ArchivedLogs:Palatable

Palatable
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Isra, Hive
In Absentia	2014-01-20 '
Location <NYC> The Roost - Village Lofts - East Village
Dusk's bedroom is a messy place as might be expected, cluttered with books and clothing, forgotten dishes, boxes of Magic cards, other miscellany. His bed is not 'bed' so much as 'mattress on the floor'; though there /is/ a full bed against the opposite wall, it's neatly made and has been untouched for a while. His desk holds the desktop -- somewhat literally. /Far/ more elaborate of a setup than his lack-of-bed, the desk /itself/, with see-through glass body and softly glowing lights inside, has been configured to /be/ the computer case. Closer inspection of a pair of small decorative aquariums sitting to either side of its three monitors finds them to /also/ be computer cases, their inner workings submerged in a pale blue liquid on a bed of aquarium pebbles alongside plastic plants and little plastic castles or fake coral. It's probably been a very demonstrative morning. Somewhere along the line there's been a /lot/ of tears. A /lot/ of hugging. A /lot/ of cuddling. More tears. Somewhere along the line the apartment has been turned upside down tearing recording devices out from where they've been planted and smashing them. You can't really /tell/, it looks messy as ever. All the maudlin has passed, though. This time of afternoon it's mostly back to business as usual in Geekhaus. Which means Hive is playing EVE in his bedroom and Dusk is perched on his stool in front of his desk, wings in a constant state of shift after his long stint in cramped confines. He's dressed as per usual at home, which means barely dressed at all -- with the heat cranked /way/ up in their apartment he's in no shirt, barefoot, faded blue jeans, absently swivelling back and forth as his fingers click absently at his mouse, scrolling lazily through a chain of emails. There's music playing in the background, Head Automatica. "Please Please Please". Pretty loudly. Wrapped in a flowing dress of hunter green trimmed in emerald satin, Isra looks ready for a belated holiday gala. The cohesive bandages that cover her feet--double-wrapped against the chill--match the trim, and reach almost all the way to her heels, nearly a foot off the ground. She carries a heavy green-and-gray cloak over one arm and a much-abused canvas tote over the other shoulder. Hesitating at the door, she raises one long-fingered hand and knocks loudly, three times. << It's open. >> Hive's typically bludgeony mindvoice comes hammering into Isra's mind with all the friendly welcome of an anvil. << Dusk's in his room. >> And as a tacked-on afterthought: << Condoms in the top desk drawer. He's been in jail /all/ fucking year. >> Outwardly, Isra only gives a wry smile and a quirk of one hairless eyebrow ridge before dropping her hand to the doorknob and letting herself in. The warm flush of embarrassment muddled with desire, however, would be plain enough to Hive. So, too, the clearly enunciated thought, << Thank you, and a good day to you, too. >> She strides through the apartment and pauses at Dusk's doorway, looking in. "Welcome back." Her voice is quiet, but resonant, curiously like two people speaking at once. Dusk swivels around in his desk chair, eyes locking on Isra in the doorway and a sharp fanged smile spreading across his face. He /looks/ none the worse for his weeks in prison -- looks, in fact, markedly better than before. A healthier colour to his skin, a darker glossier sheen to his hair. More definition to his lean muscles than they had previously had. One long wing curls outward to wrap around Isra, pulling her in towards himself. He rises from his stool, head tipping up towards her neck and his breath drawing in slowly. "How's your year been?" Already moving forward into the room herself, Isra allows Dusk to draw her in, tossing both cloak and tote on the mattress as she passes. "Cold. Busy. Intermittently infuriating." She snakes one arm around his shoulder as he rises, her hand finding the back of his head, sharp nails grazing scalp. I missed you, she signs with the free hand as she stretches one wing out around his, on the opposite side that he has enfolded her. Settling down to nearly match his height, she turns and touches her cheek to his, her own fangs showing beneath a slow smile. 