chelsea, step by quiet step in their approach while the woman mulls over the location they seek.
Until a sudden collision. Whoever this is, they don't have the same aversion to night, or the darkness. They're one with it, and it is exactly then that they stumble into Chelsea, a bare brush leading into a shoulder bump. "Ah-" And a pivot, skidding on a heel beside her with near fluid grace. It's a man, with an amiable smile that corrects himself with a pale hand upon her shoulder. "Sorry, I slipped on a puddle; didn't see you there." A lie, clear as day while that hand withdraws. He's neatly dressed, carefully made in every facet from a wolven mien of roguish charm to the sharpness at the edge of his smile, clean-shaven, short-cut and windswept hair of black accented and contrasted by blue eyes and a skin that seems like it has never seen sunlight proper. Wrapped in a black suit and tie, wearing a slightly dew-collected overcoat. His touch is cold, like frost made manifest before it is drawn away, and the question spills easy as the faint drizzle of rain through his lips, "Are you alright?"
Chelsea gasps as the man bumps into her, the feel of his icy touch on her bare shoulder sending a chill up her spine. She takes a step back before really focusing on the man, as she brushes wet strands of auburn hair from her face. Her sundress is soaked by now, a clear frustration for her, as she wasn't expecting the rain. "Yeah... I'm fine... " She replies, shivering in the rain. "It was an honest mistake, no harm done." Something about the man both puts her at ease and scares her, she's not sure what to make of him.
"Good," he replies with a nod, his smile lingering as the rain lightly taps against his coat. His eyes, sharp and observant, briefly scan her soaked form before settling back on her face. "Didn't mean to startle you. These nights can be... unpredictable." He takes a step back, giving her a bit more space while adjusting his overcoat, letting the rainwater slide from its fabric. "Looks like you got caught without an umbrella. Wouldnt want you to catch a cold out here." His tone is smooth, almost too casual, yet there's an undercurrent of something deeper as he glances toward the street, then back to her. "Need a hand getting somewhere dry?"
A pause, and he adds- "It's the least I could do." It isn't, naturally - strangers don't just offer help out of nowhere, not like this, but as soon as their eyes meet in that one moment, the filthy tendrils of a compulsion takes root. Chelsea, even in spite of her apprehension, wants this man's assistance. She needs it, even, as if the feeling is her own whether she is aware it is hypnotism, some psychic pressure - or simply his own charm.
Chelsea rubs her arms, trying to keep warm in the sudden rain. Her eyebrow cocks as the man offers to get her somewhere dry, and while it's probably not the greatest of ideas to just go with strangers who bump into you in the dead of night, it's probably a hell of a lot better then getting soaked in the rain. "Um, yeah... I'd really like to get out of the rain. Do you have someplace nearby, a car or something?" She asks, desperate to get somewhere warm.
His coat is removed - turned around and slipped over Chelsea's shoulders, pulled in for her warmth. And even with the rain pelting him - SRDean doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest. In fact, no mist even spills from between his lips despite the cold. Measured breaths are carefully taken only before he speaks - like he has no need of air in the slightest. "I wouldn't be walking if I had a car now, would I?" He jests, in a tune that's deep yet lilting. The collar of the coat he's put on her is tugged close, guiding her closer to the wall beside the sidewalk, "But I have an idea."
And just as easily, he paces beside Chelsea, leading her along as if close friends that have just met. "I'm Damian, by the way." Cordially offered - in spite of the action he takes besides a tea-shop just to the side. He has his back to its door once they've made it past the establishment's empty windows. Closed for the night - which is rare for Haven. One of his hands slide behind, do something unseen to the knob and the lock - and behind him it parts. Darkness swirling within, wide open - not inviting, but he invites them in anyway with another light, encouraging as well as guiding tug inside. "We can wait out the rain right here. I know the owner." Another lie, yet every word feels so true - so real when the delivery comes from that picture perfect, winsome smile.
Chelsea rubs her shoulders under the coat for warmth, glad to be out of the rain. Something in the back of her mind tickles at the idea of suspicion, but it's a fleeting thought, almost as if it is being chased away. "Oh good, hopefully it'll pass soon, I'm not looking to spend the night in a tea shop, you know?" Her teeth are still chattering from the cold. She looks for a source of heat, maybe a vent or a space heater, but comes up short. At least it's warmer than outside, she figures. "I'm Chelsea," She gives Damian a thankful smile, "I guess I got lucky that you were passing by, or I'd probably have frozen to death out there."
