applesaucedream | Out for (your) blood [open to multiple]

Johnny's on a train. He doesn't remember getting on it. Where's he going? What line is this, even?

Maybe it doesn't matter. He settles back against the hard plastic chair and gazes numbly out the window at the dark tunnel. He's in the front car, just next to the conductor's compartment. Everything looks... dirty. Writing on every surface of the car, just about. Strangely this feels comforting. Homey. He used to live like this, after all.

No one else catches his interest. They're all very far away. Not important. A thousand invisible people drifting through their lives, in and out of his. He's happy to sit stationary. He doesn't mind losing himself for a bit. Traveling. It's nice to travel, once in a while.

As the train starts moving, Spike makes his way up to the front of the train. Less people here. It doesn't really matter where the train is going - He thinks suddenly 'it's the journey, not the destination' and smirks to himself - what matters is what's available for him here. His usual tends toward the young, female and pretty, but that doesn't seem to be available at the moment. He'll have to look elsewhere tonight for his meal.

Something that might put up a fight, maybe. That could be fun.

He walks into the front car slowly, walking a curve around two metal poles before stopping. There's just a handful of people here, but he sees one that seems promising. Not remotely intimidating physically, but at this hour, in a dangerous area, the man seems almost calm. To Spike, that seems like a pretty good indication that this one won't die without a fight.

There's something pulling his attention. The graffiti is fascinating, it keeps saying Please forgive me over and over again and he can't remember who it is that's so sorry or why, but it seems vitally important that he pay attention to it anyway. The vague, animal awareness that there's someone else nearby is bothersome, distracting. Like a fly buzzing past his head.

He lifts his hand as if to swat, and suddenly the train jolts with a sharp metallic screech of rail, and he's looking, graffiti wholly forgotten, at a man who might be familiar. Might be, but Johnny can't place him, and moreover isn't sure he cares to. The man is dressed like someone trying to look dangerous, staring like someone who definitely is dangerous. Johnny feels the same nervous energy, the same oppressive tug in his gut that he'd felt looking at the words on the wall. This isn't good. He doesn't like being looked at. He should move.

Maybe if he just gets up quietly. Casually. Nothing's wrong, he just feels like walking to the back of the car. There's a door here, he's a little scared to open it, that'll draw attention, won't it? But who'd follow him between cars? That'd be weird.

He shoves the door open and steps across the thresholds, passing briefly through a whirling, vertiginous void of dark, another world that he doesn't want to stay in. Then through to the next car. Safe here. Quiet here. He moves to the middle of it, grasping the central pole, and only then chances a look back.

Prey that runs is only more enticing. Why don't people ever know that? It seems like something that people should be aware of. If not intuitively, maybe a nature documentary or something? He knows it intimately, feels the truth of it.

He grins and starts moving after the man, slowly, taking his time, catching glimpses of black hair and a worried expression through the shifting portal between where he is now and where he will be. This was a good choice, this one. He's having fun with this. It's nice to hunt someone who has a sense for danger.

The car around him blurs and loses shape as he pushes forward towards the doorway, a variety of colors coalescing and stretching as the graffiti'd walls melt away. He's not focusing on it anymore. The next car will be similar. He's through the barrier without walking through, just arrived in the next car like he'd wanted.

This time, he doesn't wait and watch. "Oi, you!" he yells across the car, One arm thrown up in a dramatic point. They have spectators. He might as well make this a show worth watching. He turns to a woman who is...blonde, small, then a man, large, stocky. Neither have faces. Neither respond. He scowls, a show of anger and distress that doesn't quite hide his excitement. "That fucker stole my wallet."

His head whips back to look, and he advances.

What? Did he? Johnny's hand goes immediately to his pocket, half-expecting to find a wallet, but there's no fucking wallet, this dude is just following him and no one fucking cares.

"Fuck off!" he says, his voice hitting an unnaturally shrill pitch. "I didn't take shit!"

He jerks around, forces his way through the next door, across the barrier, into the third car. This time he runs, bolts for the opposite end, panting as he struggles with that door, because of course this fucker is still after him. Not about a wallet, he'd put money on that, this is something sick and scary and the wallet thing is just a neat fucking excuse. Why is this happening to him. Why does weird shit always happen to him.

