ArchivedLogs:Longing & Belonging

Longing & Belonging
Dramatis Personae Doug, Hive, Shelby, Dusk
In Absentia	2013-03-22 '
Location <NYC> 403 {Hive} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy 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. 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, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. The first day of Spring has come and gone. You know what that means? That means that pretty young things all over the state are bringing out the cute clothes in a primitive sun-summoning ritual. Shelby's no exception, and she has her first official two days of school to celebrate as well, which means she's gone for punk schoolgirl--an outfit she didn't bother to change out of before venturing "home" for the weekend, because why? Everyone loves little pleated skirts and tailored buttonups with skinny ties! She must have made a detour by Ryan's apartment on the way up, because she's got her guitar instead of her backpack hung over her shoulder. There's also a Twizzler hanging from her lips like a cigarette, bobbing as its hidden end is chewed on. Thump thump thump! The toe of her sneaker connects with the door. By now, the occupants should recognize that announcement. Shelby has come calling. Let her in, dorks. The elevator dings, then, and the doors slide open to reveal Doug, clad in black rugby shorts and a white t-shirt with a picture of the world and an arrow pointing to it reading 'You Are Here.' He's in flip-flops, and his legs look wet up to his knees. He also does not look happy as he beelines for 403. That Shelby is already there doesn't even register until he's exactly next to her, and he blinks. "Well, hey, stranger," he says, scrunching his nose. "Where have you been, lately?" He also knocks -- maybe he missed the kicking part, earlier. "Ian -- anyone in there? It's kind of important!" "Hey one second." There's a loud clamor of music from inside the apartment, Chili Peppers playing loud enough to spill out into the hall. It doesn't actually get any less loud when Dusk opens the door -- /probably/ it'd be polite to turn it down but PSH. With most all his guests (save one very /colourful/ Tag intermittently crashing) gone, he has returned to his default half-clothed-ness; jeans but no shirt, his wings unfurled large behind him. "Hey-o, Shelby!" This is cheerful, with a fanged flash of teeth. And a 'gimme' hand towards her Twizzler. "You got any more candy for me?" It's no less cheerful but a bit more puzzled as he looks over Doug. Down at the wet. Back up at Doug's face. "Uh, hey, what happened to you, dude?" Shelby's eyes flick down over Doug--she is not above admiring the merchandise even if it's off limits--but when she reaches the wet legs, a crooked smile appears. The Twizzler is removed and wagged at him. "Saving the world," she answers. "You spring a leak or something?" But before he would have time to answer, the door opens and there is music and half-naked boys and omg her Twizzler is /stolen/. Except no, she hands it over to Dusk without quibble before easing past him into the roar of RHCP. "He sprung a leak," she supplies on Doug's behalf, "and sure, I got some gummy worms in my guitar case. Whazzup?" "Saving the world." Doug seems amused by this explanation, and he might have a follow-up question, but then there is the door opening, and he makes an exasperated sound at Dusk's question. "What happened to /me/?" he asks, looking past Dusk into the apartment. "Has your bathroom ceiling come crashing down, yet? Mister P. /just/ got my water shut off. It's like the second reel of Titanic up there." He waves at Shelby when she explains, lifting his eyebrows as if to say 'see?' while he follows. "I don't know what happened. Just suddenly, there was water /everywhere/." "Uh, yeah, what --" Dusk's smile fades into wary-caution at Doug's exasperated answer, no less puzzlement in his expression as he gestures Shelby inside. He doesn't gesture Doug inside, just looking kind of /bemused/ as the other teenager enters, his wings folding in flat against his back. He takes a chomping bite out of his Twizzler, Shelby-spit be damned. "Shiiiit, damn." He doesn't close the front door, just heads back through the