ArchivedLogs:True Blood

True Blood
warning: no violence, but a lot of blood. also makeouts.
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Parley, Shane	2013-07-14 makeouts-related blood.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The concrete wall that rings the roof has been decorated, painted in vivid bright shades by some artistic hand to add colourful cheer to the rooftop. The mural shifts in terrain One wall sports a beach, flecked with grass and seashells and driftwood and shore birds. Beach transitions into meadow, colourful with wildflowers and butterflies and dragonflies; meadow shifts into snow-capped mountains, subsides into piedmont and sprouts into a verdant forest on the fourth, alive with animals. It's early. Morning! Not /too/ early, really, but definitely early enough that it does not yet qualify as /not/ morning. Shane still bears a few lingering bruises from Friday's fight club; they /glisten/ under the water of the sprinkler. Because he is /under/ the sprinkler, of course he is. In black swim trunks and no shoes and no shirt. Over on the table, /well/ out of the way of the water, is a small joint. Also his Nook. Possibly he came up here to /read/ out of the more cloistered heat of his shut-in apartment. But then the sprinkler called to him. So now he lounges. Solo, today, and feeling a strange twinge of /emptiness/ for it that he does not quite register on a fully conscious level but registers all the same in /some/ part of his mind when his twin is not there. At least lately, made more acute for the city's recent tumult, a pang sharpened by the constant not-quite-certainty of whether letting anyone out of his sight these days is really all that good an /idea/. But Bastian has a RealBoyJob. SO. While his twin puts on RealBoy (or RealGirl) clothes and goes off to Stark Industries. He lounges half-naked in sprinkler. And tries not to think about it. Staring up at the sky. Not smoking yet because the water is not really conducive to it. But /considering/ it. Also considering it is Dusk! Also shirtless. Also faintly spotted with largely faded bruising. Considering /Shane's/ joint like he has a right to it. But mostly considering the screen of his laptop, which his fingers are currently flying over. He has on an overlarge set of headphones, though only one ear of them is pulled on, the other tucked /behind/ his ear. He /also/ has his /own/ pack of cigarettes on the table in front of him but they're the plain tobacco kind. Albeit probably better for getting his work done. He sits sideways in a chair, in camouflage cargo shorts, wings draped down to trail along the concrete floor, frowning at a screen full of Perl. "Hngh," he says, after a time, "I'm joining you." The door to the rooftope opens, admitting Parley into the glow of sweltering sunlight. He's running both hands down his face, eyes closed in a lethargic reproduction of The Scream. /Not/ shirtless, he's stripped down to sleeveless undershirt, changed out his work slacks for shorts, bare feet. His hand drops from his face when he picks up the two minds in relation to their proximity, opening his eyes and, after a hair's breath of considering pause, he curls up the sides of his mouth and gravitates to a point where the sprinkler splatter might bless his feet. "You've been hard on yourselves." It sounds actually like a compliment, glancing between either of their bruises appraisingly. "If you did," Shane says this sort of dreamlike, happy. Nooot without overtones of /lascivious/, "you'd be. Wet." His eyes close, here, the better to /imagine/. Water glimmering off wings. Pretty. "Parley. Yo." His smile lingers through this, fingers drifting to absently probe at one of his own bruises. "Eh," he's thoughtful, here, "hard is when we fight Taylor." The large /hooks/ in some of the tentacle-suckers tend to /gouge/ chunks of flesh. A thought that /also/ oddly makes him smile. He hooks up a hand, hookhookhook, invitation to Parley as he scoots a little bit over. /Everyone/ join the wet. "Dusk says you were fighting my pa." This -- also has overtones of lasciviousness, albeit mild. Bodies in motion, fighting imbued in Shane's mind with the same default appreciation of beauty that he gave to the mental image of water-on-wings. "Training, with Jax," Dusk not-really-corrects absently, saving his work