Unwanted Attention

April 19, 2015:

Victor Creed tracks Sharon Carter to her apartment and makes her a promise.

Sharon's Loft

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Sharon's loft wasn't much to shake a stick at. Surely the furniture looks expensive, but it was nothing but a few pieces that IKEA had hand delivered and put together themselves. Almost everything inside was eco-friendly; Brita water setup, KRUEIG brewer, various plants that were not dead and looked to be watered daily and well taken care of. The Sheui of the place created a spacious look, the kitchen itself elaborate, her bedroom, which was sectioned off by sliding doors, massive in it's own right.

Something proper for the SHIELD agent in you.

This night, she had laid in bed, pistol right underneath her pillow, the large, full bodied windows pried open just a touch to let the cool, night air in. She was living in a busy section of town, the many cars, chatter, and the horns of those who travel outside below served as a white noise to allow her to sleep soundly.

The window shifted just a little bit in the night, opening fully to allow for the massive man who clambered up the side of the building. Creed's claws left marks in the stonework, scars that would forever remind Sharon of the mutant who climbed the side of her building to peek in her window, to watch her sleep.

Not that he intended to just let her sleep.

Still, for a time, he crouches there in the windowsill, barefoot, watching with his cat-eyes, the slit pupils catching an extravagance of light. After a moment, casually, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and draws out a cigar, lighting it with a zippo…and seeing how long it takes before the smell wakes her up.

It takes her a clear minute, her head fixing itself upon the pillow, her arm drawing underneath as fingers touch and curl upon the glock that rests underneath. Her eyes slowly open, the figure in the moonlight was daunting, and while Sharon was afraid, her face remained a facade of neutrality.

She was possibly twenty stories up. It doesn't take a normal person to climb that high, unless they were repelled from above. And she sees no strings upon this one, because there are no strings on him..

Should she just shoot? Her finger was itchy, and tapping two into him would surely send him out of the window and into the streets below… the options were there. She just had to figure out which one she was better off taking.

Victor Creed runs his tongue over his fangs, cocking his head, "Mmmmmmmmmm, rise an' shine, sleepy girl. You c'n go fer your gun if'n you want, though I just gotta spring my legs forward an', even if ya shoot me, I'll still land inside. Ain't like in movies, where a gunshot sends ya flyin' 'cross the room - I weigh over three hundred pounds, girl, gonna take a lot more'n a couple pokes like that," he says.

"Course, you could just…leave it be. After all, if I just came t'kill ya, I coulda jumped in that beddy bye and torn yer throat out with my teeth 'fore you left dreamland," he says.

Sharon pushes herself upright, her arm following through with the gun near to her lap, the her finger upon the trigger, still.. the safety was clean off. Her head turns as she draws up her free hand to wipe the sleep from her eyes, blinking not once, but twice, the voice known..

"Victor Creed." She states, clearing her throat just a little.

"What is it you want? Because if you're here for a fight, you're going to be sorely disappointed." Her moves were slow, her gaze never moving from him for a moment, drawing back off of the bed to stand upon the otherside, the sheet falling to the ground.

She was in nothing salacious, just a pair of pajama pants (bears), and a tank-top with a heart planted in the middle. It was a very, very far cry from the girl in the laundromat the night prior.

Victor Creed cocks his head, "Why, 'cause you wouldn't put up much o' one? Need more beauty rest 'fore you throw down wit' the big bad Sabretooth?" he smirks.

"I just followed my nose. Can't let a trail get cold, makes it a pain sortin' it out from all the normal stink o' the city. An', now that I'm satisfied that I found ya…and I've got enough of a noseful to make sure I don't lose out on your scent ever again…well…I figure I'd just say hello."

"You'll be seeing me around, after all."

This would be enough to make a normal person just not like mutants. Whatever Sabretooth was, he was going to take a lot to end it. But she didn't appreciate the intrusion, this little game that he was intent on playing with her. He was in her safe place, and he tracked her all by something that she couldn't control nor mask. This… aside from making her afraid.. possibly pissed her off all the more.

The hand swiftly lifts as she crouches, finger pulling the trigger as she begins to fire at a steady rate. She was going to empty the clip into him to annoy him…

"..You break into my home!" She berates him, firing all the while.

"..While I'm asleep!"

*BLAMBLAM*!

"Un-fucking-acceptable!"

This time, once the clip is emptied, she doesn't drop the gun, she holds onto it and dashes out of her room.

Victor Creed does as he said, springing forward into the gunfire and landing on all fours with a heavy THUMP, his body pierced through with a half dozen rounds, blood spattering down to stain her carpet.

"Mmmmmmmm, damn, that's bracing!" he laughs, "You like yer foreplay, I'll grant ya that, chicky," he says.

He doesn't rush as he stands up, drawing his jacket off and letting it drop, leaving him shirtless, his garment shredded from their earlier encounter, just in a pair of jeans as he makes his way in. The bulletholes in his torso seal, pucker, the hardware popping out of the wounds and landing on the floor.

"Gotta admit, I never was much good at followin' the rules. Etiquette an' that kinda shit. Only use I ever had for Martha Stewart was borin' me into an afternoon nap," he says.

"That's a nice vase, though."

He told what he would do, and much to her surprise, he did it. She was out of the room before that happened, knowing the way the ground beneath her feet works, sliding upon the floor to duck down behind her couch to reach underneath to retrieve a spare clip.

