anyone see daybreakers?

[maliceaforesock]

THE VAMPIRE MEME

Vampires are appealing creatures. They can be dark, mysterious, sexy, or just downright violent. They can even be hunky and sparkly in the sun! Vampires come in so many different varieties, it's hard to choose just one type. Whatever your brand of vampire, it's just hard to resist the draw of one of the oldest, most unsettling figures in horror to date. So why not try your hand at playing one yourself? Or offer your character up for bait if you're more inclined to do so. - Post your characters.Name/Series/Preferences in the subject field as usual along with whether your character is a vampire, outsider, or hunter(Unless you'd like to roll for individual threads!). - Others respond after going to RNG.Roll 1-3 for what your character is and then1-3 again for what type (if you desire). - Choose or roll for a scenario. You could make up your own after you roll for what your character's role will be if you want! - Have fun! Vampires 1 - Sire You're old enough to have created vampires of your own. Maybe one, maybe many, but they're all special to you in their own way. 2 - Sired You were once normal, human, but then you were changed into something more. Do you thank your creator or hate them for changing you into a monster? 3 - n/a Your creator is neither here nor there at the moment. You're just a vampire on the hunt or trying to fit in. Outsider 1 - Victim You're a victim, someone to drain and leave behind. Maybe they'll take pity on you and allow you to join, be one of them. 2 - Willing You've got the hots for vampires or just a morbid fascination. You're willing to let them drink from you and maybe so much more. 3 - Pawn You're being controlled somehow by a vampire. Mind control, blackmail, whatever. Hunter 1 - Born You come from a long line of vampire hunters. 2 - Moral Objection Vampires are abominations that deserve to be wiped off the face of the planet. 3 - Vengeance A vampire took someone dear from you or possibly made you into one of them. All you can think about is getting vengeance. Gen 1 - hunted prey. You're starving tonight and you're out scoping for just the right nighttime snack. 2 - newly made. You're a newly made vampire or you've encountered someone who's recently been changed. How do you deal? 3 - mind control. Some vampires have the ability to control humans' thoughts or actions and tonight is the night you have to do it. 4 - overpopulated. Vampires have taken over the world and now humans are treated like livestock or pets that you can feed off of when you feel like it. Not all vampires think this is cool though... 5 - injured. Not a lot can injure a vampire but there are those that will drain them for their blood or those that hunt them and know tricks that actually leave a mark. Do you help them? Or if you're the one injured, do you seek help? 6 - unaccepted. You were changed or you've met someone who was once dear to you and changed... you're not sure how to accept them. 7 - close call. It's too close to sunrise and you have got to find refuge with someone. 8 - player's choice. For anything that's been missed!

Violent 1 - trail of bodies. Humans are nothing but food and you've gone on a spree lately. 2 - hunted. You're being hunted or you're hunting. 3 - outnumbered. A bar or a club full of vampires doesn't bode well for humans... 4 - ravenous. You've been starved or drained and you're going after the first person you see or you've stumbled across an extremely hungry vampire. 5 - entitled. You're entitled to this person's blood, whether they want to give it or not. 6 - self-defense. You have to defend yourself from those that want to hurt you. 7 - vengeance. Someone is after vengeance... 8 - player's choice. For anything that's been missed! Romantic 1 - real love. You know this is real, even if the other person is reluctant. Maybe it's not even a worry between you two and you just feel like being together. 2 - confession. It might not be the smartest idea, but you need to tell this vampire or human exactly how you feel for them. 3 - forever. It's time to make your lover into some a vampire or maybe it's time to ask your vampire lover to do it for you. 4 - making it work. There are obviously some problems, but you're going to overcome them. 5 - forbidden. Either no one can know about what you're doing or you just receive dirty looks for doing it. 6 - not exactly normal. Your attraction might not be normal or the circumstances surrounding your relationship might not be and it's time to discuss if you have a future or you're just kidding yourselves. 7 - defense. Someone hurt your lover and now they have to pay. 8 - player's choice. For anything that's been missed! Smut 1 - blood offering. There's nothing like a vampire feeding on you that gets you in the mood more. You offer them your blood in exchange for something else. 2 - coerced. Some vampires have mind control capabilities and some have blood that's like a drug that will make you crave more. 3 - no sex better than vampire sex. You're both vampires or one of you is dead set on becoming on tonight and you'll do anything to convince your lover it's time. 4 - pet. Similar to another option except that a 'pet 'entails so much more than being treated like livestock or cattle. 5 - touched the monster's heart. You're actually in love with each other even though you weren't sure it was possible. You just want to make love and show your vampire how you feel. 6 - so much stronger. The human or weaker vampire might not want it, but thankfully you're strong enough to take whatever you want from them. 7 - mine. It's time to claim what is rightfully yours and make sure they know it. 8 - player's choice. For anything that's been missed!

Comments

Peter Quill | Guardians of the Galaxy

[volumeone]

[Either vampire or human victim, prose and assumed cr preferred. Could be on Earth or we just go full cosmic and take it to space vampires]

[punched_hitler]

Maybe it had been too much to think that, after the dust had cleared from Loki’s invasion of New York, aliens might have stayed out of the mix. Maybe hoping that the incident in Greenwich had been a one-off had been too much, too. Steve had always imagined a future full of aliens and spaceships and (thanks to Howard) flying cars, but he’d never imagined he’d live to see any of it. But here he is, living in the future, and the future is definitely not as ideal as it had been sold to be.

The planet has been scarred now by multiple insurgences. The coalition of species responsible had come looking for, of all things, food - in the form of living, breathing, red-blooded human beings. Whatever plague had broken out across the galaxy, it had spread like wildfire, and while it had pitted several species and empires against each other, the group that had risen from the fallout had been cohesive enough to come after Earth, in its as-yet-untouched corner of the galaxy, a pristine source of fresh blood, and plenty of it.

Without SHIELD - well, officially - the Avengers had been the first line of defense, but there was only so much a group of people, however powerful, could do. Thor had managed to garner some small amount of reinforcements, but they hadn’t been sanctioned - Asgard hadn’t wanted to get officially involved, so all the troops Thor had brought over the Bifrost had been volunteers, and fewer than they’d really hoped for.

Nonetheless, it had been enough, along with a few other last-ditch efforts, to bring things to an impasse.

And now, with negotiations for the official ceasefire slated to begin, Steve’s finally ready to admit that he’s tired of fighting. He’s ready to help the world find - and keep - peace. It’s why he stepped forward immediately when the Avengers were told that the delegates to Earth would need… well, handlers is the way it was put, but he knows that means bodyguards just as much as it means supervision.

There’s also the part where it means willing blood bank, but hey - his body can replace the blood he’s lost within a couple of hours. So that makes him the perfect candidate, doesn’t it?

The Avengers facility in upstate New York has been cleared of all personnel, and Peter’s already been here for several days. There’s a guard detail patrolling the grounds, but they’re mostly invisible. Peter has the run of the place, as long as he doesn’t leave it - and Steve is, technically, at his disposal.

Nothing happens quickly when it comes to governments, be they Earthly or otherwise, so it’s likely going to be a few more days still before anything gets officially moving. Steve’s just finished his own breakfast when he heads down to the suite of rooms Peter’s been given, knocking when he arrives, waiting politely for a response.

[volumeone]

He had a few months to enjoy the whole Guardians of the Galaxy, Heroes of Xandar thing. He rocks across the galaxy with his friends, they pick up jobs, Rocket sheds all over his damn ship, and Drax makes him spit out his drinks a few times with a seriously ninja sense of humor.