"Well, nice to meet you Chelsea." Her hunter half-whispers, words laced and edged with that perpetual smile. What seemed cordially charming outside - doesn't reach his eyes in here. That blue gaze seems predatory, gleaming with an uncanny hue that briefly passes over his sight. The tea shop is a quaint establishment nestled between two larger buildings, its exterior adorned with rustic wooden panels and warm, inviting lanterns that flicker softly in the dim light. The large front windows, though dark now, are framed with lace curtains that hint at the cozy interior. The door, painted a deep emerald green, creaks softly as it shuts in their wake, revealing a sanctuary from the rain.
Inside, the air is rich with the soothing aromas of various teas and spices, mingling with the scent of freshly baked pastries. The walls are lined with shelves filled with an eclectic assortment of teapots, cups, and jars of loose leaf tea, each labeled with elegant script. Soft, muted colors create a warm ambiance, while low-hanging pendant lights cast a gentle glow over the mismatched wooden tables and chairs, each inviting patrons to linger, though there are none.
A small counter, decorated with delicate china and glass canisters, stands at the back, where a friendly barista once prepared warm beverages. In the corners, plush cushions and cozy blankets are draped over armchairs, creating nooks for solitary readers or small gatherings. The atmosphere is calm and intimate, perfect for quiet conversations or moments of reflection, though now it sits in stillness, waiting for life to return with the morning light. The faint sound of rain patters against the windows, providing a rhythmic backdrop to the serene space.
"Frozen to death, would you?" He muses while still on the treshold of their own haven. "That would've been a shame," Though for what reason, he remains enigmatic. In the next breath- one only she takes- he steps closer. Intrudes upon Chelsea's space, with a hand over her shoulder, pressing against the door, trapping her in between it an himself while his body looms lower, closer to her lips but with a wide berth avoiding real touch. The other hand lifting between them has two fingers curle underneath her chin, directing Chelsea's face up to keep staring into her eyes. "Don't worry, I don't intend to spend the night here either." His fingers are cold, colder than the weather they've just left behind.
Chelsea shivers, but not from the cold this time. His icy touch on her skin unnerves her, but she can't bring herself to scream or run away. Something about his eyes is calming her, and she's lost, like a deer in headlights. She doesn't say anything, though she shivers as an acute sense of fear and dread fill her. Everything in the back of her mind is screaming at her to run, get away from him, but she also feels compelled to ignore it, this stranger is handsome after all.
She should escape. Nothing good could come from this. Reason screams at the back of her skull and yet she doesn't. It makes her hunter smile. It is wider, sharper, displaying his fangs for the first time ever in their close proximity. His lips dip down hers, brush the corner and lead down to her jaw. It's there that she may feel the pressure of his fingers - of his hand over her shoulder pressing the wall. There is strength there, far more than a mortal man shoul in spite of the cold that radiates from him.
"You smell nice." It's a lie - he isn't breathing, but it is a sweet, enamored sound. Falsified, made of a subtle hunger that now finds the side of her throat through his kiss. Then comes the pain - as well as restriction. That hand beneath her chin turns upon her, palm encasing the other side of her throat with a thumb keeping her jaw at bay - harsh and hard enough to wrench steel, bruising where he touches.
The real pain is of sinking fangs, they puncture her skin. Not with an animalistic wrath, but with the gentle hold of a monster clamping down his teeth and ensnaring Chelsea fully. Until blood spills, fills his mouth, and he drinks like a creature greedy for it, for her taste - in steady swallows that move his throat while her sanguine lifeblood spills in rivulets down the corners of his mouth.
Chelsea lets out a frightened gasp, and before she knows it, he is on her. It hurts at first, like pin pricks, but the pain soon gives way to some kind of euphoria. She is scared, but it feels good, when she knows it should not. His firm grip on her in place ensures that she doesn't move, and as much as that voice of reason in the back of her head is still screaming for her to try and get away, she succumbs to the euphoria and ignores it, putting up no resistance as this foul predator feed on her lifeblood.
