Logs:Mine, Yours, Ours

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Cast

Teagan, Sam Ryan, Laura Walker

Setting

Downtime, the Direct Action hollow

Log

It's Downtime. There's not, like, that many things that the motley does while in Downtime. Eat. Sleep. Bathe. Fuck. Relax. That's pretty much it.

Teagan, their damp hair touseled, expression drowsy, lounges in the blanket pit where some segments of the motley usually sleep communally; they have a pillow behind their head shaped like a fried egg. It's probably June's, that one. A bottle of Yuengling in one hand drips condensation from their mirror-dark fingers, and they stare up at the starry ceiling, watching the little faux-stars dance above.

Hyena's hunger never goes away entirely, a reflection of the stories told about hyenas. So it's the case that she's downed a couple of chicken drumsticks, bones and all. Seeing Teagen in the blanket pit though, leads to her shifting priorities and setting the plate down on the nearest available surface before she slides down into it, offering them a huge, toothy grin of greeting. "That's a cozy picture."

Sam has been running. He's still running for the first couple steps into Downtime before he comes to an abrupt, sliding and stumbling halt. His cheeks are flushed and there's a bit of damp to his fashionably messy mane of soft, dark hair. He has a new hoodie in his hands - it's sky blue, with smudges of white across it that give it a soft tye-dye cloud kind of look - and his mouth, as he seems to be in the process of trying to wrestles an RFID Hard Tag from the collar. He has on a grungier hoodie, likely to be replaced, and a pair of skinny jeans that both hug his hips and prove ragged at the knees and the hem of each leg, from this most recent chase and the likely numerous before it. His skate shoes are falling apart. For others, this might be fashions of desperation. For Sam, it's a natural process of upgrading and replacing.

His nose twitches as he looks askance, stopping the jerking-tearing motion of his mouth upon the sweatshirt as he inspects his immediate surroundings. Confirming that yes, after all this time, he still knows his way back. Not that he looks all that different as his feral yellow-green eyes scan the room toward the sound of voices and the sight of a blanket pit. He blinks. He drops his newly caught prize sweater from both his hands and his teeth.

"Mmm," agrees Teagan with Laura's assessment, leaning to the left and bonking their head against her furry shoulder. "Just chilli--"

Sam runs in, and the Mirror just ... freezes for a hot second. Baby is all the way over there on the wall, but they don't even look in that direction, which might be A Clue to Laura as to the nature of Teagan's overall reaction. A ripple passes over the dark-mirror surface of their skin, and a small, strangled sound curls in the back of their throat.

If this were an imposter, bounding to their feet and sweeping him off of his would probably end up a rather painful proposition. If this were. It's good for Teagan's bodily integrity that this is really Sam, because they just let go of their beer -- it clatters onto the floor and rolls away, spilling the last third of the bottle -- and vault up. Tank top, boxers, long limbs, and unless Sam scrambles away, he's in the air, all wrapped up and held tight. "Mine. Mine. Mineminemine." (edited)

Laura's head snaps round as Sam charges into sight, her entire body tensing as fangs glint. It takes a second for her to adjust, to adapt, to firmly school herself 'not prey' at the arrival of someone that her predator instincts try to paint that way.

And in that time Teagan has moved and snagged.. memories of past conversations stir. Sam. She processes for a second more of their reaction before she's clambering out of the pit and heading that way. There are no words, just a clawed hand resting on Teagan's back as they find their long absent motley mate and the presence of a supporting body at their back and side. (edited)

The speed with which Sam's bright gaze darts between Teagan, an unfamiliar Laura showing fangs, and a dropped beer bottle may be testament as to the swift distractability of the playmate's restless mind - both intaking with excitement and assessing anew. His face brightens all at once as his eyes widen and he beams a smile that gives hint as to the sharpness of teeth behind pouty lips that rarely seem to frown. There's a sound, unintelligible but certainly gleeful that escapes him as he's lifted into the air by the much taller Teagan, and as he wraps himself around them once aloft - legs and arms both (the former, around their flanks and the latter over their shoulders). And he holds on tight.

It's a physical answer that seems to prove very well that claim as true. And all he can manage at first as his mind and emotions catch up with his present excitement. If further proof were needed that this is no imposter? An old trait proves true - where the lewd might make for a shameless Sam, emotional displays and admissions are keen to bring out a blush in him. And there is a blush, pinkish-red, that forms on his once flushed cheeks and bridges across his button nose when he says, at last, "Yours."