That all comes to a stop when the plague hits the galaxy. It starts from Knowhere - something that finally escaped from the Collector's vault ashes, maybe - and spreads. It's got a bunch of different names, in languages that the translator implant can't always accurately get. Peter just calls it "space vampirism" in his head. If you're lucky, you get drained dry and it sucks, but that's it. The end. If you're unlucky...

Well, you turn out like him.

Sometimes he still catches himself pressing his hand to his scarred wrist, where Gamora nailed him. She's off doing her own thing now, looking into a cure or whatever, but he still remembers how ice cold her lips had burned against his skin. How she'd ripped his arm to shreds, while staring at him with these wide open, blank eyes. They're actually not blank but what they are is universal: once you get turned, no matter the species, you get two things. A thirst for blood that no food or booze or even water can take the edge off of and a vampire's dead blue eyes, like swirling cataracts. Good luck hiding out on Earth with those.

Peter doesn't lead the attempted invasion on Earth. Mostly he's there to rein that shit in, use some of the Star-Lord flex he has to keep things civilized. Everyone's a vampire here but none of them have history. Some of the captains might even be tempted to just take the whole planet and drain it dry because it's just one backwater planet - who would miss it?

It's why Peter's almost glad they get some unexpected resistance. Earth's gotten busy and weird since he left, and these "Avengers" are pains in the asses. Guys in robot suits, green assholes and starspangled ones and he's still paranoid about that shrinking one. That one could do a whole lot of damage to their ships and the blood supply they brought for the trip if he (her?) got to them. There's a reason the fleet decides to try the peaceful, ceasefire route. Try to work something out before they ended up using too much force or too little. Somehow he goes from "Earth consultant" to "Earth envoy".

He ends up with the starspangled one. It took Peter a moment to realize that somehow, somewhere, they dug up the actual Steve Rogers. He's just as handsome as he was in the dusty newsreels and the comics, Peter unable to stop glancing over when they were finally introduced. The one good thing about having a space vampire's eyes is people can't always tell where you're looking; real convenient if you want to sneak peeks.

Peter had been sitting by the window, flipping through the tablet idly as he liked to do each morning. It won't register with his dead man's cold fingers, but the stylus that came with it seems like it's working just fine. He'd been busy enjoying the warmth of the sunrise as he snooped when that knock came, almost like clockwork. That would be his resident Captain America.

"Come in."

Contrary to vampire lore, he can deal with sunlight just fine. A day without feeding, though? He's already turning cranky. A few hours longer and he's going right into bitchy and longer than that, hungry enough to just work his way through his "escort" aka guards keeping him under wraps. Steve, though. Steve's helpful enough that he'd extend his arm and bare his throat just to save his men.

Peter's vacant eyes stare in Steve's direction as he scowls. "I'm gonna need to feed soon," he says, not beating around the bush. "I thought they were bringing some blood up."

Considering Steve's hands are empty, he's assuming he'll be offering himself. It would be the diplomatic thing to do.

[punched_hitler]

Peter's an interesting creature - an interesting guy. There's the fact that he's pretty much human-shaped and sized; maybe that shouldn't be surprising, given Thor and Loki, but he's not Asgardian, and Steve's maybe got to wonder, then, why so many aliens look like plain old humans.

Except for the eyes - but that's an artifact of the plague, because every single enemy they fought had those eyes. They're unnerving, he won't pretend they aren't, but that doesn't mean he lets it show.

There's also the fact that these vampires - because that's the closest analogue there is on Earth, to what's happened to them - aren't affected by sunlight. But maybe that makes sense, too, considering there's no real protection from it in space. If starlight was all it took, there'd be a galaxy less full of vampires, and no need for the talks that are ramping up here on Earth. Still it's a little strange to walk into a room with someone even loosely termed a vampire and see them basking in the morning sunlight streaming through one of the large windows.

Steve's expression remains neutral even as Peter looks him up and down, and the envoy points out his lack of obvious refreshment. He's not wrong - offering himself is exactly what Steve's here to do, partly as a convenience, and partly as an experiment. Given that most of what these vampires have done is abduct or kill, there's precious little data on how they can really sustain themselves and their population. They've been sending Steve up with coolers of bagged blood until today, but this morning, the cooler is notably absent. And Steve's breakfast had been large enough that the extra calories should help him heal after what he's planning to do.

There had been plenty of reservations about putting the super soldier serum within reach of an alien vampire - an enemy. But Steve had argued, saying that not only was the guy strong enough on his own to do plenty of damage without needing the extra boost anyway, but the serum would probably give Steve the leverage he needed to keep from being drained dry - and maybe even turned. (Because there had definitely been plenty of arguments about the damage a vampire Captain America could do - and Steve could appreciate that, but this guy was supposed to be an envoy, and you showed envoys your trust, not your wariness. There had been plenty of mistrust and misunderstandings on both sides, already. The best path to peace now, he believed, was clear and open trust.

And if it wasn't... there was still Thor, and the Hulk, and the rest of the Avengers. Steve trusted them to take him down. At any cost.)

"And here I am," he points out, shutting the door behind him; that's more of a formality, the entire building is being continually monitored by FRIDAY, and Peter's aware of that, too. But still, it's one more step toward trust, all the same. "Thought you might like a hot meal. You can eat without killing me or turning me, can't you?"

Steve's wearing a short-sleeved shirt with his jeans; maybe his uniform is more formal, but it's not exactly easy access to any veins - with good reason. He might in casual clothes, but he's just as neat and tidy as if he were on parade for the world to see.

[volumeone]

He's had a few chats with Steve. Mostly asking about Earth, about the shield, what the food is like; stuff like that, none of it touching on the fact that he's part of an invading alien force that's half orbiting the planet, half camped out in several motherships across the world's capitals, and Steve would probably be more than happy if he was light years away. Other than the chats, he wouldn't say they're...buddies. He's gotten better vibes from the brothel girls he used to flirt with, the same ones who would steal his shit that he'd just steal right back.

That said, they're not here. Steve is and - Peter sits up straighter for a moment, quietly inhaling - he smells delicious.

Saliva remembers it's a thing. He tries to ignore that feeling of his gums tightening around fangs, their points flashing for a moment as his mouth parts and he almost pulls a damn Dracula and wets his lips.

"I can," Peter has already pushed himself off from his perch by the window, bringing himself up to his full height. Compared to some of the other vampires he came with, he's small - to a normal human, though, he's tall enough that he might be imposing. The soulless blue eyes, gently swirling with some sort of cloudy, alien void, would do the rest.

He strolls over to Steve, noting that he's dressed down for today and that a vampire's favorite spots - soft spots along the throat and neck - are bare. The inner thigh isn't, but that's fine. If Steve's offering his blood, Peter doesn't particularly care where it comes from. Not when he's starting to get hungry again. Not when it's been a whole trip across the galaxy, across countless systems, to get to Earth and he'd made do with a combination of the blood packets and the..stock they brought with them.

Steve might not be so willing to help a vampiric delegate if he saw what the fleet's blood stock situation looked like.

Peter shoves that to the side. He's been busy trying to keep his approach slow, keep it cool, but his eyes are flicking between his throat and his arm, undecided about which to sink his fangs into. If he gets close enough, he'll be able to hear his heartbeat, thudding away under his ribs and muscle and tissue, pumping more of that precious blood all over his American body. (He realizes after a moment that he was starting to lick his mouth; he catches himself with his tongue edging over a fang).