and closing his laptop lid to let it sleep. He strips heavy canvas shorts off to lighter-weight boxers, leaving them on the chair to stand for a moment at the other side of the sprinkler from Parley, stealing half Shane's spray as first one wing then the other dips into the water. But then he crouches, lies, drapes himself so that the water runs off him /onto/ Shane. Dripdripdrip off the edge of those long claws. "When you fight Taylor --" He exhales heavily through his nose, his /own/ thoughts just running to blood. A lot of blood. YUM. "You smoke?" One wing flicks with a scattered spray of water towards the distant joint. "Something like that," Parley says with a bleak exhale, eyes are lowered to the hookhookhook-ing hand. Just /watching/ it. "He was patient." The overlap of watching Dusk's wings - so soft, yet tipped in such /sharp/ talons - beneath the sprinkler and the heated pulse from Shane's mind inspires this visual into something beyond simple five senses; his eyes are a thoughtful glaze. "Mh?" Blink? He turns to look where Dusk's wing indicates only belatedly. Somewhat shrugs. Somewhat shakes his head. He shifts and lowers to sit, just beyond the spray save for his feet, propping himself with two locked elbows and hands braced against the ground behind him. Shane opens his eyes -- partway at least, blue lids opening but clear inner ones slid shut to protect against the water as he watches Parley. "He usually is," he says, lazy-slow. His hand falls back down to the wet concrete with a frown, watching Parley with his eyes sliding over the man's form, /thoughts/ sliding over the man's form at the same lazy-slow remove. His hand lifts, languid, fingers drifting across Dusk's wing above him. Watching the water droplets against it with a slow shiver, eyes tracing the patterns against their soft membrane, watching as it runs down to the claws and drips off. "Mh? what?" Dusk's wing presses into the touch, arms curling down against his knees. Head droppping down against his knees, too. His dark eyes shift in the same languid droop under hot sun and cool water, half-closed as Shane's fingers trail against him. Though beneath the curtain-fringe of dark lashes he's alert for all that, watching the other two with a small half-curled smile that bares a tiny sliver of fang. The smile fades; his attention splits between the others; indulgent-luxuriant for the affection from Shane, pensive to match Parley's thoughtful quiet. "What's up?" "Oh," Parley absently nods his head towards the joint on the far table, "I was only answering. You'd asked if I -- erm." A gradual focusing of attention in on Shane finds a quirking movement at the edge of his mouth, "/You're/ lively." The warm visceral sense of the younger man's mind is knolled up and fed /back/ to Shane in a languid pulse. Here. EAT IT. "I /am/?" This comes as rather a /surprise/ to Shane, lazy-languid-/slow/ as he has /been/ today. "You're like him," he says with quiet amusement. "Pa. You don't -- finish. Sentences. Answers." His eyes droop just a touch more downward. Lazily! Slowly. Laaaanguidly. His hand continues his drifting play against Dusk's wing in idle lazy trace, a soft slow caress, luxuriating in the soft wet feel to watch the droplets and the patterns they make. "Except him I know so I can finish for him," he adds with a quirking upward turn at the corner of his mouth. "You I gotta ask. I don't feel," he adds pensively, focusing thoughtfully on the feel of himself that Parley gives back to him, "very lively." "What do you feel?" This is directed also lazy-slow from Dusk, at Parley and Shane /both/. His eyes slip closed the whole way. /He/ still settles luxuriant into the soft affection from Shane, wing caressing back even as it is caressed. "You'd asked about the joint," he reminds Shane, and then, "But, 'mh?' --" His wing shifts, his shoulders shift. A little closer into the water; droplets start to glisten off his skin now, too. "You're a good son," << (friend/family/support) >> Parley smiles crooked, brief, at Shane from behind the overhang of his hair. "I'm sorry. I wasn't meaning lively in body." << (mind?)