A batting of long dark lashes as, still wrapped around Teagan, Sam notes that Laura has gotten closer, having Teagan's back. He offers a bright and cheerful, "Hi!"

They mumble the same single syllable a few more times, long-muscled arms both tight around him and holding Sam as if he's something inestimably fragile. No squishing the Faberge Sam, who is breakable and precious. There's something brittle and bright in the fractured shimmering of their broken-mirror eyes, and their face presses against the side of his.

Laura's hand against the small of their back steadies and anchors the Mirrorskin, and they pull in a deep breath. The blush, too, seems to put their feet metaphorically as well as literally onto the ground. "I know." Teagan's voice is thin, a little reedy, and they swallow once, take a deep breath. "Sam, this is Laura. Laura, Sam is -- one of the first Direct Action members. He went missing. Got lost. Distracted. I don't know. He'll tell me in a minute."

Putting him down? No.

Laura regards Sam with green eyes, they blinking once as she continues to process. Teagan is showing they're determined to not set him down anytime soon and she continues to stroke at their back before she answers Sam. "Hi." A somewhat dignified incline of her head, but her legs shift slightly, putting evidence to the fact that she's far from innmue to the swirling emotions around the small group. She reaches out, touching a single finger carefully to Sam's cheek if he proves receptive, in the manner of someone also taking care with someone fragile and precious. "Teagan's. And ours. And I've heard your name." Her eyes move to Teagan before she plants a kiss on their shoulder. "He's not missing anymore. You have him with you now."

Sam presses his cheek to Teagan's, nuzzling there with soft appreciation that reflects the warmth of this light and portable beast's blushing cheeks. There's a wiggle here - a squirm there, but no intent visible in him to wholly unravel himself from around Teagan so long as they see fit to hold him. He does provide enough slack however to be able to meet Teagan's broken-mirror eyes and to see themself fractured as he might be seen from without, in pieces. And to brush the tip of his nose against theirs after the gentlest nod in response to what he'll be telling in a minute. But, ever distractible, with a glance to the biceps of the arms holding him aloft with so little difficulty, he sounds impressed in a most nostalgic way, "You're still very strong."

He does his best to dispel the blush on his face and partly manages for introductions that follow his greeting. And a further assessment of Laura from his Teagan-perch that ends with a tilt of his head that presses his cheek to the touch of that single finger, a welcoming nuzzle as he still clings. "Not missing," he repeats, in glowing confirmation. With a caveat that arrives with a pondering look, "Not exactly sure I followed the right directions. But I, like, definitely got to the right place."

His slightly-blushy, adorable expression reflects back to him in fractions and fragments, and they brush their nose against his.

"Not anymore," Teagan reiterates. He's not missing anymore. They swallow once more, squeeze Sam again, and gingerly set him on the ground so he can, like, say hi to Laura and talk to her directly and all that human stuff. They don't let him out of contact with them yet -- that's probably going to be a bit yet. That odd fragility still haunts the Summer's gestures, even when they curl up one corner of their mouth and idly flex their left arm, tattooed skin moving over the muscles beneath. "Stronger," they assure Sam.

"You did get here," they agree. "Um. You are both Autumn." Teagan have thoughts! And say words!

Wiry but strong arms wrap around Teagan from behind. She's careful to not risk their contact with Sam, but Laura is there and is holding on and makes a surface to lean against if the Darkling is so inclined. "If you got here, it was the right direction." She tells Sam simply. "You're where you belong." No doubt there. This is home in every cell of her being. And so it must be to Sam as well. "And Teagan is very strong." She licks her lips slightly at their flexing, mouth turning upward before she considers the words just spoken, looking between the pair. "Autumn." A single nod. "We have a lot to learn about each other. But I think we have time."

From brushing nose to nose, to glancing at Teagan's lips when the reiteration is made, there's only the slightest hint of a whine from the back of Sam's throat as he's set down. But it happens with a concession of awareness, as he unwraps his legs from around them when he again finds himself nearly a foot shy of Teagan's height and watching with a hint of sly brightness to his eyes as he grins at Teagan's flexing and assurance. "Stronger," he too reiterates, with a confirming nod of his head. "I meant to get here a lot earlier," he promises, genuinely. A little quieter. But doesn't continue into that story just yet, and doesn't let any of that brightness fade from his countenance or his energized, restless posture.

