Logs:Dinner Party
| Dinner Party | |
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| Dramatis Personae | 2022-05-11 I cannot imagine this makes it easy, but you've many dear friends. |
| Location | |
It's night, though not yet too late; on the ground below there's still a fair bit of traffic through the makeshift town square, still fires blazing in two separate equally swanky patio firepits, still guitar music and boisterous singing coming from a cluster of mutants finishing their dinner by one of the mansions backyard pools. Up above Freaktown, it's a little bit quieter, conversation and song drifting up with the smoke to fade into peacefulness here, on a wide balcony abutting one of the mansion's many luxuriously appointed bedrooms. The balcony has until recently been populated by an eclectic mix of residents -- a snake-skinned woman in a Mutant Mongrels cut, a muscular woman with enormous black feathers wings still in her scrubs off her nursing shift at Mendel, a yawning red-furred preteen Very Insistent through the others' chatter that they were Totally Not Sleepy and didn't yet need bed. The conversation and company has since dwindled, leaving Dusk in a temporary quiet as some of the others take their leave. He admittedly has been listening far more than speaking even through most of their conversation (which most recently concerned the possibility of a tiny Pride festival here in Freaktown, come June). His hands have been busily at work with a pair of knitting needles and a skein of purple-green-blue ombre yarn. Whatever he's knitting isn't nearly far enough along yet to identify. He does break his silence once the ornate French doors have closed behind J.C., looking down at the pool party below and then back up to offer lightly: "You wanna head down to where people are at, I can put this away." “Mm. Yes, but -- not yet.” Erik leans over the railing, watching the party below with a light, pleased smile. “I missed these crowds, but…” He shrugs, small. “To go from very little company to all this, so quickly, is a little much for me still.” In the absence of a huge crowd, parts of his disguise have been coming off. He’s still in the heavy metal adorned boots, the tight bleached jeans, the studded denim jacket covered in band patches over a lavender tee-shirt, but the face mask is hanging by its straps around one wrist, the glasses dangling from fingertips over the crowd below. “Besides, I rather think a swim will wash out the last of this.” The hand with the mask lifts up to run through the fading red hair, starting to march ever closer to pink in shade. Matt makes his leisurely way up through the house, pausing to exchange warm platitudes with the denizens as he's been doing through his circuit of all the best views in Riverdale. He pushes out through the french doors, wearing a red tee with a black snake coiled around the negative space of a large heart shape, black cargo shorts, and worn gray athletic sandals, an orange and white Aperture Science satchel slung over his shoulder. His vivid green eyes flick between the two men on the balcony, lingering first on the old man's face, then on Dusk's knitting. "Good evening," this is quiet, but not shy. "Legit. I'm not in any rush to move, this blanket isn't gonna knit itself. And the view is --" Dusk breaks off as Matt appears in the doorway, eyes hitching on his friend. His gaze flicks -- quick and curious -- between the other two men, and the smile that curls his lips is easy and sharp-fanged. "Hey, man. There's hella food down there. You met my godfather Max? -- This is Matt, he's..." The hesitation here is slight. "We're close." At the sound of the door opening, Erik is tucking the sunglasses into a pocket, unhitching the mask from his wrist. Doesn’t quite finish donning it in time to obscure his face from Matt, hooks the loops over his ears anyway. “Matt — as in Matthew, or Matthias?” He doesn’t move from the railing, just turns so his back is leaning against it instead, one hand extending out towards the newcomer. The German accent, missing just a moment ago, has returned strong and distinct. “Close? Friend, brother, something else?” Erik looks Matt up and down, watery blue eyes narrowing where he sees clothing hanging just a little too loose on his frame. “Hmph. Have you eaten? Dusk, are all our people so skinny?” Matt's smile is sweet and friendly, with a fey glint where it reaches his eyes. "I haven't had the pleasure." He shakes "Max's" hand, his grip firm and warm. "Matt as in Matthieu. I'm a friend--not