ArchivedLogs:Hidden Hungers

Hidden Hungers
Dramatis Personae Doug, Mirror, Parley	2013-05-05 '
Location <NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building. A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan. In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generallly littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools. Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom. Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Tompkins Square Park is a lively cacophony of people getting out and /enjoying/ their day. Doug knows this, because his windows are open, allowing the cool Spring air to drift through his apartment. Alt and Delete stretch on the fire escape among a few recently-added flowerpots with small things beginning to poke through the dirt. Inside, there is activity in the kitchen, which is not entirely unusual in and of itself. But today, Doug has a /project/. The counters are scattered with bowls and the ingredients of cake-baking, each seemingly placed specifically according to its need and order of use. Dressed in loose-fitting blue shorts and a red t-shirt, both of which are spotted with flour despite the apron he wears with a picture of Perry White on the bib and the inscription 'Kiss the Chief'. Doug is currently in the middle of chopping up a block of chocolate, to be placed in the double burner that waits on the stove. He /might/ be chopping in time to the music coming from his open laptop. Maybe. It could be coincidence. The warm weather has begun to permeate throughout the building, warming the halls and filling the stairwell with thin dusty sunlight-smells from the rooftop window. Drafts from open windows air out the last winter smells and bare feet now traverse the hallways. It's a prime day for sunbathing, so shirtless o' clock has come early to two residents - Parley is walking backwards on his toes in a pair of cargo shorts, scrubbing his fingers through the short fur of one shouler with a body pillow tossed over his shoulder. "-but they have an open admissions in one of the adjacent schools. If I can get enrolled there, it's not impossible I could transfer over. Now I just need the mutant registration act to hold off long enough for me to graduate." More than a little /wry/, this; his rare chattiness is given to naturally with his present company, tone pitched cautiously quiet-low as though they were in a library. "I've been thinking it over. It's not impossible they'll register the mutants they'd captured and studied already even without that mutant's consent - they have many of our personal information. No one would know their power set levels better than - Oh, we're here." He's backed up to a stop outside of room 503, Doug's private student pad, and Parley raises a hand to knock softly. Joining Parley in shirtless o'clock is a VAMPIRE -- well, maybe not really because he seems to have enjoyed the sunbathing just /fine/, maybe a little too fine from the slight pink tinge to his nose and upper cheeks that promises the later irritation of burn. But Dusk is /very/ pale, sunbathing might be appealing but it's probably not /ideal/. And /yet/ the winged man has been doing just that and judging by his quick-easy smile is /pleased/ with the afternoon, sunburn and all. He is in cargo shorts, too, olivey coloured and low on his narrow hips; there's a towel slung over one bare shoulder and his large soft wings flex behind him. "... been thinking about going back myself," he admits, pensively turning over the concept of School. "I'm not sure which schools are more or less /lenient/ about this kind of thing, I, don't -- actually know anyone who's --" << (obvious) >> comes with an indicative flutter of wings. "-- who's in school, that'd be a good enough indicator. But if registration doesn't come through for a /while/ --" There's an inward contemplation of his own lack of Actual Identity, a curiously /amused/, << what would they even register /me/ as? >> And then he waits, at the knock, wings flexing once more with a featherlight brush of downy-soft furred wingtip to soft-furred shoulder. And then the wings curl, tucking in neatly against his body like a cape. They smell kind of tropical. Kind of coconutty. The /wings/ had sunblock, too. The sound of knocking, even softly, is enough to work through Doug's chop-bopping, and he glances at the door before setting his knife down. "Hang on a sec," he calls, and pads softly to the door, taking a chunk of chocolate