Once more he steps out into the narrow rattling bridge through the abyss, staggering through the fourth car and running, faceless people skirting out of his way, he has no stock with these people, he's just some flailing madman. Riding his own momentum he slams his shoulder into the opposite door, grasping at the handle, if he can just keep this up until the train stops, if he can just--

"You did. I saw you." Spike follows, not at a run, but fast enough to keep track of how fast and how far the man is moving. He keeps a steady pace, keeps the distance between them very gradually diminishing. The doors that the man opens in a panic stay open.

"Where are you going to go!" Spike yells down the car, then laughs and bites his bottom lip around a smile. He has a needle focus now. There's a single thumping heartbeat - not his - and as he gets closer it gets louder. It increases in speed as the man's fear increases. The sound vibrates in his ear drums. He can feel it in his chest, his fingers, his throat. He can taste blood already- a memory waiting for renewal. He feels alive.

He grabs the pole at the middle of the car and uses his momentum to swing himself forward playfully and, more importantly, just a little quicker than walking forward would do. He presses forward with zeal as the figure slips through the opposite door.

Outside of the car. Not yet to the next. The man is scrambling to move, to get his hands to work faster. The sound of the train on the tracks is loud, but the beating heart is louder. Everything beside is blackness. He reaches.

He grips hard onto the hood of the jacket and pulls back. This way, he can press his mouth up against the man's ear to be heard over the noise. "Come on. Thought you'd have some fight in ya. Why do you keep skittering away?"

There's another shriek of metal grinding on metal as Johnny reels back, the sudden pull of fabric choking him briefly, his hands going to grip at the collar of his jacket. He tries to scream but no air comes out, or maybe it's just swallowed up in the darkness and noise of the tunnel. The mouth against his ear, the insane fucking taunt, sends a cold snap of panic shivering down his spine, holy shit, what is happening, what does this psycho want with him? But he's being hunted, that's clear, who cares why, that shit doesn't matter right now, what matters is escape.

Frantic, he unzips his jacket, not even bothering with the tab, just forcibly parting the teeth with the edge of his hand, and he slips out of it, lurching forward, forcing the door, staggering into the next car and bolting across it, slamming again into the door to the next car. But there is no next car, only tunnel. This train's shorter than he expected, and this is fucking it. Fuck.

He spins around, his back pressed hard against the door, his arms raised. If it's a fight this guy wants, then he's in luck, because Johnny knows he's out of options.

He's at the finish line now. It's too bad that the train wasn't longer, but that's alright. He can keep the man here and play with him a little before it's all over. There's one more door that leads back to the tunnel. Maybe he can push him out there eventually. That'd be a good place to leave the body when he's finished with it.

"There we go." Spike grins. "That's more like it." He jumps up onto one of the seats and keeps walking towards his prey, leather boots squeaking against metal. When he looks back down at him, his face has transformed. Grotesque forehead ridges distort his amused expression, and sharp teeth glint out from behind his lips. "Tell me. You do a lot of drugs? That's not a problem. I just wanna know what I'm in for. Even if you don't inject it, it alllll ends up in the blood."

Johnny stares up at his aggressor, already taller than him, now strolling across the fucking seats like a goddamn tiger, and - what the fuck is wrong with his face? What's he saying? He-

He wants Johnny's blood. He wants his blood.

This fucker is a goddamn vampire.

"Yeah, loads," he says, manic and desperate - is it even true? He doesn't know, can't remember at the moment. "Every drug. My blood's fucking poison. Stay the fuck away from me."

He bolts, back for the other end, giving him as wide a berth as possible. Maybe he can make it back, they can just do this for a while, until the train stops, if it stops.

Spike goes after him. He takes two swift strides across the bus seats and then jumps. His boots thud heavily against the floor at the same time that he grabs the thing's neck. He pulls, shifts his weight and throws him back the way he came. It can either stand and try to fight, or run out the back. Either way, they're going to end up in the tunnel.

"There's a door in the back." He nods his head, offering it. "Gonna try for that one? Maybe you can get through and close it fast enough to stop me from tearing out your throat."

He's reaching for the pole in the middle of the car, not even halfway to the fucking door, when the guy grabs him, fingers cold on the back of his neck; he gasps sharply as he's yanked back, shoved toward the dead end. He can't stay upright; he staggers and falls, scrambling back immediately as the man - creature - advances on him. It's talking to him but he can hardly absorb what it's saying. All he hears tearing out your throat.