always a very good one--" His eyes flick to Dusk, his head dipping just a fraction though his smile does not fade. "--with a helping of 'something else'. And I have eaten, but given my record on that front is less than stellar, my brother would approve of your diligence." He looks out over the balcony thoughtfully. "Mm. I could be tempted if you fine gentlemen are heading to supper, but I'm afraid it'll take more than that to improve upon my waifish good looks." "Like Matthew but French-ier," Dusk is offering in time with Matt's reply, light and amused in his following: "Anyway it's not all of us but if you kick cancer's ass as many times as this guy you'd be lucky to look so hot." He flushes slightly self-consciously, picking absently at his own threadbare corduroys -- the belt holding them up has an extra notch punched far past where it was meant to be buckled. "He's got about a million siblings but I'm not one of them. Thankfully, cuz that would make the with benefits really awkward." A deep flush floods his too-pale cheeks at the mention of dinner, and the growl that rumbles in his chest is very soft. "Ion helped cook so I'm sure it's -- got actual flavors tonight." With some of the Food Not Bombs-trained kitchen volunteers spices are likely a bigger question. "We haven't -- eaten yet though, we were taking a quick people-break. Not," he's hasty to add, though his brows lift questioningly to Erik at this, "that you have to run off, there's just -- a crowd down there." “Ah, Matthieu.” Erik squeezes Matt’s hand before pulling back. “A pleasure. I hope that defeating cancer is your gift, not the acquiring of it.” He’s looking Matt over again, appraising eye lingering at the same places but drawing a different conclusion. “Friends with benefits.” The corner of his eyes crinkle, amused. “Is that what you call it these days.” When Dusk looks to him, Erik dips his head in the smallest nod. “Three is not quite a crowd. Three is tolerable. Especially if that third,” and while he is speaking to Matt, Erik’s eyes slide back to Dusk, to the too-tight belt and too-pale skin, “might help convince my -- godson to eat more frequently." "Well, all that cancer gave me time to lie about perfecting my etiolated yet dissipated languor, and develop my appetite for bland foods." Matt's laughter is bright and soft. "I'm usually accused of summoning the cancer and I'd love the ability to banish it, but my power is neither." His expression grows more neutral, more wide-eyed and sincere. "Nor is it persuasion, and I appreciate this isn't straightforward for you, but I would reiterate it is genuinely my pleasure to assist." His gaze dips again. "The benefit goes both ways." Dusk's eyes light with an echo of Erik's amusement. "Why, what did you call yours?" He's returned to his knitting, hands moving with a practiced ease. "His secondary mutation is knowing what you want to eat but in my case that's hardly a gift." His flush remains, as does the growl, thrumming just a little deeper. "I'd eat more frequently but when your meals are your friends it gets a little..." The hitch of his wing is small, as is his soft addition: "... but I could eat." The top of the face mask lifts higher on Erik’s face as the smile underneath grows wider. “Friends, no qualifiers. Dear friend, if we were feeling particularly daring.” The smile fades from the corners of his eyes, tension easing across the mask as his expression grows long with concern. “It sounds to me like your friend is volunteering." Erik's gaze lands first on Matt, then Dusk, long and considering. "Like he wants to see you healthy, as I do. That's two, just here, offered to you freely. Not many diets can be so truly ethical.” "Oh, I like 'dear friend', too." Matt shuffle-slides over and lays a hand on the outermost spar of Dusk's wing. "I cannot imagine this makes it easy, but you've many dear friends. And if you'd like more than one helping..." His other hand turns palm-up, the gesture deftly encompassing himself and Erik. "However you'd prefer your supper." "Many dear friends? You calling me a ho?" Warmly amused, Dusk hardly seems offended by this possibility. A faint shiver ripples through his wings at Matt's touch, and he lets go of one of his knitting needles momentarily, fingers squeezing down hard against the ball of yarn in his lap. "Ethical." This isn't entirely questioning; there's a wondering note in his tone as though giving this earnest consideration. His oversized adams apple bobs on a slow swallow, and his low growl continues thrumming