ArchivedLogs:Static

Static
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Parley	2013-11-04 (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. A widescreen television stands against the wall opposite the couch, shelving beside it holding a host of video games from different consoles. More shelving beside the windows on the far wall carries stacks of board games, as well as sourcebooks from various RPGs. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here and one bathroom situated between them, split between the three people who live here. That small window of freak warm weather that had swept across New England over the weekend is only a bitter dream now, only made worse as the arrival of daylight savings - it's cold /and/ dark early. It might put a bit of /briskness/ in Parley's knock at the Geekhaus door, tumbling through with a wispy brush of mental identification. In the form of: << (why is it cold this is a punishment.) >> With Flicker still very much under the weather, the mental signal /he/ gives inside his bedroom is erratic, a constant blipping in and out of focus. Dusk is as fiercely /there/ as he ever is, lines of code currently warring with his everpresent hunger, fierce and red and stirring fiercer at the outside contact. He gets up to pad over to the door, unlocking it to pull it open and admit Parley to the finally blessedly /quiet/ apartment. He's in jeans and no shirt, as he often is at home, but today he's added fuzzy black-and-green striped socks and a large fleecey Transformers blanket draped over his folded-in wings. "Just going to keep getting punished from now straight through to May. It's really not right. I've found this magic device, though --" He points towards a large space heater, its dish focused on his armchair. "Come, sit, it's pretty much the best thing." "There's been a mistake," Parley utters breathylofty as he enters, nose tipped up and unraveling a scarf from around his neck while looking around the apartment - for a moment turning his head towards wherever Flicker's erratic mind is originating from as he goes on murmuring, "I'd signed up for the tropical paradise package deal when I was liberated. This isn't what I was promised at all. - Do you know how long it's been since I've been able to see my breath in the cold?" He can't seem to decide if he's annoyed or delighted. Or something else! ...because he turned his head towards Dusk along the way to the space heater, brows vaguely pulled together as he runs a gaze up and down his blanketed figure. Dusk starts to stretch a wing out towards his armchair in invitation, but this only serves to snaggle his claws against his blanket. He pulls it back in with a huff. "Sorry --" He pauses after this word, a hitch not just verbally but mentally, brief psionic /fuzzing/ throwing garbled confusion into his mind. "Sorry," though to Parley's senses this -- though perfectly formed as a /word/ -- has lost mental meaning, just a hiccupping noise that comes again, "... sorry," before Dusk shakes his head to snap himself back into the present. "We charge extra for the Hawai'i deal. Do you know how expensive real estate there has gotten?" His wings shift restlessly beneath the blanket, attempting to both extricate themselves from /tangle/ as well as drape the blanket warm and comfortable once more. "We could always take over Hawai'i," Parley reaches out absently to snag for the blanket. /Either/ to help untangle Dusk's wings, or possibly to huddle himself into it /with/ Dusk, now that he's stripped out of his rather severe wool coat. Possibly both. The black slacks and the gray-and-white baseball-style tshirt are not the warmest. "That's what the government is afraid of, isn't it? We could change it's name to Island-X. Though that sounds a little pornographic, doesn't it." For all that he's going about trying to get his Cold Cold Hands on Dusk's Warm Bare Body (oo belly), he's throwing quick, pensive side-eyes towards Dusk's face, his movements slowing down to a distracted shifting -- to mentally reach /after/ that curious psionic fuzzing, as one might raise up a hand to catch a dewdrop suspended from the tip of a leaf, to coax it to pour down into the palm. "I've been sick, you know." Dusk doesn't try to pull /away/ from the touch but he does issue this warning as Parley tries to /leech/ his heat. Though -- his other wing curls loose around Parley's shoulder, so it's not a warning with much teeth to it. "And Hawai'ian porn sounds good right about now. I'd give up my career, do that instead. There's kinda a large niche market for mutant porn actors, if you're, uh, into that." His upper thumb-claw scratches briefly against his head. "I mean probably a lot of weird -- weird -- weird --" This word, too, devolves into that same hiccupping meaningless /noise/, an