He kicks as hard as he can, aiming for the shin, and hurls himself toward the back of the train, launching back to his feet, straining muscles, slamming his hands against the metal door. Palms stinging, he struggles desperately with the latch. He doesn't have any kind of plan at this point, he just needs to get out, off this fucking train. Maybe in the dark, maybe out there, he can just run.

The kick doesn't slow him down. He's follows as his prey runs back the way he wants him to go and pounds against the door. Useless. like that's going to open it.

"You're panicking. That slows you down," he adds, slowly, helpfully. "You'd think it'd do the opposite, but it doesn't. Weird, huh?"

He takes a deep breath when he gets within arms reach, then jumps forward quickly. No need for more of that kicking about if he can avoid it. He presses himself against the guy's body, for the moment trapping it between himself and the door. He pins the scrabbling hand, lifts it and settles it onto the latch. "You lift it. Here, let me help." He wraps his own hand around the guy's, forces the pressure to his palm - hard metal pushing into flesh. "Stubborn, isn't it?"

Eventually, the latch gives. The door flings open in a rush of clacking wheels and slams into the back of the train, heavy metal against metal. It stays open. Spike takes a step back and delivers a harsh kick to the guy's back, pushing him out.

He jumps after him, and the the train rushes away, leaving them in darkness.

Johnny lets out a yelp that drops to a whimper when he's suddenly pushed and held against the door, squirming and twitching, breathing so fast he thinks he might just pass out. The vampire is in his ear again, with advice, supportive overtures, what the fuck, what is this? Johnny struggles as hard as he can and it isn't enough, he can't move right, he can visualize twisting away but he can't make it happen. His assailant puppeteers him almost gently, forcing the latch (why did he think this was a viable escape route??), until there's no door to brace him against, only a sickening burst of pressurized air and heat and noise.

He might have just toppled out, but the kick ensures it: he hits the ground hard, narrowly avoiding striking his head on the rail. Everything hurts, he's sure he's bleeding and there might be something broken, but as long as he can get up - he climbs to his feet and practically hurls himself away, loping desperately down the tunnel, even as he knows he is not going to make it.

Edited 2015-01-20 09:29 (UTC)

Now that he's got him where he wants him, there's no need to wait any more. He catches up quickly. He can see, after all, and his prey can't. He never had a chance.

He knocks him onto his back and straddles his hips. When hands reach up to strike him, he pins them back into the ground.

No time for any more quips or pleas. The soft flesh of the throat is easy to rip into, and it silences the screams. God, there must be something in the guy's system, he thinks, because he feels dizzy the moment his mouth fills with blood. It hits him like he hasn't had any in months. In years. He feels euphoric with the rush of it. He moans and bites harder, pushing down through muscle to rip open veins. As the body beneath him shivers and goes unconscious, he covers his face in blood trying to get more. Anything more.

Edited 2015-01-21 08:47 (UTC)

His scream echoes off the tunnel walls when he's knocked down and turned over; he writhes like a wild animal but it's not enough, he's too weak, too slow, too uncoordinated. He's pinned down and then he's torn open.

He can't scream, not anymore, and dimly he registers that he's in shock, barely even able to mark what's happening to him. His body keeps twitching feebly and panicked, muddled synapses continue to fire, but there's no fight left in him, and soon there won't be anything else.

His head tips to the side as the predator turns him, feasting heartily (at least, he thinks, manic and amused, his death will sustain something), and he spots movement against the wall. A rat, liquid eyes staring at them from the dark. Hah, thinks Johnny, dizzy, blurry, vacant. It's nice to die among friends.

When he finally fucking wakes up his hand flies to his throat, he's gasping for air, he feels sick and he's shivering, cold with sweat. He lies in his twisted-up sheets for a moment, staring at the ceiling as the dream pieces itself together. "What the FUCK," he says, mostly indignant.

Peeta frowns around the subway platform, trying to remember how he got here and where he was trying to go. There's something about the space that feels off, but he can't put his finger on what. The platform is mostly empty - there's a homeless person asleep on a bench, hidden beneath a newspaper blanket.

There's an eerie feel to the whole situation, and Peeta finds himself glancing over his shoulder, even though the only thing behind him is a graffiti-covered wall. Wary without being able to explain why, he starts moving toward the exit.