(skin-pressure-skin) >> A very slight apology exists in the shake of his head to Dusk, not - entirely sure what's being asked. And he lifts a hand to suggest it's probably an unimportant misunderstanding at that, eyes focusing back on the youngest of their trio. If Dusk hadn't asked, it's not impossible he /would/ have. "...just tired." "Am I?" It's not an argument, it's a genuine curiosity. "I don't know a lot about being a --" << (friend/family/lover/support) >> In Shane's mind, these concepts all blend together inextricably into the same. "Before," in concept at least, this is clearly 'before-the-labs,' "did you have one?" He shifts upwards, shifts /closer/, nuzzling now with body rather than just hand into the soft-fuzzy of Dusk's wing. Leaning, tired-droop. "Why tired?" << (long week)(long /life/) >> finishes wryly. "You are," Dusk agrees. His wing curls out wide, wraps around Shane to pull him in against his side, supporting the droop even if it means playing umbrella to the bulk of the sprinkler-spray. "Sorry," he says with a slight bashful shake of his head, dismissing the question as unimportant misunderstanding as well. His head tips down; he presses a small kiss to Shane's temple, but his eyes have cut over to focus on Parley. Skimming down to take in posture, take in crooked smile. "I think," he says, and here there's a slow swallow that draws down his throat, "there's a lot to be tired /about/, lately." "Just a bit," Parley has a quiet hrff of wry humor when Dusk answers for him, and it earns the vampiric mutant a run of considerating gaze in turn. "I think most of us had some semblance of family. Though." One of his eyes closes partway, where sunlight overglares against it, "I think the secret to being..." << (...family?) >> "...family is maybe in just -- hm. Being what they need." His cyclopean gaze is taking in this image, of the small blue teen curled into Dusk's great wing. Such a strange image, so inhuman, so /mutant/, and yet... He curls up his knees to fold forearms on top of, loosely dangling wrists off either side. "What if you don't know what they need." Shane scuffs a cheek against one fingerbone. Fuzzscuff. Fuzzzz. Bop. As he considers this, though, his thoughts shift, slow but gradual, playful to considering, considering to -- hungry, a languid sort of hunger that reflects upon /itself/ more than upon any external desire. "I only ever know what I need. My brother. Sometimes," he says a little wry, "I think all B and I are is need. That's --" << (primal) >> << (animal) >> "-- I don't know. Other people seem different, though. I mean, maybe they're just need, too, but their need seems less. Base." Almost /experimentally/, with this thought, he tips his head up and /nips/, small but /sharp/ along the long bone of Dusk's wing. Flicks his tongue at the jewelbright spot of blood that wells up from the small nick of cut. "Does it help?" he asks Parley, casual as though he didn't just do this. "What you do? Help -- know what -- people need. Or hurt --" This starts but then trails off as his mouth fastens against Dusk's wing. << -- you, >> finishes the thought in his mind. "I don't think your needs are any less complicated. People need food and they need safety and they need each other and they like to pretend all these comforts are a lot more complex but when you get do-ah-h-h-h," Dusk's breath shivers in in a sharp gasp at that sharp nick. It sounds pained; it /is/ pained, muscles tensing and his brow creasing into abrupt frown, his wing flicking in sharply against Shane's foot: "Hey, dude, /watch/ it!" But it's something else too; his pupils slightly dilating; a little relaxed after that initial tension, a little shivery, and he doesn't pull /back/. He watches, with a faint flicker of fascination and a faint shift of his wing just a bit harder /into/ the press of Shane's teeth; the blood that is drawn carries with it an almost druglike /rush/ that is identical to the one /he/ gets when he feeds. An almost druglike /strength/ that is identical to the one he gets when he feeds, and it is here the fascination lies, given Shane's raw baseline power. His lips part, just slightly, a flutter of hunger in his own mind; the eyes that turn back to Parley are still somewhat dilated. "Hurt --" it takes a moment for him to reach the same page as Shane. "... it'd be easy," he allows with a small frown. "To focus on what other people need all the time." << To the exclusion of what you do, >> comes in words; it overlaps in sentiment with, << (what do you?) >> Parley is setting