ArchivedLogs:Healing Help

Healing Help
Dramatis Personae Doug, Dusk	2013-10-30 Warning: definite Adult Situations at the end. (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Laundry Room - East Village
This laundry room looks as many laundry rooms do. Fluorescent lights a little too-bright, linoleum floor is chipping, lint-dusty and occasionally stained sticky with spilled detergent. A broom and dustpan in one corner encourage its users to contribute to its cleanliness, which they do with intermittent conscientiousness. A bank of quarter-fed washing machines along the wall have clear windows on their doors to watch the laundry spin and turn within. On the wall opposite, a matching row of dryers near-perpetually has at least one out of commission. A rickety folding table and chairs at one side provide a place to sit and wait. There's a dispenser on the wall that will provide single-use sized packets of detergent or fabric softener, but it is hit or miss whether it is ever in stock. The laundry room is warming up, the quiet rumble of the dryers leaking pleasantly fabric-softener-scented heat that wards off the autumn chill outside. Dusk has ensconced himself down in the laundry room, a pile of clothing already clean and dumped onto the table. He's been folding it, at some point, that is clear from the items already folded and tucked into his laundry basket in a neat pile, but at the moment he has stopped. He's seated sideways in a chair, in jeans and flip-flops and no shirt, wings tucked in around him like a soft blanket. His kind of corpselike pallor is sadly not even unusual for him, more his default state when he goes too long in between feedings. His laptop has been pushed aside behind the pile of clothes to make room for folding. Or for sleep, where he's sort of half-faceplanted into the clean warm laundry. Wednesday is not a day that Doug is generally home during the daylight, so it is probably a surprise when the blonde pushes through the laundry room door, yawning widely and dragging a hamper that is not-quite-overflowing with laundry to be done. Dressed in a pair of snug sweat pants and a blue thermal undershirt, the teenager's own flip-flops make a sad sort of drag-slap as he moves. Shhhh-slap! Shhh-slap! He pauses by the washers, blinking a couple of times sleepily before he notices Dusk at the table. Since the other man seems to be sleeping, the blonde just offers a warm half-smile at the face-planted Dusk before he begins opening machines a bit more quietly. "Mnnrgh," is Dusk's mumbled answer to the sound of the opening door. His wings tightening against his back and then relaxing into a downward droop, lean muscles shifting with the slow flex of motion. They stretch out afterwards, also slow, a languid shift outwards that the laundry room -- and indeed /most/ indoor spaces in an apartment building -- doesn't really have room to accomodate; one wing bumps up against the rumbling dryer, the other brushing against Doug. Dusk pulls them back in with a breezy stirring of air, his shoulders curling inward again before he lifts his head. Blinks blearily at Doug. "Oh, shit, sorry." He props an elbow on the table, cheek dropping to his hand. "Sorry, I -- uh -- take up a lot of -- space." The noise of Dusk's awakening gets another small smile from Doug, although it's aimed into a washer at the moment. At the brush of wing, Doug sways to lean into it before it's pulled back. Turning to grab clothes from the hamper, this time his grin is aimed correctly. "'Sokay," he says in a hoarse-sounding voice, then clears his throat, grimacing. "There's worse things in the world than being bumped by warm fuzziness." He grabs an armful of clothes, and shoves them into the first machine. "You look about as beat as I feel," he says sympathetically. "Did you guys have a post-game night video game marathon, too? Although," he says, grabbing another armload of clothes. "You seemed kind of worn-out last night, too. You feeling okay?" "I had a post-game-night --" Dusk sounds sort of scratchy-hoarse, himself, his voice rougher and lower than usual. He stops with another grimace, and a shiver, pulling his wings in tighter around himself. "-- Um. I don't remember I think I just. Went to bed. Do you -- need water you sound a little --" He frowns over at Doug. "Why so beat?" Doug's eyebrows hike at that unfinished statement, but he doesn't press the matter; busying himself wth putting the last of the clothes in a washer and then extracting a bottle of laundry soap from the bottom, he shakes his head at the offer. "Nah, I'm good," he says, his voice already sounding smoother. "It's just from a lack of sleep. I forgot what having roommates was like." He smiles, and lifts a shoulder, measuring out the soap and dumping it in the washers. "There's a couple of guys