Logs:Flickering
| Flickering | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2022-12-04 << Oh shit am I not taking this seriously enough? >> |
| Location
the boundaries of relationships / the boundaries of minds / the boundaries of identity | |
wednesday. 8 june. geekhaus - east village. This time the bedroom door is actually closed, the haphazardly discarded clothing more or less all on this side of it. What purpose this nod to propriety serves is questionable -- their desire is fluctuating loud and insistent, hungry pulses of want unfurling to draw Polaris into Hive and DJ's chaotic passion and then snowball out past her to greedily pull in other nearby minds as well. And then pull back, contracting back down to just the paired shape of them -- though even when the mental presence has withdrawn, the passion is just as tangible, Hive's mouth soft on Polaris's neck, hands warm on her skin. The rapid tumble from being one person to three to yet more and suddenly one again leaves Polaris reeling, as much with disorientation as exhilaration. Her breathless pleas have grown less and less coherent even as her mind blazes hotter with desire and invitation and joy. Every kiss, every caress draws a quiet but rising chorus of metallic rattling from all around the room and the apartment beyond. She turns in Hive's arms and bears him down to the bed with a fierce kiss and drawing DJ after her. DJ is both pulling and being pulled along, his own love and desire a fierce and consuming thing where it washes over -- into -- around -- the others. His exhiliration as he tumbles along into bed comes heady and rushed. It's one of the expanding-expansive tides that brings it some balance, his sense of self slowly, carefully, pulling more distinct as Hive pares them down once more. He's still flushed -- still breathless -- as he blinks away from the tangle of kisses and limbs, landing on the edge of Flicker's disused bed. His hand has dropped to what scant clothing still remains on him, fingers tracing lightly against the embroidery in his garments. "-- oh. Oh -- " << fuck >> << (please) >> << fuck >> "-- gosh. I -- I'm sorry, I really need to --" He swallows, rubs at his beard. "This --" << is a sin >> << (still be a sin if you don't fuck him) >> << can't just fall into this >> "This isn't -- the right way." friday. 15 july. geekhaus - east village It doesn't take a telepath to register Polaris's bright pleasure when she sweeps in through the door. "How are you, gentlemen?" she's calling even before she's quite struggled out of her mary janes. << ...all your base are belong to us... >> Then she's leaning over the back of the couch between DJ and Hive to set an Evolve drinks carrier down on the coffee table. "Lemonade for you," she says, turning to press a chaste kiss to DJ's lips, then to Hive's with "and iced coffee for you." Hive has been ensconced in a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch, his laptop and holo-projector out in front of him. Buried deep in the midst of a set of blueprints that have slooowly been evolving into a rec center over the past month, his initial acknowledgement of Polaris's arrival is just a slow squeeze of mental pressure that withdraws before the heavy touch has a chance to become actively uncomfortable. He does glance up when she draws near, verbal greeting stifled by the small peck and the sudden widening of his eyes that follows it. His brows lift, his hand frozen momentarily halfway to the coffee. There's a second of delay, a familiar pressure at DJ's mind now wrapping the other man up, pressing in deep. The smile that flits across Hive's face a moment later is quick and easy and just a touch lopsided; he's unconsciously straightening out of his habitual slouch as he reaches to snag the lemonade. "Got so much gratitude for your endless slogging through the drink mines to bring us this bounty." DJ, on the other hand, was out of his seat the moment the key clicked in the lock, his controller set aside and Aloy paused on the screen swooping down towards land astride a great flying machine. By the time Polaris gets to the couch, though, he's returned to his previous seat on the other side of the couch -- though now a plate of mango sticky rice sits waiting atop a neatly folded napkin on the coffee table. His smile (-- quick, warm, just an uncanny bit more crooked than his norm) comes in tandem with Hive's, a faint blush creeping up into his ears at the sudden engulfing. "Thanks." He doesn't bother reaching for the lemonade, though he is nudging Hive into drinking it. wednesday. 10 august. nypd 121st precinct - staten island. There's not much here, anymore, really -- in the station or for some small distance around, a mess of rubble and half-collapsed buildings and seemingly abandoned arcane equipment sectioned off on this block by sturdy fencing. Some of the ominous signs warning of danger and that this is Government Property Trespassers Strictly Prosecuted are still remaining -- though they're less prominent, now, than the signs from several different companies -- environmental remediation underway, construction zone hard hats required, Hive's own architecture firm logo splashed wide along one fence. DJ does not have a hard hat -- but then, at the moment the signs are more optimism than anything else. There's nobody else but them to be seen around here, and the desolate ruins in front of him are now growing a glowing holographic projection spread over top, envisioning the yard and house that may one day live where this particular