"You don't turn until you're drained and almost dead," Peter shrugs. Most vampires he's seen will usually kill their first meal out of desperation: the second one, though, they might turn. After that, they have a better handle on it. Peter isn't proud to say he knows how to handle a turning. Mostly he doesn't want to remember his first meal's face, if he can help it. "I want your neck."

He comes close, makes sure his movements are telegraphed for Steve. He reaches out to touch his shoulder, grip sliding so he can cup his neck, thumb edging up along his jaw so he can tease his face to the side. His lips brush against his naked skin as he traces the bloodflow's path. There's no warning, no smalltalk like there might've been if they were lovers instead of enemies: Peter suddenly bites. Fang points punch down, his tongue pulses against his throat, and he noisily feeds, clinging to Steve as if he's hugging him to him, chest to chest, hip to hip, swaying for a moment as one as their weight shifts.

[punched_hitler]

Steve’s been punched - a lot - and shot and stabbed and a hundred other things. But he’s never been bitten. There is a moment where he tenses, wondering if this really was stupid, if handing over the serum, even as a snack, is a bad idea. He doesn’t know what kind of effect it’ll have - he knows it doesn’t do squat outside of his own body when they’ve experimented with vial after vial of his blood here, but that’s on Earth, and not in the stomach of a… a space vampire, because that’s actually what Peter is, and there’s this second of just realizing how ridiculous that sounds, how ridiculous this is, that washes over him. It reminds him of waking up out of the ice, of seeing aliens fly through a hole in the sky (the first time), and for a second, everything just seems like a dream, and maybe he’ll wake up on the ground in a bedroll with Bucky standing over him, toeing him with one muddy boot and telling him it’s time to get up and fight some Nazis.

But just for a second.

Then the rest comes rushing in; the sharp sting of Peter’s fangs, the strange sensation as he sucks at the skin - the veins and arteries - as if trying to coax it out faster, the little shock of cold left behind on the damp skin where Peter’s tongue had traced a path up to where he’s bitten. Peter’s arms tighten around him, and Steve’s body plants itself more steadily, feet flat on the floor, legs spread just a little, arms at his sides. He’s doing his best not to tense overly much, to just stand there, but every inch of him is aware of Peter’s strength, his grip, and is already calculating, in the back of his mind, what it would take to flex and spread his arms out to break it.

But he doesn’t. He stands there, head tipped back, feeling the brush and tickle of Peter’s soft hair under his chin, and tries to breathe, slow and deep, through it. He stares up at the ceiling, eyes fluttering, suddenly aware at how intimate and dangerous this all feels, at once. It’s… disturbing, is maybe the best word for it. It’s not frightening, really, and yeah, it’s not comfortable, but he’s been through worse. It just feels strange and animal and wrong, but hey, he reminds himself, maybe Peter didn’t ask for this, the vampire plague is just that - a plague - and that’s part of why Earth’s reached out a hand in peace. (Maybe not the biggest part, and he knows it, but it’s still there, under the defensive and strategic reasons.) Maybe Peter doesn’t even like eating like this, but he can’t help it - Steve doesn’t know, that’s one thing he definitely didn’t ask.

Steve isn’t sure how long this is going to take - isn’t sure, exactly, how fast Peter is draining him, or when he’ll stop. He figures if he starts getting lightheaded (he… thinks he should get lightheaded, if he loses too much, the serum shouldn’t change that), he’ll put a stop to things. He doesn’t feel that way yet, so he gulps in another breath of air, chest expanding against Peter’s, and just says, “Let’s not go that far, then.” Just a gentle reminder, maybe, almost teasing (for all that he’s dead serious), that he’s not going to let Peter do anything he doesn’t want. That’s why it’s Steve, and not somebody else.

[volumeone]

Peter loses himself in the feeding.

He's silent, for the most part, drinking the precious blood as his tongue laps against Steve's neck, a spot of cold as he hugs the other man to him. They breathe in tandem, chest to chest, and he can even feel the pulse of his blood, imagine he can match his heart beat, the longer he drinks. Time seems to lose all meaning, slips away, Peter's ruined eyes sliding almost completely shut until there's only a sliver of hyper-blue peeking out through his eyelashes.

It's with reluctance that he lets Steve's words filter in, what was just background noise snapping back into meaning, into something more than the sound prey makes. Right. Have to stop. Part of being the representative to Earth is to show that his kind - vampires in all shapes and sizes - aren't total assholes. That they haven't forgotten what it's like to be decent. If he's gonna get this peace ball rolling, he has to start by fighting the urge to tighten his grip on Steve and keep right on feeding until he's good and fall and falling into a blood stupor.

It's harder than he would've thought. Whatever's in Steve's blood, it's like riding a kind of weird high that he's never had with any of his other meals. Something seems to have the snap-hiss of electricity in his veins, his gums as they ache around his fangs and he almost doesn't let go of Steve, happy to remain there holding his food so it (he) can't get away.

"That's some pretty trippy stuff," Peter tries to cover for that moment of weakness by playing it cool. "Holy shit."

He lets go, reaching up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. His tongue sneaks out to swipe at the smear, as if he can't get enough of what's cooking in Steve's bloodstream and maybe it's a good thing he doesn't have your typical human eyes, because he's still staring at the puncture wounds still lazily oozing blood and thinking about he'd love going for seconds.

[punched_hitler]

Mostly what Steve notices, under the strange new sensations of being fed on, is the way Peter is cold. There's chilled, and there's cold, and standing close to Peter is like standing close to a rock - there's no heat coming off of him, no life, despite the fact that he's clearly alive... or undead... or whatever you want to call it. It's just as unsettling as the way he's got his mouth latched on to Steve's neck, sucking the heat out of him, and Steve wonders what it tastes like, what it feels like in the vampire's mouth, in his stomach. Does the blood warm him up, like drinking something hot on a cold day? Does he feel anything at all? Is there nothing but hunger, driving and urgent, until his stomach is full, or does he actually enjoy eating?

Maybe he'll ask, if they get to know each other better. Steve's tyring to do his job, trying to be professional without being aloof, but he's curious, and part of him thinks that offering up a little humanity might be a good thing. He and Peter have talked a little about Earth already. Maybe he can get a feel for whether Peter'd be willing to answer a couple questions about himself. Maybe, he thinks, if he can convince the guy it's genuine curiosity, and not just fulfilling orders. Because it's not. Yes, he has to report on everything he sees and hears - Steve's been asked to keep tabs on how often the ambassador eats, whether he drinks, what kinds of questions he asks, and what he acts and thinks like, among a slew of other things. It feels invasive, but he supposes he can understand why it's important, too. There's always been value in knowing your enemies - and your allies. And on top of that, there's a whole network of doctors and scientists trying to crack this plague, and they need to understand it first. Steve's going to be able to give them firsthand information that could do a lot of good.

He wonders, if there were a cure, if Peter would take it. He wonders if there will ever be a cure, or if this is something like the serum, something that can't be undone. Maybe it doesn't really matter, anyway - if there could be a cure, there isn't yet, and all they have to work with is who they are now.

Steve still feels all right as Peter pulls back - he's not a stranger to blood loss, exactly, though usually there's plenty else going on at the time and losing blood is just a side effect. Still, he stands with his feet planted, letting his body take its own bearings. The wounds on his neck are still bleeding sluggishly, but it won't take long for that to stop and scab over, despite the fact that Peter's probably punctured a major artery. In a couple of hours, the cuts will be completely gone, and in a couple more - just in time for dinner, if Peter wants it - he'll probably have replaced the majority of the blood he lost. He watches Peter, unable to read those unearthly blue eyes, but he ends up smiling almost a little wryly at the first thing Peter says.