his chin lightly atop his folded forearms, lashes lowering. "It's very difficult to hurt me. In that way." For a luxuriant moment, his mind dilates wider, like stretching out a familiar muscle, letting the lazy, languid /hunger/ in Shane heat the land between his and Dusk's mind in passing demonstration, "I'm meant to be... -" He pulls in a subtle breath at the sudden /flush/ blossoms up, red and ruby bright as gemstones from Dusk, flooding through the neutral gray of Parley like a house of mirrors, meeting a coral-reef /warm/ water broken by sharp toothy whitecap waves that make up Shane-- His teeth tighten, through the warm flush that rises in his cheeks. Dark eyes watching. And, in a careful removed, practiced touch, he softly inquires in a whisper against Dusk's forebrain. << (--is this?)(alright?) >> There's no push to sway him one way or another. "I didn't mean," Shane says this half a whisper, half a growl against Dusk's wing, "in your mind, I meant. Being overlooked, everyone. Has needs, it hurts sometimes if they're never -- never met. -- Oh, fuck me." This is not an actual request -- well, it /might/ be, but it's more just a breathless-heady exclamation, soft and surprised, his eyes opening wider. His mouth clamps against Dusk's wing but then /he/ looks up, too, clearly startled by this sudden rush. "I didn't -- can I --" There's a tremble. In his posture, in his voice, in his /mind/, fierce and heady-hungry. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips but when Dusk's wing presses /towards/ him his teeth sink down just that much deeper with an audible keen of whine. His tongue laps hungrily at the cut, and the rush that floods through him is a tangled mix of lust and euphoria both. Now he /does/ feel lively. Fiercestrongvital, a heady surge that leaves it hard /not/ to bite down harder. He tries. Because ow. Dusk heals /semi/fast but he has a /lot/ of teeth. << (can you feel?) >> he asks Parley, and, << (can you taste?) >> morphs into offering (as if it is his to offer): << taste >>, with hand hooked outward, beckoning with another hungry whine. Dusk's wiry muscles are cording up tight against the pain, but it's not a pain he shies away from, with that further dig of teeth. "What are any of us /meant/ to be," he asks, softly, a little breathlessly here, now, and this question in his mind comes with a jumble of answers. A neutral grey of Parley, filtering and clarifying. A soft cool blanket of shadow that settles over and is then washed away by a pattering shower of glittering sprinkler-spray. The pattering droplets redden and turn to blood, glistening jewel-bright. Hungry. Angry. Alive. "There's things we're built for, yeah. But what we're /meant/ for, we choose." Something twists in Dusk's stomach, stabbing sick like guilt, fierce like anger; it's pushed aside in favour of more present feelings; the sharp sting of Shane's teeth, the soft warmth of his tongue against skin. The quiet breath Parley draws in. Dusk's eyes move to meet Parley's, his own breathing shivering slowly in and out, his own hunger rising thick and tangible and not without its own overtones of desire, too. His eyes lower, watching the water droplets patter down against the roof; in his minds eye they fall wet and red and he closes his eyes. "Yes," he whispers, aloud, and though it's just one word in sentiment it carries the same invitation Shane has already silently extended. His other wing unfurls, tip brushing light against Parley's elbow before folding in again against his back. << (i taste.) >> Parley breathes slow, his mind warm now, glimmering like a strange night sky into which he welcomes both minds deeper, into, /through/, introducing them to one another as a line might introduce two feverish-heated points. Either end radiates like twin novas - and the muted gray that is the negative space between fades softer, surrendering to them as expanded territory. << (i feel.) >> He is soft to the curl of wing, tipping his head to the side to run his cheek over the water-cooled webbing , where sunlight filters through it in broken milky streams. << (so much brighter...)