ArchivedLogs:Lucky Tarts

Lucky Tarts
Dramatis Personae Hive, Horus, Shelby	2013-04-13 Warning: Adult content ahoy!
Location <NYC> 403 {Geekhaus} - 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. It is early by geek standards, it's true, but Shelby has never been one to live by good manners. The elevator opens, girl on skateboard rolls out and sets a course to Geekhaus. It's a little damp out today, so she's gone the jeans and hoodie route--with hood up--and her backpack hangs heavy from her shoulders. In her hands is a small plastic dome container filled with what look to be lemon tarts. Roll roll roll, on a collision course with the door. Bam! Aaand this time, thanks to having her hands full, she overbalances and follows the initial bang with the thud of a shoulder directly after. "Ow, shit..." The bangthud is met with -- well, nothing, at first. And then a quiet birdlike squawking. A scratching sound at the back of the door. Another, less quiet squawk. A whole lot of flapping noise. A thud. More flapping. Another scratching sound. A clickclickclick flapflap scratch click -- -- eventually the door /finally/ opens. Behind it, Horus is looking -- well, okay, it is hard to read birdlike facial expressions. His feathers are /ruffled/ though. But his chest is puffed out as he pulls the door a little more open to let Shelby inside with a chirrup of greeting. In /Ryan's/ apartment, the doorknobs have been adjusted to cater to talons. The birdkid does not have such luck up here. Poor birdkid. Shelby's annoyed expression shifts to something a little more impressed when she gets a good look at him. "Hey Horus. Damn, I think that was like...a record or something for you, good stuff. You wanna lemon tart?" In the time between door hitting and door opening, she has righted herself, scooped the board up and is now ready to sail on inside. Shoes are left near the door, beneath the skateboard and her backpack--all the things, unceremoniously dropped! But that leaves her hands free to pry open the plastic with a squeak and a pop. One tart is waved as distraction so /she/ can handle the process of getting the door closed without all of that scratchingflappingclicking. Horus's eyes widen at the mention od LEMONTART and his next chirp is brighter, excited. His head darts forward, beak stabbing at the offered lemontart, careful of Shelby's fingers but otherwise mostly just eager. SNATCH. This involves a shower of crumbs to the floor, only aggravated as he drops the tart to the floor to continue pecking at it. The ruffling of his feathers is subsiding. Save Horus, the apartment is quiet. No Flicker, no Dusk, no pools of Ian-shadow. One bedroom door is closed, likely to keep Alanna inside. The other is open, though. Hive is in BED. Or on bed. The sheets are in a rumpled ball at its foot that makes him not so much in them. Also he has a pillow over his face. "Whoa, man, if I'd known they were your favorite I'd have brought more." Shelby is laughing her rare laughter as she bends down to place a second tart beside the first. Y'know, just because the carpet needed some more crumbs decorating it. Upon straightening up, she glances around and begins to ask, "Is, uh..." before deciding to leave Horus to his pastryfrenzy. Better to explore! Which is why the open door soon has a ginger head poked through it and voila, Hive is spotted. Sleeping? Not sleeping? WHO KNOWS! But she's probably counting on not sleeping because instead of greeting him, she pads over to knee-walk onto the bed before stretching outside him. There is an odd pang of lonely that arises as she settles herself, balancing the tart container on his ribs. Horus squawks again, in the middle of peckSTABpecking his way through the tarts. Hive is probably not asleep, given that his arm shifts reflexively to curl around Shelby's shoulders as she settles in. Also given the kind of bludgeony words that slam into her mind, not a greeting but a relayed echo of words that, mentally, sound not at all birdlike, a deep warm voice that holds a lot of cheer: << Oh my /god/ are you /kidding/ who /doesn't/ love lemontarts lemontarts are pretty much The Best Thing. >> The capitals can be felt. The excitement, too. It's not echoed in the exhaustion that washes in afterwards. And then, << -- Fuck, is it Saturday already? >> Situated on her side, Shelby sockets her head against Hive's shoulder and rests a knee over his. She is in the process of flipping open the tarts box when her mind is assaulted via happyexcited sledgehammer, prompting a grunted, "Nngh, you're welcome." Already, her eyes have begun to water, but she narrows them against that and pinches free a section of buttery, crumby crust to poke at Hive's mouth. "Saturday," she confirms, "and I'm going to the shooting range with Jim later so enjoy me while you can. How you doing? You should maybe try getting up on your feet today." Hive shoves the pillow backwards off his face, resettling it beneath his head. His mouth opens, closing around the crust and Shelby's fingers both. << Enjoy you, >> echoes with this motion. It's too tired to tell if it's amused, though Hive's lips do curl up at their corners. They don't release Shelby's fingers though. << Tried that. Few days back. Went to -- doctor -- >> This trails off into a silent moment. << Was terrible. You and Jim? Handling his weapons? >> Oh. Oh oh oh. Oh oh. Okay, so there is discomfort and Hive is talking and it hurts but all of that sort of