Logs:Blood/thirsty

Blood/thirsty
warning: some violence/blood
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Flicker
In Absentia	2019-11-08 return to fight club/return home. a pair of 8s.
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side / <PRV> VL 403 {Geekhaus} - East Village
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. Very little of the night's sharp chill can be felt down here. The press of bodies, the miasma of sweat and blood that hangs heavy in the air, these things give the basement an almost oppressive heat. Though the earlier rounds were raucous enough, but though the circumferene of the room is growing steadily more densely packed there is a tense almost-hush that has fallen over it, a taut air of expectation. The excitement assuredly isn't aimed at the man already in the cleared central space -- nobody, really, is paying much attention to Dusk. Shirtless, barefoot, he's dressed only in black lycra shorts, his dark wings folded at his back. If he is tense, it doesn't show, shoulders rolling in a languid stretch as he waits. Dusk isn't waiting all that long. Flicker is still sipping from a sport-top water bottle (whimsically stylized woodpeckers flitting in vivid colors across its matte black barrel) as he flashes down the stairs. He sets the bottle to the side, taking up a position at the opposite edge of the clearing from his friend. He's a bit more dressed -- long black quick-dry cargo pants, a lightweight grey tee shirt, one of its sleeves tucked flat at his side. A bit more keyed up, too, or looks it, at least. Tense and restless where he half-bounces on his toes. Fingers flexing, eyes flicking around their surroundings but coming back to rest on Dusk. His brows lift, a small twitch of smile hooking at his mouth before he nods. The tension in the room thickens with Flicker's arrival, most of the spectators' gazes riveted to the teleporter. Not quite so riveted that they don't clear a much wider space as Dusk steps forward, the crowd fanning out and back to leave the center of the room clearer. Mostly clearer. It is, perhaps, a hapless newcomer who pays less attention than the rest, who hasn't pressed as far back into the corners when a sharp snap-crack of wings slices through the thickly hung anticipation in the room. That, in his haste, one of his hard wingspars cracks up against the chin of the young men who is standing by to watch doesn't seem to faze Dusk much, nor even register with him, really. He's focused on Flicker, now, claws scraping against the floor as he levers himself partway up, over -- his other wing whipping out ahead of him in improbably long reach, talons slicing low toward Flicker's legs. The tension in Flicker dissipates with Dusk's shift into motion. There's a moment where he's more firmly planted. A slight shift of glance. A slow pull of breath. A stillness that lasts until the moment before those sharp claws connect. In the next, Dusk's claws are swiping through air. A dizzying flutter of motion follows -- a blur that practically seems to ricochet between the floor and the sharp snapping blows delivered to the slimmer fingerbones of Dusk's wing. It's only a prelude to actually taking hold of a wingspar, carrying the other man with him in a disorienting twirl of motion that spins Dusk in several loops only to resituates him -- and his ungainly expanse of limb -- nearly two seventy degrees from where he'd started. A deep growl thrums in Dusk's chest. His claws click against the floor, scrape there, brace firmly against the flurry of blows. His other wing is starting to fold forward when Flicker upends him. His eyes close, and he doesn't halt his motion -- both his wings spread wider and curl inward, wrapping in a wide dark envelope that doesn't quite pin Flicker to him but does, for a moment, shut the rest of the basement out. Just cloaking them together in a sheath of dark fuzz and hard long bones -- and the sharp glint of teeth that snap quick toward Flicker as they fall towards the floor. As Dusk's wings close, the rapid blur of motion resolves into Flicker. Lips compressed, eyes just slightly narrowed; his pulse has sped, but only slightly. He shifts -- in the small confines of Dusk's enveloping wings, though, he doesn't shift very far. Not far enough to outpace the sudden rend of Dusk's fangs where they don't quite make his throat but do tear against his shirt and shoulder both. The racing of his heart starts to calm again, after this. It's a stark contradiction to the new tension that's creeping into his muscles despite the insidious warmth of Dusk's bite urging the opposite. The brief shift of his gaze around the darkened makeshift-enclosure is enough to come to some kind of decision. His fingers touch lightly to Dusk's chest. Almost gentle. Then a shimmer of displaced motion -- a sharp gasp, a fresh tang of new blood in the air. The sudden gash where Flicker's elbow has shifted itself straight into the skin of Dusk's wing is far less gentle. With the newly rent window allowing a flash of visibility to the rest of the basement, Flicker is gone, a drip-trail of blood tracking his -- slower, now -- path. Dusk's fangs sink harder when they find purchase. His head jerks, teeth still clamped hard to tear deeper at clothes and flesh alike. His growl rumbles lower at the thick upwelling of blood that follows. When his arms come up, circle around Flicker, pull inward -- it might almost be tender. Might almost be an embrace to match the gentle touch of fingertips to skin -- if not for the fierce crush of muscle behind the squeeze. Too bad for Dusk, then, that they close on nothing but the slick warm patch of blood left against his skin where Flicker had just been lying. His lips pull back in