(beneath)(other minds.) >> Drawing in means his shorts soak in the puddle of sprinkler water, the downpour that makes it past the encircling wing in light trickles weigh down his hair, his fur, in rivulets that rush past his temple, down his cheek, trickle off his chin. Wet skin and wet fur and the subtle smell of blood, he draws in with another shaky breath, towards Dusk - << (you don't /have/)(a lot of) >> /thick/ red tide rises up in his mind. << (blood) >> He chuckles, somewhere between mind and body, almost taunting, flat steel gray under the bright rush and dazzle. << (and yet.)(so generous.)(mmm.)(-is he gaining strength?)(i feel...) >> He nudges his nose against Dusk's shoulder. << (you can)(have)(some of mine.)(so skinny.) >> That last one is /definitely/ making fun. Rib-poke. << Yes, >> It's hard to tell, really, what this yes is /to/. An affirmation but an affirmation of nothing and of /everything/, fierce and joyful. There's a deeper dig of teeth, Shane's mouth filling for a moment with the metallic tang of blood. There's a reluctance as he pulls back, instead presses the long bone of Dusk's wing (running wet and dripping with blood and sprinkler water both) towards Parley. Like here have a /present/; his other hand moves to Parley's elbow to guide it towards Dusk's wing, curled around them both. There's a lot of wing. Parley and Shane are not overlarge people. Shane's tone darts out, wetting his lips, and his mind is still clouded, still dizzy with a euphoric rush; his cheek tips back to press against Dusk's chest, to nuzzle into it wetly without a whole /lot/ of thought past a heavy sense of << (want) >>. There's a raw /feel/ of power that at the moment he feels somewhat disconnected from, too focused on the /others/ to feel all that much in tune with the changes in his own body, cheek touched to Dusk's chest, eyes sweeping Parley's gradually wetter form. "Thank you," is very soft, his fingers slowly walking up Dusk's side, and this is to both of them, really: << (so much brighter)(in yours) >> is definitively to Parley, softly relishing the quiet feedback-points of the empath's conduit-mind. << (don't need)(a lot.) >> comes in quiet answer; Dusk's wings both curl in. One brushes soft, against Parley's back, a slow stroke downwards. The other is curled (still slow-bleeding from Shane's middling-shallow cut) around both the others, a wide semi-shield that the sprinkler spatters against like rain. << (Very), >> has a touch of emphasis to it, << (potent,) >> and there's an undercurrent here, vague, of worry that doesn't actually get voiced so much as lingers in the back of his mind; there's a /reason/ he doesn't go around just /telling/ people about this. A drop of water flicks against the cut, stings, and he shivers. Stretches his wing, brings it closer to Parley in silent offering. His head dips down when Shane nuzzles, and this time there's more desire in the brush of his lips; to gills, this time, but it's light and brief. << (want,) >> he agrees, when Parley offers his blood, and the shoulder-nudge earns a nuzzle, too, a brush of lips to Parley's temple with its own flutter of desire that speaks to desire for more than just blood. It's not pushy or assertive, just quietly /there/; for a moment his cheek rests against Parley's head, and then he lifts his own head. "I get less skinny. But it takes a while. Other people get stronger, too," and this comes with another offering flex of his still slowly bleeding wing, "but that'd take a while, too. A day or so, and it wears off. If I don't keep feeding. If you don't." Pulled into and through, like a threaded needle, the subtle sense of Parley is tangle, but only in a fine, soft give. What is here, for either mind, offers no recoil, no discomfiture for the rise of many appetites - they are also allowed in, allowed to color him, soak through his brain and then melt through his veins; heart rate pounds thicker, breath deeper, in the cluttered wet skin. His mind flexes softly, with a curiosity - a /fascination/ - and even as that vague worry rises in Dusk, Parley is already breathing out through his teeth << (not something)(most people should know). >> With a stray droplet of water clung off his brow ridge, small bits of dew collecting in his lashes, he takes his time to look over the trickling wound. At Dusk's expense, possibly, as he touches it, tests its elasticity, its depth, leaning near it and using a thumb to either side of it to coax the opening wider. Settled against Shane's wet shoulder, tipping his head to the side to permit