fades to the background as an equally loud and entirely physical response slams into telepathic radar. Apparently Shelby has a thing with fingers? Her eyes lock on his mouth. She swallows, just once, then licks her own lips and reluctantly begins to draw her hand back. "Ummm...what did. The doc say?" /So/ very distracted, enough so that she doesn't go back for the tart. Instead, she glosses Hive's lips with her fingertips. "I'm, um. Yeah, I guess? He said maybe his rifle. If I could. Raise a grade...got a decent one in Jax's class..." Oh, right. Tarts. She reaches for another piece of crust and repeats the experiment. << So bad. >> Hive's mouth follows /after/ those withdrawing fingers, kind of lipping-sucking crumbs off fingertip. He swallows, too, a moment after she does. << Not -- oh. Not doctor-doctor. Went -- to Iolaus. Talk about work. >> Although here his brow furrows slightly. << Think he wants me. >> Though he doesn't /actually/ sound uncertain about this. Just kind of puzzled. << Handle his rifle. You like the long barrels, then. >> This comes as he closes his lips around her fingers again. Sucking tart from her. And that about does it for Shelby's already shaky willpower. This time she keeps her fingers right where they are, with a reflexive and not unpleasant twitch against his tongue. << Jesusfuckdidn'tthinkthis'deverhappen >> is running on low volume through her thoughts. The rest of them are concerned with the fireworks he's set off. The tarts are unceremoniously forgotten, along with Jim, Iolaus, work, lonely and everything else as she wriggles in closer to press her lips to his neck just beneath his earlobe. Two can play at lipping and sucking. << Want you, >> she echoes in strong agreement. << You jealous? >> << Of you or him, >> Hive asks, wryly. Shivering. His lips close firmer around her fingers, tongue brushing up against her fingertips. For a moment his head tips slightly to one side, and it takes a long moment before he moves any further than this. His hand tightens slightly against his shoulder, and his other hand moves -- to the container of tarts. To break off a small piece. Though he doesn't move after this. Just sucks a little harder at her fingertips, as a brief mental pressure pushes against her mind and then withdraws. The only thing that could pull Shelby away from trying to cause more shivering is that mindvoice. She winces, she pauses briefly and then when the thumpthumpthump is gone from her head, she dips in again. This time, to catch his earlobe between her teeth and trap it. << Me playing with his rifle, >> she answers pertly, timed to the nudge of tongue-tip to earlobe, << Before you get to. Know you like him. Didn't know you liked me...like this. >> Then the urge to communicate with words falls away. A soft noise is made in her throat, arm tensing with the suckling but mind doing just the opposite--that increase in pressure is met with a softening. Invitation, or something like it, against a backdrop of /want/. << Oh, I've played with his guns. >> This is wry too. It comes with a much softer sound than his bludgeoning mental voice, a quiet catch of breath in his throat as he shivers again. He forgets the tart. Pushes the container aside to the bed beside him, dropping his broken-off piece back into it though his fingertips are still kind of lemon-sticky. It's the mental softening that does it; it's answered with another push, harder, a heavy press that is not so much painful as enveloping, constricting. His head turns, moving his ear from her lips so that he can press his own mouth there, with a hunger that matches the heavy press of his mind. << Lucky. >> He's lucky? Jim? Maybe Shelby herself? Sensible thought has fractured, she can't be expected to make sense as long-held daydreams coalesce into reality. Now freed, her wet fingertips steal down to his waist and back to find bare skin to press against while she opens to the press of both mouth and mind. Her tongue is not shy about curling past his lips, echoing the hunger. Want-need-have is a celebratory mental song that erases everything but the moment--including awareness of the open door, and Horus in the next room. Hive's skin pricks with goosebumps, his next moan a little less quiet. He curls his hand around to the small of Shelby's back, fingertips pressing there to hold her close against him. His lips part, tongue meeting hers as that mental pressure squeezes, tightens, clenching down and approaching painful, now -- -- And then stops. Withdraws. In the next room, Horus's peckpeckpecking at the crumbly bits of lemontart have ceased. Hive pulls away with a /groan/, scrunching his eyes shut with a quiet 'ffff' that does not quiet resolve into a curse. "Bastian," he says, in much the same groaning tone. Ow, ow, ow...Hive is left to be the proactive half of the kissing equation while Shelby waits for the mental claiming to resolve. She holds still, lips parted, breath fluttering and eyes squeezed shut, ready for that swelling pain to fade--and then it does, just without the expected connection. She remains still, confused, and then shiver-wracked and out of sorts. Bastian. "/Fuck/," she mumbles, supplying the obscenity for Hive. She flops onto her back and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes. "...no." << Nohe'sgoneleftme >> "...hasn't even texted in days. Called. Anything." The feelings that result--hurt, angry, rejected, frustrated--are not the sort that are conducive