ArchivedLogs:Pushing

Pushing
Dramatis Personae Hive, Shelby	2013-07-06 '
Location <NYC> 305 {Teenhaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a small living room. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom. Furnishings are more in line with broke students than established adults. Cast-off couches and chairs provide places to sit, and the walls have been decorated in a frequently-changed street art style that combines bright, layered colors with exaggerated proportions and abstract shapes. Bright and airy the apartment might be, but that doesn't necessarily translate to /cool/ in the summertime, especially with a bank of windows BEAMING heat into the place. Hello, domestic greenhouse! That might explain why the apartment is all but deserted--Shane out for coffee, Sebastian who knows where, Daiki probably working. This leaves Shelby, still a little pale, still sunburnt, still /shaky/ to make do as best she can. So the window to the fire escape has been pushed open and she's made herself a little nest on the windowsill. Fan set to high, check. Spray bottle filled with water, check! Smokes, check! Laptop? Okay, she has the laptop but damn these things run hot, so it's been left running on the fire escape's grill while she clicks listlessly through YouTube. Her /own/ videos on YouTube, naturally. Nothing wrong with the ego! Thump. Thump. Thump, Hive's knocking comes with a thudding side of fist applied to the door. Slowly. Heavily. It is /also/ Really Freaking Hot in Hive's apartment upstairs, and in Jax's down below, and as such he has joined /much/ of the building in paring down to as little clothing as possible. In his case, ragged cutoff shorts and no shirt. He also has a -- blender? Only the pitcher half, though, he didn't actually cart the entire thing up here. It is filled with purplish GOOP, condensation collecting on its frosty outside. His head thuds against the door after his hand drops to his side. Too heavy to move. Melting. Shelby, who is still opting for the bikini top and denim cut offs option, taps a key to pause the current video when the first thump is heard. << Ugh, seriously need to work on better camera angles, >> she's musing as she slides off the window sill. That spritzer? It comes with her, held like a gun as she approaches the door. The peephole provides no good view of Hive, given that he's melting, so she cracks open the door just a /teen/ bit at first after undoing the locks. Just enough for the nozzle to fit through. Spritz. "Who is it?" she inquires, shooting first and asking the question later. "Jesus fucking Christ," Hive reflexively grumbles this like he is pissed, even if he is simultaneously /turning/ towards that spritzing with a slight shiver of breath that sounds almost orgasmic. Mmmcooooooool. "Are you seriously watching your own freaking youtube." His head thumps against the door again, this time pushing. Not very /assertively/. "You don't let me in I am drinking this whole fucking smoothie all on my own." "...dude, I'm a /performer/, we gotta polish up the look. It's a /thing/," she grumbles in turn. But the door is giving way, and there is more spritzing. Squirt squirt mist. A pleasant cloud of cool for him to walk through as Shelby gets the door closed behind him. "You can't look bad and be famous anymore, doesn't work that way...awwww, did you make me a smoothie? Seriously?" She is tickled. She's also veering off towards the kitchen to get cups, after pushing the spraybottle into his unoccupied hand. Hive can wet himself, in the meantime. "-- Do I get brownie points if I lie and pretend /I/ made it?" Hive wants to know; he has another happy /shiver/ for the mist and once the sprayer is in his hand he is spritzing himself with wanton abandon. Getting himself all kinds of wet. He flops down onto the couch, setting the blender on the floor beside it. "You look kinda shitty," he's saying, squinting over towards her, "but your /videos/ look good. Just, uh, don't record them while hungover as fuck and you should be --" He stops, uncertainly furrowing his brow. "-- Are you still hungover it's been like a day. Are you /sick/?" Two plastic tumblers of the sort sold at DollarStores everywhere, one pink and one orange, are ferried in from the kitchen. Shelby opts to take a seat /on/ Hive, knee-walking her way up to settle on his thighs and wedging one of the cups in beside his waist to free up that hand. "I feel pretty shitty but I dunno