the brush of Dusk's lips, his body is both more tense... and growing considerably softer. He leans forward and, extending his tongue, he nudges it into Dusk's wound. It's not a light poke. It presses in and slides over it thoughtfully. Liiiick? That sense of want only grows as Shane watches Parley's tongue press to broken skin, a soft rippleshudder passing through him, a tiny keen sounding in his throat. << (Yes) >> is echoed now in mind rather than aloud, because his mouth is turning, pressing to Dusk's neck hard, his hand sliding against the flat of the vampire's stomach with a very light trace of claws that slides into just a soft-flat brush of palm. His lips press to throat, and then jaw, and then mouth, and then he just rests his cheek against Dusk's shoulder, gills flaring for a moment before he draws in slow breaths through his nose. Breathing in blood. Breathing in Parley. His other hand sliding, quasi-supportive but mostly sort of indulgent when Parley settles against his shoulder, to trace against his side. Up an arm. Lazy-slow, unrushed, for all the rather /fierce/ hunger in his thoughts his touch is a languid-light affection. << (so much brighter), >> whispers again, and: << (want to feel you) >> that comes with a doublemeaning of both lasciviousness and not; a more lustful meaning as well as a brightly /curious/ one which would translate more as: << show me what you're feeling? >> than the more obvious baser meaning that is, admittedly, also present. << (Dangerous,) >> Dusk agrees, though with it a bitter resignation that -- well, the /labs/ know, it's a danger that's already partly been realized. But one he's not keen to /repeat/. But in this moment it's not one he's /dwelling/ on. In /this/ moment, he's dwelling on more present feelings. Shane's mouth soft against his neck, Parley's tongue painful-hard but /still/ eliciting a tense-shiver when it presses into him, too. His breath draws in, sharply; his wing curls tight, wrapping around Parley's back and Shane's hand where it touches to Parley as well. The rush does not take /long/ to hit, something like if ecstasy was on /steroids/; a fuzzy euphoric burst that brings with it not just happy-passionate-rushing warmth but /strength/, a /fierce/ vital power. /Life/. A small boost to stamina, endurance, healing, reflexes; a /large/ one to strength. The rush comes first, though. Dusk's mouth presses back to Shane's, soft and with hunger to match as Parley's tongue first swipes against him. When Shane's head moves to rest on his shoulder he dips his own, nuzzling for a moment down against the sharkboy's gills but then just watching Parley's mouth against his wing. Pupils dilated, lips slightly parted. His head dips forward, lips pressing soft and light to the base of Parley's neck, just for a moment; the /surge/ of desire this summons up in his mind, lust and hunger both, makes him draw back slightly, not /apologetic/ but with a questioning: << (is ok?) >> "Hhn-," Parley creaks, a surprised and helpless sound welling up when the metallic tang of blood pours electric through his nerves, reflexively pressing his tongue deeper into the torn skin, massaging at it with the subtle rasping /barbs/ of his tongue - a throwback mutation /intended/, in part, to rasp meat off bone. Friction heat coaxes blood to the surface. Lick. LICK. Under his wetclinging undershirt, he's grown a healthy layer of lean muscle, since his escape from the labs; healthy, well-fed, regular exercise, makes a physique that suits well beneath a pelt. His smell is den-like, wet fur and the natural build up of subtle muskiness around the hair follicles. << (i am...) >> For how heady and /thick/ he streams the two of their minds, Parley's own is shy. Slow rise to tangibility. Gauzy-thin like streamers of incense smoke, but odorless, broken up; it can be felt, the hard flex it takes, to manifest, and even then it wisps in and out of sensation. As he rolls his ribs into Shane's hand, full of /vigor/, /life/, blood and a rare hunger, it's almost defensive, an uncertain growl in the flush (he might bite poor Dusk a little; collateral damage), when he mutters. << (...not as bright)(if i'm alone.)