"I wasn't sure if it'd make a difference," he admits; it's true, he wasn't sure, and it sounds a little better than saying we weren't sure, like all his superiors and that slew of doctors and scientists didn't want to know the answer, too. "I'm not your normal run-of-the-mill human. It's all right, though? " He assumes his blood won't disagree with the vampire's physiology, though there is still some worry about what will happen if it bolsters it, instead. Steve's still hoping that won't happen, but if it is, they need to know.

And then, provided his blood is something that can sustain the ambassador, "Did you get enough? I should be good to go in a couple of hours if you need to eat again." And, almost a little apologetically, "I'm supposed to keep an eye on your for a little while - because I'm not a normal run-of-the-mill human." So he does need to see what feeding off his blood does to Peter. "I thought we could talk more."

[volumeone]

Feeding is always intimate. It feels a million times better than sex - and he'd loved the hell out of sex, he'll admit that right now - and he doesn't think he could ever describe to an uninfected what it really felt like. How it would feel natural to cling to his prey, mold his body to his like he'll never let go, how he can get so close he can feel the pulse and ebb of blood, the shudder and sigh of someone being drained into submission. He's never felt closer to someone than when he'd been latched to them, fangs punched into skin and his mouth warming with stolen body heat. Maybe it's what true love is supposed to feel like.

"Yeah, I got enough," Peter says, even though it's a lie and he can feel the plague inside him making noises, a low, simmering, almost grudging grumble that whispers he'd love seconds. And thirds. Gorging himself until he's too sluggish to move, his eyes rolled back? Sounds like an awesome way to spend his day. "Yeah, I figured they wouldn't put a normal human with me."

He might look closer to a human than any of the other vampires, but he's stronger, faster than your average human; Steve's one of the rare few on this planet who could give him a run for his money. He's both lunch and insurance that he doesn't get too curious about leaving the building all on his own, like it's an all you can eat buffet in New York. It would almost be insulting if it wasn't for the fact he tasted so damn good.

Peter runs his thumb across his red-strained lips, still licking away as if he just had the most amazing BBQ in the world. Hell, make that the damn galaxy. His tongue sneaks out past the glint of his fangs to swirl against his thumb, lingering, almost sensual. "Yeah? About what? Because if it's about the fleet, there's certain things that are off-limits."

There's being honest, trying to work this out civilized instead of just curbstomping his old homeworld into submission, and then there's being stupid. Laying all your cards on the table hadn't been his style even when he'd been uninfected. Knowing that he could go feral if he doesn't feed - if the Avengers figure out which ships in the fleet carry all the bloodstock - and yeah. Steve could give him that blood high all he wants from feeding and Peter will still keep his damn mouth shut.

He finally moves away from Steve back toward the window, casting a vacant glance backward, his infected eyes swirling that slightly too saturated, alien blue, as if he's beckoning for his babysitter to join him.

"Okay, go ahead. Shoot."

[punched_hitler]

Steve’s still watching Peter, maybe not too subtly, and definitely with real curiosity, to see what, if anything, changes in him after he feeds. If he’s just the same, or if something’s different. That’s part of his orders, too, but a guy can just be curious, too. The plague never hit Earth, and God, is he glad - but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t, still, with the ships circling it in orbit, and it’s always smart to learn as much as you can about a possible threat, even if you hope that possibility never slides into reality.

Besides… Peter actually seems like an all right guy; he’s a little pompous, a little cocky, sure. He’s maybe not what Steve would expect from an ambassador or dignitary, but in a way, that’s good. Most ambassadors he’s met - and he’s actually met a lot - are vague, they’re not exactly dishonest, but they’re opaque. They don’t really talk about much, and they’re not really enjoyable to be around. Peter… Peter’s different. There’s something about him that’s genuine, and Steve appreciates that. There’s still something about him that feels very human, despite everything else… and Steve maybe, personally, wants to kindle that, a little. He thinks it’d be good for Peter, and good for both sides in this thing, as well.

Which is why he doesn’t have a problem asking to talk, and why he looks a little pleased, when Peter agrees. He watches the vampire as he turns to the window - it’s still weird, to think of vampires basking in the sun, but it’s just another reminder that this guy is nothing like the fairy tales and legends, that he’s something different, something real, and someone that Steve can connect with.

“I understand that things are off limits,” he agrees, his small, knowing smile audible in his voice, following that unspoken invitation, approaching the window, himself. He’s been in every room in the complex, had checked them all out when the Avengers had first set up shop here; he remembers this one, and he leans against the window frame, arms crossed, like he’s just as much at home here as he is in his own quarters. It’s pretty much true, because Steve’s… never really had much of a place of his own, not for long, and so he’s never really had a problem carving that place out, wherever he can manage it. He looks out the window, just aware of the vampire beside him, for a long moment, before he twists his head to watch Peter’s profile, see the light glinting off his strange, swirling eyes. They’re eyes that he’d like to get down in paint - watercolor, or maybe even colored pencil. That thought suddenly feels wrong - far too intimate, prying, and he shoves it away.

“I was just wondering about… you know. You. What do you like - what do you do in your off time? You must have it. And you must have been to a lot of places - most of which I can only barely imagine.” One corner of his lips quirks up; Bucky was always the science fiction fan, but he dragged Steve well enough along for the ride. “When I was a kid, spaceships might as well have been fantasy. Maybe I want to hear a little of what you can tell me about the real thing.”

And, maybe, he wants to hear what it’s like out there - with or without the plague. It’s changed things, tilted dynamics, he’s sure. “What were things like before this hit? What are they like, now?”

Some of this, Peter’s probably already told officials from Earth. But Steve wants to hear it out of his own mouth, even if it’s something he’s already supposed to know.

As he waits, the pinprick wounds on his neck are already scabbing over, closing. His body's already starting to divert resources to regenerating blood, and he's glad he ate those extra few protein bars before he stopped by. He's lost blood before, and building it back up as quickly as he does can really take it out of a guy, if he doesn't give his body something to use, first. But his heartbeat stays strong and steady, his breathing slow; Steve appears, to every sense Peter has, completely capable and at ease.

[volumeone]

He glances at Steve as he joins him. With his eyes scarred by the plague, he could still be looking out the window for all anyone knows. Sure, it's six kinds of weird when he catches his reflection, but he's gotta admit, it does have some perks. Being able to sneak glances like this happens to be one of 'em. Could've totally used this when he was cheating his way through all the galactic casinos.

If this wasn't Captain America, Peter would've been real tempted to be a smartass and say he used his free time to jerk off. See how he took it.

Instead he keeps it to himself and tries for a second to put himself in Steve's shoes. tries to imagine what it would be like growing up in the age of the dinosaurs where they were fighting WWII and probably saying "gee whiz" non-ironically. How they thought going to the Moon was just sci-fi.

"Huh," Peter makes a little surprised sound, trying to figure out where to start. It helps to distract him from the little teasing, insistent tug of Steve's blood scent still wafting in the air even as he can see that he's already scabbing over. "Like in space? Well, I can tell you they weren't flying around in Buck Rogers ships."

As they probably saw when the fleet got close enough for Earth to really start shitting bricks. Peter decides to keep his fool mouth shut and not drop the little fact that this isn't even the whole vampire fleet out there, going where the food is. Considering all the infighting among the admirals, it's a small miracle that they didn't keep trying to subjugate Earth: the plague's hunger, all-consuming, like an itch you can never scratch away, is a real bitch like that.