Out with the old..
In with the new..

Her glock was reloaded and ready to fire with a drawback of the mechanism which sounds out with a loud *CLICK*.

She remains ducked however, slow pacing herself around the couch, listening to his words with a slight shake of her head. She needed to get to her phone, and it was in the kitchen. Making such a risky move draws her out into the open, which she would not take just yet.

"What do you want, Creed?" She calls out, one hand pressed upon the floor as she gets herself ready.

Victor Creed chuckles lowly, "Oh, a little song, a little dance, a little touch of sweet romance…" he drawls. He walks along the wall and sinks a claw in, casually dragging a line through the paint, scraping a mark at around the height of his shoulder, which is above the top of Sharon's head.

"That's the problem with you modern spy types. It's all agenda and conspiracy. I ain't no actor, I don't need no motivation. I do what I do 'cause it's what I feel like doin', sugartits."

He finds himself standing in front of another large window, this one looking down fully at the street below, twitching the curtains aside to peek. "You can get awful bored after a hundred years or so o' rippin' out throats. You look fer new things to pass the time. You seem like you might be fun…for a while," he smiles.

His words appalled her enough to draw herself upright. Her hands were at her side, the face she makes was something that was only drawn in comic books. What the fuck, written all over it. Even though she will not shoot, she still keeps her pistol at her side, keeping the distance, making sure her steps were true in case she needs to move, and move fast.

"You.. I…" Her gun hand lifts, idly scratching her head with the barrel. She was.. perplexed to say the least.

"D..du.."

Yeah, she was tongue tied. "Did.. you want to go out on a date?"

Yeah, saying that outloud.. it fucked even her up.

Victor Creed snorts, "Not exactly," he says. "I'm sayin' that I'm gonna be around. Payin' ya visits. Sayin' hello. Hauntin'. Peekin'. And I'm gonna do it 'cause it's fun. Sometime, I might get bored enough that I decided to run ya down and rip ya up a bit. Sometime I might get irritated enough with yer fightin' back that I lose my temper and tear out yer spine."

He looks over his shoulder, grinning, "I'm just playin' it by ear, y'understand. Organic-like."

Shell shocked, is a way that Sharon could easily explain this. It was a dangerous game indeed to even entertain the notion. "I.." Alright. The gun was soon tucked into the band of her pj's, her walk and pace calm as she heads towards the kitchen proper. She reaches the fridge and opens the door, spying to see what was inside.

A few condiments, bottles of water, beer.. a row of wine unopened.. more beer.. a rotten sandwich.

More beer.

The bottle of water was snagged and held for a moment, her lips twisting in thought as she draws her hand back to launch it towards him. Whether he catches it or not, she already pulls her own from its place to open and take a quick swig.

"So. You came to my apartment, to basically let me know, that you're going to stalk me. And eventually kill me. Is that right?"

Victor Creed considers, putting his hand out flat and wobbling it a bit, "More or less, I s'ppose. Y'can't really do nothin' about it, but I figure if yer forewarned, the sport might be a little bit more fun. Gotta give ya a fightin' chance - or, at least, the illusion o' one. If ya start feelin'

Victor Creed considers, putting his hand out flat and wobbling it a bit, "More or less, I s'ppose. Y'can't really do nothin' about it, but I figure if yer forewarned, the sport might be a little bit more fun. Gotta give ya a fightin' chance - or, at least, the illusion o' one. If ya start feelin' all defeated 'fore we even get goin', chances are you'll get borin' faster and I'll end up with just another skin on my wall. I don't mind that, but I got the feelin' you can be more'n that."

The bottle soars across the apartment, smacking Victor dead on the chest, which falls to the floor at a tumble.

She couldn't believe it, she was talking to the man who would eventually.. well, kill her. Who needs a psychic with 'friends' like these? It was troubling, frightening even, but she keeps her cool, drawing her back upright as she crosses the pace towards the door itself, her hand reaching for the handle to snatch it open, another swig of her water taken.

"Get out." She states, her tone suggest that there would be no other option for him to.. but.. check that. He could stay. And if he does stay? She would be the one leaving and a SHIELD sweep team would be in her place.

Victor Creed grins, "Plannin' on it, darlin'," he says. "Door's this way, right?" he says. He walks casually across the living room, as if he were any other visitor, his long legs letting him easily step over the expanse of the coffee table.

"Don't worry, we won't do this every night. I hate to be predictable - we gotta keep the romance goin', don't ya know? But I'll be seein' ya soon. Maybe you'll even see me," he grins, winking.

"Sleep tight, pretty girl."

Sharon remained against the door, her eyes following his every movement, her face remaining as straight as she possibly could until he leaves the threshold. She immediately closes it behind her, locking the doors with a faint click, leaning against the wood as she finally takes the heaving breaths that she held since the first time she's met him.

"Oh god.. oh god.." She manages to get out, fear completely taking over, her knees trembling as she slides down to hit her bottom to the floor, legs drawn up enough to press her hands against her head, gun still gripped with a white knuckled grasp yet her trigger finger remaining clasped lightly against it's handle.

She tries to calm herself with a deep inhale, but that only makes the tears come, a silent cry in the darkness as she places the glock upon the ground, immediately moving to her closet to throw doors open, grabbing a 'go' bag pre-packed.

She was getting the hell out of here. It obviously wasn't safe there anymore.

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