'That sounds,' Dusk starts out signing and switches to words as his arms wrap, together with his wings, around Isra, "remarkably similar to my year." He considers this for a moment, cheek brushing back against hers and then his head tipping down further. His lips nuzzle slow against the vein along the side of her neck. "Maybe minus the busy." There's a low growl buried in his words, his breathing slower, deeper, as he breathes in against her pulse. "Did do a lot of push-ups though." Isra's bright green eyes slide shut when Dusk's lips touch her. Her other hand finds its way around hiss back and up between his wings, knuckles rubbing slow circles. "I can tell." She lets out a long, shuddering breath and grips him tighter with her wing. Push-ups or no, she, too, has kept up her strength training regimen. "They kept you well fed, then." It is not a question, exactly, but her pulse speeds up all the same, her skin quite warm if not visibly flushed. The soft growl deepens, a low rumble that thrums against Isra's skin. "Adequately," he corrects. "Adequately fed. I wouldn't say -- well. Blood from packets isn't -- quite. The /same/." His fingers press in against Isra's back, lips pressing flush against her skin again. His eyes close, head tipping down to rest his forehead against her collarbone, breath stopping for a moment. Resuming, slower than before. His wings press in, holding their bodies closer together. "What's been keeping you busy?" "I can only imagine." Isra's voice rises in pitch just slightly. "It is to be expected of prison food." She kisses the top of his head and sighs gently. "Work, to some degree, but for the most part it has been lawyer troubles." Her body tenses, but it passes as quickly as it came. "The attorney on retainer to my family, who had been handling the Columbia case before, no longer wishes to work in New York. The one I hired in his stead seemed quite enthusiastic...until we met face-to-face." Her wings hitch up, a vague shrug. "I wanted to give my students a better shot at higher education, but honestly I don't expect to succeed. Even if I can...it seems rather insignificant now. Better that I focus on giving them a chance to survive." "You should've seen the tasteless slop they were passing off as dinner." Dusk's lips curl up into a wry smile. His fingers knead at Isra's back when her body tenses. His head tips back up, his tongue tracing this time against her vein with a slower hungry shiver. His hold slackens, wings loosening so that he can put a half-step of distance between the two of them, looking up at Isra with a deep frown between his brows. "Insignificant. I'd say it's anything but that. I mean --" His teeth flash, thin and hard in his brief smile. "Fucking nigh-impossible maybe but /important/ as hell. I've seen the pups since they started school. And a lot of those other Xavier's kids besides. And some of them -- what the fuck's the point of just /surviving/, they need a world worth surviving in." "I had some concerns to that end, so I brought--" Isra indicates the tote on the bed with a swish of her tail. "--junk food, I suppose, which in retrospect might be redundant in this apartment. Though...I should gladly supply dessert of a more sanguine nature, as well." She traces Dusk's jaw with the tips of her talons as he draws away. "It is precisely the low likelihood of success that has led me to consider dedicating my energies elsewhere. Equal access to higher education is a vital cause, yes. But perhaps it needs a more palatable ambassador." "Most days redundant, maybe," Dusk acknowledges, amused. "But nobody's been living here for weeks, actually. Hive moved downstairs and Flicker --" Something uncomfortable crosses his expression. "Well, we don't actually know where he is. So there's not -- really any food here just now, junk or otherwise." His head tilts down into the tracing of her talons, pressing gently into the sharp tips to leave a faint red line thin against his skin. "There are better places to fight," he agrees easily. His smile flashes sharp again. "When you're a freak. And by next month I got a feeling more and more places are going to be /bringing/ the fight -- well. Everywhere." Isra's brows crease, ever so faintly. "Perhaps I ought to have brought more than just turnovers. I can have something delivered from my cousin's place." The last she tacks on absently, far more keen on Dusk than the finer points of acquiring food. "If it is already a war, it is long past time for the participants to realize it." Her fingers drop from his chin and wrap around his wrist, pulling them together again like swing dancers. "I have a confession to make." She drops her voice low and presses her ears back beneath the long curve of her horns. Someone else might have paused a beat for effect or for courage. Isra does not. "I love you. Tangentially, I also want to have sex with you." One corner of Dusk's lips twitch, faintly. His wings twitch, too, a faint shiver that ripples up through them. "Think some of their participants already have." But the /rest/ of Isra's words catch his attention far more fully; he steps in close, wings curling back in close around her as his head tips up to meet Isra's green eyes with his black ones. His smile curls wider. "Food can wait," he murmurs, low, a moment before he presses his mouth to hers, one wing unfurling to stretch out and nudge his door firmly shut behind them.