underneath his words. There's a raw desire in his bright eyes when he looks up at the other men, not particularly obscured by the speed with which he drops his gaze again, back to his lap. His enormous wings have mantled out further, a wide dark canopy over the others. "I should warn you," he tells Erik, "when I bite people, it --" There's a small hesitation here. "-- feels good." Erik steps closer on Dusk’s other side, one hand resting on the opposite spar to Matt’s hand in a careful, deliberate mimic. “After where I’ve been, you warn me about something feeling good?” Erik sounds darkly amused, at first, beginning to shrug off his jacket. “I should be delighted for some pleasure mixed in with my discomfort, for a change.” Pauses when it comes time to slip out of the left sleeve, eyes narrowing at Matt for a long moment across the wingspan. Quietly, intended just for Dusk but clearly audible at such close quarters: “—do you vouch for him?” Perhaps it doesn’t sound like a threat, but the quiet hum that goes through every nearby piece of steel, much of it on Erik’s body, is not that subtle a warning. "You're a ho," Matt agrees easily enough. Easy, too, the familiar way he tucks himself into the curve of Dusk's wing when it mantles around him. "And you are wholly wonderful." To Erik, now, "That's a part of his ethics--it's important for people to know what they're offering, and what he can offer." He nuzzles the soft velvety wing he's draped himself against, utterly unselfconscious, eyes lighting again on Erik with keen interest. The metallic hum does not seem to intimidate him--does not even seem to surprise him. "I have ethics around my powers, also." "I like people to know what they're getting into. I do pleasure real good but not everyone's always in the mood for -- me." Dusk's wings curl inward, now, draping gently against Matt's shoulders, brushing velvet-soft nap back against Erik's touch. A shiver runs through him at the hum of metal, his low growl softening closer to a purr. "Matt's no snitch," he assures Erik, "we've fought together for years. We'd all be boned if he weren't trustworthy." “It is appreciated — simply seems more like a thing to promise than to forewarn, to me.” Erik’s hand drags lightly down the membrane of the wing, the metal around the trio quieting at Dusk’s reassurance. He removes his jacket, the face mask following soon after — if Matt’s power and previous glimpse of Erik’s face had somehow not been enough to give away his identity, the tattoo on the inside of his left arm would confirm it. The false accent drops away with the rest of the disguise. “I am so deeply curious, Matthieu, about both your powers and your battles. After, perhaps. How much, ah, area do you need?” The last is directed back at Dusk — Magneto is tugging at the neckline of the too-tight tee-shirt, testing its stretch, seeing how much of where his neck meets his collar can be exposed without ripping the fabric off. "The battles are a longer story, but I can augment other mutant powers as well as suppress or dampen them--if that should prove relevant to your present interests." Matt curves an arm around Dusk and kneads his back, leisurely working up toward the base of his wings. "You might be surprised at Dusk's...versatility in terms of location, but I think it best if we go inside. The wings are very comfortable..." His smile is patient and confident, but Dusk can hear his pulse speed and his breath deepen as he nuzzles the wing again, his next words not quite a whisper but soft in Dusk's ear. "...but I do so love for you to sprawl out and relax, also." "A promise, then," comes softer on the edge of a sharp-fanged smile and a slow tremulous breath at the caresses. "Some pleasure mixed in with the pain." Dusk's pupils have widened as Erik tugs at his collar. He slides down off the balcony rail, wing curling more snug around Erik, firm and supportive at the older man's back. The touch of his hand is very light, tracing the path Erik's fingers have just run to gently shift the shirt out of the way. Matt's suggestion does not fall on deaf ears -- it's met with a squeeze of wing, a pleased hum -- but the thought isn't quite enough to derail Dusk from the more immediate thrill on offer before him. His fangs sink in sharp and quick; the stab of pain they bring is swiftly followed by a dizzying euphoric rush, warm and heady and spreading through Erik's body. At first there is only hunger, his lips pressing warm against skin, tongue lapping greedily at the blood that wells up, and