There are a lot of shadows in the subway after dark. The florescent bulbs only reach so far when they're lit, and there are so many that aren't lit. He stands in the dark, waiting, as a kid reaches his hiding spot. His trap.

The kid's glance behind himself was a good instinct, but he's looking in the wrong direction.

He whistles, one long note, then another that meanders without ever reaching a particular tune. The sound echoes too much to let anyone know it's source. He smiles, watching the reaction. It's funny, what little things can do to make everything more interesting. A little whistle and suddenly there's enough information to be terrified of what comes next. Spike wonders how quickly he's going to catch on that he's being hunted.

Peeta is just about to pick up the pace when he hears the first whistle. His heart skips a beat as it shifts suddenly from a more normal beat to the harder pulse of fear. Spinning on the spot, the forward momentum that is still driving him toward the exit making the turn into something like a dance move, he searches for the source.

The sound echoes hollowly, eerily around the space, note after note, making it difficult to pinpoint its origin. And every dark spot on the platform is a potential hiding spot for something sinister.

Following instinct and a gut feeling, Peeta keeps his back to the door and his eyes on his surroundings as he quickly walks - half backwards, half sideways - toward the door.

Spike steps out from the shadows with his face already transformed. In the light, he smiles, showing off his fangs for his new victim. "Nice night, don't you think?"

In two strides, he has the guy's throat in his hand.

Before he can even react to the sound of the voice, Peeta's been caught. One hand flies to the hand at his throat, the other gripping ineffectually at the - man's? creature's? - shoulder. The face he's staring into is isn't human, and it takes Peeta more than a few seconds before the familiarity of the voice registers and he can see beyond the terrifying to the known.

"Spike?" The choked whisper works its way past the grip on his neck.

So, there are two weird things about Grand Central Station. The first is that it is atypically grotty. It wouldn't look too out of place in Old Town - well, it would, because the Council's attempt at gentrification never would have extended to throwing up something this enormous and flash, but the building's current state of unselfconscious shabbiness is right on point.

The second weird thing is that Sunshine's here at all. Where is she even trying to go? Eliot's place? Must be. But she forgot the muffins, which is pretty embarrassing. He'll forgive her, right?

Okay, so, find Eliot's address. It's on her phone; he texted her. Sunshine finds an unoccupied bench and sits, digging her phone out of her purse. Then she scrolls through her texts from Eliot, which are more numerous than she thought they'd be and largely comprised of allcaps variations of the word 'buffalo.' Also, the scroll function is on the fritz. A frown of consternation tugs at her lips and furrows her brow as her thumb makes a few futile passes over the touchscreen, which now reads 'BUFTALOP BUNNALI MUFFAPO LOLOL' (what the fuck, Eliot?). Ugh. 'Smartphone,' her ass.

Spike spots her right away. She's pretty, and looking a little frustrated about something or other. That's as good an opening as any to introduce himself. If everything goes smoothly here, he might get more than a meal out of her.

His necklace clinks softly against the dog tags he's wearing as he sidles up to her. He remains standing, for the moment. "Miss your train?"

Edited 2014-12-14 08:34 (UTC)

Hey, a familiar voice. Sunshine has enough time to wonder if this is going to be awkward, because Spike hasn't been invited to brunch and is he going to get all weird about the fact that she's meeting up with some guys who aren't him? Then she looks up at him, and… oh. He's already gotten weird, in a way that she never could have anticipated. What in the hell is he wearing?

"Um." Sunshine sits up straight, phone temporarily forgotten, and just takes him in for a second or two. His hair. Actual blue jeans. That frigging vest. The surplus of jewelry, like he ran through a flea market with a big magnet and put on anything that stuck. Gods and frigging angels, is he in a fugue state? What happened to him? A bemused smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, stopping just short of a smirk. "Look at you," she says, each word separate and distinct. Then she slides over a little in tacit invitation. Sit down and explain yourself, Spike.

Talk about easy. It's like she's one step away from dragging him off into a maintenance cupboard herself. No convincing required.

He sits and settles his arm behind her, leaning in a little to smell her hair. What is that, lavender? Whatever it is, the blood smells better. And he can smell it - pumping away just beneath the skin. Now that he's this close, he can tell that it'll be sweet.