unintelligible mental static until he recalibrates. "... um. But it's not like we'd ever meet the people watching. Just sip pina coladas and fuck a lot. In the /warmth/." "With a sale's pitch like that, who would refuse? Everyone's been sick," Parley leans in under Dusk's wing, a bending of knees allowing him to reach up and trace fingers along the fine webbing like a soft suede canopy above him, "It's probably about time I caught some... bug. Began boosting my immune system to match you hearty cityrats. Dusk," /concern/ doesn't actually loan itself into his dry tone, but his hands have stopped rotating against the other man's rib cage to look towards Dusk's face. Looking back and forth between either Dusk's eyes. Searching it with his mouth compressed. "--I don't think you're fully healed yet, from whatever you had. You're..." His mind opens wider now, to swallow in the fiery-ruby red of Dusk's mind, like a crimson river. It washes through his presence until his own personal space dissolves beneath it, surrendered. All the while, combing through it softly, grooming it. It brings color to his skin, a thickened pulse, though his set jaw is one of pure business, for the moment. "Everyone has been sick," Dusk agrees with a grimace, "it wasn't any fun, I'm glad it's through now. Though I -- don't -- I think it's something worse than --" He trails off, this time not blank so much as just /distracted/, his eyes dropping to meet Parley's. The fierce burn of hunger in him flares, brighter, redder, speeding his own heartbeat. "... I'm what?" His voice has dropped lower, wing tightening sharp around Parley. "I heal -- I heal fast, I feel --" << (want) >> << (need) >> burn somewhat /ravenously/ through his mind. "Fine." A sharp breath pulls in - and it's almost hard to tell whose, in this private alcove of wing. The mental crimson glow fills up Parley's mind to brimming, running over back into Dusk's own like a bloody flower blooming open between them. Pressed body to body now, Parley's flesh shares its secrets, flushed warm and /softening/ to compression, eyes dilated. There is a heavy thudding in his chest; a pounding on an inner door between them. "You're not," he places a flat - slightly shaky - palm against Dusk's chest. And applies a very slight /pressure/, voice cool and firmer, "acting fine. When is the last time you fed?" A soft growl rumbles beneath Parley's hand. There's a brief flare of irritation at the pressure, at the contradiction, Dusk's wing tightening as his lips start to pull back. "Night -- night," his mind statics here again too, eyes unfocusing for a moment from Parleys and then refocusing again with a return to clarity. "... Last night," he answers with a shake of his head. The mention of feeding only makes him more acutely aware of that hunger. Of Parley's flesh pressed to his. Of the warmth in Parley's veins and the strong pulse thudding in his chest. A shudder ripples through his wing, ripples up his spine. There is very little by way of emotional /tell/ to forewarn Parley; only reflexive automatic movement that comes with almost no conscious /decision/ process to it. But there's plenty by way of /physical/, a tightening of muscles, a soft growl, head dipping and fangs flashing sharp as he aims a hungry-hard bite straight for Parley's neck. From the moment that irritation flares, the wings tighten, something has been growing still in Parley. And silent. No disorganized squirming, no curling in, he seems to actually vaguely cooperate with the tightening. Looking up into Dusk's (mind)face with something so akin to lost, wide-eyed /fascination/, lower lip softened and dropped away to show his lower row of teeth. His pulse, quickening. Breathing grows shorter, more rapid, building up to some specific moment. The reaction is muscle for muscle, when Dusk's twist into movement, Parley's head turns to the side and he sinks his teeth - no large fangs, but so slightly /sharp/, needled - into the side of Dusk's face. Or aims to. And then can only roil up and gasp as /real/ fangs seize into his neck. Dusk hisses, sudden and sharp as Parley's teeth sink against his face. << Mother/fucker/, >> sounds in his mind; outwardly his teeth just clamp down, tongue hungrily lapping at the spill of blood. When Parley's gasp sinks into his mind, though, it pushes past the hunger to trigger a sudden sharp horror. Hungry and /aware/ he's hungry, caving and not wanting to cave, it takes a moment longer still before he detaches himself. Quick and /abrupt/, jerking back sharply to release the other man. "Ohfuck. Shit -- fuck -- sorry, sorry, sorry, I -- sorry, I --" There's some thought in his mind of grabbing a first aid kit (there's one in the bathroom and one in the kitchen and one in both bedrooms; frequent bandaging supplies are kind of a necessity with