He's silent for awhile longer before he speaks up again, his fang points flashing white every now and then. "Space's cool. Lots of stuff to do. Wacky aliens. You kinda get used to it and they got translator implants so you don't have to learn the languages if you don't want to."

Something that Earth really needs, if you ask him. Sure, a translator implant won't get every single thing, but it gets most of it and it's a real life saver when you're dealing with people who can speak with more vocal chords than you have. It's why it was a shock for Peter to roll up to Earth and watch the first round of human ambassadors stare, lost and rightfully afraid, up at some of the vampires and it took him a few long seconds to realize it was a one way conversation: the aliens could understand the humans, who could only hear the clicks and whistles and see some really bigass fangs the whole time. The thing he'd noticed with Steve was when he first saw the guy, he was standing in front of a Rultanic vampire, all hungry, armored chittering ten feet of her, and not backing down or giving her an inch despite not knowing what she was saying. Just squared up, with the biggest balls he'd even seen on a guy.

"Things were...normal before they hit." Peter isn't sure how much Steve would think space was normal, but the average person in space wasn't worried about getting hit with a plague from out of nowhere, the kind that would make you kill the first person you met when you turned, and then doom the second person to the same shit luck you had. "People going about their lives, worrying about bills or raising kids or whatever." Wasn't like he was one of them, but he had eyes and he figured life on, say, Xandar, wasn't that much different than Earth despite the fancy hi-tech bells and whistles. "It's...different now. Quarantines and trying to look for a cure."

He offers that like an olive branch, like a late sorry we kinda invaded your planet. While he doubts Earth will magically be the planet with a cure, he figures it can't hurt if Steve knows that there's plenty of infected who'd be happy to go back to their normal lives. That pretty Rultanic he faced off with? Bank teller who got off her shift at the wrong time, who would be happy to be worrying about her mortgage instead of when her next hit of blood.

[punched_hitler]

Steve definitely realizes he didn’t exactly ask an easy question, so he’s more than willing to give Peter time to work out what he wants to say. While he waits, he studies the guy’s dim reflection in the window. Peter’s tall - taller than Steve, even, which is rare - and maybe a little lankier, but no one would call him skinny or weak. He looks powerful; it doesn’t intimidate Steve, because he’s faced bigger and he doesn’t let size be the deciding factor in how he feels about someone, but those eyes… they’re truly alien. They make Peter’s expression hard to read, not in the least because the rest of his face pretty much reads like any human’s. But the eyes mess up the whole picture. They’re the same eyes every alien suffering from this condition that Steve’s met have… It makes him wonder what they looked like, before.

When Peter finally answers, Steve falls silent in return, considering what he gets for a moment. “That’s… comforting, actually.” Hearing that people are people, no matter where you go. That outer space is really just like home… well, something close to it, at least. The thing is, Steve’s lost his home, and woken up in a new one, and maybe that’s what traveling to space would be like, then - something almost familiar, but still wildly foreign and strange.

“Except for the ships,” he says, grinning a little, lopsidedly, and glancing over at Peter. “You have no idea how cool those Buck Rogers ships were.”

Ultimately, though, the grin fades a bit. Because a universe filled with people who just want to live their lives is comforting, yeah… but it’s also sad, when he thinks about what’s happened to it. Yeah, okay, it’s a universe he didn’t even know existed until the ships showed up in Earth orbit and he got a call in the middle of the night, and he hasn’t gotten a full night’s sleep, since, and he doubts anybody else on the planet has, either. But now that he does know about it… he’s lived with sickness most of his life. He’s watched people die from it, wasting away or burning out too quickly. He can’t want that kind of fate for an entire universe of people who didn’t ask for it.

“I’m sorry we can’t help more.” He is, actually. He means that. He means it the same way he wishes he could help, when he sees people hurt and sick and dying, and he thinks of the serum running through his veins, and all the good it could do - and the many, terrible ways that trying to recreate it have gone all wrong. He feels somehow helpless and responsible all at once; he leans back against the glass, arms crossed, and chews on his lip a little.

“Still feeling all right?”

He already said he's hanging around, just in case, but he still doesn’t know if his blood will have any effect. He doesn’t know if it can, if it’s even reasonable to hope. He does know, though, that there’s more than one reason he’s in here with Peter, and one of those reasons, at least, is that Peter’s as much a guinea pig as he is. If there’s a reaction to his blood… well, somebody wants to know about it.

Steve isn’t sure whether he wants one or not. He can definitely envision every vampire that gets within five feet of him wanting a snack, just as much as he can imagine them wanting a cure. Part of him thinks it must be pure human arrogance, to believe that his blood might have any effect. But part of him can’t help but wonder. Abraham Erskine was a goddamned genius, in ways that Steve (and everyone else) is still discovering. The fact that he’s nearly a hundred years old is definitely testament to that, the same way the fact that no one can actually recreate what happened to him is, and the same way that nobody seems to even have an educated guess as to what Peter's answer might be. Maybe he's just extra-tasty. Maybe Peter will stop craving blood. Maybe nothing will happen at all.

Gonna timeskip the blood effecting him a bit :)

[volumeone]

"Maybe you'll see it after all this." Apparently it's the spacer's version of saying yeah, we'll totally catch up over coffee. "It's less Buck Rogers, more Star Wars on an acid trip. Decent folks though."

He'd glanced away from Steve for a bit, but with an infected's ruined eyes, it's impossible to tell when they flick back to his face aside from the muscles around his eyes faintly twitching. Peter studies Steve, wondering about the guy all over again. Earth wasn't ever supposed to be their godsend, their cure. It was just a glorified pitstop, a place to top off on fuel and a place to stretch several hundred thousand vampire's sore legs from the long trip through space, and that was it. Hell, he might've not offered to play ambassador himself if it wasn't for the fact this was his old homeworld. Peter eyes Steve and wonders if he really means it. If he thinks that he actually thinks that Earth was obligated to trot out a cure instead of turning all their defenses on red alert like an unexpected wall in the fleet's face.

It takes him a moment to realize that Steve wasn't done talking. He lifts his head a little, the blue, soulless eyes fixing on the human. At his heart, at that chest. The rib cage that's in the way of the real prize. Peter wets his fangs and lips before he catches himself and turns away, arms crossed, to stare out the window.

"Yeah, I'm cool."

* * *

He lied: he totally isn't cool.

Problem is the adverse effects of a super soldier's blood meal take a few hours to really kick in.

Steve's blood is different this time. There's a difference between drinking the refrigerated version, like he's trying to work the dredges from a 7-11 Icee, and then there's getting it straight from the source. Peter wakes up in the middle of the night, earlier than he usually does. Vampires will usually adapt to a solar cycle, but part of that is conserving energy for a hunt that doesn't quite come when you can just pummel a planet into submission with an orbital strike. This is something else. Something primal. Peter jerks awake tangled in the coarse Terran-style quilts, his legs kicking before he sits upright, eyes blazing a cool swirling blue in the darkness, dimming for a moment as he blinks. His body temperature seems like it's degrees higher, burning him up from the inside as he gasps and nearly cuts his lower lip on fangs that have grown longer in the night, ready to sink into some prey's vital arteries. Peter sits there rigid for a moment, forgetting that he should breathe, his chest as still as a corpse's. It's only when he hears the faint thud of a heart across the compound that he remembers to move again.

Peter moves as if in a trance. It's how Gamora had come at him, looking at him and not really, and he'd probably done the same thing once she infected him. You never forget your first taste of fresh blood, after all. It lingers. Teasing. An inch you could scratch but shouldn't.