if I'm /sick/. Apparently you're only supposed to take a couple of advil or ibuprofin or whatever they are if you have a headache? Not, like, a handful." But hey, the head no longer hurts. And it's pitcher time! She bends to retrieve it, eyeing the level measured into the orange cup to ensure a fair split. "Wasn't gonna record anything now, just trying to figure out what to cover next." "Yeeeah no uh, you know those bottles come with the directions right /on/ them right?" Hive's eyebrows raise, a soft snort chuffed out through his nose. "-- I came to ask if you wanted to beach later this afternoon but, uh --" He pokes a finger -- admittedly lightly but still, poke -- towards the sunburn. "Maybe indoors is kinda best for you right now?" His head turns to the side to squint towards her computer. His hand curls loosely around her waist. "Cover? I mean, you got a bunch of free time in summer, why don't you write something new?" "Fuck directions, my head hurt." That's her story and Shelby is sticking to it. When the orange cup is filled, she swaps out to fill up the pink one. Which means Hive now has a very cold tumbler trapped between his waist and the cushions of the couch. "We could beach if we brought an umbrella? I've got this /huge/ bottle of sunblock you could cover me with." Which...naturally brings to mind the requisite mental images of the process. They are far more pleasant than dwelling on how shitty she feels! "I've got a few of my own but...I dunno, they're maybe not ready yet and they're fucking depressing. Here." He gets pink. "Ghh," Hive shivers and wriggles when there is sudden icycold at his waist. He shifts, slightly, dropping his hand to brace the orange cup so it does not tip over when he shifts slightly away from it. "Could bring an umbrella, if someone's got one." He furrows his brows uncertainly. "You could just hide under Dusk's wings if nobody does," he decdes with a small thin smile. "Those things are fucking huge enough to cover /everyone/." His eyebrows raise; he trades the pink cup out for the orange, taking a small sip (it is blueberry-strawberry-raspberry-banana, heavy on the blueberries, with orange juice for liquid) and then setting his hand down with the tumbler on the armrest. "So make 'em ready? I mean, lots of shit is depressing. Still better to have stuff that's /yours/." "Everyone's goin' then?" Aaaand there go the lotion daydreams, rearranged to better fit reality. << One've these days, >> Shelby mentalsighs, tipping a crooked smile down at Mister Picky About Pink Cups. She taps the traded one against his and takes a taste--a sip that transitions to larger gulp because /delicious/. Oh man, yes. Whoever made this is a /god/. When the cup is lowered, she balances it against his chest. "It's image. I don't wanna be the depressing singer-songwriter," she says as she massages the bridge of her nose to ward off brainfreeze. "Those're like...one hit wonders. You gotta have /range/. But I can record one if you want." "Dunno /who's/ going, actually," Hive muses, "Dusk said Jax asked him and Parley -- I guess whoever wants." He hitches a shoulder up in a lazy shrug, fingers playing lightly against the small of her back. "One hit wonders, maybe, but, you know." His words are interrupted for another sip of smoothie. "That's better than /no/ hit wonders which is where you get if you don't make any of your own music. If you think you need a better range of stuff try and come up with a better range of stuff -- but you still kinda need. Uh. /Stuff/, right? How many /cover/ bands have gone platinum?" Shelby tilts her head and holds the tumbler against the side of her neck, eyes close. There's a pleasant moment--the cold up top, his fingers below. What's Hive is saying is put on hold for a moment. Complete with flashing neon sign with slightly less polite language: PLEASE SHUT UP FOR A SEC. Aaaand...okay. She's good, and cracks an eye open to peek down at him. "Yeah, but a lot've YouTube singers have gotten contracts, covering other shit and getting attention that way." By a lot, she means maybe three. /Semantics/. "But sure, I'll work on it. First one I record's gonna be the /dumbest/ love song, just for you. How's /your/ job coming?" Hive exhales once, quick and quiet, his eyes closing as his head tips back against the couch. His fingers squeeze tighter against his cup, a slow swallow rolling down his throat. He is quiet, fingers still now, just resting against her