murderbased:

     His vision is red, red, red, trickles of blood from a deep cut along his hairline tinging the room around him a dark crimson as he fights to keep his head clear and his frame upright despite the roaring in his ears, the pounding at the base of his skull, the swill of brine and bile pooling between his teeth. From somewhere that sounds like miles away, he can hear the crowd thundering, some cheering his name, some cursing it, but he puts that out of his mind, compartmentalizes it for later; he has to, if he wants to focus — wants to win. He needs to win. In Aspen’s line of business, there isn’t any other option.

     The sensation of his nose cracking beneath a fist jerks him back to reality with an indignant shout of pain, and he blindly stumbles back, wildly swinging until he feels his knuckles connect with something solid. A thrill of triumph runs up his spine as he wipes the blood from his view with the back of his hand, spitting the red liquid accruing beneath his tongue onto the concrete at his opponent’s feet with a gore-flecked grin, lightheadedness overcoming him for an instant before he regains stable footing and begins to dance back and forth with a renewed vigor. The spectators erupt in elation when he lands a second punch, then a third, his clenched fingers colliding with his competitor’s temple hard enough to land him on his knees, then facedown on the floor, hapless and defeated. KO’d.

     As he tumbles out of the ring, Aspen catches a flash of dark eyes and curls through the mob packed in around him, a face that doesn’t belong, soft and innocent and clearly lost. He smirks, sending a crude wink in the pretty stranger’s direction before returning his attention to shouldering his way through the bodies congesting his path, acknowledging the overzealous slaps on the back and congratulations thrown his way with a few dazed nods and loose handshakes. There are no Fortune 500 companies to sponsor him here, only disenchanted, middle-aged men with more money than they know what to do with who love to watch a dirty fight — Aspen’s scrappy, no-holds-barred sparring style being a particular favorite of many — and, much to his disdain, he has to keep them happy to keep himself comfortable.

     Luckily their awkward, stunted banter doesn’t last long, and he’s soon free to weave his way through the combination of stragglers from his own matchup and those milling around in wait for the next, a towel draped over his bare neck and chest to catch the last few stray drops of blood flowing from his shattered nose. The majority of onlookers collected their winnings quickly and hustled out the door, and those that remain have already passed on their well wishes and comments, which finally allows Aspen the first moment to himself since leaving his apartment late this afternoon. Through the thinning crowd, he once again spots the same confused, almost frightened gaze from before darting around the room, jumping over him in search of an exit — or so he assumes; crooked half-smile returning, Aspen swaggers lazily towards him, an almost predatory intrigue propelling him forward until there’s less than a foot between them.

     “Did you like the fight, bellissimo?” / @incandescehope

        He’s a pretty boy lost in a world he really doesn’t, and cannot, understand - and yet more than ever he feels compelled to stay where he is. Elwood wouldn’t be able to tell you how he stumbled upon such an environment, but if someone were to question him he’d offer an excuse that draws along the lines of his rather intoxicated state. He’d lost his friends a little while back and, curious as ever, the shouting and cheering had enticed him. His curiosity bested him this time, and almost with no hesitation he found himself entering the door ; not least without charming the man who’d ( clearly ) been sent to guard. Charming though he is, it was no doubt that the guard moreso thought the pretty boy would be completely out of his depth, and thus the ensuing chaos would be amusing. He isn’t wrong. As it stands, Elwood is staring doe eyed at his surroundings, at the men who tower above him in stature and personality - it’s overwhelming, and he doesn’t doubt for a moment that his expression encourages them.

         But then he sees him. Initially, he’s in the ring, bloody and bruised and yet Elwood feels drawn to him – feels as though he’s unable to look away, even if he so wanted to. He watches in some kind of sick admiration as the punches fall, but his frame shakes with a flinch as the crowd erupts, eyes flickering nervously. Elwood knows he doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t need anyone to tell him that, and if the glances towards him weren’t enough he figures he screams target me, I shouldn’t be here. From the tightness of his jeans to the flow-y pink, polka dot shirt that remains unbuttoned down to his naval, Elwood couldn’t be more obvious if he tried. Yet, he finds, he doesn’t even mind ; there’s something far more interesting captivating his concern.

        Namely, the boy who now stands before him. The fainest of gasps leaves his lips as he finds himself face to face with the man who only moments ago had seemed so far away, so out of reach - but now that he’s here, Elwood finds himself rendered silent. It had been his initial intent to get the fuck out of there, because - curious or not - the end of the fight can only signal, what Elwood assumes to be, the end of the night, and the end of the night means people trying to get out and leave. That is not a crowd he wants to be lost in, and yet as the fighter approaches him, he stills - tugging his lip between his teeth on impulse. His fingers idly fiddle with the hemline of his shirt, tugging the fabric down as though in an attempt to cover himself up for suddenly he feels exposed and vulnerable, cheeks heated beneath the intensity of the other’s gaze.

        For a sudden, terrifying moment Elwood has the urge to reach out, to trail his fingertips across the blood that lines the boy’s forehead, to trace his smirk with his own lips because he’s so enticing to him, when he’s like this. Before he’s even speaking Elwood inexplicably desires him. He releases his lip from the hold of his teeth, offering a small ; sheepish smile, curls hanging into his eyes as he ducks his head. Bashful would be the best adjective for him right now, right alongside timid, but he’s soon to raise his head and meet the boy’s gaze - the last thing he wants to appear is shy. Elwood makes an aborted move to reach out to him before he catches himself, drawing back with his eyes wide, just this side of frightened enough for it to be obvious on his features. Clearing his throat, his smile grows, tilting his head to the side ; questioning.

                                   ❛ … – You’re bleeding, you should get that seen to. ❜