He slides off the bed and for all his size, he's quiet, real quiet. He slips through the halls, just a dark smear against the security cameras, and he doesn't duck out of the way like he would've if he was in his right mind. Why bother? He has a line on Steve, he knows how good he makes him feel. How amazing he'd tasted. How right it felt as their bodies locked together, hip to hip, swaying, and his teeth punching through the human's skin. He prowls in a straight line down the twisting halls, the door crumpling into a metal ball in his hand. That's about all the noise he makes before he slips into Steve's room and almost rocks back with his prey's presence.

It's glorious. Amazing. The throb of blood rushing in his veins, his heart pumping, so alive that he could almost see Steve even if he squeezed his eyes hot. Peter hovers over his bed salivating and trying to swallow it down, unsure if he's gearing up to attack or if he's just lubricating his mouth so his feeding will be even easier. He lunges at Steve with an animal growl, low and guttural and desperate for just another taste, his fingers curled into claws as he groans for another high of that serum. It'd almost felt like being full. Like being his old self. Clearly, some part of him reasons, more blood will help. The edges of his eyes blaze red-white around where a human's iris would be, something finally betraying where a vampire from space is looking.

totally up to you whether kicking him away works~

[punched_hitler]

Steve stays a while to talk more with Peter; he’s definitely curious, and in more than just a know thy enemy sort of way. Yes, of course there’s that, too, but there’s genuine wonder and he is not turning down the chance to learn about things firsthand, from someone with at least a similar enough vocabulary that the concepts don’t just go right over Steve’s head. Peter’s an interesting guy - complicated, maybe, but who isn’t? This disease has complicated everything, turned people desperate, and Steve has seen desperate people before. He knows what they can do, what they can become, but he also knows that out of desperation, true kindness and good can arise.

He chooses to believe that’s possible here. That the fleet isn’t just a threat, but maybe a boon, an advantage. If everyone plays their cards right.

He leaves Peter to his own devices that evening, and even though he’s barely feeling the effects of the blood loss, he’s feeling enough that he ends up going to bed a little early. They’d taken less at a time, when they’d bagged his blood, and maybe he’d eaten more to make up for it than he happened to today, or a hundred other things. Regardless, he settles into bed not too long before midnight in sweatpants and a t-shirt, because he’s technically on duty and he isn’t about to be caught unawares, and he’s out like a light, settling warm and comfortable into a heavy sleep.

The serum is odd, like that - he doesn’t need as much sleep, but the sleep he does get tends to be deep and hard, like his body’s maximizing what it does get, just like with everything else. But for all that he sleeps hard, his brain’s on a hair trigger; the second Peter lunges, the second the growl hits Steve’s ears, he jerks awake. He’s not fast enough to get out of the way, but he does manage to fling up an arm, which smacks into Peter’s shoulder as the vampire is suddenly on him, all supernatural, predatory grace and power. Steve’s hand scrabbles for purchase in Peter’s clothes, pulling at him to try to keep his mouth away from Steve’s skin while he gathers his feet under him, tangled in the sheets as they are, and makes a move to kick Peter in he gut with both feet, get him away and across the room. He’s aware that if Peter gets his fangs into Steve’s neck before that happens, it’s gonna make a mess and he might actually have to worry about not bleeding out, but he’ll take his chances. A vampire several feet away seems like a better deal than one who’s on top of him.

“Hey, pal, you coulda knocked,” he grits out, adrenaline hitting him almost as hard as Peter had.

[volumeone]

Fangs click as he snaps at the precious flesh, only inches away, and it's like an animal wearing a man's face all of a sudden.

Gone is the handsome guy who had a disarming, lopsided grin that translated through the vampire's vacant eyes. Now he's hissing, pushing with all his might and it's almost enough to overpower Steve. His grip bruises. Fingers curl into claws as his nails dig into Steve's skin. But there's no tactics there, no higher thought that he'd displayed earlier when they'd first met, when he'd sauntered down his ship's ramp and shook hands and agreed to a cease-fire. It doesn't occur to him to get Steve even more tangled up into the sheets, to wrap his shoulders and head in them so he's disoriented, so he's easier prey. That's the problem with a primal taste of blood. Makes you lose all reason. Makes everything on high alert that everything is now-now-now.

The next thing he knows, he's flying across the room.

Peter lands with a grunt, more surprised than in pain. The heavy dresser he flew into splinters into kindling, his head cracking against the wall with an audible thud. It would've killed another man - maybe would've killed him, before he was infected - but now he's lurching up to his feet. Black liquid oozes out from his mouth from where he'd bit his tongue on the way down. It drools out to splatter against the carpet as he moans. A hand comes up to wipe at it. There's a slight pause when he looks at his palm, smeared with a vampire's ruined blood, and his eyebrows jerk up in the closest thing to a sentient's intelligence he's displayed since he woke up high on Steve. The noise he'd made, low, almost pathetic, ratchets up in pitch as he lunges again and he doesn't think to go for the shield in the corner or the perfectly good lamp that would've made a projectile. Maybe if Steve's blood had been normal: enough to keep a vampire hungry and desperate, but not enough to sear all rational thought from his head. All Peter can think about now is basic want. Feed. Touch. Cling. Everything in between, but the most eloquent thing he can bring up is how it felt when they were together, when he was greedily feeding and he could feel Steve steady and strong against him, better than anyone else he's ever fed on.

The vampire will skitter to the side now as he tries to angle lower, his body held so low he's almost on all fours. The blue eyes burn softly in the dark, glinting as he comes again at Steve. Peter scrambles across the bed, a trail of black oil following him from his gaping mouth, and he's throwing himself bodily at Steve with the desperation of a dying man.

[punched_hitler]

Steve admittedly grimaces for a whole second, when he hears the crack of Peter's head hitting the wall. Killing the vampires' envoy would be in bad taste - but then, so would said envoy eating him for a midnight snack, so when he sees that Peter is barely dazed, already tensing to pounce again, he stops worry about that and starts worrying more about how to end this, and fast.

It's not like fighting a regular human. It's not even like fighting the Hulk, for all that the similarities are the first to spring to Steve's mind. It's like fighting an animal - a hungry, desperate one that cares far less about living past its next meal than just getting it. And that's hard - it's hard, because strategy almost stops doing much good, when your opponent stops making sense. That is more like working with the Hulk, knowing he's not thinking like a rational or skillful fighter, and at least Steve can use that to his advantage. When Peter lunches at him again, Steve's already twisting and rolling out of the bedsheets and coming up with a hard elbow aimed at those fangs, that nose.

He's aiming to stun the envoy, to hurl him back across the room again, give Steve a little breathing room to gain a bit more ground. Steve is guessing - correctly, he hopes - that Peter will keep lunging back, no matter how many times he's thrown away, because if Steve's what he wants and he's not thinking about anything else, then he does become predictable and Steve can work around it.

So he's already measuring out the distance to his shield in how fast he can move, and how fast Peter can lunge. If he can get the vibranium up between them, it might be a game changer.

[volumeone]

Peter's head snaps back with a spray of black blood (saliva?) splattering against the ceiling like modern art. His legs actually fly up as he's catapulted flat on his ass. The hiss cuts off so fast it's almost funny.

It doesn't kill him. But his vision lights up like Vegas and he falls to the floor, harder than when he'd gotten kicked in the gut. That buys a few precious seconds.