patch of concrete and rebar currently is strewn. "-- got a while yet to think about it," DJ is saying, "but that just means time enough to make it feel like a house you all would want to live in, too." Polaris is squinting critically at the rubble through beetle-wing green sunglasses, thoughts flitting between her ongoing sense of incredulity that DJ could afford this much land--however messy it may be--and vague fretting that living on the spot where he was plucked from his world might be painful for him. All of that grinds to a halt when her brain parses what DJ just said. "Live in?" Her wide hazel eyes dart aside to Hive, linger briefly, then back to DJ. "We've only been dating for like...two months." << Oh shit am I not taking this seriously enough? Should we be thinking about moving in? Have they talked about this? >> Hive has been tapping at his tablet, the glowing structure in front of them expanding in time with his commands. He freezes at DJ's words, though, and the swift startlement in his expression probably answers Polaris's unspoken question for her. His mouth opens briefly. Closes briefly. His eyes skip from Polaris to DJ and back. From him, though, there's no comment -- only a long and lingering thoughtfulness. thursday. 8 september. evolve cafe. The quicksilver cadence of DJ's mind probably isn't helping much with Hive's attempts to get work done. It's a rapid jitter between seemingly utterly disconnected thoughts -- curious peeking at Hive's ongoing project, musing over Pauline epistles for this Sunday's priesthood meeting << -- if tribulation worketh patience why don't I have endless fucking patience now >>, a sharp prickle of irritation at a particularly ornery customer who is just winding down on heckling the baristas by the counter << -- sit STAY sitting she doesn't need rescuing -- >>, a sharp heartsick wrench at watching a man across the cafe with a pair of preschool-age girls << hope they're on the island by now, they should have friends their age -->>, and on, and on. There's at least a brief respite from the constant flickering of thoughts as he stops for what is for him a tremendous stretch of hyperfocus, several entire seconds dedicated to scrolling through local florists. He's automatically gone to look through the lilies before he catches himself with a frown and a mental stutter. He's glancing up to Hive with a question not quite formed into words, just yet. "She likes echinacea," Hive is answering all the same, not looking up from the slow progress of his design. << -- do florists carry that?, >> spins off a new worry. << I'm sure I can find some somewhere by Saturday. >> "Saturday?" Now Hive does look up, with a curious lift of brows. Though Polaris's reply to the belligerent man at the counter is much quieter than his heckling, the man is backing down. He struts back to his table with a mixture of smug self-assurance and vague anxiety he did not come out of the interaction sufficiently dominant. Polaris exchanges an incredulous look with Ravenna and peels off to refresh drinks. She fetches up at DJ and Hive's table and fills Hive's coffee back up, her anger assuaged as she had predicted by a visit with her favorite customers. "Saturday! We have a date...?" The lift in her tone is layered with mild hurt that Hive forgot, her almost-but-not-quite simultaneous uncertainty whether he knew at all dismissed as quickly as it arises. "You're coming, right?" << Oh shit is that passive aggressive uhhh-- >> "I mean it's totally OK if you don't want to! I just thought--" The uncertainty she'd brushed off returns as her eyes skate aside to DJ with a wave of incredulity and "Wait. Did you even tell him?" thursday. 13 october. dj's airbnb. It has barely reached the breakfast hour but Hive looks like he's had a Long Fucking Day already -- but, probably, today of all days that is deeply unsurprising. When he turns up on DJ's temporary doorstep his eyes are a little puffy, the brief greeting squeeze of his mind too-rough around its edges. He doesn't light up when the door opens -- sags just a little further into his exhausted slouch -- but there's a deep relief all the same in his voice. "Do not read the fucking Bugle today whole entire fucking op-ed about how we can't let a few rare but high-profile mistakes take away from how good the fucking robocops have been for --" He's interrupting himself as he shrugs out of his jacket, pressing a lingering kiss to DJ's lips before he trudges further in search of some combination of Polaris/coffee/hugs. Three blond, well-groomed strangers find Hive first, having piled up at the open door leading from the kitchen, stalled by the sight of their host kissing another man. They're in various stages of scandalized shock and just about ready to start talking at once when Polaris weaves her way between them to throw her arms around Hive. "Yeah no, I'm staying off the Internet for the rest of the day," she mumbles into his shoulder. "Or however long my resolve holds." She looks more or less together, in no small part thanks to makeup, and her mind is as quiet as she can get it by skill alone, but she holds on longer and tighter than usual. Only when she pulls back does she notice the poleaxed looks on the faces of DJ's guests. "Oh... These folks came all the way from Idaho to learn from DJ," she says this matter-of-factly, as if it explains everything. "They're just crashing here until they find a place." DJ doesn't outwardly seem much abashed about Hive's greeting, one arm curling around to pull the other man close