It takes a minute - maybe more. Chelsea feels it for longer. It's as if time froze still, stretching on and on forever while strength is sapped from her arms, her legs. Until it's hard to stand, harder to breathe, and yet he doesn't stop. The room is full of mist at their backs - an the teashop with all of its warmth is now occluded in decrepit shadows that seem overbearing and imposing.
She doesn't fall - she's kept aloft, he holds her with that bruising strength, and somewhere along the way the bite ends. Chelsea is left only with the stinging feeling of pain at the arch of her throat, and soon, the trace of a tongue that licks over the wound. Shut like she never bled, running red stilled and lapped up. The brush of his cold lips runs up the arch of her neck and to her lips - to touch them too, for just a single second.
"It looks like the rain is over." It isn't - far from it. The weather pounds behind the door, thundering, sky taken by storm. His smile is darker, satisfied, tainted by crimson. Chelsea is chucked over like a sack no longer necessary to spend his strength upon off to the side, and the fed monster drags a thumb at a corner of his mouth. Collects the droplets staining it to guide them into his mouth. "Take care, Chelsea - I'll remember you." It's a promise, a threat, something that still manages to send an uncanny shiver down her spine.
Then; he's gone. A bell rings at the top of the door in his exit, and again in the subsequent slam of it in his wake. There isn't a trace of the man left, or their brief interaction. No scent to speak of, no presence to make heads or tails. To anyone Unaware, some eccentric just ran up to her an bit, to those who are, she was just another victim of Haven - left in her lonesome to recover by some enigmatic force of the night that roams the streets in search, and she was made a cattle for his sick, foul pleasure and satiation.
Chelsea falls over, on the verge of passing out. She can barely think straight, and all she can feel is soreness and fatigue. She weakly runs her hand over her neck where he bit her, the muscle sore and tender. Her eyes close and she passes out, to weak from the vampires bite to get up and leave.
And so she stays - until she's noticed from the window. There are still good samaritans - people who try to do some good in the world. A man and a woman, a deputy from what it looks like, and some random passerby. Maybe the former was called by the latter as how much time she spent isn't clear. Either minutes, or far longer. She's guided to her feet, lifted, carried - helped. They're the generous sort that will make sure she goes to where she wants to go, whether the hospital, or elsewhere, or even her destination. But is everyone so easy to trust? What intentions could -these- helpers have? Thankfully none, other than to see her safety. But perhaps the next hand she takes, it would spell a far worse predicament than a mild lovebite that she won't even feel past a few hours, and strength will surely return in a day's time if not less.
The encounter takes a darker turn as Damian's intentions become clear. Chelsea's initial fear and suspicion are overwhelmed by an unnatural euphoria, leaving her unable to resist as Damian feeds on her. This moment stretches, a blend of fear, pain, and twisted pleasure enveloping her until Damian discards her like an empty vessel, sated and leaving her with a veiled threat to remember their encounter. Found weakened and barely conscious by good Samaritans, the aftermath leaves Chelsea in a vulnerable state, cared for by strangers. The closing moments paint a grim picture of Haven, a place where the night holds dangers masked in charm and where Chelsea's ordeal is but a fleeting encounter in the predator's eternal hunt, leaving her to recover from the traumatic event with the uncertain kindness of bystanders.
(Chelsea's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Sat Oct 19 2024]
On Willow Close
It is night, about 57F(13C) degrees, There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target has been selected as the next meal for a vampire.
)
Chelsea stumbles around in the dark, looking for 39 Willow Close. The poorly lit road is difficult to navigate and she chastises herself for not bothering to bring a flash light. "It should be around here somewhere, right?" She mutters to herself.
It's nighttime, with a thick layer of clouds rolling across the sky, occasionally parting just enough to reveal the pale glow of a waning gibbous moon. The streets are lined with aged cobblestones, wet from a recent drizzle that still lingers in the air. Puddles reflect the weak, flickering light from the streetlamps that cast uneven, faint yellow halos. The lamps themselves are old and worn, some leaning slightly, their bulbs buzzing with every flicker.