the deep rumble of pleasure this brings easy for the other two to feel. It's several long moments before he can collect himself enough to murmur, soft against Erik's neck: "We could go inside, if you'd like that." There's an easing of Erik's shoulder's at Matt's disclosure, the following frown fleeting as he considers it fully. “None of the suppression, today. As for heightening…” Erik’s focus drifts from Matt, his body briefly tensing at the press of the wing against his back, shivering involuntarily as Dusk’s fingertips brush across his skin. “…we will see where present interests take us — oh—” There’s a sharp breath as Dusk bites down, a sudden shiver of metal all around them. It quiets in time with Erik relaxing into the venom, into Dusk. The jacket falls from his arms, hands attempting to steady him at Dusk’s waist. Pulls the shorter man closer, trying to bundle Dusk against his chest, a groan escaping from his lips at the question. “Yes, I think that is — yes.” The doors behind the three men click quietly open. Matt drapes himself against Dusk, his hand still rubbing idly at his friend's back while he watches, languid but enthralled. The torpor leaves rapidly him when Dusk speaks, and he smiles wide at Erik's reply--wider still at the click of the door latch. "It is deliciously intense, no?" He straightens, his fingers trailing along Dusk's wing until they hook carefully around the thick, heavy thumb claw. His gentle tug would not move even a man of his own strength, much less Dusk, but the smouldering glance he shoots the other two might serve better to draw them along inside and into the nearest of the mansion's guest rooms. "Come." He turns around and takes a couple of steps backwards to beckon them, his movements fluid and beguiling. Dusk drops his knitting, skein starting to unspool itself before it bumps up against Erik's discarded jacket and comes to a halt. There's less urgency in his drinking, now, a gentle sucking at the wounds in Erik's neck -- but considerably more of it in the press of his body to Erik's. He's pliable to Matt's tugging, his wing shifting in guidance at Erik's back. Where he's perfectly happy to be led by Matt, he's equally happy to steer Erik, wing providing a supple-strong support as he moves the other man to the bed. Erik may have been intended to answer Matt, but all that comes out is another low pleased hum. He lets himself be led, albeit distractedly, walking mostly backwards while trying to pull Dusk ever closer by whatever he can get his hands on — the too tight belt at Dusk’s waist, the bare skin just above when Erik’s hands slip under his shirt. The bed itself seems to catch him by surprise, the back of his legs knocking up against it before the Master of Magnetism falls atop the duvet. Looks up at both the other men, pupils blown wide with desire. “It has been some years since I have done this, gentlemen. I may be — rusty.” Not that rusty, it seems — Erik’s belt and boots unfasten of their own accord, the new strain at the front of his jeans slightly relieved by the fly undoing itself. The only one present still entirely sober, Matt slips smoothly back around the other two men and closes the door before following them to the bed. He casually strips his shirt off on his way to join them. He's pale and skinny if not alarmingly so his standards, but nevertheless looks like he could probably do with a second supper himself. He ghosts a hand over Dusk's wing, and the flex of Erik's power brightens his smile again. "Rather convenient, that," he murmurs, even this off-handed observation sultry and low as he sinks gracefully to the mattress beside Erik, once again drawing Dusk with him. "But I'd wager this has not got any metal in it." By "this" he presumably means Erik's shirt, which he is tugging off with considerably more care than he did his own. "Just means we've both had time to work up an appetite, then." The small touches draw light gasps from Dusk, and he presses hungrily into the touches, presses Erik back against the mattress, reluctantly breaking off with a soft swipe of tongue against neck only so that Matt can work Erik's shirt off. He licks away the blood from his own lips before kissing Matt, fierce and deep, his wing curled around his friend's body to pull him a little closer. He's sliding down to his knees after this, hands skimming light against Erik's sides before he works off the boots, the tight jeans. The kisses he presses back up the inside of Erik's thighs are soft, eyes tracing the lines of the others' bodies