When Peter rights himself, he's streaming more of that black shit from his face. It's oily. Too viscous to be blood, the stuff is forming a growing stain from his nose and his mouth, gaping open wide to reveal the movie-star white of his fangs. They're definitely a lot longer than they were when they were chatting, no longer just dangerous little hints that took a backseat to his plague's eyes. The tar drools out as he snarls, truly pissed, and he lunges again. This scenario isn't that all new to Peter. He's hunted before. First with Gamora holding his head like he needed training wheels, then by himself once the guilt and sentience hit her. Even now that memory is woven into the fabric of his being. He can lead with his left foot when he pushes off, get more ground. Get a hand around the victim's throat, the eye. Soft spots to cripple and stun so he can bear down with his full body weight and feed.

He lunges at Steve far higher than before, almost enough to graze the ceiling. What he isn't expecting if for Steve's shoulder to jerk forward. Red, white, and blue fills his vision. A red star blazes in the dark like a car about to run him over.

Peter's fingers claw at the vibranium. Breath wooshes out in a howl. His teeth gnash, fangs squealing against the metal as he gnaws in mindless frustration. He'd jumped high enough that when he came down and met the shield, he doesn't have a solid grip on the ground even with his height. His bare feet scrabble against carpet, his toes unable to get enough purchase right off the bat.

The breathing room Steve was looking for? He's got it.

[punched_hitler]

It's like fighting a wild animal - and that's something Steve's never done, not past handling the Hulk, and to be honest, no one really handles the Hulk. It was hard to read Peter's eyes before - now, with his fangs gaping and his eyes swirling, it feels like there's even less of a person at home. Steve doesn't know what changed, but he knows he's got to contain, not kill - and do it fast. Someone might come running, and he doesn't want anyone else involved.

Or, worse, Peter might win, and Steve definitely doesn't like the outcome in that scenario any better.

At least the shield is keeping him at bay. Good, because if that hadn't worked… well, Steve opts not to think about that right now, when it clearly has, and he needs to think one, two maybe three steps ahead to contain this threat. He pushes forward, driving Peter's back into his bedroom wall, not caring if it leaves a crater in the metal, just caring that he can pin the vampire behind something that takes away his leverage, aiming to keep the taller man - creature, alien, whatever - on the tips of his toes, unable to get enough purchase to lash back out, get the upper hand again.

"Quill," Steve hisses harshly, pushing the shield against the struggling vampire harder, practically feeling ribs creak underneath it. "Quill, are you in there? Can you hear me?"

He'll give him one chance to reply - and only one. After that, it's subdue now, ask questions later. Steve's already leaning hard on the elbow the shield's strapped to, putting his full body weight against Peter and the wall, reaching down and grasping the edge of his own t-shirt and tearing off the bottom in a long strip, wrapping his knuckle in the thin fabric and knowing it's not much of a protection, but if he's going to start slamming his fist repeatedly into the side of Peter's face, he'll take what he can get.

[volumeone]

Peter isn't home right now. He's a bundle of instincts, riding the blood-high of a vampire who's had the best taste he's had, ever.

He squirms against the shield, even when he slams against the wall hard to enough to force him to cough up the black oil that's found in all infected. It splatters down the vibranium plates, hits Steve in his all-American face. Good news is you can't get infected just by that. You need to be bitten, to be drained but to not die - maybe the vampire doing the biting was distracted, maybe they were able to control their thoughts, or they were killed before they could finish feeding. The black blood, though, will burn at the touch, filling the bedroom's air with the scent of a human's sizzling skin. His ribs crack under the impact, the virus giving him even more of a kick than good, homegrown Terran-style adrenaline. He's still clawing and hissing when he spots the flash of movement to the side.

Steve's closed fist slams into the side of his face.

A squeal cuts through the air, the oily block splattering to paint the side of the wall. His struggles slow. It takes the next one, two, three hits before he sags against the shield pinning his body to the wall. His hands drop down, relax from where they'd been curled into claws. His ruined eyes roll up, and he almost looks human again when they drift shut...if it wasn't for the mask of black blood he's drooled down his chin in his hurry to get another taste, even just enother sip, of Steve.

let me know if anything needs tweaking!

[punched_hitler]

The smell of burning skin is one that Steve knows better than he'd like. For a second, it takes him back to the war, back to those camps he liberated, to the sights he saw as it it fills his nose and fuels his desperation all the more, leaning his weight into the shield even as Peter sags, starts to finally give in, and if Steve maybe goes for one punch too many... he'll apologize to the guy later. But right now, he needs to be sure.

Once he is sure, though, he doesn't waste any time. He does know he doesn't want Peter waking up before Steve gets him somewhere secure, so he simply picks up the vampire and slings him over one shoulder with his free hand, keeping the shield on the other and making for the holding cells six levels below ground. He doesn't bother calling in any guards or backup - he doesn't know what's happened, but those cells are Hulk-proof six times over, and if they can't hold Peter, then a bunch of guys in body armor really aren't going to add anything but future corpses to the mix.

Besides, if this gets out, it could become an intergalactic incident. It could turn really bad, really fast. And Steve doesn't know what happened, and he wants to know - needs to know - before he takes this to anyone else. So he simply takes care of the situation himself, because he handled the guy once, and he believes he can do it again. There's no need to get anyone else involved until he can either get some answers out of Peter, or he determines that the former just isn't possible. If it's not... he'll worry about what to do next then.

On the holding level there are six cells, three on each side of a narrow hall, the whole place windowless and lit starkly fluorescent white. Each cell has a little bed, sink, and toilet, all designed specifically to be as useless as weapons or leverage as possible. The front is entirely glass - well, except it's not glass so much as a clear compound that can take a nuclear blast at point blank, with a two-way speaker system and cool air filtering in from a vent that's as impenetrable as the rest.

Steve gets Peter into the room at the farthest end, uses the sink and the strip of his ruined t-shirt to wash him off - and to wipe the stinging, burning blood off his own skin. There's no mirror, so he doesn't know what he looks like, but it probably isn't pretty. It doesn't matter - it'll heal, even if it takes time. His body's already starting in on a good try, anyway, if the itching is any indication. Once Peter is settled and at least a little cleaned up, Steve slips out of the cell and waits on the other side, with the window between them, seated on a bench in his ruined clothes, shield within easy reach by one leg.

Looks great!

[volumeone]

Peter wakes up with the vampire equivalent of a weekend of hangovers and real shitty life choices he's guaranteed to regret later.

Basically it's just like that first time Yondu took him to Contraxia.

He wakes up with the taste of blood on his lips. Peter finds himself sprawled on a hard, thin mattress on what feels like a thick slab of concrete and he'll find that's exactly what it is as his eyes creak open, the familiar, unnerving glimpse of a vampire's infected eyes peeking teal through his eyelashes, crushed over with the black sludge of his own blood's splash-back. Steve had done his best, but he wasn't as thorough as a shower: Peter wakes up feeling gross, exhausted, and sore. Hurting. Feels like he got his face smashed in by one of Contraxia's galactically famous bouncers. Peter slowly stirs, jerking suddenly into a fetal position as if he's finally registering the all American beat down he got a few hours ago. A pained hiss escapes through his fangs bared in the harsh white buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. The very light seems to stab into his eyes.

" - Jesus Christ," Peter spits and he does spit, coughing up something big, black and foul from his lungs. It splatters on the floor as he sits up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, his limbs shaking with exertion. With some old, not quite satisfied need.