to gnaw on. When he pulls the door open, he takes a mmoment to take in the shirtless men on his doorstep << (yum) >>appreciatively before he grins widely. "Hey, guys. What's going on?" He steps back, and motions for the pair to enter. "Come on in." He turns and heads for the kitchen, talking brightly as he goes. "You want something to drink? Juice? Water? I could make some tea...." He might be a /little/ over-sugared. << (they would register you)(as an /identity theft/). >> Parley teases as the door opens, "-Um?" He is, at the present, momentarily distracted, raising up his fingers to brush them along the soft webbing of wings, looking wide-eyed at the face in the doorway like he's been caught at something BAD. /Spook/. "Ramsey-san." He brushes at his shoulder, smoothing down his fur as he finds himself drifting on some air current into Doug's apartment, glancing over his shoulder to ask Dusk, "-can you drink water? I'll have -" He looks back towards Doug, "Some water." He's also gained some sun, though less of a burn; like so many of the labrats, the residual soft-damage of atrophied muscle mass, soft uncalloused feet and hands and pale skin are starting to fade beyond notice, and while his presence is faded, Parley's energy levels are rising. He silently makes a few idle practice fencing lunges with an invisible foil, possibly filtering some of Doug's sugary energy. "I wanted to talk to you about that phone call you got recently," he explains to Doug, eying his kitchen, "Ahh? What are you making." He smells chocolate. Dusk does not laugh at this teasing -- outwardly anyway; inwardly there's a bright hum of amusement that glitters and then fades. The offer of Something To Drink fills Mirror!Dusk's mind with /red/, and the slow inhale he draws through his nose is hungry. "Can I drink water?" He doesn't seem like he knows. "I'll have some water." He slips forward into the apartment, nudging the door closed behind him with a push of bare toes. He drifts after Doug towards the kitchen, sniffsniffsniff. "Chocolate," he decrees. Possibly Doug is not /making/ chocolate but this is the important component. If Doug is aware of any transgression on Parley's part, he doesn't show it as he moves into the kitchen, instead throwing a lopsided grin Dusk's way. "I hope you can drink water," Doug says cheerfully as he opens the fridge. "Because anything else is off-limits." << (more or less)(negotiable) >> He pulls out two bottle of water, and moves to set them on the island part of the counter. "Are you here officially?" he asks Parley with just the smallest tease in his voice, and a playful push of warmth. "Or can I keep working while we talk?" The question gets a chuckle as he moves to get glasses from the cabinet. "/I/ am teaching myself how to bake," he says. "Well, cook in general, but today I decided to teach myself baking. It will, eventually, be a chocolate cake." He grimaces at the recipe on the iPad tucked up under the counter. << (harder than it looks) >> "I hope." "I love chocolate," Parley ducks under a wings to swipe a water bottle - probably doesn't have to, but does it anyway - twisting off the top with a glance up to DuskyMirror's face. << (red?) >> He tries to parse and streamline this flash through the surface Dusk part of his fellow visitor's mind, but deep gut instincts are not always capable of clear concepts beyond /need/. << (drink?) >> It's not exactly concerned, but it's a hovering curiosity, inspecting the outer shapes of Dusk's mind as it processes - His eyes have shifted to Doug, his eyebrows so slightly raising, "Iiii have never made an official visit so underdressed before." Not said like he isn't now considering it, "I'm not sure I would look terribly efficient. Few find the spots terribly charming." He doesn't need to offer empathic clarification to express: by all means. Keep working. Parley, in the mean time, is going to poach a bit of chocolate to melt in his mouth, diving by in a flash of rosettes with a flash of scar at the end of his spine. "Mmmn but no. I've spoken with Mr. Osborn. You're formally cleared." Nibble. "Anything else?" Dusk looks mildly intrigued here, gaze drifting over Doug with a spot of interest. << (drink) >> is echoed back to Parley, a sentiment edged in parched red-tinged thirst that the water bottle he uncaps and gulps at does nothing to quench. But he gulps, all the same. His nostrils flare for a moment and despite the sharp hunger-pangs stirred up not by