in my group who /really/ like Mario Kart." He wrinkles his nose. "Especially at night, when they can make the apartment dark and just play /that/. I can't convince them to wear headpones, so it gets a bit..." he shrugs, and grins. "It's all good, though. They're good guys." Closing the washers, he looks over his shoulder at Dusk, raking his gaze along the older man's frame studiously. "Are you okay?" "People are slowly -- finding their way back out into the city or. Wherever, you should. Have your place to yourself again soon. Though I thought /your/ place was supposed to be --" Dusk trails off again, slowly leaning in to lower his head back to his pile of clothing, wings dropping down to drape along the ground again. "It's okay we're almost -- almost through sorting people out. Paperwork and -- /places/ and all that. Couple staying in the building. Most not. I think Jax as the --" His eyes close again, another shiver passing through him. "Oh -- yeah I don't know my head is just splitting. And I've been kind of --" He straightens again, turning to better face Doug; on his far side that was previously facing away from Doug there's a patch of bandaging, soon hidden again behind one large dark wing. "Just a tiring couple weeks, you know?" His eyes fix on Doug, too, lifting upwards to settle somewhere at neck level. "Yeah, a couple of mine are moving out this weekend, I think," Doug confirms, closing the last washer and hitting the button. "My place is the quiet area," he says, nodding at Dusk as he hops to sit on top of the washer. "And they do keep it down during the day. That's usually when I can grab a nap." He smiles, and yawns. "It's good that they're getting back to their lives, though. All of those I've met seem pretty cool." He frowns at the shiver, and when the bandage is revealed, he hums thoughtfully, and hops back /down/ off the dryer. "Headaches are the worst," he says. "Especialy stress-induced." He drifts closer to Dusk, absently reaching out in an attempt to gently brush back that covering wing like a curtain. "Wounds don't help." "I usually hope they'll stay in touch I always get freaked out at the thought that they might disappear again and nobody'll notice cuz they've moved back out to fucking Omaha or some bullshit non-civilization." Dusk's eyes track Doug's closer movement, a slight flush entering his too-pale cheeks and the tip of his tongue briefly wetting his lips. For a moment at the touch his wing tightens inward, pressing against Doug's hand, but then it relaxes. Shifts back with a soft brush of velvety skin against Doug's fingers to move away from the clean white patch of bandage. "It's nothing, you know. Just a --" His head shakes, eyes still fixed on Doug's neck. "I heal --" His eyes scrunch shut briefly, and then open again. "I heal -- heal fast." Doug wrinkles his nose at Dusk's concern, and looks troubled. "Oh, man. I hadn't thought about that. That would suck ass." He shakes his head, and exhales. "I guess you can only hope things work out for the best," he says, eyes narrowing as he inspects the bandage when it's revealed. If he's aware of Dusk's eyes on his neck, he's not giving any indication. "If it was 'nothing', and you heal fast, you wouldn't have the bandage still," he says, rolling his eyes up at Dusk with a flat sort of look. He reaches out as if he might touch the bandaging, but at the last minute shifts to rest his fingers along the spar of Dusk's wing, brushing against the velvety fur contemplatively. "What happened?" "Khh, no, sucking ass is pretty excellent. It'd suck, like. Festering infected pustules." There's a ripple of tension that tightens Dusk's muscles, bracing in anticipation as Doug reaches towards the bandaging, but he relaxes when fingers just move to his wing instead. "It was nothing and I do heal -- I do heal fast, just. It goes a bit slower when I haven't been --" He scrunches his eyes shut again, wing shifting up into the touch. "Got shot. S'been kind of a hobby of mine lately. Collecting bullets." "Well, yeah," Doug says, pinkening as Dusk corrects him. "Pustules is probably a better metaphor." He leans in to study the bandage, close enough that his breath probably ghosts along Dusk's skin before he pulls back a bit. His expression is bleak for the explanation, and his jaw sets almost imperceptibly. "Goes slower when you haven't been what?" he asks, furrowing his brow slightly. "Over-exerting yourself?" Dusk's wing drops, as Doug leans in, brushing slowly against Doug's side and then lowering to settle back against his own. "Eating right. I don't heal as quick without feeding regularly. But it's -- it's fine it'll. It was just a graze." "You need to eat right," Doug admonishes Dusk, his brow lowering further. "Especially if it'll help you heal." He straightens, dropping a hand