a harsh snarl, wings twitch-jerking back against the floor and away from the abrupt tearing pain. He's scrambling up into a crouch, his torn wing braced against the floor and the uninjured one slamming out hard toward Flicker's retreating form. The stippled red marks that track across the floor in Flicker's wake grow into a more concentrated puddle finally where he comes to rest near a wall. Slightly hunched, shoulder curled inward, breathing heavier. He sucks a breath in as Dusk's wing arcs towards him. Lets it back out in time with the impact, grabbing hold tightly. And then releasing. He hasn't moved. Dusk, though, has -- displaced just a few inches to the side, just a few inches down, all the lower talons and a solid segment of the edges of that wing solidly embedded in the floor and wall. Flicker takes just a small step back. Tips a hand upward in something that might be a shrug. Might be apology. The pained hard grit of his teeth with the smile he offers Dusk makes it hard to really tell. <PRV> VL 403 {Geekhaus} - East Village There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, chronically untidy and without much thought given to Decor. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the chaos of the 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. Outside, it's still brisk and cold. There's no more crowd to take the edge off the chill; up on the fire escape there's added wind, making the wee hours of November night feel even more like early winter. Flicker hasn't bothered with adding more by way of layers, though, not for the very brief -- for him -- flit over from the Lower East Side to home. He has goosebumps prickling his skin by the time he lights on Geekhaus's fire escape -- bruised, shirt torn and bloody, a bandage on his shoulder that is smaller than would be expected at the end of the fight, thanks to Joshua's ministrations. Otherwise, though, he seems largely unbothered by being out in a torn-up tee shirt and lightweight pants, his jacket carried over one arm rather than worn. It, at least, has avoided getting bloodied. Dusk isn't helping with the chill. A heavy draft precedes the thump of his somewhat ungainly landing just up above. His wings -- largely structurally healed, though the skin still looks a bit raw in places -- fold stiffly back behind him as he climbs down to join Flicker outside the window. The less injured wing curls back out, draping around the other man's shoulders and rubbing gently at the bump-stippled skin of his arm. Flicker draws in a sharp breath at the gust. Lets it back out when Dusk's wing curls around him; he leans into the touch, head turning to press his cheek gently against the soft nap of the other man's wing. He hasn't been shivering, not before -- but the touch draws a faint shiver out of him that the cold air hadn't managed. Briefly he just sinks into the contact. Then a moment later, a brief fluttering hop, and they're on the other side of the window, back in the warmth of the apartment. Still, he doesn't quite break the contact yet. Though he takes a small step back, his arm stays pressed lightly to the inside of Dusk's wing, fingers trailing up against the skin and stopping just short of the line of freshly knitted skin where the tear is freshly healed. The look he flicks to Dusk is slightly questioning. The questioning is answered with a sharp glint of smile. Dusk presses just lightly back into the touch, dismissing the concern with a small shake of his head. Glances towards Flicker and Hive's closed bedroom door -- then back down to Flicker. He doesn't pull his wing back in; curls it out instead it in a more snug embrace, pulling the other man closer for a long moment. When he does finally pull back it's slow, wing trailing lightly against Flicker's arm as he steps away. Flicker doesn't return the embrace -- one arm injured and the other currently stashed in his closet -- but he does relax into it, letting out a soft sigh. When Dusk pulls back he steps forward, hand lifting quickly enough to put a sharp wince on his face -- catching at his friend's arm with a small but insistent tug. Releasing it again with a sudden flush -- but lifting his hand further, touching lightly to the dark scruff shadowing the other man's cheek. His pulse has sped rapidly, his brows lifting as his fingers curl against Dusk's jaw. Dusk is easily enough stopped, offering no resistance when his arm is caught. Only mild curiosity, turning back towards Flicker but moving no further. The touch, though, elicits a low rumble, soft and purring in his chest. He turns his head, nuzzles into Flicker's palm, brushes his lips softly there. His wing stretches back out -- stopping shy of actual contact this time, but the open curl of limb is a clear invitation. It's one that Flicker accepts, and readily. He steps into the welcoming expanse of wing, his hand sliding back as he does to tangle fingers in Dusk's messy dark hair. The shift that comes next is too fast to keep up with -- nearly the same instant Flicker's fingers wrap against Dusk's neck the kitchen has been displaced; the short jump has brought them to the doorway of Dusk's bedroom. The space Flicker closes next is at once much closer and so much longer a distance, his heart still thumping as he presses his mouth to Dusk's. Dusk's breath catches sharply, his wing wrapping in tight to enfold Flicker. Pull him closer. There's no hesitation now, just a clear hunger in the readiness with which he returns the kiss. The shift of his body presses Flicker back up against the doorframe -- if only for a moment. A gentle pull of his wing brings the other man into the room fully. His talons click against the door, firm and definitive as he pushes it closed behind them.