Everything reeks of blood.
Hearts are pounding, blood is rushing— he can imagine he sees it.
(or does he see it? being the beast he is, perhaps he can
locate the glow of a living’s blood)
Centered in their chest; a fire down from their naval, their wrists red— necks exposes, pulsing, matching the beat of the music and begging to be ripped apart, for pretty lights in pretty eyes to die—eyes with pupils far too dilated to go cold and dead as bodies go listless in his arms.
He could devour them all, he thinks, staring around the club. It was not a dingy place, no… tainted blood was nothing he could ever grow accustomed to. Blood addled and thinned by disease or low-grade drugs always left a sour taste in his mouth, a thrumming in his head that only made his hunger grow. But the club being as it was… a little more upper-scale, a little more guarded, human guards and he would swear on his undeath that there was at least one hunter in the room tonight— he could not simply kill them all.
Though it was very, very tempting.
But instead… instead, he had two wants in mind.
One, to find that hunter he knew, knew would be in here. (He was a frequenter, here, and it was not unknown how he liked to toy with his food, his prey.)
Two, if he could not— sometimes they hid well, and even currently he was torn between three suspects— perhaps a pretty young thing could do, some lovely little lady that would scream so deliciously when he bit.
Perhaps one who’s lips color shared a cruel irony of her assumed fate, one he may have been eyeing since she got in.
Her scent was not entirely that of alcohol— though he could smell it, she seemed a little too alert for the quantity ingested— nervous young girl, perhaps. Somehow not in his suspected three- he assumed her paranoid, perhaps seeking a friend?
No… no, something else. Something he’d be sure to find out. Paranoia was key to how much she would fight— how well she would fight, how fast and pure her blood could run.
Or, as a common factor amongst hunters he’d stumbled across— she could perhaps turn the list into four suspects.
Regardless, he did find himself fond of her neck, and the lithe way she seemed to move her body. Naturally, this meant he was to move closer to her— a brush of arms; a smile— no accident, and he was certain she knew as much.
"Have you been alone all evening?"
Yes, of course she has.
"You must know it’s not safe for such a pretty woman to come alone." A glint in his eyes could only further aid the disturbing air to him, assuredly.
It's like clockwork, you see--a lady mentions she's going home all alone and they come flocking to her as if she were some prophet (though, she supposes, most men find religion in the touch of a woman). As much as it pains her to hold back the unlady-like snort, she simply tips back her stiff drink in silence.
A little swipe of her gaze toward the man in question, and she finds herself wanting to snort all over again. Creep doesn't exactly cover it--but she's not here to play hard to get. In fact, if it were truly her decision, she wouldn't play at all.
But she has to play, and she has to play easy.
So her ruby lips curl into a smirk as she leans in, the thrum of the music too loud for her to attempt a purr of a whisper. "Unfortunately." She sighs, more loudly than before as she leans in. "Have you been alone all evening?"
She ought to beat herself--then again, clever quip and flirting has never been her forte (how on earth did she get this job? She's better off working the streets than playing bait). She can look innocent, feign vulnerability--but when it came to talking men into bed with her, she's never been good at it.
At least he's attractive--a feat that she finds disturbing. She adjusts in her seat, eyeing him carefully (look for the signs. They should be there.), though hoping that her scrutinizing eye didn't give much away.
"Don't worry about me," she tells him, an inkling of a smirk forming on her lips. "I'm a big girl."
well, that's dumb.
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