Hunter (tvd x male oc)

Chapter 4: An unlikely savior

Sullivan has no problem admitting that he's made a mistake when he's actually made a mistake. But this isn't his fault. Nope. Not at all.

So what if he got a little drunk before they went out and forgot that the club he decided he and Aneesa were going to was common hunting grounds for vampires? He was drunk, therefore absolving him of his slight slip up.

And, in all fairness to himself, he did wipe out a majority of the clubs common night walkers. even if the slaughter was a few months ago. How was he supposed to know it would've grown so much so quickly, beyond its previous state even. There wasn't even so much as a whisper of activity around this club in the supernatural network he'd managed to worm his way into through light threats (promises of death).

So again: not his fault.

Nor was it his fault that he failed to notice that half of the club was filled with the demons (not actual demons—they're way nicer and way less cocky than some ancient nobodies nobody knows the name of). Because, again, he was drunk. And the bar listing fruity cocktails tailored to his preference's certainly didn't help his sobriety.

So naturally—with the help of an excessive amount of liquor and the knowledge that his friend has already found someone to take home—the next step of his night out was to dance amongst and against the monsters, even if he did so unknowingly at the time.

It wasn't his fault when he stepped on some prissy dudes previously pristine shoes. It wasn't his fault when the guy tried to compel him to clean the leather off with his tongue. And it certainly wasn't his fault when he instinctively forged a telekinesis rune on his hand, nor the resulting damage caused by the leach flying through the air like the world's most disabled bird—and the randos (thankfully all vampires) that were within the blast radius were all sent flying as well, granted in a lesser degree as the blast was majorly focused on the one trying to compel him, but being as drunk as Sullivan was makes his aim embarrassingly average.

So really, he shouldn't have been surprised when the remaining vampires attacked him, and he should've been prepared for it. But, again, he was drunk, so his movements were sloppy—the only reason he managed to fight them off as long as he did was also thanks to his inebriated state, allowing him to fire off attacks with reckless abandon and no coordination unlike his usually thought out movements, and therefore making him unpredictable—and shouldn't have been surprised when he was eventually beaten and bound in magic restraints. But alas, he gawked down at the chains with absolute disbelief, completely and utterly shocked that he lost to the overwhelming amount of new and ancient vampires alike that would've more likely than not have beat him even if he were sober—the prospect that he maybe should've retreated, and the thought of purging the alcohol from his system having not crossed his mind for even a moment.

But, again, he was and still is drunk. So maybe the ring clad hand around his throat isn't as threatening or intimidating as it probably should be. And instead of worrying about the fact his neck could snap with a squeeze of the hand, he's enjoying the feeling of cool metal on his overheated skin.

"What's wrong with him?" The voice belongs to the person holding his throat. At least, Sullivan thinks so. Everything's kinda fuzzy, and his brain feels like cotton soaking in a bath of boiling hot soup made of liquor. The voices following the question are even more unintelligible, and just mesh into a buzzing noise that makes it feel like his brain's vibrating in his skull—he can't decide if it's a pleasant feeling, but everything goes from feeling good to bad at the moment; his clothes are touching his body wrong one second, and then perfectly the next, and the pressure hand around his throat is applying is comforting and almost securing one moment, and then uncomfortably tight and restrictive a few seconds later.