"Look at you." he counters, and smiles a little too wide. He's going for charming, but it comes off predatory. his body is spread out, taking up room, one leg stretched out in from of him and both arms at the back of the bench. He makes a point of looking down her shirt. "You got a name?"

Edited 2015-01-11 22:43 (UTC)

Her phone buzzes at her, but Sunshine ignores it in favor of trying to figure out what's prompted this tectonic shift in Spike's personal style. Maybe he lost a bet. She's biting back a grin and fingering the ridiculous padlock necklace when he flashes her an unnecessarily broad grin and asks her name. Wait, what? She shifts her focus back up to his eyes just in time to catch him leering down her shirt.

Ooooookay. She releases the padlock, letting it thump back down against his chest, and narrows her eyes a little. So, Spike is here, and he's dressed like a junk drawer, and he's pretending he has no frigging idea who she even is. Wait, wait--she remembers this. Or remembers him describing it. This is one of his old looks that she'd asked him about, that day his immunity checked out for no reason. Did he do this for her? Like a live-action vampire lite equivalent of sharing childhood photos?

Except there's no air of 'go-ahead-laugh-it-up' coming off him. He doesn't seem the least bit self-conscious. More like he just wants to haul her off and do wicked things to her. Her phone buzzes again, a distant hum against her palm. She purses her lips, considering. Is… is this roleplay? Like some 70s grunge equivalent of the milkmaid and the stableboy? Gods and frigging angels. That's one way to shake things up, she guesses, but it would have been nice to get some forewarning. And to not be in a grotty train station.

But, okay, fine, she'll play. "Sunshine," she says, propping her chin against her hand and waiting to see where he goes with this. "You?"

"Sunshine. That's funny." Funny, because she's the first sunshine he's seen in years and years. He doesn't say that. He doesn't bother to explain at all. She seems to be taking this all in her stride, like she's very interested in everything he's got to offer. He's half-worrying that this is almost too easy. But she's human. She couldn't be anything else, with that smell. With that blood.

He lifts his hand from the back of the bench and brushes it back through her hair so that he can lean in closer. "They call me Spike." His lips brush against her jaw. "Want to find somewhere a little less crowded?"

Speakers crackle to life above them, announcing a departing train. Afterwards, the connection stays open and instrumental music trickles through the speakers. Vaguely classical...or maybe it's jazz? He smiles and dips to kiss her neck. "Look at that, we've got mood music."

She quirks an eyebrow when he pronounces her name 'funny.' Granted, 70s-grunge-Sunshine doesn't yet have the pot/kettle excuse to disapprove, but she also doesn't need it. She could take offense over whatever she wants and say it's in character. Watch your step, 70s-grunge-Spike.

But her lips quirk into a faint smile when he leans in to kiss her. That's more like it. They can just skip the play acting and get right down to doing something inappropriate in a closet. "Spike, huh?" she murmurs as she cards her fingers through his hair. "And you think my name's funny." Hey, if he's gonna set it up, she's knocking it down.

No hard feelings, though. She gives his hair a gentle tug, encouraging him to lift his head so she can kiss him properly. Gods, he's even kissing differently; that is some commitment to the role. Sunshine pulls back, faintly surprised, then casts an unenthusiastic look around the station. Again with the grotty. He owes her for this. When they get back to the apartments, they're having a talk.

"I guess we should," she says, getting to her feet and pulling Spike up after her. Her phone gets stuffed into her back pocket. "Any ideas?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I know a place." He slips his hand around her waist and nods away from the crowd. He saunters slowly, with his head tipped down towards her and a thin smile at his lips.

"You do this a lot? Wander off with strange men?" He's leading her further than he needs to. They pass a maintenance closet or two that would probably serve for what she thinks is happening here, but not for what he has in mind. If she screams, he doesn't want anyone to come running.

Does he, now? Maybe that's code for 'I found an out-of-the-way closet and made it significantly less gross than the rest of this place,' which would earn him some bonus points. With that hope in mind, she doesn't have any problem letting him lead her well away from the crowd. Honestly, it's kind of a relief. Maybe they can strike a nice balance between 'public enough to potentially get caught' and 'private enough that they're not actually bothering anyone.'

