suggestive tw. @iobartach
* the ' they fight and... ' and things get spicy lol
What led them to spar led them to blood and fangs. In a tangled web of carefree provocation and the mundane gesture of offering a word or a cup of coffee eventually, those things became a means of pining for each other whether they wanted to admit to the act themselves or not. A means to challenge their ideals — how far they would take something as simple as idle infatuation and run with the notion until the network of threads they've intricately woven around the idea had become too much and too strong for them to simply detach from without hindrance as they would like.
They'd have to tear through the silk and leave themselves in tatters. And that's exactly what they do.
An exchange of words that manifests into an argument until they're throwing punches and dodging kicks from each other. The clash of opinions about Canon Events is quickly made a thing of the past when their fight becomes a dangerous dance. Everything is laid out on the table. Like a fight breaking out in a parking lot, they each took a metaphorical glass bottle and prepared for battle.
Miguel's approach was violent : the end of the bottle shattered and jagged. Each punch thrown with a purpose to knock its target prone if caught in its strike. And with each swipe a dangerous possibility of being torn open in a splash of death and crimson. The hostile nature, however, is expected for Noir and he keeps his bottle solid and firm, dodging blows and hitting his enemy with precision and a means to deflect or block. But he draws blood. Red trickling from the other's nose. And that might've been the detective's biggest mistake yet.
If he hadn't known the other's temper, he may not have been able to create some distance for himself before the ferocity of Miguel's attacks turned to downright animalistic.
❛ 𝙾'𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙! 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝! ❜ He raises his hand to swing and attempt to flee, but he's caught by the hem of his trench coat and is dragged back into the fight. The other's claws raking across the metal of the damn floating platform they always found themselves conversing on as Noir rolls towards an opening with barely any space to escape.
He's playing defence now, arms crossed and in front of him. The only safety net around are the hard edges of the control panels and monitors that are being slashed to sparking bits. He can't recall if he'd actually seen LYLA fizzle into view at one point before his eyes, before she too was sliced away without care but the thing with holograms is that they come back and he could've sworn he heard panic in her voice. Whether that was towards the damage being caused to the equipment or that she was actually pleading for his life.
Noir grunts as he's thrown against one of the controls, barely able to catch himself before he reaches for his gun. But he doesn't take it out of its holster. ❛ 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙾'𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚊! ❜ He had time to fire a warning shot, but he doesn't. Like a lion out of its cage Miguel pounces on him, pinning him against the keyboards and lights. Noir expects to be berated into which he would've willingly taken just for the fight to stop. But what Peter Parker of Earth-90214 surrenders to are fangs sinking into his throat, tearing through fabric and flesh and drawing his blood.
He manages to stifle a sound rising from his throat — catch himself for what they've become from becoming a reality. At least in his mind if he continued to resist, he wouldn't have to admit anything out loud as to what they were. But laying down felt nice, and warm and... he was so tired. He doesn't continue to resist and he whispers Miguel's name.
And then a weight comes off him, steering him to awake over the curtains that had begun to close over his vision. Out of habit Noir waves his arms, attempting to push the body that isn't there anymore and he stumbles to his feet. He's seeing double, the world spinning around him for a moment and he doesn't know whether that was from the blood that was drawn from his person or the lavender haze that had washed over him during that intimate encounter.
There's no balance to his steps. Every sound his boots made against metal echoed in his mind and the world was slow with the beating of his heart drumming against his ears. He needed to leave this room. He needed to leave this place. His hand reaches for his neck, not to check for blood or stop any bleeding if there was. He was checking for the fangs. Unconsciously his body was already working against him and he hated it.
He always told himself to never get attached. To never get too close but he always does.
A presence is behind him saying his name but their voice is too much to bare — muffled and dissonant. Like static. Shit. His day pass must've been torn in the fight. His head hurts. He wants to sleep, and it isn't until he finally stumbles to his knees at the edge of the platform and falls off of it when he allows the darkness to take over.