his feeding habits) but it's pushed out into static-fuzz again. Blank-meaningless, "Sorry." The overspill from Parley's mind is absurdly /warm/ - adrenal heat, endorphin-bright, a hot bath of chemical wakefulness scrubbed clean of fear or pain or anger. He makes a coyote-whimper of /remorse/ when Dusk pulls back. As Dusk apologizes, then /loses/ himself in these apologies, Parley goes directly past answering and slams a knee up between Dusk's legs. "/Khh/." It's a sharp hiss that comes across more startled than pained; in Dusk's current state of mental brain-fuzzing, the pain doesn't even consciously /register/ although his body reflexively tightens up, curls away from it. And then immediately snaps back, a blind shock of aggression pushing muscles into gear again. The blanket still dangles, hooked awkwardly on the claw of one wing to hang down over its back; his other wing snaps out, one long hard spar moving to smack up beneath Parley's chin, push back at his throat. The smell of blood now only stirs his hunger further, eyes focused on the bleeding wounds at the side of Parley's neck. There is blood; it trickles in sluggish fat droplets down the side of Parley's neck, riding his thudding pulse line to soak into his shirt. It gives him a primal look, between fur, wild spikes of hair, wide fixed eyes. He'd tried to backpedal, barked his hip on the arm of the couch arm, so that the wing pushing back at his throat sends him falling back onto the relative softness of the couch cushions. It's such an absurdly /mundane/ place to land it's stunning, and he's putting up his hands, either to ward, or to - apologize? To surrender? Almost to reach out /to/ him, to offer him a hand. Saying thick and raspy-soft, "-okay. Okay. Dusk, you're not well." He swallows. "Come here." "Khh." This time it's softer, a heavy deflation of sound. Dusk pulls his wing back behind himself, eyes still fixd on the bright red at the side of Parley's neck. "Ohfuck. Shit. I'm sorry, you should go. I can't --" His palm presses to his temple; his head is thudding, a heavy throbbing pound that does not distract him from his hunger so much as add to it a constant low-grade irritation at the world. "I don't know what the fuck I just --" He shakes his head, taking a step back towards the kitchen counter. "I shouldn't. Come there. Please -- you need to patch that --" His fingers wave towards his own neck, his nostrils flaring to drink in the rich heady scent of blood in the air. "I can't. I need to lie down. You need to clean that up. I just -- think I'm --" << (hungry) >> overlaps with a clearer, << Losing my fucking mind. >> "-I just. You fed from me only a few weeks ago. I have work or I'd--," Parley is saying kind of on top of Dusk, without seeming to realize he's talking. He's pressing a shaky, unthinking hand against the side of his neck now, compressing the injury, sadly not before it's managed to stain the couch, joining the pizza sauce and pocket lint and maybe a Cheetoh in the cushions. He closes his eyes tight, takes in a slow breath, lets it out, and when his eyes open again he looks away from Dusk towards the bedrooms. Towards Flicker's low in-and-out presence. And his jaw tightens, then untightens. "...Actually," he says, quietly, not looking back at Dusk, "You should probably leave. You can stay in my apartment. No one's --home right now. So there's no..." He gets shakily to his feet, body angled to put as much of the blood out of Dusk's line of sight, "--I can clean up." "Fuck. No, you don't have to --" Dusk actually clenches up inside at Parley's initial -- pseudo /apologizing/ for being attacked, shaking his head reflexively in rueful protest. "I lost -- control, I just -- this was --" But then his eyes follow Dusk's towards Flicker's bedroom. The clenching just stays, a hard tight knot inside him. He nods; there's some part of himself far less than pleased to accept this offer, the feeling that it is grossly unfair to expect anything of Parley right after /attacking/ him warring with the sick uncertainty that he /won't/ do the same to someone else. He looks towards Parley. Looks towards Flicker's door. The sense inside him isn't so much gratitude as an uncomfortable acceptance. He dips his head in another nod, and hurries out the door. Parley lets out a slow breath as Dusk leaves, one fist resting bizarrely cavalier on a hip in spite of the other is staunching a blood flow at his neck. Once alone again, he sits back down, leaning hard on his knees. And gradually, he pulls out his cell phone, staring at its dark face for a long moment. Then, his thumb moves - and he punches in first a message to Mirror. Advising hir to maybe not come home tonight. The second is short. And quick. Then he rises and wanders towards the bathroom to suss out some damn first aid supplies.