From X-Men: rEvolution
Dramatis Personae

Dusk, Micah, Flicker

3 February 2015

Warning: a little touchy.


<NYC> {Geekhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side

There's an open airy feel to the floorplan of this unit. The door opens up into a wide expanse of common space that is not so much divided up into rooms as it is simply multipurposed.

Ash-grey resin flooring underfoot runs up against the paler grey of the exposed stone in the walls; between the stone support there are wide floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the river on one side of the home and the Commons' central yard on the other. Half of the space has a ceiling at one-floor height, though half of the space is left open with a balcony up on the second floor overlooking the living space below. A slatted stairway heads up to the second floor balcony; on the other side of the room, a fireman's pole running straight down to the basement provides a quicker way /down/.

The wide open space here is combination living and dining room; near the windows there are a pair of couches and large armchair around a wide coffeetable; further off a steel-and-glass dining table is surrounded by eight tall black chairs. A full bathroom behind the stairway is done up in dark granite; the glass-doored bathtub/shower is rather expansively large.

The kitchen is tucked off in back, beneath the half-height ceiling; in here the appliances and cabinets and shelving recessed into the wall are in brushed steel, wide grey sweeps of tempered glass countertops running around the edge of the room and a large central island holding stoves and oven and deep double sink.

Adjacent to the kitchen, beneath the ceiling as well, is a sitting area structured largely around the enormous television against one wall, a wealth of video games for a number of consoles held on the shelves around the television. Crates and beanbags and one low futon folded against the floor are arranged in good viewing distance; opposite the television, a sturdy large pen built out of wood shrines a couch amid a sea of brightly colorful playpen balls. A door in one wall opens up to the apartment next door; a door opposite leads down to the basement.

It's been busy in here -- if a lot quieter than the usual game nights, not really back up to their normal bustle. A more low-key smaller crowd, which, at least, means a more low-key smaller cleanup. They've still somehow managed to generate an inordinate amount of trash, much of it in the form of various take-out-food detritus; Dusk is currently in the living room with a trash bag. Sort of cleaning up, Sort of nibbling tiny bits of fried garlic out of a nearly empty takeout container. Distractions. Mmm. He's dressed in dark corduroys, no shoes, no shirt, his wings glimmering today in a deep coppery-bronze flash over top of a rich purple base, lighter shades of gold highlighting the striations of muscle in his wings and tipping his sharp talons brighter.

Micah has been darting here and there to collect items to sort either into his own recycling bag or into Dusk's trash. He is dressed night evening: Batsignal hoodie, silver-grey tee with Derpy Hooves dressed as a Dalek menacing Doctor Hooves on it, heather grey henley, patchy bluejeans, soot sprite slippers. His hair has decidedly reached an end-of-the-day level of muss. There are still a lot of distractions for the quiet: case in point, staring at Dusk and his colourful wings as he works. He catches himself at this finally, clearing his throat just a little. “Can use you as proof positive 'gainst the whole vampires not likin' garlic thing,” he offers with a grin before collecting another bottle into his bag.

Flicker is just blipping back up from the basement. Gone to stash games away. Maybe gone also to check on where he's stashed Hive away. Also gone for a quick /change/ now that guests have left. Pajama o'clock has arrived in Geekhaus, at least for /him/, so he reappears definitely in his Lazypants (fleecey-soft and black) and a baggy Xavier's sweatshirt. Sagging at one sleeve; he's apparently done with Arm for the night, too. "Staking, though. That part's true." His fist raises to mime plunging a stake towards Dusk.

When Dusk lifts his fist in return he's holding it a little lower down, though the general /motion/ is the same. His grin is sharp, his brows lifting. "Yeah, how would you know? Not like /you've/ tried." He swipes his finger through the sauce, sniping one last piece of garlic before he meanders over to drop the recyclable plastic carton it was in into /Micah's/ bag. "My world without garlic seems way sadder to me than my world without sun."

Even though Flicker hasn't been gone long, Micah raises a hand in a little wave when he returns. "Goodness, though. Y'stake /anybody/, just about, that's gonna be fatal. Sure y'put a hunk'a wood through /my/ heart, I'm not goin' t'work in the mornin'." Dusk's gesturing combines with the line of conversation precisely to light a ruddy blush in Micah's cheeks. Not that this is a difficult thing to accomplish. "Mmn. Both those things seem way too sad. I don't like t'think on it."

Flicker's cheeks darken. Deep red. A short jump to the tv room and out and then brightly colored plastic balls are arcing through the air at Dusk's pretty large wings. One in each pocket for a /reserve/ cache of ammunition. "Jax convinced me for weeks when we met Dusk that it was true vampires didn't have reflections," he admits this with a bright grin. Hopping over to the kitchen after his three missiles are spent to start loading the dishwasher. "I thought that's why he was always so scruffy."

"Nah I'm plenty happy with the nighttime. So long as it's full of garlic." Dusk tucks his trash bag by the edge of the dining table, using some stray napkins to sweep crumbs off the edge of the table and into the trash. He's laughing while he does it, low and warm, wings quivering with the sound. "Oh shit. He did. We also convinced Lien and Brett once that Ian was like, the accidental ghost version of Jax that got created when he was nearly killed. Anti-Jax. Nega-Jax." His head shakes, fingers crumpling a little harder against the trash bag and his wings folding tight at his back.