living room -- his vault /over/ the back of the couch is aided by a flutter of wings as he heads towards the bathroom to look inside with another, "Oh, /hellshit/." Meanwhile there is -- well, nothing, really. Quiet invisible presence rustling to life at Doug's exasperation, Dusk's caution, mental senses reaching out to touch against each mind in turn. Hellohellohello what is /up/. It's as if Shelby lives here, the way she's making herself at home--but then more and more, she's coming to consider all of the apartments open to her in the building as /hers/. Om nom nom. She toes her shoes off, leaves them near the door and then walks herself up onto the couch before curling up. /After/ Dusk has vaulted it, of course, but she does watch him venture off with some interest. "Fuck, I wish I had wings...is it all Titanic up in there?" she calls out. The case is snapped open in her lap, a large package of gummy worms pulled out and torn open. Notice that she does not immediately spring to with offers of assistance--sugar, hellooooo, that is what's up, and besides, there are boys around to be all plumbery. Doug follows the bouncing Dusk, scrunching his nose when he hears the cursing. "Yeeeah, that's what I thought," he says, pausing by the couch, because a) bathrooms are private and b) there are gummy worms to pilfer. Which he does, leaning over to shove his hand into the bag, offering a tiny little mental return brush as that other presence surfaces. "Mister P. will probably be down in a bit to check on it. The ceiling didn't come down, did it?" He pops a red gummy worm in his mouth and pulls until it breaks with a snapping sound. "Mmm. Geek food," he says, giving Shelby a wide smile. "What are you saving the world from? Insulin shock?" "No, we've still got a ceiling, just one that's fucking /raining/, shit." Dusk is dragging things around. A bucket from under the sink. All the bathroom's towels dumped onto the floor to soak up the mess. And then -- then that's apparently /good enough/, because he returns to the living room, Twizzler still hanging from his lips, to hop back over the couch and drop onto it beside Shelby. To steal a gummy worm. "You don't want wings, you know how hard it is to /shirt/ with these things? Go Jax's route, /ink/ yourself a pair." He's still kind of giving Doug a little bit of a bemused look like he's only just noticed the teenager still standing there. "What happened up there?" There's more poking, at Shelby, this time. Quiet. Thoughtful. << watermelon? >> It's /so hopeful/. Dusk is suddenly looking at the bag of gummy worms again, despite having the Twizzler still in his mouth and the gummy worm (cherry!) in one hand. Shelby holds the bag steady for pilfering. There are plenty of gummies for everyone. Hers is lemon, and dusted with sugar, which she licks from her fingers after popping the whole thing into her mouth. "'m sooo no' a geek," she mumbles, the candy tongued into her cheek, "bu' I know wha' they like." The smug is strong in this one, accompanied with ever so naughty images of Sebastian against a seedy hotel-room backdrop. Before she can reminisce /too/ happily about the romping and giggling and blushing though, Dusk is back and she leans up against him. She rummages absently for a watermelon flavored gummy. "I could go around topless all the time," she suggests, "since it's legal up here." "The water's shut off upstairs, so that should stop in a bit," Doug offers helpfully. /His/ gummy is watermelon, and he chews it thoughtfully as he stares at the bathroom. "I don't know," he answers Dusk's question, scrunching his nose. "I was sitting on my couch, and suddenly there was this banging noise, and then it was flood city." He shrugs. "Mister P. thinks one of the pipes burst, because of all the crazy weather." He frowns. "Which seems feasible, I guess." He so sounds like he doesn't think that's feasible. But he moves on. "Topless would get pretty uncomfortable in the winter," he notes, sitting on the arm of the couch. "I would think." Dusk takes a moment to /actually/ get settled on the couch, wings stretching, pulling back in, resettling again. One unfurls to curl around Shelby in an absent drape that pulls her in closer against his side, the