She's not entirely sure what to make of that question, though. Like, is 70s-grunge-Spike asking, or is actual Spike trying to suss out her sexual history, here? And is 70s-grunge-Sunshine prone to this kind of thing? She must be, right? Gods, roleplay is complicated. This is why she needs some carthaginian forewarning. "Not often." That might have been too defensive. "Only if the guy's… intriguing enough." There, that's better, right?

Her phone buzzes again. Shut up, phone.

"Glad I made the cut," he answers sarcastically while he lets his hand drift down from her waist onto her ass. They're not far now from the place he has in mind.

It's not a closet at all, but a little side room that might once have been a small office, or maybe a lost and found. The discarded items hanging around could indicate either purpose. It's barely wide enough for the old tanker desk and chair pushed against one wall, and the other wall behind the door is filled with stacks of boxes. Each box has a name, written in an incongruously fancy script - they're mostly women's names. Rebecca, Annalise, Buffy, and so on. They're dusty, like most of the room. The only thing that isn't dusty is the desk, and he pushes her towards it, then clicks the lock shut behind them.

There's a speaker in here too, but now it's not playing classical or jazz. It's playing The Beatles. As he walks back and presses her against the desk, he hears 'help, i need someone. help, not just anyone...', but he's not paying attention to that. He grips at her hips and grinds against her before dipping his head back to her neck. Back to the pulse point.

Edited 2015-01-25 03:53 (UTC)

Oh, come on. Sunshine breaks character long enough to give him an 'are you shitting me' look, because she's doing her best with the zero warning she was given for any of this carthaginian weirdness. She's been a goddamn trouper, okay. There's no need for him to get all snide.

Her phone buzzes again as he leads her into a room that is suitably out of the way but shows absolutely no signs of being especially tidied, and she digs it out of her back pocket even as he backs her up against the desk. Any dubious charm this scenario held for her is draining pretty fast, and Spike is distracted by her neck - typical - so maybe he won't notice if she takes a quick peek at whoever the hell is texting her so much. Eliot, maybe?

There are two texts. They're not from Eliot. They're from Con. She inhales sharply, feeling a rush of bewildered pleasure that Con is here, Con is texting her, that means she can reach him! But then she actually reads them:

Sunshine.

I believe you are inviting more than you know.

What does he… what?

"Spike." Roleplay time is over. This needs to be addressed. Sunshine pushes against his shoulder with her free hand. "C'mon, stop it."

When she tries to push him back, he only solidifies his position.

"Mm. Sorry, no." He reaches up and grabs her wrist and pins it back. Next, the other hand. He grabs the electronic thing from her and drops it to the floor, then covers it with his boot and steps, cracking plastic and glass under his heel. "No changing your mind now."

Help me get my feet back on the ground
Won't you please, please help me

Both wrists held back in on hand, he uses his other to brush her hair aside. He's flush against her body when he leans in and presses his face against her temple. He inhales her scent there, then yanks at her hair to expose her neck. God, it's like...sugar. Honey. This is going to be fucking orgasmic when he finally breaks skin. He moans and presses a delicate kiss just under her jaw. "Why does your blood smell so sweet?"

I know that I just need you like I've never done before

He pulls back far enough to look her in the eye, but it won't be the face she's expecting to see. His teeth are on display, sharp and deadly, and his browline ridged and inhuman. He smiles. "You're going to spoil my appetite. Mother always did chide me for eating my desserts first."

Edited 2015-01-25 06:09 (UTC)

Her initial, sluggish, stupid reaction is an indignant, "Hey!" as he snaps her phone under his heel. What in the carthaginian hell is wrong with him? She tries to jerk her hands free; the first attempt is cursory, still half-expecting him to break whatever fucking character he's playing and let her go, the second and third are increasingly desperate when he doesn't. "Let go of me!"

He doesn't. He presses against her, pulling her hair aside with an aggressive, painful tug, and he's--he's moaning over her blood, and this can't be happening, he can't--he can't possibly think she'd want this.

He pulls back, and she has all of one second to hope he's backing off before she sees what he's become, that awful kali Other face he hasn't shown her since day one, and that's when she fully realizes that this has absolutely nothing to do with what she might want. Her wants aren't even a carthaginian afterthought.

She tries to jerk away, a full-body effort not driven by conscious thought. Terrified. Furious. "You asshole!"