back. Even after the question he is quiet, for a time; it takes a long pause of silence before he grunts a: "Neh," of noncommittal response. "-- Oh man. Love song. Will you /croon/ it. Soulfully. Staring into the camera. I might swoon." Uh uh. Not so quick there, bud. Shelby's treated to a front row seat for this change in his demeanor and she observes with interest. Piqued interest. Almost thoughtfully, she transfers her tumbler to her cheek and temple. Almost thoughtfully, she works her knees into the cushion and rocks her hips forward. Away from his fingers, true, but allowing a more centered position over his hips. "That good, huh?" she inquires as she leans forward, a hand pressed beside his head for propping purposes. The other carries the cup to /his/ neck. Cold. "What would you do if I sang to /you/?" she also wants to know. Hive's hand drops back down to the couch when Shelby rocks forward, and his breath catches abruptly at the coldcold tumbler against his neck. His neck tenses, a shiver passing through him, but he doesn't pull away. "Eh? Hm. Oh -- it's work," he says with a small shrug of one shoulder. "Worklike. Sweaty. Hot. S'alright." He opens his eyes again at the question, lazily half-lidded but nevertheless looking up at her rather intently. "-- Do you mean right /now/ or -- in -- general?" "Y'know," Shelby muses as she draws the bottom of the tumbler up along his neck to his cheek, and from there to his forehead, wielding it like an ice cube, "sometimes I wish /I/ was the telepath. Feels like you know me inside out but I got no idea what you're doing in there." There being behind his eyes, which she is studying from close range. Close enough that she bumps the tip of her nose against his. "If I sang to you right /now/ and you laughed, I'd..." Be crushed? Crush him? Crush is in there somewhere, somehow. "Let's say in general. It'd be corny, if I did it now." Those eyes open just a touch wider when Shelby comes in that close, watching her green ones and then slowly drooping back to lazy-almost-closed, a telltale glint of darkdark brown still signifying that he's actually watching. "I don't think you'd want to be the telepath," he answers with a very slight twitch of his lips upward. "I thought it was going to be the /dumbest/ love song. Isn't corny the point? I wouldn't laugh," he decides, but a rather /unfortunate/ habitual bluntness adds at the end, "... on the outside." His eyes close the rest of the way. "It'd be pretty cool, really. I don't -- get -- sung to." His head tilts back, just a touch further; it shifts his nose away but brushes his lips very faintly against hers. The tumbler switches hands so Shelby can continue on with painting him with cold condensation. Down the temple, to the other side of Hive's neck it goes. "I'd /know/," she remarks. "Don't have to be a telepath for /that/." And then there are lips touching hers, which demand an answer. Still pressing cold against his skin, she tips her head just so and fits her mouth to his. The tip of her tongue flicks against Hive's upper list then traces its slight curve. Then she draws back again and there's music in mind. Just a melody, nothing with lyrics...yet. << Trying not to push you. Too much. Should I back off? >> "I'd make the most serious of faces," Hive murmurs against her mouth. Very /seriously/. His mouth presses back to hers, soft, and the shiver that drifts up him this time is not from the chill condensation. He rests his forehead against hers afterwards, breaking off to speak /aloud/ rather than in his painful mental voice, "I'm not all that easy to push." It's followed by another kiss, longer, this time. Shelby is not buying the serious. Not that she needs to say so. It's just there, subtle as the quirk of her lips against his. Without shifting away, she reaches out to set the tumbler down on the ground, beside the pitcher. That way both hands are free to work into the hot mess of his hair. << I can be pretty pushy, >> she shares as she holds him still to engage and prolong that kiss. Her mouth opens to his, her knees squeeze his sides. << Want everything. Now. Just like this. >> Hive doesn't answer those thoughts. The harsh quality of his voice tends to ruin moods and his mouth is /slightly/ otherwise occupied. His hand lifts again, curling around her waist -- his other is still holding his tumbler, so it stays where it is. His hair /is/ kind of a hot mess, sweaty-damp and pretty gross in the day's