Whereas Teagan is nearly a foot taller than Sam, Laura has a full foot on the beast - but that slight difference between those two heights, means that Sam already has his head tilted back just enough to have his regard just about right as he turns it to Laura in turn. Any chance of drifting into the sadder issues of longing and time away is further sent away by the added assurance from her that he's where he belongs. There's enough joy in him at that, that he lifts to his toes and drops to his heels with a bounce in extension of that aforementioned restlessness. His mantle is weak by comparison to those present, but still detectable - an aroma of dangerous sweetness left too long on the vine. "Definitely," he agrees, on time. "Not in a hurry to get re-missing."

Laura affection isn't to be passed up, and so Teagan doesn't do that; they lean back against her. There aren't many people who can actually make Teagan feel kinda short, so being able to like, lean back against Laura and depend on her solidity and strength in the moments when the world feels a little like smoke and oakum -- all drifty and discombobulated --

-- it helps.

"I know you did," Teagan says. There's something in that tone that clearly says 'we can talk about that later, and we will.' They wrap their arm around Sam's shoulders and tug him in again. Not holding him upright, but just sort of -- one of those random motley hugs that sort of crop up now and again. "Good."

Laura's black nose wrinkles as she samples the aroma of Sam's mantle, considering the subtleties within. She doesn't say too much more, simply holding onto Teagan as they rest against her and taking advantage of Sam's nearness to curl a hand carefully against his shoulder. He's new to her and they need to learn one another, but he's motley and he's there. "Do you like cooking Sam?" Because as Teagan can attest, that's one activity she loves to indulge in.

Sam leans into Teagan's half hug, with their arm wrapped around his narrow shoulders. He doesn't wander away at all, not out of contact anyway - with most of that restless squirming still firmly rooted in place. Completing that circuit of contact, he places a hand on their hip after a detour that brushes his knuckles along the outside of their upper arm, tracing and feeling before settling in just so. And he proves very receptive to contact when Laura's hand lands on his delicate shoulder, tilting his head to briefly rest his cheek against it in answer before giving a thoughtful scrunch to his nose and a slow shake of his head that seems to need more explaining. "Not so much cooking as watching people cook - and eating. I like to eat. A lot." A hedonistic indulger of vice, feast included, Sam has never really known the phrase 'too much of a good thing' and may never come to understand it fully. (edited)

"You will never want for someone to try the new cupcake variety, Laura," Teagan laughs softly. That completed circuit makes them let out a slow, contented sigh; a silvery shimmer slides over their skin. Where their powerful Summer Mantle intersects with the two Autumns, it turns into that hot, dizzy welter of late September, the last gasp of Summer before all the leaves turn. The subtle spices of late-ripening fruit and fall-blooming flowers. "Never. In fact, we should probably, you know. Hit the grocery store tomorrow and fill the fridge." A subtle teasing tone threads its way through the Mirrorskin's voice.

"I am not opposed to that." Laura lets herself be wrapped in the connections of motley, tied to both Teagan and Sam and closing her eyes to bask. "If you want food Sam, I can provide. Always and happily." A chuckle. "And yes, mm. We should do that Teagan, with great contentment." She smiles before she reluctantly disentangles. "But for now, I need to be moving my paws. You will both be able to find me, or I'll find you. Either way." Both receive a brush of a kiss, Teagan to their shoulder, Sam to the top of his head. "Welcome home Sam." She finishes, before she begins to pad away with quite a few looks over her shoulder.

"My own allergy is to absence of food," Sam confirms as to Teagan's noted potential in him for cupcake testing, with a faux seriousness that he sells well in tone, but not at all in the too-bright-to-contain expressions of joy that wash across his face. And how, even held, there's another bounce to his posture at the mention of filling the fridge - and Laura's promise of ceaseless provision. An indulgent Sam is certainly a Sam in his natural state. The brush of a kiss against his head through the cushion of his soft, dark hair gets a happy, welcome sound that also proves an affirmative as to future meetings, as the found or the finding. "I feel it," he answers. "Welcome, I mean - and, like, home." It's a fumbling but true explanation, genuine in its sentiment without diving too deeply in emotional expressions that might reignite that blush.