chocolate-smells but /people/-smells he seems to oddly -- relish the burning ache that is growing. He holds on to this feeling and turns it over like a fascinating curiosity. << people live with >> Pokepokepoke, at that strange foreign hunger, << so many things. You'd never know. To look at them. What hungers they -- >> << (battle) >> wars with << (embrace) >> to complete this sentiment. Aloud: "The spots are charming," is said less as a compliment and more as idle passing commentary. "This building has a lot of baking." A faint (tasty) mouthfeel-memory of something sweet and crumbly and citrusy accompanies this. He slips further into the kitchen, presumptuous, and peeks at the recipe on the counter. Peeks at the food prep underway. Sniff. "You know," the blonde says to Dusk, tapping a finger along his jugular, leaving a smear of chocolate. Then he grins, and nods at Parley. "Well, I'm happy to be the first," he drawls, and nudges the smaller man lightly with his elbow when he filches some chocolate. It's almost more of a rub along the slender ribcage. "Although, you'd probably distract your clients. As Dusk says, the spots are charming." << (under me)(bristling) >> He flushes slightly, and chops a bit faster. "Well, that's a relief," he says, putting down the knife and turning to face the other two. << (safe)(Parley's safe)(I'm safe) >> "I really appreciate your help. I don't know that I'd have been so lucky, if he'd sent someone else to interview me." He grimaces. "I don't know that I'm all that accomplished at deception." "Well." Parley murmurs, a sudden flush of color thudding up the sides of his neck in tandem with Doug's, his fur - well. Bristles with the flicker of memory in little pickets of guardhair marching down the line of his spine when his side is brushed. "--You're honest. There are benefits to that." He's licking chocolate off a thumb where it had melted when he wasn't looking, considering the gesture Doug has given his jugular. His eyes turn curiously towards Dusk. << (blood?) >> This word is far more visceral; iron-thick red, metallic and presented with a small part of his observational presence at a thoughtful distance. His fascination equals Dusk's. << (hemokinetic?)(are you going to go bloodmad?) >> It's so playfully inquired it may as well come with a dancing little blood trail wreathing it. << (show me)(your hunger?) >> His mental fingers open, offering a soft point into which Mirror might deposit this portion of Dusk's psyche. Dusk's eyes linger against Doug, running up from chocolate-smeared vein to blushing cheeks, tracing the rising-reddening path of blood. "Mmm," is a kind of quiet hum and he absently shifts nearer Parley, largesoft (coconutty) wings unfurling to curl one loosely around furry shoulders. Brushbrushbrush. It's soft and brief and then he just leans against the counter, wings slowly drooping downward. "It does," he agrees in slowquiet thought, "take kind of some practice to get good at." His eyes are lidding, slowly, his breathing quieter through slightly-parted lips that are a little too pale. << (mmm) >> is his quiet bubble of feeling in answer to these questions, chasing after that metallicthick scent. The next unfurling of wings brushes a soft-furred wingtip against Parley's flushing neck. The tiny curl of Dusk's smile is small, a upward twitchhook as his feelings unfurl much as his wings did. Brushing up against Parleymind with hunger thick and hot and burning, a steady throb of desire that pulses in time with the heartbeats in the room. Dusk's wings shiver. A slow swallow rolls down his throat. << (i am mad) >> is an amused echo, and this amusement, quietly accepting, quietly analyzing these sensations, is Mirror; it /wars/ with Dusk's nature to suppress rather than revel in the hunger. "It's been a long time," he muses quietly, "since I baked. Cake." Doug hums lightly at Parley's observation, and lifts a shoulder as he does a few last chops at the chocolate. "I suppose you're right," he says, licking chocolate off a finger before wiping it on a paper towel. "But there are drawbacks to it, as well." << (assumptions) >> He picks up the cutting board, and moves to the stove. "People just assume, if you don't lie about stuff, you /must/ be hiding /something/, and then they just think you're being an asshole." The chocolate is dumped into the top of the double boiler, carefully, the knife tapped against the board to knock loose the last bits. Dusk gets a wide grin. "You're