☠ 050

[molotov]

Who: Molotov and you
What: infected and sick... with lust
When: 11/22, evening
Where: all over, wherever
Rating: probably... up to R

When the flu symptoms cleared up, Molotov shrugged it off. She figured it was just the castle fucking around with the residents, as she never got sick, and wouldn't it have lasted longer if she was actually getting ill? So she decided to go about her business without really thinking about it or digging into the journal -- if the castle was giving everyone temporary colds, then the journal would just be filled with a lot of useless bitching.

Which only made it a bonus that she recovered so quickly. It gave her plenty of time to roam the castle and accomplish the things that she usually didn't get to bother with, due to the overwhelming presence of the other residents.

She barely noticed any change at all, not until something in the back of her mind made her think that maybe she should go find her husband. But he'd still been sick when she left, so she just stayed out. Stayed out and... well.

Anything can happen in the castle.

Comments

[samson]

Well, poor decision or not, it's effective! Brock's endless supply of rage switches from his wife to this mysterious Unknown Assailant (he is too stupid with anger right now to consider that Spike didn't disappear into thin air or otherwise leave), and he lets go of her throat.

Even though his brain is muddled with Wrath right now, his training is hard-wired into him -- so instead of scrabbling uselessly at the makeshift rope around his neck, he slams his elbow backwards into Spike, trying to break his tension on the shirt garrote.

On the plus side, this will be a nice story to laugh about over beer later.

[molotov]

Molotov stumbles back when released, gasping and coughing as she watches the two of them over there. Maybe she can get them to fuck her together. Once they stop trying to kill each other. That would probably be good.

[gottaknockhard]

Shit. Spike has to have anticipated what would happen if he tried that move on Brock while he's blind with rage, but not enough to completely avoid the elbow hitting his bruised ribs. He loses his grip on the shirt, and stumbles only a few steps before his hands go up again, ready to fight.

In the moment he has before Brock turns around, he gestures to Molotov. Get away from here, crazy bitch. He hopes that getting strangled is enough to snap her out of it. Wishful thinking...