to the other man's downy shoulder. "Graze or not, it was a fucking /bullet/, dude. You've got to take care of that stuff." His expression goes thoughtful for a moment, and he rubs a thumb along his lower lip. "Um." is hesitant, and one eyebrow creeps up. "Just to be clear, when you say 'eating right', you mean...?" Dusk's dark eyes stay fixed for a moment on Doug's neck, the slow flush creeping back into his cheeks. He swallows slow, and doesn't give an answer in words. His gaze pulls slowly up to Doug's face, lips parting and the tip of his tongue touching against the very sharp fangs prominent in his mouth. His wing curls inward, upper claw brushing very lightly against the vein in Doug's neck. Doug's eyes widen just a fraction at the confirmation of his suspicion, and the brush of claw earns a sudden flush of ruddiness in the blonde's cheeks. "Oh." It's soft, but lacks any of the prior hesitation. He chews at his thumb a bit more, considering as he watches Dusk's dark gaze, and the fangs just below. "Do you have regular...donors?" Another moment of consideration. "I guess it's not the sort of thing you can just ask people for, is it?" Dusk's wing drops back to his side. "It's a strange thing to ask people," he admits, "and more awkward than fucking them. I mean, I can't put a condom on their blood. It's not really romantic like TV shows. The vampires there never stop to ask someone for a full STI history before they bite." He sounds a little wry. "My friends who are willing and who get tested regularly --" He shrugs a shoulder. "Sort of have a schedule going. Can only take from people -- generally not more than once every thirty, forty days or so. It tends to be -- pretty consistent through the beginning of the month and then -- kind of dry by the end. Only have so many people around to --" He shrugs again, eyes flicking back up to Doug's face. "So, you're kind of hung up between donors?" Doug guesses, dropping his thumb and tucking it into the waistband of his sweats, still considering. "That's inconvenient." He wrinkles his nose, and inhales deeply, holding his breath a moment before releasing it slowly. "Um. I can help, if you want," he offers, reddening further as he explains in a tumble of words. "I mean, I've only been with three people, and that's been safe every time. And I've never had tetanus or anything like that." He breaks off his rush of words, and chews at his lip as sudden awkwardness sets in with the realization of what he's offering. "If you want, I mean." "Yeah, and at least one of them is on my regular list anyway." Dusk's smile is a little crooked. "-- Shane talks a lot, sorry." His wing curls in further, the fuzzy edge of one long bone now pressing up against the side of Doug's neck in place of his sharp claw. "It hurts. I just -- you should know, before -- sometimes people forget. That it hurts." Doug groans a bit at the revelation of Shane's talkiness, and drops his face into his hand exaggeratedly. "Oh, man. 'Discreet' isn't even in his vocabulary, is it?" he asks his palm, chuckling a bit. As the wing curls around him, he lifts his head, tilting it so that he can press against that ridge of bone. "Does it hurt worse than a broken leg?" he asks, in almost a murmur, nuzzling against the fuzzy with a small, wry smile. "I broke my leg in a soccer match a couple of years ago. /That/ hurt." He smiles, and lifts a shoulder in that covering of wing. "I can take it." It doesn't sound as confident as it might, but the teenagerFor looks determined. "If it'll help you." "No, not really," Dusk agrees with a crooked smile. "But he's sweet and --" His teeth scrape briefly against his lower lip, "-- definitely /delicious/," though something in his tone suggests he doesn't just mean blood. "-- So I can forgive him." His wing curls further as he rises from his seat, wrapping around Doug's shoulders and tugging the other man a little closer. He's slightly unsteady on his feet when he stands, but it stabilizes soon; he lifts a hand, fingers tracing slowly down the side of Doug's neck. "No. It doesn't hurt like that. It's just -- sharp." "He is that," Doug agrees, with a wrinkle of his nose that indicates a similar sort of meaning. "It's hard to stay mad at a guy like that." He takes a step forward when urged by that curl of wing, his hands coming out to land on Dusk's hips and steady him as he rises. He shivers a bit at the tracing of finger, and his mouth tips in a crooked smile. "Sharp doesn't bother me," he says softly, tipping his head to allow more surface area for tracing. Then he chuffs a laugh, crinkling his eyes as something occurs to him. "I wonder how many people can say they were bitten by an actual vampire on the day before Halloween." Dusk's eyes slowly slip closed in time with Doug's small shiver. His hand slides down