with an open hunger. "Tell us," is a low and throaty supplication, "how you like it." At Matt’s murmuring, the clasps and zippers and belts of Erik’s companions slip undone as well, as Erik takes his shirt from Matt and tosses it carelessly to the side. There’s a hunger in Erik’s eyes as he watches them kiss. When Dusk drops away, Erik’s hands find Matt, twists where he sits to pull him against his broad chest, to press hard kisses and gentle bites to Matt’s collarbone. “How I —“ Erik swallows hard, erection twitching at Dusk’s breath between his legs, “— I —“ His grip on Matt tightens, callused fingertips pressing hard into the skin for a brief moment. One hand drops away to find Dusk’s hair, fingers twisting into it without pulling. “…bite. Scratch. Pull. When it stings, everything else is sweeter.” Matt is pliant to the press of Dusk's wing, though he kisses back fierce. He's kicked out of his sandals somewhere along the way and might have had some mind to finish disrobing when Erik intercepts him. His head rolls back at the first gentle bite, his breath hitching, his smile undimmed. "I cannot agree more." He curls a slender arm around Erik and pulls him into a hard kiss, the faint metallic tang of blood on his lips. The curl of his fingers is not so hesitant, though there is only so far his short blunt nails can dig into skin. "You will let us know how much, yes?" Dusk's eyes grow a little wider at Erik's request; the surprise there fades soon enough to a small smile. He wriggles out of his own pants -- the shirt takes him a touch longer, several buttons needing unfastening in order to open the garment up and get it off around his wings. His fingers scrape up along Eric's legs, nails curling in harder against his hips. When he dips his head his breath ghosts against Erik's skin, only a moment before his lips press light to Erik's shaft. The slow trace of his tongue, the warm enveloping of his mouth, these things are a soft and gentle counterpoint to the deliberate light scratch of fangs against sensitive skin. His gaze is still tipped up along the length of Erik's body, watching him and Matt kiss with a moan that thrums through the hard flesh in his mouth. “Yes,” comes Erik’s reply, an eager guttural moan in the space between open-mouthed kisses, the hand in Dusk’s hair curling encouragingly tighter. He drags Matt’s free hand up into his hair, curling his fingers over the younger mutant’s until the pressure is just so. Immediately his hand drops to Matt’s hips again, pushing down the waistband of his shorts. The following strokes are erratic, rhythm stuttering with every dig of nail into flesh, with every scratch of fang against skin, with every soothing touch of lip and tongue. “My dear friends,” Erik breathes, words heavy with arousal and admiration, “you are nothing less than — extraordinary.” Matt lies sprawled in the hollow of Dusk's wing, sheened in sweat and still breathing hard. The flush fading from his skin leaves him looking even paler than before, or perhaps that's just the contrast of the blood trickling from the neat punctures on his neck. He rolls lazily half prone, leaning against Dusk's side with his chin propped in the palm of one hand, his always-ready smile just a touch smug as he peers at Erik. "How's that for knocking out the rust, hm?" His pupils are still blown wide, the uncanny green of his eyes narrowed to luminous rings. Dusk is flushed, lean body glistening with sweat, though he at least is not breathing any harder. There's a very soft purr in his chest, and his wings curl gently around the others beside him. "I'm actually shocked we've got this far without a single magnetism joke from you." His forehead bumps lightly against Matt's, then falls back against the pillow. "Thank you. Both. This has been an unexpectedly wonderful evening." Erik’s breathing is just beginning to steady as he turns onto his side, the curl of Dusk’s wing gentle on the red scratches across his back. Sweat makes the new bites and bruises seem to shine where they are scattered across his skin. “Mm. It was — excellent. The rust-cleaning. The evening.” English — and sentences in that language — are slow to return to him, slow in their delivery. His left hand comes to rest on Dusk’s chest, at the base of his ribcage. “If I had known easing your hunger would be so enjoyable, I would have offered much sooner.” A frown flits across Erik’s features. “Nu, you are full, yes? Or you want I should go again?” Matt presses his head into the curl of Dusk's wing like a cat. "In