Spike growls when she tries to pull away from him. "C'mon, cupcake, you got yourself into this." He pushes her towards him, then pulls back at her wrists hard enough to slam her into the desk. The hand in her hair yanks back again and he lowers his mouth to her neck.

He bites.

"Fuck!" Something burnt him. He steps back, releasing her long enough to touch his fingers to his lips. The blood tastes amazing. It's not the blood. It'd been her. "What did you do?"

Sunshine lets out a wordless cry of pain when Spike slams her wrists against the desk, but her throat seizes, cutting off all sound, when she feels his teeth sink into her neck. He can't--he wouldn't. Her brain flatlines, unable or unwilling to comprehend what is happening to her.

But her wards are still functioning, and they don't care if she's there to direct them or not.

Her necklace-scar flares to life with a flash of gold and a keening hum that rings in her ears like the sudden smack of a tuning fork. It's been waiting for the excuse to zing this vampire in particular and it does so with a will. He recoils, and her limbs are free, and she scrambles back onto the desk, putting all of three feet between herself and Spike before her back hits the wall and she's trapped, cornered. She raises her hand to her neck, whimpering when her fingers come away wet and slick.

Why is this happening?

"Leave me alone," she says - begs, really. "Just leave." There are only two ways this can end if he doesn't, and they're both too horrible for her to bear. "I--I'll kill you, Spike, William," she amends out of pure desperation, because maybe her knowing his real name will make a goddamn bit of difference. "I s-swear…" she trails off, teeth chattering, looking miserable and pathetic and not in the least bit deadly.

"You bitch!" He takes a step forward before he's halted by William. He pauses a moment. But no. There's no way she could know. It was a lucky guess. Or he said something. He's not going to let in interfere with a good meal.

He grabs her arm and pulls hard, forcing her off of the desk and across the room into the pile of old boxes. Boxes fall around her, spilling contents full of photographs, a hair brush, a silk shawl, a fountain pen and a bottle of ink that shatters when it hits the concrete floor- remnants of far too many time periods to be sitting in a lost and found at Grand Central.

His ears are ringing when he advances on her again, but he's determined. She's going to pay for that little trick of hers.

Edited 2015-01-25 07:54 (UTC)

It doesn't work, of course it doesn't work, and Sunshine lets out a sob when he steps forward again. She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to kill him. And those are the only two awful kali choices he's giving her. Why? is still rattling around her skull, uselessly, because it doesn't matter why. She doesn't have the luxury of getting to the bottom of this. Spike is making sure of that.

He hurls her across the room into a pile of boxes, random objects and dusty cardboard falling around her, and she gasps for air, hands held up defensively.

Someone is saying 'please no please no' in an unbroken stream, like a mantra. It must be her.

Then he's on top of her again, her palms pressed against his chest, no no no no no, she doesn't want to do this, she doesn't want to do this--!

What choice does she have?

Her hand turns of its own volition. Gently, almost, like opening a door. Then her wrist flexes, and her fingers sink into his chest as if his skin is no more than tissue paper, finding his heart. She can feel it, the organ resting solid and still in the palm of her hand. All she has to do is tug.

She can't.

"Please," she says, ragged and broken, looking up at him as best she can with her vision blurred by tears.

No no no no, he's not supposed to die like this. He knows that. This isn't supposed to happen. Her hand is in his chest. Around his heart. The decision is made in a fraction of a second, and by the time he's moved backward, it's too late to undo. She's holding his heart. She's still-

He slumps back onto his heels, holding a hand to the hole in his chest. He feels dizzy, like he's losing consciousness, but he can't stop focusing on her face. On his own heart. There's...something. Something that he should know, but he can't quite place it. There's no time, but it feels so important.

His face falls back to it's more human configuration and he dips his head to spit out blood onto the floor. "You stole my heart." He laughs, suddenly, deliriously. "Always thought that'd..." he groans and looks back up at her, smiling through bloody teeth. "Always thought that'd kill me. Never thought it'd be so literal."

The heart turns black first, then crumbles like burnt paper. He watches it fall from her hands while he feels the same thing happening to him. From the inside out, he dries and burns until there's nothing left but ash.

Edited 2015-01-25 08:36 (UTC)

Out for (your) blood [open to multiple]

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gore tw

W E L P (gore, death, emotional surrender, general shitshow)

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just horrible things from here on. assault, violence

yuuuuup

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