Sparse figures walk the streets, moving quickly under their umbrellas or pulling coats tightly around them, eager to disappear into the shadows. The few buildings lining the street are a mix of aging brick structures and dilapidated storefronts, their windows either boarded up or barely illuminated by dim lights inside. Most of the shops are closed for the night, their signs creaking gently in the breeze, but a couple of neon signs flicker at the far end, adding a faint buzz to the otherwise quiet night.
The air feels heavy, and the occasional rustle of distant movement - whether it's the wind or something else- is enough to unsettle the stillness. In the distance, you can faintly hear the dripping of water from a gutter, echoing in the relative silence of the near-empty streets.
In the depths of the shadows, just beyond the reach of the flickering streetlights, someone stalks the night with predatory precision. Their movements are slow and calculated, each step placed with care on the slick cobblestones to avoid detection. The wet ground muffles their footfalls, and they seem to glide through the darkness, cloaked in it. The figure stays close to the buildings, weaving through narrow alleyways and hugging the sides of the old brick walls, always careful to avoid the weak light spilling from the sparse windows.
The dim neon signs in the distance flicker weakly, casting only fleeting illumination across the wet street, but this figure remains untouched by it. Their body is barely distinguishable from the surrounding gloom, making them seem more like an extension of the night itself. Theres a deliberate intensity to their movements - every turn, every pause - like theyre scanning the area for something, or someone. They peer out from the cover of alcoves and abandoned doorways, watching, waiting.
The air around them thickens, heavy with anticipation, as if even the wind dares not disturb their hunt. The few people hurrying through the streets dont seem to notice the figure lurking in the shadows, too wrapped up in their own hurried journeys. But the figure isnt interested in them. They move with a purpose, guided by an unseen force, eyes fixed on some distant, elusive goal. In the silence, the only sound is the faint, rhythmic drip of water from a gutter, a steady beat that seems to sync with the hunter's pulse as they push further into the night -- closer to Chelsea, step by quiet step in their approach while the woman mulls over the location they seek.
Until a sudden collision. Whoever this is, they don't have the same aversion to night, or the darkness. They're one with it, and it is exactly then that they stumble into Chelsea, a bare brush leading into a shoulder bump. "Ah-" And a pivot, skidding on a heel beside her with near fluid grace. It's a man, with an amiable smile that corrects himself with a pale hand upon her shoulder. "Sorry, I slipped on a puddle; didn't see you there." A lie, clear as day while that hand withdraws. He's neatly dressed, carefully made in every facet from a wolven mien of roguish charm to the sharpness at the edge of his smile, clean-shaven, short-cut and windswept hair of black accented and contrasted by blue eyes and a skin that seems like it has never seen sunlight proper. Wrapped in a black suit and tie, wearing a slightly dew-collected overcoat. His touch is cold, like frost made manifest before it is drawn away, and the question spills easy as the faint drizzle of rain through his lips, "Are you alright?"
Chelsea gasps as the man bumps into her, the feel of his icy touch on her bare shoulder sending a chill up her spine. She takes a step back before really focusing on the man, as she brushes wet strands of auburn hair from her face. Her sundress is soaked by now, a clear frustration for her, as she wasn't expecting the rain. "Yeah... I'm fine... " She replies, shivering in the rain. "It was an honest mistake, no harm done." Something about the man both puts her at ease and scares her, she's not sure what to make of him.
"Good," he replies with a nod, his smile lingering as the rain lightly taps against his coat. His eyes, sharp and observant, briefly scan her soaked form before settling back on her face. "Didn't mean to startle you. These nights can be... unpredictable." He takes a step back, giving her a bit more space while adjusting his overcoat, letting the rainwater slide from its fabric. "Looks like you got caught without an umbrella. Wouldnt want you to catch a cold out here." His tone is smooth, almost too casual, yet there's an undercurrent of something deeper as he glances toward the street, then back to her. "Need a hand getting somewhere dry?"
A pause, and he adds- "It's the least I could do." It isn't, naturally - strangers don't just offer help out of nowhere, not like this, but as soon as their eyes meet in that one moment, the filthy tendrils of a compulsion takes root. Chelsea, even in spite of her apprehension, wants this man's assistance. She needs it, even, as if the feeling is her own whether she is aware it is hypnotism, some psychic pressure - or simply his own charm.