my current condition, you're lucky to get English out me," he mumbles, half-hiding a smile behind his hand. "But once I get my breath back, you had best steel yourselves." He subsides, resting his cheek against Dusk's chest. "Your stamina puts me to shame, but I fear it may take a bigger dinner party to sate this appetite." "Fine, I don't need English, your body speaks volumes." Dusk's fingers trail down lightly against Erik's arm, his wing rubbing at Matt's back. "Oh, I could be at this all night long, I just figured a little break would be good for you both." His flush deepens, and he rolls his head languidly to the side, lips pressing lightly to the punctures in Erik's neck. "My -- other hunger," this is a little quieter, almost shy in contrast to his previous confidence, "is -- a little harder to sate. It takes a lot to..." He breathes out slow, nuzzling gently at Erik's throat. "I'm -- better fed right now than most times in my life." “English,” Erik mumbles through a low chuckle at Matt’s pun, “is a terrible language.” He stills, breathing just a little shallower while Dusk’s fingertips ghost over his tattoo, the frown returning with a deep furrow of Erik’s brow. “But there is — can I not —“ He props himself up on one elbow, gesturing to the other side of his neck with his left hand. “There is blood still in my veins, yes? None more from Matthieu I understand, but — “ The concern on Erik’s face contorts into frustration, into something approaching anger. “How much does it take?” "Should I feel insulted?" Matt does not sound insulted, either way. "Mind you, I'm not volunteering more of my blood, I've got work tomorrow. Sex, though..." His smile pulls crooked again, half buried against Dusk's chest. "I shall be ready for more after a little break." His eyes flick between Erik and Dusk. "The logistics of blood can be a bit more complex than just how much you've got in your veins." "There is," Dusk agrees, his brows pulling into a small frown at the frustration in Erik's expression. "And I'd love more of it, I just --" He swallows hard, his head dropping heavily back onto his pillow. "I'd kill you both if I actually ate -- what I need to --" His teeth press down lightly against his lower lip as he tries to find words. "What I should be eating each day would nearly drain an average person dry. I kind of -- get by okay rationing and -- going to a butcher when things get really desperate. I'd run out of donors even quicker if I killed everyone I feed from." “You should eat more,” Erik grumbles back at Matt. The duvet and top sheet were kicked to the floor at some point during the last round — now Erik rolls to pull the sheet out of the mess, tosses it over Dusk and Matt’s legs as he considers the explanation. The flare of anger fades but the frustration remains, joined by something more bitter. “I know from rationing,” he says quietly, rolling onto his back and training his gaze on the mansion ceiling. “Warsaw, we get rations: half a loaf of bread to feed a family, already stale, no promise the next day’s half loaf will come at all. Hunger makes you sick, stupid, desperate. This cannot continue.” His jaw tightens. “It will not.” Matt smooths his hand idly down Dusk's side. "When I said you have many dear friends--I didn't just mean the ones you fuck, pleased as I am to be one of those." He tilts his head to look at Erik without lifting it wholly from his living pillow. "Even so, blood isn't bread. But if you could help make it easier to ask--or better, so he needn't ask at all..." "Yeah," comes on a soft exhale, "it fucks you up. Most other people don't really grok how much it --" Dusk's eyes reflexively trace down to Erik's tattoo, and he pulls in a slow breath. "I'm sorry that you do get it." He shivers at Matt's touch, lean muscles relaxing beneath it. "I am grateful for the people who've kept me alive all this time. I --" His voice isn't entirely steady, even after a hard swallow. "Think it might be nice to be more than just alive." Erik hums, considering Matt’s suggestion. “An intriguing thought. Do not make such requests on your own behalf: I might forget myself and listen.” While his tone is light, the power so eagerly relinquished earlier in the evening has returned to Erik’s voice, firm and distinctly Magneto in its resonance, almost at odds with the parental way Erik is tugging the sheet up around Dusk and Matt at the shiver. “This, I can do. It will be so. And then,” Erik tilts his head, looking at Dusk with a fierce intensity, “my boy, you will live.” | |