along Doug's arm, fingers running slow against the other man's bicep. His head tilts forward, lips brushing slowly up against the side of Doug's neck, his breath warm against skin. His lips press softly to the vein, lingering there a long moment. "If you start feeling a sensitivity to sunlight, I apologize." "Have you seen how blonde I am?" Doug murmurs, another shiver running through his body as lips brush against his skin. "I was /born/ with a sensitivity to sunlight." The joke loses its steam as the blonde runs out of breath, circling his own arms around Dusk for a bit more purchase. The vein under Dusk's lip throbs in sudden erratic rhythm, and settles back when Doug swallows once and tries again. "I am looking forward to the sexy dreams, though." A soft growl rumbles in Dusk's chest at the stronger pulse against his lips. The tip of his tongue traces slowly against the vein, lips closing briefly against Doug's skin to suck at it gently. "-- Might be able to help with that, too," Dusk allows softly. His wing curls more fully around Doug in a surprisingly strong cocoon of fuzzy-soft skin, and in lieu of further warning there's just another quiet hungry rumble. Two sharp fangs pierce skin quick and smooth, a sudden fierce burn of pain before Dusk's lips press back to the skin, tongue stroking along the open wounds. Together with the pain there's a dissonant chord of something warm, heady, a quiet thread of euphoria leaking out to not so much dull the pain as flavour it. Dusk's wing stays tight, holding Doug close against him with a deep pleased moan as blood starts to flow. Doug tenses ever-so-slightly when that fuzzy cocoon wraps around him, small tension that drains away at the trace of that tongue. He smiles at Dusk's suggestion, and closes his eyes in anticipation. When that sudden burn happens, he whimpers, and his body jerks in an instinctive move to pull away from the pain. It fades, though, under the gentle ministrations of that mild euphoria, and he curls his arms around Dusk's further as he presses against him, flattening his palms against the downy stretch above the man's kidneys. "Oh..." is gentle, and little more than a breath as the teenager's mouth falls open, and he pushes his forehead forward just a bit, seeking the curl of Dusk's neck and the steady pulse of his swallowing. Dusk takes a step back, and then another, deceptively strong muscles steering Doug along with him to press the younger man up against the warm rumbling dryer. His hand rests at Doug's side, mouth staying pressed flush to skin and his tongue slowly stroking over wounds with a gradually trickling increase of that quiet high. Dusk's skin is growing more flushed, his breath coming faster; the press of his body against Doug's is less supportive, now, more insistent. Doug is easily manipulated, landing against the dryer with a small whuff that seems breathless in its softness. As the high increases, his own body begins its own subtle roll, pressing hips together as his fingers dance along the knobby ridge of Dusk's lower vertebrae, dipping to brush against the waist of the older man's jeans. Otherwise, only shuddery inhales indicate the teen's comfort in this odd situation, his head seeking further purchase against Dusk's insistently. Well, inhales, and the lightly gasped "Oh damn...." Dusk's lean muscles tense and roll beneath Doug's fingers, a harder definition to them as Dusk's fingers travel down his back. A slow shiver passes up his spine, a soft hungry moan rumbling against Doug's neck. His own hand skims lower, too, fingertips running beneath the hem of Doug's shirt to scrape nails lightly across his belly. There's a distinctly growing harder heat where his hips press to Doug's, only accentuated by the slow grinding roll of his hips against Doug's. Sweatpants do little to hide Doug's own, sudden hunger, and he actually mewls as hips grind together. His fingers tighten where they've dipped below Dusk's waistband, and the teenager works his knee between the older man's, offering sturdier grinding support. He pants, his breath coming quickly as heat flares in him,sliding his fingers free of Dusk's jeans and skating them up along his sides before finding his chest and flicking across the nubs of his nipples. The movement is a desperate sort of stroking, full of need and bare restraint, and Doug finally finds enough breath to form words. "Gaa...geeeet...upstair...need...." Well, sort of words, any way. Dusk only offers a low assenting growl, to this. His arms heft Doug against him with very little sign of effort, his mouth still pressed flush against Doug's neck. Apparently laundry can /wait/; he leaves his clothes on the table and the machines running behind them as he folds wings close around Dusk and heads -- in somewhat of a /hurry/ -- for the stairs.