"I know," agrees Teagan to all of those things -- Laura doesn't object and likes to feed people, Laura has to go do things, Laura is good and provides good support to her people -- and they turn their face to kiss her muzzle as she extricates herself. "Be good, Laurabear, or be good at it." The strange juxtaposition of calling a hyena a bear always delights them. Their head tips to the side once Laura (and her butt) are no longer there to watch, and they look down at Sam, watching the blush scatter across his cheeks. Wordlessly, they lean down to kiss his cheekbone.

The press of Teagan's lips to his cheekbone has Sam rise minutely onto the tips of his toes. Not enough to headbutt her, certainly, but enough to offer a little more press against that feeling. He lets out a pleasant thigh, both content and wanting - for there is always an aspect of wanting about the beast. It's a wave that he's used to existing within, drifting with its flow rather than in suppression of it. "Yours," he repeats, from before, further declaration of whose he so willfully is. Even in disregard of the time that has made up his own absence here.

Their fingers curl along the side of his neck, tracing the soft and vulnerable place where his pulse rides from collarbone to jaw. Maybe looking for the chain of a necklace. Maybe. Their other arm curls around him, and they noise in the back of their throat, a soft, affirmative sound. That brittle edge to their mirror-black skin remains, the subtle rush of craquelure under the surface, but those Feelings are things to be dealt with... later. Later. "Mine," they agree quietly, leaning down to bury their nose in his hair, to take a deep breath and let the scent of him, of his Mantle, fill their lungs.

Sam lifts his delicate chin. An expression of utter trust, from the beast, as he gives Teagan room to explore his slender neck with their curled fingers. Fingers that find a pulse that races, and that earn a pleasant shiver from him for that familiar sensation of a touch that he'd know by no other name but Teagan's. There they'd also find a chain, buried in the collar of the ragtag hoodie that he wears (soon to be replaced by another hoodie), and the only article of fashion that has lasted this last long stretch. The chain is gold. The pendant likely pressed to his chest by layers of cloth is likely that same black marble gifted to him, all that time ago, even if so little of him has changed since - save the alternating length of his hair. He nuzzles his body in against theirs as he's held close and as Teagan's answers that singular word of affectionate and welcome possessive feeling. The scent of him, that sweetness of overripe berry that may be a little more present than usual for the exertion of the run that brought him here, but also softer things - a vanilla and lavender of a stolen hotel conditioner used during his last shower before arriving.

Their fingers close around the marble, smoothing over it and then tucking it back under his shirt, a deliberate and gentle gesture. Teagan doesn't have anything more to say at first: they just hold on to him. So much about them is the same, an oddity for a Mirrorskin, and so many little things changed as well. The line of small tattoos, black on the black-silver of their skin, from the inside of their left wrist up to the inside of their elbow. Two different pawprints -- probably red panda and hyena -- a video game controller, a Viking shield, a spray of autumn leaves... There's something a little more solid about them, somehow, in a way that's hard to put words to.

They pull in another long, slow breath, kiss the top of his head again. And then, into the silence, Teagan begins: "I thought... " but they don't finish that.

There's pride in Sam's eyes as those feral pupils go saucer-wide without too much light to narrow them, when Teagan feels the marble pendant that he wears. Pride in never seeing fit to sell it, and never neglecting it so much as to lose it. A gesture that speaks of hope for the Autumn whose own wandering soul works against what he'd wish to give his focus to, when he is given the room to focus. He takes in all of Teagan that he can see without putting any distance between them. He even inspects that line of tattoos on the inside of their arm as noted newness of that solidity. He's brought from this assessing thoughtfulness back to the present by the kiss atop his head. And when he looks up to hear what they has to say, he watches their lips form the words. His nose twitches. The thought trails but he seems to catch the meaning. "I wondered, sometimes, if you could, like, feel me on aching nights spent at crossroads and beaches. Willing that one shore would bring me to another, or the right road would lead me right here," he says, much quieter than anything he's said since his stumbling run in. "But the distractions I found that could take the need away always led me further away from who I was aching for."