Chelsea rubs her arms, trying to keep warm in the sudden rain. Her eyebrow cocks as the man offers to get her somewhere dry, and while it's probably not the greatest of ideas to just go with strangers who bump into you in the dead of night, it's probably a hell of a lot better then getting soaked in the rain. "Um, yeah... I'd really like to get out of the rain. Do you have someplace nearby, a car or something?" She asks, desperate to get somewhere warm.
His coat is removed - turned around and slipped over Chelsea's shoulders, pulled in for her warmth. And even with the rain pelting him - SRDean doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest. In fact, no mist even spills from between his lips despite the cold. Measured breaths are carefully taken only before he speaks - like he has no need of air in the slightest. "I wouldn't be walking if I had a car now, would I?" He jests, in a tune that's deep yet lilting. The collar of the coat he's put on her is tugged close, guiding her closer to the wall beside the sidewalk, "But I have an idea."
And just as easily, he paces beside Chelsea, leading her along as if close friends that have just met. "I'm Damian, by the way." Cordially offered - in spite of the action he takes besides a tea-shop just to the side. He has his back to its door once they've made it past the establishment's empty windows. Closed for the night - which is rare for Haven. One of his hands slide behind, do something unseen to the knob and the lock - and behind him it parts. Darkness swirling within, wide open - not inviting, but he invites them in anyway with another light, encouraging as well as guiding tug inside. "We can wait out the rain right here. I know the owner." Another lie, yet every word feels so true - so real when the delivery comes from that picture perfect, winsome smile.
Chelsea rubs her shoulders under the coat for warmth, glad to be out of the rain. Something in the back of her mind tickles at the idea of suspicion, but it's a fleeting thought, almost as if it is being chased away. "Oh good, hopefully it'll pass soon, I'm not looking to spend the night in a tea shop, you know?" Her teeth are still chattering from the cold. She looks for a source of heat, maybe a vent or a space heater, but comes up short. At least it's warmer than outside, she figures. "I'm Chelsea," She gives Damian a thankful smile, "I guess I got lucky that you were passing by, or I'd probably have frozen to death out there."
"Well, nice to meet you Chelsea." Her hunter half-whispers, words laced and edged with that perpetual smile. What seemed cordially charming outside - doesn't reach his eyes in here. That blue gaze seems predatory, gleaming with an uncanny hue that briefly passes over his sight. The tea shop is a quaint establishment nestled between two larger buildings, its exterior adorned with rustic wooden panels and warm, inviting lanterns that flicker softly in the dim light. The large front windows, though dark now, are framed with lace curtains that hint at the cozy interior. The door, painted a deep emerald green, creaks softly as it shuts in their wake, revealing a sanctuary from the rain.
Inside, the air is rich with the soothing aromas of various teas and spices, mingling with the scent of freshly baked pastries. The walls are lined with shelves filled with an eclectic assortment of teapots, cups, and jars of loose leaf tea, each labeled with elegant script. Soft, muted colors create a warm ambiance, while low-hanging pendant lights cast a gentle glow over the mismatched wooden tables and chairs, each inviting patrons to linger, though there are none.
A small counter, decorated with delicate china and glass canisters, stands at the back, where a friendly barista once prepared warm beverages. In the corners, plush cushions and cozy blankets are draped over armchairs, creating nooks for solitary readers or small gatherings. The atmosphere is calm and intimate, perfect for quiet conversations or moments of reflection, though now it sits in stillness, waiting for life to return with the morning light. The faint sound of rain patters against the windows, providing a rhythmic backdrop to the serene space.
"Frozen to death, would you?" He muses while still on the treshold of their own haven. "That would've been a shame," Though for what reason, he remains enigmatic. In the next breath- one only she takes- he steps closer. Intrudes upon Chelsea's space, with a hand over her shoulder, pressing against the door, trapping her in between it an himself while his body looms lower, closer to her lips but with a wide berth avoiding real touch. The other hand lifting between them has two fingers curle underneath her chin, directing Chelsea's face up to keep staring into her eyes. "Don't worry, I don't intend to spend the night here either." His fingers are cold, colder than the weather they've just left behind.
Chelsea shivers, but not from the cold this time. His icy touch on her skin unnerves her, but she can't bring herself to scream or run away. Something about his eyes is calming her, and she's lost, like a deer in headlights. She doesn't say anything, though she shivers as an acute sense of fear and dread fill her. Everything in the back of her mind is screaming at her to run, get away from him, but she also feels compelled to ignore it, this stranger is handsome after all.