other just kind of folding downward in lazy droop. "Weather hasn't been /that/ crazy," he says, puzzled. He glances at Doug, a little discomfited, but then is distracted by the search for /watermelon/ gummy. << Jegus what the fucking shitcock, >> is rather /less/ unobtrusive than before. << -- oh it's you. Sweet. Way to go, Bastian. >> There's a pause, and then, << the fuck are you doing in here, >> is probably /not/ to Shelby, given that it comes with a quick mental /poke/ at Doug's brain. "Or maybe you've been having too much shower sex," Shelby tosses towards Doug with one of her patented gap-toothed grins. Trust the younger teenager to always be bringing the sex into it. She's got hormones on the brain. Ah ha! A watermelon gummy is found and offered to Dusk, in return for the snuggles. "Anyway, I wouldn't have to worry about the cold 'cause all the guys would be wanting to cuddle me. Like him, se--whafuck. Oh. Hive." She looks up at the ceiling for some reason, grin lost to a frown. Said ceiling is subjected to a chiding waggle from a lime gummy before she returns to nibbling. << We didn't fuck, >> she shares silently, << Mr. Nosy. >> Doug blushes at Shelby's suggestion, and blows air out through his nose. "Please. There has been nothing going on in that shower beyond washing, for the record." Nothing. How sad. Dusk gets a shrug. "That's his theory," he says, chewing on his gummy thoughtfully. "I'm not a plumber, so I can't really offer any credible theories as to what caused it." << Dude. I'm here to make sure your bathroom ceiling didn't cave in. >> This comes with an image of Doug's bathroom looking more like a scene from Das Boot, with water spewing from a hole in the wall. "Cuddling is fun," he agrees, after a long moment. "I suppose anything that promotes more of it can't be a totally bad idea." << Yeah, this motherfucker, >> with an image of Doug for clarification, << s'boring as shit. S'/Jax's/ shower getting all the action these days. >> Hive sounds cranky today but /well/. He sounds cranky most days. << You made sure. What are you doing here /now/? >> This comes with a quiet echo of discomfort, not Hive's but relayed-Dusk-awkward. << -- You took him to a sketchy-ass pay-by-hour motel /not/ to fuck? >> Puzzled Hive is puzzled. "Cuddling is fun," Dusk agrees quietly. Munching on his gummy worm. His wing shifts slowly, gentle fuzzy-soft rubbing against Shelby's shoulder. "Why wouldn't anyone want to cuddle you? She gives good cuddle," he informs -- his gummy worm. Seriously. << Really? Who's Jax getting busy with? >> No teenage girl worth her stripes can resist a good bit of gossip. << B and I were playing hide and seek. He's like all worried about hurting me 'cause shark, so I let him uh...practice. 'n find his birthday tattoo. We only /had/ an hour. >> Shelby looks up at the ceiling again and grins at it--because telepaths are like ceiling cat?--before popping the new gummy into her mouth. The bag is offered around to the boys for fresh selections. "I give /seriously/ good cuddle. You should get in on this, Doug. Dusk's wings are like..." Words fail. She finger wiggles instead. Descriptively. Translation: meant for rubbing against? "I got this doll from a fair once when I was kid, it was like velvet on the outside, plastic on the inside? Kinda feels like that except all sort. You're the best freak, Dusk. So not fair." << I'm leaving. >> is Doug's response to the silent question, hot and snappish back along that tether. << I got shit to do, anyway. Or not. >> He offers a tight smile to the duo on the sofa, and pushes to his feet, shaking his head at Shelby's offer.. "Thanks, but I'd better get back up and check on Mister P.," he says in a weary sort of voice. "Don't be such a stranger," he says to Shelby, and lifts a hand in Dusk's direction. "Later, dude." And that's about all he's got to offer in the way of farewells, beelining out the door with ears burning red. << I really hate this, Hive. /Really/. >> And then the door is closing behind him. Back to the floods. << Hate what? Making everyone uncomfortable the second you walk into a room? >> This cranky statement comes kind of on /top/ of an oh-so-comfortable mental image in answer to Shelby's question: Jax, shirtless and /glowing/ (his tattoos seem rather stained-glass-like, the glow backlighting them from /inside/ him), pinned to his couch by Micah straddling him. There's a lot of kissing. Because Hive Totally Cares about everyone's comfort. << ... Bastian got ink? >> Dusk seems fairly oblivious to this, still -- giving Doug kind of a puzzled look. "Oh, I -- oh. Um. OK. Thanks for -- telling me." His free wing gestures back towards the bathroom. His other still just is being a Shelby-cloak. His pale cheeks tinge a little pink at Shelby. "Well, definitely the freak part's true." "Stop being such an asshole, Hive, Jesus. You don't have to go, Doug. He's just being a dick. Like /usual/." Shelby's remark is echoed by a mental, << Knock it off, this place'd be flooded if he hadn't come down. >> Of course, her scolding loses some of its impact when she is sidetracked by stain-glass Jax, her eyes going round and another gummy pausing on the way to her mouth. Like Dusk, her cheeks go pink--but she's certainly not /disapproving/ because << ...whoa, hot... >> If she had any morals at all, she would clear her throat and move on. But. Instead she nestles in closer against Dusk's side and switches to offering /him/ the gummy--only to yank it away at the last possible moment. "Bastian has my sorta ink. I drew him something for his birthday." Sadly, Doug misses Shelby's entreaty, being in the hallway, although he picks up the echoes. It's no good, though. << Fuck /you/, Hive. >> It's a bitter, sharp thought from Doug that sears around the edges. << I didn't used to do that, until you started riding fucking herd in my head. >> There's another white hot burst at the images of Micah and Jax, and then a flood: << GETTHEFUCKOUTGETTHEFUCKOUTGETTHEFUCKOUTGETTHEFUCKOUTGETTHEFUCKOUT. >> Immediately followed by rows and rows of computer language. Not any /one/ language, but /all/ of them. Loudly. Like listening to /all/ the dial-up modems at once. << Yeah, but he came /in/ being snippy to Dusk and then just fucking stayed. He's like the kind of socially maladjusted geek that gives geeks a bad name. >> The computer language -- doesn't actually bother Hive, or at least no /more/ than it bothers Doug. << And yeah. Yeah, you did. Long before me. >> "-- Hive?" Dusk frowns, suddenly, wincing. "Oh, fuck, god, I forgot he -- /Hive/ fucking /behave/." He looks bothered, though admittedly not bothered /enough/ to be distracted from eating his gummy worm and reaching to grab another when Shelby pulls /hers/ away. He eyes Shelby's pinkening cheeks, and eyes the closed door. "-- what the fuck just happened?" "I dunno, he's got some kinda hair across his ass about Doug?" Shelby does look at the door, now shut, and heaves an immense sigh. /Boys/. She's been thinking that a lot lately. Also she is pretending that she is /not/ blushing, though her mind insists on flicking back to the image in a way that will never, ever, EVER be shared with Bastian. "I guess I'd be kind've bitchy too if I was locked up but he was always sorta bitchy," she muses as she chomps down on the offered-and-withdrawn gummy. Flecks of sugar are licked from her lips after as she glances towards the bedroom doors. "I'll go up later and cheer him up. How's Flicker holding up?" There is no response from Doug. Just dull lines of computer code that don't seem to match the images in his head. Most of which involve Hive in a variety of cartoon-like death scenarios. It will continue that way for most of the night. << Doug is such a fucking /teenager/, >> Hive says. /Crankily/. ... but then he kind of pokes at that mental image, thoughtfully /watching/ Shelby flick back to it. There is quiet /pressing/ at her mind, fingers reaching in in absent curiosity for her blushing. << -- Jax, really? >> "/Shelby's/ a teenager," Dusk murmurs, apparently finally tuned in to the mental radio. "Flicker's -- okay. He sleeps a lot. Joshua's been working with him, though. S'up and around. Getting back to class soon. How's school been?" "Yeah, but I've got tits. Rumor has it Hive likes tits," Shelby says, wry and amused. Her brow crumples as she tries to poke back at the pressing--not in resistance but more in annoyance that he would find it surprising. << What? He's