He manages to lever himself up, the muscles of his arm shaking as if he'd been trying to hold the ceiling from collapsing on him. Peter's tongue unconsciously slips out to glide over his fangs, testing if he's got all his teeth or any are loose and it's then that he finally noticed the huge wall of glass standing opposite. It's not the "mirrors" that had been in the neutral negotiation rooms, used during the ceasefire, the ones that Peter had always glanced at and figured, hey, it's gotta be like the movies. One way, with a cigar chewing cop/FBI agent/ETC on the other side. This wall is just see through, a little dimmed like it's been coated with a layer of something extra, but he can see someone on the other side. Squinting, his eyes narrowed to glowing blue-green slits, Peter can just make out Steve sitting on a bench, elbows resting on his knees and leaning forward.

Peter bites back most of his groan as he sits up, and now he's leaning forward, trying to work out if he's being threatened, if this is where the humans have turned against him.

"Explain this," Peter snaps, and he isn't bothering with the old "we could've been drinking buddies" thing from earlier. How can he? He can tell he's had blood (real good blood) from the way his fangs are still fully out, how his body shivers like an addict on edge, on the verge of getting another taste. He crosses his arms, hugging himself as if trying to warm his body, chilling now that Steve's blood is working itself out of his system, like a wildfire burning itself out.

[punched_hitler]

The second Peter starts to stir, Steve notices; he pushes himself up off the bench, looking none too pretty with his own too-pink, healing face and ruined clothes. If nothing else, he's got some pretty convincing visuals to go with his concerned expression by the time he steps up to the material separating them.

He waits for Peter to get himself upright, watching closely but saying nothing until the other - understandably - demands an explanation.

"I can explain about half of it," he says, still watching Peter closely, looking for signs of the feral animal he'd been before. They're… there, sort of, in the way those fangs are still visible when he speaks - and, of course, the ruined eyes - but he's speaking actual words, rather than just throwing himself at the glass, which is admittedly a very real worry Steve had had, up until a few seconds ago. (Of course, he can't really rule out that it might still happen, but here's hoping.) "You're in there because you attacked me a couple hours ago. Middle of the night, while I was sleeping. You seemed… wild. I couldn't reason with you, so I had to handle you with a little more prejudice."

Peter looks like he'll definitely be able to figure out what that means, given how he probably feels.

"I'm sorry," he offers - but only in as much as he's sorry it was necessary, not that he'd done it. "I cleaned you up as best I could, but if you need medical attention, I'll arrange it."

Still, "I'd like to know what happened. Whether you remember it, or - you know what happened." If it's something they need to worry about again, is definitely what he means. Because if it is… things just got a lot more complicated.

[volumeone]

His eyes are narrowed, squinting as if he can focus past the shivers racking his body. Steve looks like he ran into a wall and his face - oh God, his face is flushed, he can tell it's pink with blood and it makes his whole body ache with need. Want, he tells himself, because he's lived on blood rations, but...but hell. He can't deny it. Steve tastes even better than the first meal he'd choked on months ago, on some planet that Steve's probably never even heard of.

"Handled me, huh?" Peter echoes, and he's on the fence if he's impressed at Steve's strength or threatened by it. If he'd turned...rabid, fully thirsting for blood like a newbie, he wouldn't have thought that Steve could hold him back. Iron Man, sure: dude's cheap because he made sure to bolt himself in a suit of armor that could snipe you from a football field away. Steve, though. He would've thought he could've taken Steve if he had to but now he isn't so sure.

Shifting his weight, his arms coming up to hug his torso as if he can keep it from shaking apart with the aftershocks of Steve's blood, Peter sizes up the reinforced window.

"We'll see if I need your doctors poking at me," Peter hisses. "I'll live."

He gives up with trying to stand, deciding it's better for his vertigo if he remains parked where he is. Fingers digging into his biceps, hard enough to discolor skin, he finally drops eye contact. Or he seems to. The muscles around his eyes twitch and his chin dips slightly. His vampire's eyes seem to be looking at nothing at all as the faintly glowing teals swirl at the same slow pace they always have.

"I..."

Peter thinks back, really thinks back. Steve isn't a friend, he tells himself. He's not quite an enemy, but he could be, and that's exactly what he doesn't want doctors coming at him too. Flashes of last night are coming in if he really focuses, if he tears at the brief flashes of sight and sound and taste flooding his mouth. Mostly the taste. The want - that glows like a neon sign.

"I don't remember waking up. Think I remember sneaking into your room. The, uh...the taste. Like nothing I've had before," Peter's shoulders jog in a shrug. "Maybe it's just human blood. Or maybe it's, y'know, whatever's in you."

He flicks a limp hand at Steve, top to bottom. He figures the comics had to be right about him. It has to be him particularly, because if it was every human on Earth, he figured the fleet would've disobeyed his orders, his whole Xandar Hero thing be damned. Someone would've snuck a taste of legit human blood. Someone probably already did. None of them had reacted the same wild, uncontrolled way he had. Peter actually flushes slightly, made possibly because he still has Steve's blood in his system, warming his cheeks, his blood vessels and finger tips that had always felt faintly numb until now.

[punched_hitler]

Steve watches the vampire with a sharp gaze and an uncomfortable feeling twisting in his gut. He looks sick, like he's suffering the kind of shakes that he grew up hearing about when a drunk tried to go off the drink, with what he now knows is withdrawal. It's a very real thing, and just because Peter says he'll live doesn't mean a thing. He can't possibly be comfortable. And if he's in withdrawal, then he's got to have been given something, and Steve's already starting to wonder, with a sinking feeling, when Peter says maybe it's whatever's in you.

Maybe all those people who'd been hesitant when Steve had offered himself up had been right. And, more to the point, maybe he's responsible for all of this. For sickening what's essentially an ambassador of goodwill.

Well, shit. Good intentions and all that.

He blows out a breath, looking just the faintest but guilty. "You're not in there to be punished," Steve says quietly, evenly. "You're in there because I need to make sure you're not a threat - intentionally or unintentionally. If you need help, we'll get you help." But, "I don't know if giving you more of my blood is a good idea or not. I'm inclined to think not. Would regular blood help? Flush it out of your system?"

He's not a doctor, certainly never really had a lot of experience with withdrawal, himself. But his ma was a nurse, and he reads a lot. He's not stupid. There have to be options. One of them is giving Peter another hit. But another could be diluting what's already there. Or maybe there's a third, that he hasn't thought of yet. Maybe he should be calling Banner. Or… somebody. Anybody.

But there's part of him that wants to deal with this quietly. The truce is delicate, and while Steve is often not prone to delicacy, there's so much at stake, here. Everything. And he can afford to be a little delicate, with the human race on the line.

[volumeone]

Steve's stare is piercing. Maybe more than he expected, because he has a human's white visceral bordering those intense baby blues. He's pretty sure - mostly sure - that it isn't the thirst for his fancy blood that's doing the talking there.

"No idea. Maybe," Peter sighs between his fangs. "Can't hurt to give it a shot."

Well, it might hurt someone, because that blood has to come from somewhere, but he figures it's a small price to pay not to be rip Steve to shreds just for another precious sip. He hunkers down on his perch, his shoulders hunched up as he grips tight against his arms, as if he can will away the shivering. His fingers feel like they're digging through skin and muscle to the bone. His lips purse. There's the pink glimpse of his tongue at it nervously wets his lips and his lashes flutter as he sucks in a shaking breath.

He shifts his weight, forcing himself to straighten so he isn't curled over like he's been kicked in the stomach.

"Never had anything like that before. There isn't more of you, is there?"

With his ruined eyes, it'd be hard to tell if he was hoping he had Steve to himself...or maybe he was thinking about the clustfuck it'd be if other vampires found more with blood like that.