She should escape. Nothing good could come from this. Reason screams at the back of her skull and yet she doesn't. It makes her hunter smile. It is wider, sharper, displaying his fangs for the first time ever in their close proximity. His lips dip down hers, brush the corner and lead down to her jaw. It's there that she may feel the pressure of his fingers - of his hand over her shoulder pressing the wall. There is strength there, far more than a mortal man shoul in spite of the cold that radiates from him.
"You smell nice." It's a lie - he isn't breathing, but it is a sweet, enamored sound. Falsified, made of a subtle hunger that now finds the side of her throat through his kiss. Then comes the pain - as well as restriction. That hand beneath her chin turns upon her, palm encasing the other side of her throat with a thumb keeping her jaw at bay - harsh and hard enough to wrench steel, bruising where he touches.
The real pain is of sinking fangs, they puncture her skin. Not with an animalistic wrath, but with the gentle hold of a monster clamping down his teeth and ensnaring Chelsea fully. Until blood spills, fills his mouth, and he drinks like a creature greedy for it, for her taste - in steady swallows that move his throat while her sanguine lifeblood spills in rivulets down the corners of his mouth.
Chelsea lets out a frightened gasp, and before she knows it, he is on her. It hurts at first, like pin pricks, but the pain soon gives way to some kind of euphoria. She is scared, but it feels good, when she knows it should not. His firm grip on her in place ensures that she doesn't move, and as much as that voice of reason in the back of her head is still screaming for her to try and get away, she succumbs to the euphoria and ignores it, putting up no resistance as this foul predator feed on her lifeblood.
It takes a minute - maybe more. Chelsea feels it for longer. It's as if time froze still, stretching on and on forever while strength is sapped from her arms, her legs. Until it's hard to stand, harder to breathe, and yet he doesn't stop. The room is full of mist at their backs - an the teashop with all of its warmth is now occluded in decrepit shadows that seem overbearing and imposing.
She doesn't fall - she's kept aloft, he holds her with that bruising strength, and somewhere along the way the bite ends. Chelsea is left only with the stinging feeling of pain at the arch of her throat, and soon, the trace of a tongue that licks over the wound. Shut like she never bled, running red stilled and lapped up. The brush of his cold lips runs up the arch of her neck and to her lips - to touch them too, for just a single second.
"It looks like the rain is over." It isn't - far from it. The weather pounds behind the door, thundering, sky taken by storm. His smile is darker, satisfied, tainted by crimson. Chelsea is chucked over like a sack no longer necessary to spend his strength upon off to the side, and the fed monster drags a thumb at a corner of his mouth. Collects the droplets staining it to guide them into his mouth. "Take care, Chelsea - I'll remember you." It's a promise, a threat, something that still manages to send an uncanny shiver down her spine.
Then; he's gone. A bell rings at the top of the door in his exit, and again in the subsequent slam of it in his wake. There isn't a trace of the man left, or their brief interaction. No scent to speak of, no presence to make heads or tails. To anyone Unaware, some eccentric just ran up to her an bit, to those who are, she was just another victim of Haven - left in her lonesome to recover by some enigmatic force of the night that roams the streets in search, and she was made a cattle for his sick, foul pleasure and satiation.
Chelsea falls over, on the verge of passing out. She can barely think straight, and all she can feel is soreness and fatigue. She weakly runs her hand over her neck where he bit her, the muscle sore and tender. Her eyes close and she passes out, to weak from the vampires bite to get up and leave.
And so she stays - until she's noticed from the window. There are still good samaritans - people who try to do some good in the world. A man and a woman, a deputy from what it looks like, and some random passerby. Maybe the former was called by the latter as how much time she spent isn't clear. Either minutes, or far longer. She's guided to her feet, lifted, carried - helped. They're the generous sort that will make sure she goes to where she wants to go, whether the hospital, or elsewhere, or even her destination. But is everyone so easy to trust? What intentions could -these- helpers have? Thankfully none, other than to see her safety. But perhaps the next hand she takes, it would spell a far worse predicament than a mild lovebite that she won't even feel past a few hours, and strength will surely return in a day's time if not less.