anothercontinuity | Red vs Blue pt 2

"It will become second nature after a time. I was never very good at social situations, but being what we are helps, to a degree." He tips his head slightly. "We will always seem off to them. Something interesting, a point of focus when we project ourselves, and near invisible when we do not."

But York seems too thrilled for a lesson, really. He's caught up in the moment, and Locus smirks ever so faintly. New blood. "Would you like to know what it is she felt?"

"As long as I can make sure they get home alright? I think I can swing this regularly." But being off is being memorable and he needs to try to keep that in mind but everything's sharper, sweeter, and the small place in the back of his mind is thrumming with pleasure for having caught that glimmer of pride in Locus' eyes.

For making him smile, even a little, when he doesn't seem prone to it.

The offer has him light up that much more, blue eyes bright and flicking to Locus' face. Damn, he must've done well. "I- please? I would like that."

"Only a taste. You've fed, but we don't want you going hungry all over again," he murmurs, before halting in his steps. A moment later and he turns, pressing York's back to a nearby wall and...

The streets are quiet this time of night. No one's going to notice a pair of guys necking in an alcove this close to the club, and Locus takes advantage of that fact. Dips his head low and sinks his teeth into York's throat. Just the smallest of sips.

But he'll know exactly how it's meant to feel.

"Finding another club at this night would be a pain- but I do kinda feel like dancing more..." But that would mean getting noticed and they're trying to avoid that, he and Delta click through number after number, statistic after statistic of their acceptable parameters for fucking around when Locus stops.

Looms-

And there's a brief moment of oh god he's hot because his brain is wired for stupid before there's pressure and teeth and his whole world lights up with heated euphoria. A mouth on his neck is as good as a hand between his legs and it's such a rush his knees damn near give out, hands curling around Locus' arms to hold himself upright. THe noise he makes is just on this side of obscene.

Oh. Well then. That's a sound. It reverberates through him as he tastes that blood, tinged with that golden edge that York seems to give it simply by possession, and he has to make certain not to draw too far. To let him feel the swoon for what it is before pulling back and licking his lips.

That stunned, hazy look of pleasure looks good on him, he can't help but notice.

A hand moves to his hip to help him steady himself, the corner of his mouth curling upwards. "Like that."

it's a brilliant moment of pure sensation- close to the high he got from drinking Locus' blood, from the change- but it is all too brief and he's pulling away. Taylor whimpers despite himself, head still tipped back, throat bared for more. More?

No, then he'd have to eat again and hunting twice in one night is-

His thoughts are still scattered and even Delta can't help him arrange them, preoccupied by the sensations. "Better than being shot."

His voice is low, wrecked, and god he needs either a cigarette or an orgasm, one or the other.

"Infinitely better."

One hand moves to York's chest, smoothing his shirt back into place, before Locus cocks an eyebrow at him. "You'll need a moment, I assume."

"Assume away." His head lolls forward, knocking against Locus' shoulder and again- that little warmth in the back of his head that isn't Delta or his own mind goes bright and happy and content with being this close to Locus. For the moment all he wants to do is...breathe.

One hand lifts, curling against the back of York's head, holding him in place. He's not sure what prompts the touch, except that York seems to approve of touch in general, and out here? He's protective of his fledgling. There's so much he's still yet to experience, so much yet to learn about this life.

Little pleasures should be savored when and where they can.

"Perhaps once we've had a particularly good evening, we might try that again."

"S'a good carrot." He responds better to those than sticks, honestly. Not that Locus seems the kinda teacher to hand out sticks when correction and instruction will handle the issue neatly. He melts further against Locus' chest, breathing going slow and even and normal when this lethargic weight starts to seep in in out of nowhere.

"I'm all for it."

"How are you feeling?"

Not quite so energetic, it appears. That high seems to have crashed headlong into the swoon of the bite. No wonder he's looking a little dizzy.

Should he...be concerned?

"Mellow." A little sleepy but that'll fade, right? Right. He reluctantly pulls himself back up onto his own weight, smoothing down Locus' sleeves with an embarrassed cough. Okay. At least he didn't ruin his...whatever's shirt.

"I'm good. Just. Swinging between 'god yeah I can do anything' and 'god I need a cigarette' in the span of five minutes is a little dizzying. I'm good." They're good.

"Perhaps we should have waited," he muses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully for a moment. "Something I'll have to take into consideration for the future."