hot and that'd be a fucking amazing lay, all the glowy and shut up I'm a teenager, I'm /supposed/ to get turned on easy. >> All right, so the blushing wasn't an isolated incident. The stain spreads. She soothes herself with more candy and nestles down deeper under Dusk's wing. A light clearing of the throat follows. Right, serious topics. "Good. Soon as I find another stash of pastry, I'll have to come by, he seemed to like it. School is...enh. I have to sit in with the younger kids, it's stupid, but they think I'm cool so that's okay. I got so many books to lug around I think I maybe broke my shoulder though." "Don't know why they don't just give everyone ebooks, be so much lighter." Dusk's wing is curling in, again, to rub at Shelby's shoulder with this information; it's flexible and velvet-soft, yes, but those things also make him fly. They have some muscle to them. His cheeks are slightly pink, but he does have a small grin for this: "-- Hive likes the tits, yeah. Even if it's been like /ten years/ since he got /laid/." Thiiis might be more to Hive than Shelby. << Pfft yeah uh s'not what your /mom/ was saying last night. >> It's reflexive. Hive is still poking. << ... guess he is. >> He seems to find this thought surprising. He pokes /back/ at the poking. Because >:|. << But like Bastian /and/ his dad that's some kind of Eric shit there, >> comes with more amusement than censure. Those poking fingers are creeping in again, just -- because. "Ten years!" Information like that is pretty much ammunition in Shelby's greedy little hands. "Oh my /god/, Hive, so /wonder/ you're such an ass! You need some booty. I'm tellin' you, man, you should've been all up on this when you had the chance." Her non-candy bearing hand lifts to sketch half an hourglass in the air over her own...less than hourglass figure. For a moment, amusement washes over all of the naughtiness that resides within her brain. The sensation of Dusk's wing curling against her is /not/ helping, bringing with it the tactile to go along with the mental. "You guys do the sock trick on the doorknobs in here when you bring someone home?" Ever have a slap fight in your own head? That's what she's doing now, without much force. Because double >:| and squirming a little, at the intrusion. << So what if I like lots of people? It's better than liking /no one/, >> Shelby offers up in silence, defensive. "Couch pulls out," Dusk says, "s'for when people's rooms are, uh, otherwise occupied. But, mmm, we're full-up on telepaths, we don't really need the sock thing. Pesky busybodies are convenient /sometimes/." His wing stops its rubbing, but it stays curled close around her, pressing in against her arm soft and warm. "-- I think he's an ass just kind of by /nature/. He's cranky even after he's scored." From Hive there is -- silence. It's a long silence. That prying feeling doesn't go /away/, but it stops digging. Just kind of /freezing/, still and quiet. << oh >> is what comes through eventually, and it's different, again, less /Hive/, more a conglomeration of voices muddled together; it's lost its cranky edge and is just approaching thoughtful. "Man, that could be either /super/ awesome or just plain /awkward/." Shelby isn't entirely sure which, but she too goes thoughtful while trying to picture it. It helps that there is a telepath in her head right at this very moment--and with him being quiet rather than cranky, it's edging towards awesome. "Do they do commentary? I bet they do commentary," she says as she lets her head drop against Dusk's shoulder. Another gummy is offered up from the rapidly emptying bag. "I wish I was a telepath." How fickle the young are. First it was wings, and now it's telepathy. Next she'll want to be a Flicker-clone. "You get all the goth chicks, huh?" With Hive gentled, so too is Shelby's inner monologue. << Maybe not /that/ many, >> she comments with some amusement. << But yeah. The tingles don't just shut off when I like someone. You maybe noticed 'cause Bastian. >> "It's -- uh. It's kind of both. I mean, they overhear a lot. Hive especially. Not even just from here --" Dusk's nose wrinkles. "Like downstairs and around us and shit. Probably more awkward for him, actually. It's easy for /us/ to forget." His brows crease, suddenly. "Well, /usually/ easy." His head tips to the side, cheek resting against the top of Shelby's head. "Snarky commentary. It's terrible." But he sounds amused. He lifts a hand to snag the gummy worm. It's more serious, though, when he says, "I don't think you'd want to be a telepath." Serious doesn't last long, though. His fangs flash in a quick smile. "Man, you have no /idea/. Although these days it's not just the goths, man, I got that Twilight woman to thank I think." << ... who makes you tingly? >> This seems more softly, genuinely curious than voyeuristic. But Hive is probing again. Mental fingers curling in in a tighter grip. "Yeah, he told me when I asked him out. How that sorta thing is hard for him since...well. Yeah." Shelby's own prickliness is lost in sympathy. Poor Hive. Poor Hive's love life. Poor roommates who he comments on. Okay, the commentary /is/ a funny idea--she'd have all /sorts/ of advice for people if she were in that situation. "Technique is important," she says, mostly to herself, as she digs into the bag for the last gummy. The plastic crinkles, and sugar showers everywhere as she hauls it out. Watermelon! "Jesus, Twilight...thanks for reminding me, douchebag." Her nose rumples. "If I ever catch you painting yourself with glitter..." A tighter grip? Shelby does not mind the blanket of Dusk's wing or Hive's manyminds curled around hers but squeezing earns a poke. << Bastian, >> she supplies immediately. << You. Shane when he asked me to dance. That porn flick of Jax'n'whoever. Flicker's cute. Dusk biting me was kinda hot. Musclepony Eric. The waterpolo team. Parley. >> "Technique?" Dusk makes little pinchy-fingers towards the << watermelon! >> gummy. "Naaaah, I think Jax is holding down the glitter fort for, uh, basically the entire Village." He swipes a finger at Shelby's leg, picking up stray sugar that has sprinkled. "I mean, yeah. Like, would you /really/ want to know what everyone's thinking? People are already terrible just talking to them." Each of these names calls up images in turn, supplied from Hive's memory; snippets of these people in happier lights, not with the chaos-stress of the past month but actually enjoying themselves. Each, too, earns a tighter squeeze of mental grip; other voices, other thoughts, are starting to trickle their way into Shelby's mind. << -- s'a lot of tingle. >> It sounds almost wistful. "Good, then I won't have to kill you." Shelby makes a game of swatting at Dusk's finger, being both amused and lizard-brain pleased at the gesture. She's just the sort of girl to comment, "Careful, my boyfriend might hurt you too if he catches you doing that." Which...she does. Grinning, of course, and making no effort to move away from her Dusk pillow-blanket combo. "Maybe I wouldn't be a Hive kinda telepath but if I could turn it off? Sure. People /say/ shit about me, I don't care if I catch them thinking it. 'Sides, I hang out here a lot and you guys all fucking /love/ me." Aww, wistful. That piques her curiosity. With a mental head-tilt, she goes quiet and thoughtful to key in to all of those voices. Listening, this time, rather than prodding back at the pressure. << I thought you didn't like that sorta thing? You can go check out my porn files if you want. I keep 'em in the back, behind the dance routines. >> What? Doesn't everyone store their daydreams and fantasies that way? "Your boyfriend can't /fly/," Dusk answers, wiping a finger against Shelby's leg again, ducking it between the swatting. Because /sugar/. He licks his finger clean after. "You do hang out here a lot." His smile twitches up, amused. There are many voices. Most are unfamiliar. Some aren't; Doug and his stream of computer-chatter, Dusk and his quest for sugar, Mel cranky over getting pushed around at work with someone trying to make a scene at the open mic. Hive is in there, somewhere; he's muted in the noise, quieter than many of the other voices; a sick-dull ache that very much wants to be /home/. It takes a while for him to respond, but eventually he does: << We /like/ as much as anyone. It's just -- not easy. >> His voice fades back into the buzz. Which is growing slowly louder as pressure on Shelby's