and return the kiss softly, but some part of his mind is jangling with what feels verrry like a danger assessment: are his guests going to freak out? Are they going to take it out on Hive? Exactly how much blowback will this bring Polaris in their community? The calculations are shifted to a back burner with the introduction of his guests. A flush floods his cheeks, his new train of thought more abashed: << long way to come just to hear my rambling >> -- and he gestures Hive toward the kitchen with a casual assumption his guests will put their eyes back in their head and follow. "We were just about to do breakfast. C'mon. Cohyn's studying to be an architect, maybe he can pick your brain some." friday. november 18. creative little garden. There are candles fluttering in the middle of the wrought iron table to either side of a small fall-toned arrangement of dried craspedia, burgundy eucalyptus, starflowers, mini pampas. The table has been set for three, the melamine dishes designed to look like turquoise stoneware. Hive is just in the middle of pouring more sparkling cider into the other two glasses, and only barely looks up when a trio of young men engaged in very vocal argument saunter into the garden. "-- garden's closed," sounds bland enough in his flat voice, but a moment later all three are dropping the subject of What's To Be Done About Freaks In This Neighborhood and turning in tandem to walk back out. DJ -- who has traded his habitual flannel and jeans for a blazer over a button down and neatly pressed khakis -- is halfway through his plate of larb salad, strips of crispy citrusy eggplant, coconut rice, a lemongrassy tofu curry. His eyes flit toward the men and then away, a small touch of amusement flickering across his face. << (handy) (thanks) >> overlaps with a quieter melancholy, memories of another Hive, a different deft telepathic touch. "-- feel like the whole Move Along, These Aren't The Mutants You're Looking For thing was one of the earliest skills he sharpened." It sets off a tumble of domino-thoughts in his mind -- the specific ways telepaths were targeted and hunted back home, the ways over the years nudging minds this way and that became a second-nature habit difficult to break, the long hours of teasing out the ethics of Mind Control While At War. A faint frown flits across his brow as this tumbles into a casual: "-- Aubrey's birthday tomorrow. Kinda sorry he could never meet you, think he could have used some guidance." Polaris is decked out in a yellow bolero jacket and a red swing dress of somewhat questionable modesty (at least there is a question), and she's making good progress on her meal considering her poor appetite these last couple of weeks. Her inward bristling at the bigots does not have time to blossom, though her admiration of Hive's skill runs alongside an always-simmering anger that he--or any of them--needed to develop such skills to begin with. "It's a lot neater than if you or I handled it." She's quietly pleased to find DJ thinking along similar lines, however circumstantially logical, without being joined at the brain to her, and is working out how to express this when Aubrey's name cuts through it all. The flashback itself is actually manageable; God knows she'd had enough of those about Blackburn. But. "Wh-what. How?" Her eyes are very, very wide. << "don't hurt him--" >> Aubrey's voice rasps, saving Flicker's life again in the garish jangling mess of her memories. Flicker's life. "You weren't there, you...weren't there--" << (was he there what is going on) >> sunday. 4 december. geekhaus - east village Polaris has been gamely containing her fury all the way back from the chapel--and even before that, her fiery testimony more restrained that probably most would give her credit. She tugs off her boots with far more force than really necessary and picks up the thread of conversation she's tried dropping three times already. "Saints or no, flatscans do not give a single collective fuck about Prometheus. It's gonna have to be us, after all." Lightheaded with hunger and anger alike, she sways a little as she straightens back up. "But like, even if Ryan--" << (--pulled his shit together) (that's unfair shut up Lorna)(we can't just stop) >> She bites her lower lip, hard. "Even if we started training again now, without Jax we'd put the folks we're trying to rescue in so much danger." DJ trails her inside, locking the door behind them and moving to help Polaris out of her coat with a casual familiarity. His own boots have simply vanished, neatly lined up beside Polaris's as he goes to hang her coat and his own. He sucks his cheeks inward, idly gnawing on their insides -- after a moment of consideration it's also casual, his reply: "We wouldn't have to. As long as I have a path I can definitely clear a cell block without losing any of the inmates, I just --" The apartment has been largely silent until now, save for Cat making his way out of the just-slightly-ajar bedroom door to stare judgmentally at the entering pair. From his bedroom now there's still no movement, no noise. There's interruption all the same, whipping through their minds with a howling-juddering protest like a gale wind squalling through a forest, like a mighty bough snapping in protest, thick red blood welling up uncannily from the tree it has severed from. The crack of it lands with an icepick-stab jolt far harsher even than Hive's usual ungentle touches, the edges of sleepy pleased recognition tumbling rapidly away to only a stark, sick terror. << No. >> | |