to a second attempt at taking Hive's virtue, though. She sighs. Hive is silent. Breathing slowly. Possibly thinking obscenities at the bird next door. Horus is eating his tarts again, cleaning crumbs up off the floor. Hive shifts uncomfortably, adjusts his jeans also uncomfortably. His arm drapes over his eyes. Eventually he manages to find his voice again. "Hasn't left you. Just being a fucking idiot. I could. Hit him. If you want." His face is scrunched up, cheeks puffing out as he exhales heavily. "Shane'd just bite you." Can't have that. Shelby has less to adjust uncomfortably. On the outside, at least. On the inside, there is /plenty/ and once she's done rubbing at her eyes, she rolls to her side again. Her hand...is not inclined towards behaving, resting in pretend-relaxed state with the back touching the band of his jeans. "He wants to take off, s'fine, whatever." Not really. << Who'm I to judge? S'what I do too. Hard. Not being an idiot. >> A moment is spent in studying his arm-covered face, eyebrows hiked up to unhappy. When she asks, "You sure?" it is with a twitch of fingers that brush his belly--and a tone of voice that is already resigned. "Don't think he wants that. Think he's -- nnnrgh." That's apparently as much philosophizing as Hive is willing or able to do on the motivations behind teenage vagaries. He groans, and shifts to press slightly up into that brush. But he's settling back down again a moment later, and fumbling for the container of lemon tarts. "Fuck," he says again. "No I'm not sure." He breaks off a bite of tart to eat it /angrily/. "But fuck if I'm going to give those assholes one /more/ stupid bullshit excuse to huff off and have tantrums." He sounds distinctly unhappy about this decision, though. He holds the tarts container towards Shelby. Shelby does /not/ help matters by timing the slide of her fingers beneath the button of his jeans to that upwards press. But. When he settles back, /she/ pushes herself up to avoid the temptation to pursue matters. She provides an interpretation of huffing off and having tantrums by...huffing and flailing herself into a cross-legged position, before attacking her rumpled hair. It is finger-combed back into something that doesn't resemble bedhead, while she studiously avoids looking at Hive. "They're not assholes," she says in equally reluctant defense of the twins, "just /stupid/. And they don't know how good they got it." The tarts are given a look before she reaches out to take one. "I guess maybe. I shouldn't have. Jumped you." Subdued crust-nibbling follows. "I didn't help things," Hive says, with a thin smile. He munches on his tart a little less angrily, now. Mmm lemon. "They're not assholes," he agrees with a sigh. "But they're stupid as fuck, and they're scared." And then after a consideration: "Shane's kind of an asshole." More nibbling. "...you should maybe go fondle Jim's rifle." This is reluctant, too. But he's fidgeting uncomfortably, and there's a brief mental press that touches, squeezes, withdraws again twitchily. His phrasing was perhaps not a wise choice--it results in a here-and-gone-again flash of X-Rated imagery pertinent to what Hive has just described. Shelby doesn't reject it so much as just shrug at the thought. She could or should. But first there is a tart to finish and his shifting around is /not/ helping her eyes focus on innocent regions of his body. Pop quiz: Which is worse, to wallow in gloom and a sense of generic rejection, or to be so easily swayed towards cheating on an absent boyfriend? Unfortunately, Shelby does not dwell on /that/ thought. She breaks the tart in half and pops half of it into her mouth, eyes closed against brain-fondling. "Mph..." Focus on chewing, Shelby. C'mon, you can do it. Chew, chew, chew... "...you wanna come? I can take you." Hive is focusing on chewing, too. Maybe to avoid focusing on brain-eating. It's a slow process, like each bite requires a force of effort to remember. Swallowing is slow, too. He closes his eyes, jaw tight. "Mngh," is his answer. "I don't think shooting shit is great for the splitting headache I've had since --" He shrugs. "You should go -- have. Fun. Get things shot." "Yeah." Shelby might as well be swallowing bile instead of tasty, tasty tarts. The last half is set back in its plastic container--to be eaten if roommates do not mind Shelby-cooties, or thrown out if they do. She's suddenly intent on getting off of that bed and tugging at her clothes to straighten and sort them. "Yeah, I should." Running through the surface of her thoughts, there are suddenly song lyrics! Something by Mumford & Sons, heavy on the accompanying banjo. They only fade when she says, quickly, "I'll see you later, huh?" then makes for the door. "Mngh," Hive says, again. He cracks his eyes open to peek at Shelby, but then closes them again soon. "Yeah." It's all he says. He is dragging his pillow back over his face. Outside, Horus chirrups softly. Maybe it's a goodbye. Who knows. Hive is not translating. He does hop over, though, to bump his beak up against Shelby's hand, before fluttering off into Hive's room. Backpack, shoes and skateboard are all sorted out. Shelby returns a mumbled, "See you," to Horus and watches him flutter his way back into /that/ room--and at the same time, the song volume in her head jumps up a few notches. Loud enough, maybe, to drown out the sound of the front door closing behind her as she takes her leave of the apartment.