mind increases. "Yeah, but he's got bigger teeth than you." A thing that Shelby takes pride in. Nevermind that they aren't /her/ teeth. They belong by proxy. "I like it here," is all she says to the last comment, playing it casual. But more than that, she's /comfortable/ here. It has an atmosphere she will never admit to craving. It's enough that she can nestle into the warmth of a body and wing-blanket--and poke Dusk in the ribs for his blatant leg-stroking. "How're you holding up on, uh, feeding, anyway?" she inquires, with narrowed eyes. The wince comes more from the pressure building in her head though, prompting fingers to temple. << Hey, ease up. You gotta warm a girl up first before going in. >> This is flippant and somewhat taken aback by the white noise created by all of those voices. Okay, maybe she doesn't want to be a telepath--but when the ache is felt, she responds with a pang of unhappy warmth. Affection. Less...G-rated thoughts. Anything she can pull together to provide comfort. << ...no, I know it isn't. Still wish you'd said yes. >> "Jesus, his teeth are fucking nightmarish. I'd never tangle with the twins. /You/ just shouldn't spill /sugar/ all over yourself. I'm actually like a fruit-bat, you know." Sugarsugarsugar. Dusk does stop PAWING sugar off Shelby's leg after this, though. Mostly because he's cleaned most of it /up/. He twitches at the poke to bony ribs, squirming and then resettling with his wing holding her TIGHTER. "Mmnh? I'm okay. I mean, kinda past due, but." He shrugs a shoulder, and then looks down at Shelby with a frown. "How're /you/ doing, uh, things have been -- kind of shitty." Hive pokes at those thoughts, turning them over. The ache grows, though, at them, deeper and hungrier. That mental presence squeezes in tighter, voices clamouring louder in Shelby's head. For a moment. There's a fuzzy-brained moment of disorientation, cloying, dizzy, and then those voices subside to quiet background murmurs. But the ache feels more /present/, more like Shelby's own feelings; at least until that is checked, too. << Sometimes do, too, >> Hive admits -- sort-of-Hive. The thought bubbles up more from /inside/ her mind than outside it, rising as though something she is thinking to herself. Shelby still manages to squirm a hand free to assault his ribs again. "You're not fuzzy enough to be a fruit-bat." Check it out, she /knows/ something. But the tickling only lasts a little before she flexes her curled hand down and lifts her wrist, at the same time as her eyebrows go up. Wanna? "More than a little shitty but--oh, fuck, Jesus Christ!" The offer and answer are both put on hold as things inside of her head tilt sideways, leading her to slap a palm down on Dusk's chest and squeeze her eyes shut. "Hiiiive," she whines. But then it's over and she's able to crack an eye open. "Ugh," is her assessment until the ache blips out. Then /both/ eyes are opened, experimentally. "...uh. Okay...I knew it?" She's too puzzled to be truly smug about the fact though. Dusk's eyes widen, and he lifts a hand to rest it over Shelby's. "What are -- oh. /Oh/." His eyes widen, suddenly, looking at Shelby. There's a /shift/, disorienting again, some voices growing louder and some growing quieter, and when it is over Dusk's is /there/, a noticeable /presence/ in Shelby's mind. Kind of tired. Kind of enjoying snuggles. Kind of battling between laziness and the desire to obtain dinner. There's a pervasive hunger running under all of this, tinting all his thoughts faintly -- well, bloodthirsty. "-- Sorry," he's apologizing for his roommate, "he's, uh, kind of rude." "Wuh." Shelby, being a singer, is good at sound effects. The next tilt leaves her blinking before she gives her head a little shake to clear it. Her own nuances are a good match for Dusk's but they're currently running under a layer of what the fuck. She has /forgotten/ tingliness. "Yeah, seriously, what the hell was that about? Jealous, I bet," she says, trying for something like a normal tone--and squinting suspiciously at the ceiling again. Bad ceiling. Bad. "He wants all my snuggles for himself." The accusation is followed by a short, sharp inward breath before she finds a crooked smile for the fruitbat. His