heat; its pretty sticky-sweaty, too, where he presses her gently closer to himself. His lips part, sinking deeper into the kiss with a quiet contented hum. The lack of voiced response all right. Though Shelby can't really sing for him, as threatened, the melody is there between them and it's happy to swallow his humming, to make it part of the whole. And there /are/ words there, dancing in the background. They lack cohesion thus far but they begin to come together as she scrapes his hair back from his face and holds it out of the way, away from the sweaty heat of his forehead. << Can we just pretend everything else doesn't exist? Just this, >> she's humming back at him as her mouth leaves his to begin planting equally hot kisses on a path to his ear. << Our own private heatwave. >> Though her blowing over the kiss marks /does/ cool them. Hive's fingers spread, palm resting against Shelby's back. His head tilts to the side, turning the side of his face towards her as her mouth moves towards his ear. His fingers skim up, running against her spine to curl into the hair at the nape of her neck. His eyes open again; the swell of his chest with slower steadier breaths is easy to feel, against hers. He swallows as his eyes close again, head dipping forward to press a kiss to the side of her neck. To her collarbone. To her throat. Her hair is sweaty too but with it up in a ponytail, it's less of a mess. The ends of the tail tickle the back of his hand, sliding over it as Shelby tilts her head to nuzzle in the hollow just behind his ear. "Hive," she whispers, lips moving against his skin. His name is summoned up with his touches, pushed from her with a shiver as she snuggles heedlessly closer. Nevermind the sweat. << Jet...? >> she tries again mentally while occupying her mouth with his ear, tongue curling out to capture the lobe, drawing it between her teeth. Hive's mouth presses again, teeth closing to nip lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder. His hand presses firm to her back, his breath shivering out against her skin as her mouth moves against him. He freezes, though, and the brief ripple now is one of tension stiffening his shoulders, tightening the wiry muscles of his arms. His forehead tips down to rest against her collarbone, expression not visible from this downturned angle. << It's Hive, >> comes in his typically unpleasant whipcrack of a voice, stinging-sharp and then gone. Gone, but the effect lingers. Shelby gives a muffled squeak when that correction slams into her mind. When she tenses, it leads to bracing her hands on his chest and pushing back against /his/ hands to straighten up. Her face is still twisted in a wince. "Sorry. Sorry...I...yeah." Giving her head a shake, she looks off to the side, blinks a couple of times--<< fucking stupid >>--and then beds to retrieve the pink tumbler. "So. Beach?" Hive exhales slowly, his fingers squeezing down in slow kneading against the back of Shelby's neck. He lifts his head again, and there are more kisses -- one to the side of her neck, one to her lips -- but they're shorter, quicker, definitively /epilogue/ rather than prologue. He turns his head to lift his tumbler and take a long sip of half-melted smoothie. "Beach," he agrees, dropping his hand from her neck. "-- Bring sunscreen." "No shit, Sherlock." Not the most apologetic of statements but he /is/ stating the obvious. Shelby's head turns towards his hand, cheek bumping against it before it falls away. Then she straightens up completely to dismount, taking a good slug of smoothie as she goes. "You should see if you can rustle up an umbrella. Dusk'd get shoulder cramps if he has to keep me covered the whole time." "Be a hilarious image though. Like we brought our own fucking gargoyle to the beach." Hive grimaces, adjusting his shorts as he gets up, cup still in hand. He stoops to pick up the blender, /stealing/ Shelby's irreplacably fancy tumbler as he heads for the door. "I'll see what I can do." "No one wants a grumpy gargoyle around. Cramps are the worst," Shelby remarks, eyes flicking...down. Maybe to that adjustment. Her lips twitch--c'mon, that's a cramp of a different sort, it's a /little/ funny--before she turns to set off towards her bedroom. Beach accessories need to be found. "I'll be up in a bit." "Cramps are the fucking worst," Hive's agreement comes /grumpily/. He tugs his shorts a little upward on his hips and slurps at his smoothie as he heads out.