(is better)(brighter)(/sharper/) >> Though full of sudden pulsing /life/, even his mind nips, rolls hard and pulls needfully. << (-with others.) >> "Yess," he breathes, through the blood, the wet, the smell of the others in his nose and in his mind. He places a hand on Dusk's leg, an /anchor/. Up to now, though indulgent, curious, permissive, there has been a cool, patient /wall/ in him that's plodded along to his own speed. And it's at this excruciating /personal/ pace that, gradually, he drapes a leg over Shane's. And tips his head further on the side, to Dusk. << (-more than)(hnn-)(ok.) >> << (sharper)(when you) >> For a while this thought doesn't finish; for a while there /are/ not thoughts. Only feelings, from Shane; he /luxuriates/ in them, largely a creature /of/ feelings, decadent-indulgent, and when permitted he revels in them. Sinking in to the heat and the hunger, the cool droplets of water, the tang of blood. The small sounds in Parley's throat, the tiny gasps from Dusk. The soft damp of Dusk's wing and the cool of both the other men's skin against his. Shane just basks; there's a certain animalistic joy in not /having/ to think and with his present company not inclined to judge him for it he does little else. Breathe in, breathe out. Press cheek to Dusk's shoulder, trace fingers against Parley's arm. His eyes focus on Parley's mouth, focus on the white of teeth and the pink of tongue and the red of blood and here the joy wells fiercest. His tongue darts against his teeth, his fingers curl just that much firmer, feeling muscle and bone beneath Parley's skin. Kissing Dusk again, lingering but lazily. << (when you) (parley) >> is not so much intentional pun as just idle thought. Conduit. Connection. He leans forward, away from Dusk to press his mouth where his hand has been, lips and tongue tracing a line down Parley's side with that same imbalance; lazy-slow in motion, deep-fierce-hunger in mind. It's growing, though, outwardly; by the last kiss his lips close against skin, sucking harder. Dusk's wing shivers against's Parley's mouth; it's a physical pain-reflex to pull away that his mind doesn't quite echo. His teeth grit; he swallows, letting his eyes close. Drinking in the smoky-whispers of Parley-mind. He is hungrier, less lazy, when Shane kisses him, a firmer-fiercer press of mouth, his arm wrapping around Shane's gills to draw fingers down his side until he releases him. << Funny, >> comes just after that 'more'; this time Dusk isn't light or tentative. His mouth presses to Parley's neck, firm, a tiny nip in the middle of the kiss and thoughts hunger-tinged with red, << it's different, but. I'm brighter with others, too. Need them. To become more me. >> His undamaged wing slides back around them both; there's a soft echo of laughter in his throat as the sprinkler rains against it. "We should," he says against Parley's skin, before another kiss, "go inside." << --(you do)(don't you.) >> Parley cuts out a sudden short, /marveling/ exhale, nearly within a spectrum of hearing to be audible as a low, low groan when Dusk's nip meets with the temporary /boost/ that wakes up his body's metabolism, feeling it already rushing to knit the nip shut again. The warmth of two predator's mouths against his body, the taste (feel) of blood, the smell of skin - it sets off little fireworks of /adrenaline/, a natural shiver of a creature finding itself as prey, and he openly revels in it, /shares/ it - << (the two of you....)(fearsome.) >> He says it in praise, admiration. Watching and curious, even in the flush, how these myriad individualities knit together, to form this intoxicating whole... Running an absent train of knuckles down Shane's side, sort of... /teasing/ closed his gills, the way an eye might reflexively be forced to shut if something brushed by the eyelashes, he smiles, lean and sharp. The next stroke down those gills might be the back of a fingernail. Pressing a little harder. "--shame we can't bring the sprinkler." He licks a bit of blood from his bottom lip. The touches to his gills make Shane reflexively melt, a soft boneless ease of muscle that comes with a slow-shiver moan of breath as the sharp flaps press flush to his side. The next breath is not moan but gasp, just as shivery; his forehead presses to Parley's side as fingernail runs down overly-sensitive gillflaps. His arm slides around Parley's waist, tugtugtug though with his current boost of strength he could probably just carry them /both/. "-- My room has a pool."