chest is given a little pat. "Oh yeah. Shitty." That's out loud. Silently, she's scolding. << We need to get you some KY for brains, dude. Seriously. >> << Gun Oil's better, >> rises up again. Possibly a rebuttal. Possibly Shelby is developing new tastes in lube. "I think he wants all the snugges," Dusk is agreeing with this part, at least. After this agreement his wing shifts again, brushing down against Shelby's arm, keeping her close. His fingers curl loosely against Shelby's hand as it pats, but then drop downwards to his lap. Still absently holding her hand. "I mean, I don't think the type of snuggles you get in jail are like, the premium-quality snuggles. We only stock the good shit here, he's probably in withdrawal." Her snickering is audible /and/ palpable now, inside and out. Shelby proves her heartless nature by accepting the closeness by squirming in a little more, content and wrapped in warmth. It's almost a reflex that makes a note of where her hand has ended up, a tiny subconscious thrill that goes unremarked on--and unresisted. Truly, she is the worst of girlfriends. "They probably don't have Gun Oil either. Poor guy. No wonder he's listening in. S'better than TV," she muses. "So long as he doesn't do that spike thing again though, 'cause seriously. Anyway...yeah. You hungry?" She knows he is, of course, but the question is formal habit. Her captured but flexing fingers are a way to draw attention back to her wrist. And...yeah, maybe to tease. /Horrible/. Dusk's head is tipping to the side, again, to rest his cheek against the top of Shelby's head. The soft squeeze-stroke of his wing continues, a little slower, a little lazier. The question draws a pang of hunger from him, but despite this: "No. Thanks." Because his mind is ticking over all the /trouble/ associated with eating -- getting a first aid kid, making sure Shelby does not bleed to death (or bleed all over their couch), bandaging her up afterwards. And in the end the lazy-warm comfort of just curling up on the couch together is winning out. His eyes are closing with sleepy-absent thoughts of bed. But that requires getting /up/. And he just stays. His thumb strokes absently against the back of her knuckles. "... can I, like, get a raincheck? On, uh, eating you." "Oh sure. Giving me rainchecks for that sort've thing is all the rage with the guys these days." Except for Bastian, of course. A thought which leads Shelby into a small smile, those birthday memories surfacing again. She too is falling prey to the lazy vibes. It's so warm under that wing, so oddly comforting. Like being little again, and believing in the magical power of blankets. Or maybe it's just Dusk's sleepy-absent vibes creeping over her brain, now that they've been tipped together. She gives his hand a press and then lets her eyes close. "Anyway, you can't get up," she remarks, "I need a pillow." And there is yet another reason to stay just like that. "M'the boniest fucking pillow. Make a pretty good blanket, though." Dusk's wing-blanket /is/ probably magical. At least, any monsters who try invading will have to fight through a vampire to get to Shelby. Admittedly, he's a kind of ridiculously bony-thin vampire. Not particularly intimidating on the monster-hunting front. Shelby can enjoy the sharp-angled pillow, because he is keeping his eyes closed, thumb brushing her fingers with increasing slowness. His thoughts are drifting towards sleep, sluggish, warm, tired. He seems pretty content to just stay where is is. "Gotta get you eating more," Shelby says, voice growing smaller and smaller. At some point after that, she yawns. At another, she shifts until she can try out using Dusk's lap as a pillow, seeing if it has any more meat. And then, not long before she gives into the sleep vibes, she sends out a wispy, << Night Hive. Miss you. >> Some more meat. Not much. His spindly-light build is made for flight and not so much pillowing. But he will do his darndest to be a pillow, shifting slightly so /he/ can pillow himself properly against a couch cushion. His wings shift, too, one folding at his side and the other draping down over Shelby. For a moment, something touches Shelby's mind, just a soft press of contact, and then it fades away.