But if York is 'good', as he says, then he's not going to concern himself too strenuously over it. Instead, he draws back, tugging York away from the wall in the process.

"S'awright." He's able to stand, his eyes still a little hazy but in the way of someone after a really good orgasm. He can function. Totally.

Just. Let him slip his arm around Locus' waist for stability as they walk. Okay. "Impulsive alleyway fake makeouts are kind of a favorite literary trope of mine."

"They're easily ignored. People don't often stop to watch," he continues with a nod, allowing York to lean into him as they walk. The weight of it is not uncomfortable, and he glances briefly to his fledgling's side as they make their way. He seems to be walking alright. Right. No need to fuss unduly.

"The same is true in the club. Once they see you as 'occupied', their attention moves on."

"No one wants to be 'that guy'. It does mean I gotta be careful to not pick anyone that someone else is eyeing." Because jealous posturing is a thing and he's been through that before. But. This isn't terrible. Sure beats the idea of having to literally hunt humans and tear out their throats because-

Nope. No thank you.

"Find a big enough city and there are not only plenty of clubs- but plenty of clubbing streets." It'll make finding a meal without hurting anyone easy enough.

"Larger cities will mean being able to stay for longer without leaving an impression on the population. We have to be ghosts. Figments they barely remember. It is key to surviving in this life without the complications of being discovered by mortals."

Here, he gives York a heavy side-eye.

"No getting attached."

"And yet, still a step up from how I was living before." More like vaulting a whole damn mountain up. "I can live with that."

Getting attached means watching them wither and die and he's had enough of watching people he cares about get killed or sent off to do just that. No thanks. "Besides. I got you."

Locus gives him an odd look at that. It's not scornful or disapproving, almost surprise if anything, but not overtly so. He just studies him for a time as though gauging what he means by that exactly, before appearing to dismiss it entirely.

"I doubt we will ever come to the situation you were living in. There are ways to avoid that, and provided neither of us do anything too drastic or foolish, we should manage."

York quirks a brow up at Locus- remember the 'will I be alone' thing? Still a thing. He's got Delta, he's got another living(ish) person to talk to and live with and that's...more than enough. Not being so damn afraid of being caught is plenty.

Real rooms with real beds? Amazing.

"I try to keep a low profile anyway, so. No problems there."

"Then there shouldn't be an issue."

His eyes narrow again as he considers something else. "...I think finding another club might be a good idea, actually. I haven't fed yet, and it's already been a few days."

Never mind the fact that he'd just recently given a good deal of blood to bring York back from the brink of death. He could stretch things when necessary, but that taste of blood just a few minutes ago is a reminder of how strong that hunger really is.

And is not in any way a reflect of how much he'd like to chew on York on the future.

"I thought you grabbed someone while I was trying to figure it out-" That's- kind of sweet but mostly practical. Keep an eye on the baby and make sure they don't accidentally murder someone. "Come on, you need to eat and I could use another round of dancing."

Playing the distraction, he can do that. Also: A chance to watch Locus work would be pretty interesting; a chance to learn how he does it his way. Standing and being approached isn't really his bag, but.

Different strokes, different folks.

"Hn. Let's go, then."

And with York's additional impetus, they're heading across town towards another bar. There isn't much difference between the two, full of the same sort of crowds, the same scents and sights, the same lights and loud music.

Breezing past the door together is easy, and from there? Locus detaches himself and takes up residence on one side of the bar, near the end. He orders a drink but only swirls it, occasionally bringing it to his nose as though he might be drinking it. Mostly, however? His eyes are on the surrounding crowd.

Searching.

Taylor finds his way back on the dancefloor, moving to find a group to sway with. Not breaking out anything really complicated in the moment, but. Enjoying the music while he watches Locus from a distance. Solid and stoic and entrancing. The way the light plays over his face, catches his eyes?

It doesn't take long for a slim young man to peel away from the group and try his luck, arms slung up casual as can be against the bartop.

Locus lets his eyes move over the man. Talking isn't strictly necessary. Tipping his head, moving his gaze slowly along the length of the young man, even just fixing him with a stare? Is usually enough. There's a certain type that approaches him, and he knows how to work with them.

When he does speak, the words are soft. Close. Close enough for the rumble of his voice to rival the bass of the club in the young man's ear.

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