They can't close their eyes, not the way that normal people do: the broken glass gets darker, shadowed, but those mosaic'd pits just ... reflect him back down at himself. One arm stays firmly wrapped around his shoulders, the other hand tracing the curve of his cheek, the line of his jaw; the side of their thumb drags along his cheekbone. It is its own benediction, its own prayer of thanks and perhaps some sort of forgiveness from the devoutly atheist Summer. They listen when he speaks, and the corners of their mouth twitch, wobbling along the thin line between sorrow and joy. They pull in a deep breath and hold it, a sort of steadying gesture, and then turn their head to look across Downtime to where Baby hangs, the machete glistening with its own subtle fae menace. A swallow, and they answer only, "Hope is a dangerous thing."

It's at the pace of that tracing and that Sam follows Teagan's lead in the dance of that gesture. Chin tilted up for the feeling of his jaw, and down as he nuzzles cheekbone to thumb. He's rarely, if ever, spoken of faith among the Lost, but it's obvious that he believes in Teagan with all the longing and affection that shows through in his countenance. Even if there's the odd twitch of regret and glance away, as his admission brings about sorrow amidst the joy - hardly something the indulgent Sam tends to navigate toward, but if anyone's going to hear the truth of his heart from him, it's Teagan. He follows their regard with his eyes, looking to that familiar machete as well. "Hope is another hunger," he admits. "Pulsing and aching and needy like pangs deep in your stomach," says one that knows hungers very well. "But this particular hope is one that I wouldn't have done well without. Like a point on a compass."

They look back at him when he speaks, and not before; whatever pulled their gaze across to their weapon wasn't entirely about Sam, apparently. The smile that slides across their face grows wistful, and Teagan confesses, their hand cradling his cheek now, just -- holding on -- "I meant my hope. If you weren't coming back, I could -- " close the door to that room in their heart. Pretend it was all okay. Pretend they weren't full of fear and want. Continue. Survive.

Teagan's always been really good at surviving, even if they weren't doing anything else.

"I could just." Another pause, and they give up, shaking their head; their shaggy hair drifts into their broken-mirror eyes. "Hope is hard for me. But." A soft click of their tongue against the roof of their mouth. "You're here."

How Sam processes that this expression from Teagan born of both his absence and return is a fluid and drifting thing, facing responsibility and regret in a way likely more often left like chaos in his awake rather than something to return to. The furrow in his brows and the thoughtful scrunch of his button nose shows a confusion of feeling - of what he's feeling when he listens to the trouble in Teagan's hoping. The room for fear and want. It's something Sam may actually have to digest for once. His own method of survival, a thing of opportunism and adaptation rather than the solidity and strength that he again shows appreciation for, as he sets his free hand on their arm with his opposite on their hip. Tracing with more languid intentions of staying, rather than brushing past on the way to settle elsewhere. "I'm here," he confirms, with a crack of emotion in his voice that he covers with a clearing of his throat and by setting his forehead to their shoulder, keeping his eyes from seeing himself in those broken mirrors for just a moment. "I'm yours," he adds, with hope and contentment.

Well.

That's enough Feelings for now, thank you.

Sam's hand rests on their arm, the other on their hip, and much like Laura's touch earlier, that gesture anchors them to the present moment. They turn their face fully toward him and look down at him for a long moment. Just... breathing. Drinking in this moment where the scent of his shampoo and the feel of his cheek under their palm exist, and their universe is exactly this big.

"Yes," Teagan answers him. "Mine."

Their arms wrap around him, one hand scooping under the round of his ass, the other curling him close to their chest, and their mouth closes on his, all built up hunger and want deferred. No more talking right now.

Emphasis washes away that consideration of assessing and digesting when Teagan says that word so, and sends shivers up his spine only to ignite a smile when he turns that gaze back up toward theirs. A pleasant little gasp exits Sam's lips when they pull him close, and he might have been left gently chewing his bottom lip with feral teeth if his mouth weren't so immediately claimed. That exception to his lithe figure still proving true when that scooping hand that draws him to the tips of his toes against them finds plentiful cushion to grip. And his lips prove no less soft, warm, and inviting than ever as he meets that passion in kind. It's a clash of differing hungers of which Sam is never short, when with Teagan, in the press and pull of lips that tug on their bottom lip only to reconnect with slow, savoring care and affection - against the hunger of a sly tease of his tongue to their lips, to taste. The universe shrinks around him, to a kiss that recites echoes of 'yours' and 'mine'.