welcome to help," he says, nodding at the stove. "I could use someone to make sure this doesn't..." he moves to lean into the iPad and read briefly, "'seize up' before the batter's ready for it." He stands back up, grabbing a silicon spoon to wield in offering. "Plus, as a helper, you get dibs on first slice. Um. If you want it, that is." Mmm coconutty /and/ chocolatey smells all around Parley. He bumps and bonks his chin on the soft brush of furred wingtips when they pass under his jaw, breathing in through his nose - a long inhale corresponding with a savory consideration of the heady, madness? Yes, alright, flowing into him. Like Christmas lights, his mind sparks brighter here and there in small lively corresponding nerve clusters as he reflexively begins to sort out the jumble of /hunger/ and heat, immune to the former as he, himself, is perfectly well-fed. The latter is not, inherently, a bad feeling at all, sterilized and anonymized as it is. He openly shares the experience with Mirror, conveying it underhand like secrets slipped under closed doors. Secret /treats/. << (can you tell what he does)(when he eats it?)(Do they die?) >> There's no judgement in the inquiry. It could just as easily be one of many items on a list. "He can't eat cake," Parley decides quietly for Dusk, reaching out a hand absently to touch soft wings, his brows pulling slightly together in Doug's direction, perplexed or concerned, "-- has someone called you an asshole?" Shh. He filches another bit of chocolate. "People assume that?" Dusk!Mirror echoes this with a trifle of bemusement. "I would think that being honest makes people assume -- honesty." He sounds puzzled, turning this over slowly. "Though everyone is hiding something." His mind curls around the feelings shared back to him, tasting, relishing, his smile lingering. << (do they die?) >> is echoed back, slow and thoughtful. There's a quiet moment where he just lets the hunger rise, fiercehot, his own pulse fluttering and slight quickening to his breath. "Maybe not eat. But I can stir," he allows, and there's another brush of wings to fur as he stands, takes the spoon. Stirs. Carefully. Watching the chocolate with a good deal of interest. Watching Doug with a good deal of interest. << do they die? I can't tell. Yet. >> << (want to find out) >> "It's been assumed, in the past," Doug answers, either Parley or Dusk; it's really unclear as he begins scooping flour into a bowl. "I guess people just don't want to believe someone is that honest about stuff." He smiles a bit, and lifts a shoulder. "Not around /here/, anyway." Other dry ingredients follow the flour, measured and added quickly. "Not that I blame anyone for feeling that way. I just hate the whole exhausting exercise of saying one thing and meaning another." He moves to the fridge, then, and extracts a bottle of milk and a couple of eggs. "I guess that means you get first dibs," he teases Parley as he sets the items on the counter. "Or would rather lick the beaters?" Parley's visage is a strange coloration; the thick /meaty/ flow of hunger the sears up scalds his own pulse savory-strong in response; he watches it through the curious double vision of Mirror-Dusk's sharing, the perception of himself. It puts a warm, lively energy flushing in his eyes and cheeks. But beneath it, where he observes carefully at a distance this interesting hooked up network of perceptions interacting between hemokinesis and empathy and Mirror and Dusk and himself in the current /setting/... Oh. Hm. The rest of his face is a touch pale. Location is not ideal. << (you should probably stop stirring.) >> He closes a hand carefully around Dusk's wrist (feeling his pulse, a thoughtful little quick-check) to keep him from accidentally burning himself. His other hand simple and firmly takes the spoon from him. << (not here.)(come?) >> He lays out a deliberate mental SWELL of red droplets leading across the distance between them. << (we'll find out)(together.) >> "We actually should go," Parley offers Doug a small, kind of /edgy/ smile, hooking an arm around Dusk's waist to lead him back from the stove's heat. "I - we would love to try some later, if it turns out alright? I'll put coffee on." Very calm, firm but unforceful, he coaxes Dusk towards the door. "I just wanted to let you know everything is alright now. Thank you for the chocolate?" He has quick little fingers, making short work of the door as they find their way out. Heading for the stairs.