Micah makes a point of getting out of the line of fire between Flicker and Dusk. No collateral damage here! "Ohgosh, did he illusion any mirrors Dusk passed, too? He could totally...keep that up for a long time s'long as he was /around/ t'do it. An' nah. He's just scruffy for the ruggedly handsome thing. Or maybe the too lazy t'shave thing." Chuckling, Micah settles his filled recycling next to Dusk's trash. Next he targets returning furniture, particularly chairs that got moved every-which-way, to its original configuration in the room. "Mmn. I'd hafta give up garlic. I like the sun well enough m'self t'make it a hard choice, but then there's /Jax/. No livin' without sunshine. Garlic'd hafta go."

"Illusioned every one, he was /dedicated/." Flicker tucks glasses neatly into the upper dish rack. "I think he's actually just scruffy so people pet him more. It's kind of shameless." Not a criticism. Just amused. "Be hard to grow garlic in zero-sunshine, anyway. It's a losing game all around."

"That's pretty much the truth." Dusk /is/ shameless about admitting it. "Shaggy hair, scruffy beard -- I couldn't lose the fuzz on my wings if I /wanted/ to but it's all just that much more pettable surface area. I just," he shrugs a wing, his smile crooked, "know what I like." He ties off the recycling bag and then the garbage one, shifting both into the same hand to head for the door so he can take them outside. "I don't know shit about growing garlic, so I'd lose that game anyway."

"Mmn. Could /import/ garlic from another place with sunshine, though," Micah contemplates with a shrug, dragging a chair back into the dining area to tuck under the table. "An', shoot. I think there's a /saturation point/ on pettability. Think Dusk already maxed out on the hair an' wings. Anythin' else's already hit a ceilin'. S'already worse than a fluffy kitty belly, this guy. I dunno how there're people who /aren't/ pettin' 'im, ever. S'gotta be genetic." And he has another pause from being helpful to watch Dusk haul things outside.

As if to reinforce this point, after Flicker finishes loading the dishwasher he closes it, wiping his hand against his jeans and flitting across the house to trail fingers against Dusk's wing as the other man heads outside. "It's hard to resist." He does cease petting so that Dusk can actually /go/ out with the trash, though. Also so that he can head towards the basement. "I gotta get us to bed." Sort of a /process/ now that he's doing it for two. "Night, guys."

Dusk's wing presses back into the petting, a pleased purr in his chest. His wing snakes out, squeezing around Flicker before he vanishes. "Night, man. -- I definitely /could/ be more pettable. But I like the contrast. Fuzz some places, smooth others --" With that he is vanishing out the door.

For about a minute, at least. There's /cold/ clinging strongly to his wings when he returns, hands emptied of trash and his feet curling against the rug by the door to rid them of the /ice/ his bare toes have picked up. His wings curl in against his bare chest and then flex back out again. "... fff. That was. Predictably terrible."

"He'll be in his bunk," Micah teases as Flicker's excusing-to-bed closely follows Dusk pettings. The teasing is only momentary, however. "Give 'im a goodnight hug from me, okay? G'night t'you, too." He catches Flicker for a half-hug backpat, not aiming to interrupt his heading out. "Mmn...I dunno. There's somethin' t'be said, exactly. Y'was all furry, couldn't get straight at it. Or admire the muscles as much. Ohgosh, y'look /froze/. Barefoot an' barechested out in that." Micah tsks and moves toward Dusk to wrap him in a hug, hands rubbing to provide what warmth they can.

Dusk's wings wrap back around Micah, still carrying the chill with them as they press in close. "Uh huh. I'm sure you're just doing this for the warm. Selfless." His grin is crooked, head dipping downward to nip very lightly at the side of Micah's neck.

Micah shivers as Dusk pulls him in. Maybe because of the cold. “Mmn, y'know me. I'm a giver.” His lips slide into a lopsided smirk, cheeks colouring pink again. “Ain't at all that you're kryptonite for touchy folks.” He presses himself closer, hands still working across Dusk's chest and stomach before sliding to his back. “Mmn,” again, along with a sharp little intake of breath this time, with the nip. Not that his chin isn't tipping permissively.

"So generous." Dusk's next nip is followed by a kiss. His wings relax, sliding against Micah's back. "What colour kryptonite makes Superman give massages, I don't remember that one." A tiny moan catches in his throat as Micah's hands move to his back. "Oh /Lord/ I need that right now. Mmm." He nuzzles in (scruffily) against Micah's neck, melting against the other man with a happy sigh.

A low-happy hum buzzes through Micah's throat to Dusk's lips at the nip and kiss. His head falls back a little limply, though his fingers knead harder between Dusk's wings. "Well, I ain't exactly...super-strong. Or flyin'. Or laser eyes or X-ray vision. Figure m'weakness is things just askin' t'be touched." His body presses in a little closer, fingers continuing their work. "An' y'pretty much set off alarms for it."

"Am kind of asking for it," Dusk agrees happily, tongue flicking out against Micah's skin. "Pretty much literally oh man. Oh /man/ if we go up and lie down could I get a back rub for real. I would die with happy back's been fucking killing --" He closes his lips against Micah's skin, wings rolling absently. "And your hands are excellent. That /is/ a superpower."

Micah trembles a little, leaning into that hold. His hands continue working without pause, however. "Y'wanna lie down, we can do that. But I ain't really gonna /volunteer/ movin' 'til y'start it," he half-purrs, more than happy to stay and be held and kissed.

Dusk laughs, nipping gently at the side of Micah's neck again. "You're not joking. Kryptonite." He pulls back after this, wing curled loosely around the other man's shoulders to lead him up towards the stairs.