justttkidding | mental link

[ She's going to lose it in a second, all sense of restraining herself. She's unsteady in her pool of murk and muck, ready to break out of the haze of drink she's put herself in and really really feel everything. ]

So, uh-- [ Her breath on his opposite cheek, looking down her nose into his face. ] I think that's... plenty of tidbits, right? Super important. Super relevant. That's all the clothes, right?

[ On the opposite end of the spectrum, he's perfectly stable. The inky fog sits unmoved, a passive monstrosity. Annie's a livewire in comparison and he's intrigued. ]

Incredibly relevant, so important. [ Ok probably not, but whatever. November tilts his head just so, lips brushing across hers– the contact feels like a jolt, physical and freeing. ]

I suppose we could do with less vestments. [ He murmurs against her mouth, amusement bleeding through. ]

[ She's not quite sure if she likes that yet. There's something to be said for someone who could absolutely let loose the way she does, someone to bring the fire and brimstone down with her. But-- maybe she's not so afraid of breaking something in the jack ass either, and maybe that had its own worth. She presses in to meet his mouth, inhaling like she's been holding her breath. In a way she has been, and using the liquor to keep herself complacent while somewhere deep inside she was going absolutely fucking batshit with the kind of loneliness only the most deep and abiding grief can bring you, bottling up sorrow and anxiety. She needs to let it out, and this planet is real shitty at affording her that. It overflows as she lets down the restraints, whitecaps of bubbles and foam.

On the other side of expulsion is Annie more like she normally has been: dreadful and creeping, loud and colorful and sprawling, creator and destroyer... as well as the little sinewy woman shedding her cloak first before going after the buttons on his.

She looks like a soldier underneath that cloak, the tank top she wears shows a strong musculature and too many scars, the nastiest of which is an enormous mountain range of twisted purple flesh up the center of her body. It peaks over the bandages wrapped around her chest, its highest point just at the base of her collar bones. ]

( You can still chicken out, if you want. )

[ Teasing, but truthful. ]

[ Contractors are always measured to some degree. It comes with the territory. But the parts they let unfurl take up space, they're beautiful and jagged and monstrous. November has blood on his hands enough to drown in. Here it doesn't matter, with Annie lifting the curtain between them, her color and sound and everything fitting in the places he didn't know were missing.

It's not uncomfortable. The other side of her feels like a threat and a blanket all at once. Consuming, hungry. He lets it wash over him, the ice of his mind unmoved. Her clever fingers are on his cloak and he shrugs out of it as soon as the buttons let loose.

The cloth drops to the floor in a crumpled heap, his gaze flicks over her. Scars and wraps and musculature to catalogue, some filed for later and an appreciation for the physical shape in the now.

He's less dressed down, wearing a suit minus the coat. Immediately, he starts loosening his tie, listening to her words intently. ]

( You wish. )

[ At that, he stands, drops the tie on the floor and holds a hand out to tug her towards the bed. ]

[ There's still a solid chance of one of the other hosts walking in on them. Someone too drunk to pay attention to the obvious highlights in the air, Annie is a colorful blot on the psychic landscape when she unveils herself like this. This is what everyone has gotten used to since she joined the hosts months ago: the enormous looming thing in the back of her mind, and then the absolute cacophony of sound and color and sensation that is her strained humanity. She seems to be going in every direction at once, both hot and cold, void and holographic. Her dualities contradict and fight with one another, making for a wild, conflicted creature.

She pours it in to him. In theory, she'd one day like to learn how to do that in increments but-- She's not that good with control when it comes to things like this, and she had warned him. A fucking bull in a fucking china shop.

But it feels good. Her utterly addictive personality loves the sensation of two symbiotes getting too close. It was an amazing trip. The symbiote isn't meant for it, to get that close and they get a bit drunk from it. Turning linear vibrations suddenly into something else entirely, signals that the mind turns synaesthetic: colors into tastes, tastes into sounds, sounds it so many strobing patterns.

Sex is fun. Sex like this is more fun, and maybe... just maybe he was right after all in saying there was something intensely romantic, overwhelmingly intimate, about the whole thing. The pouring back and forth of overflowing cups, the outrageous froth of liquid down the sides. Maybe it was funny that someone like her, with such a fake ass facade, was always dying to spill herself wholeheartedly into someone else, to really feel and be felt in a language that could actually convey all of her peculiarities. A place where her humanity and her otherness could properly intermingle.

Who gives a shit why. He doesn't, how about that. So she just gets her fingers in his hair and pulls, feels it prickle in her own scalp. The physical sensation share was always fun too. ]

[ If there's one thing to be said about November, is that he always seems to toe the line. He weighs his options, risk vs reward. Contractor and Human. Which mask is better to shed in which situation. Work with the fear of discovery or shrug it away. Here, they absolutely could have another host walk in, could have someone flushing with shame.

Not himself, of course.

He's toeing the line again, with Annie. She's unfurled along their link and it feels so intimate, personal, that he almost backs off. It's like she's stripped down to nothing, but he nakedness has never been this raw before. Both sides of herself are there, the bleak monster that looms over and through. Her colorful personality that feels like a warm fire, like a breeze, a caress. November sinks into it, lets it adjust all around his iced over edges, the cold parts that run layers deep.

In a way, he feels like he doesn't has as much to offer. His own colors are muted or clean– whites, cream, blue. Some sections run purple where the red sits buried. But even with the chill and unperturbed waters, there's the smell of fresh linen and mint. A warm cup of Earl Grey. Smoothly, those lines twist between the ecstatic patterns of Annie's mind and everything feels like it vibrates, like it shudders.

Dimly, he's aware that there's a gasp, out of shock, out of the nerves firing as though someone's run nails along his spine. He can see why someone could get so easily addicted to this. The closeness is almost as unbearable as it is comforting and exhilarating. A startled laugh comes bubbling up and he holds her close, hands wrapped around her waist and sliding up her sides. He feels the echo of it on his skin, feels her fingers grab hold and stay. ]

[ There's nothing quite as open and freeing as laughter in the midst of sex. She's extremely prone to it, she gets giddy and relaxed in a way that makes it obvious why she's after it as often as she is. She wants to tear down all of her restraints, to engage with someone on a spectrum that is devoid of anxiety for her. All movement and exertion and spiking, mounting, desire that will lead to a delirious, giggling release.

He may be so much more structured on the inside, but that doesn't mean it's not fun for her to make a mess of it. Assuredly, even, she leaves handprints of chaos and color on his lovely white things and then turns with coy defiance for the reprimand, challenging him to get her under control.

Or she'll just be here, making a mess of things. He'll have to clean up after her sooner or later.

What? Is he just going to sit there and watch her flick all his teacups off their shelves?

Laughter, warm skin sliding, all play grappling for a position that she'll settle into and keep, she can be a wretched, smirking tease. ]

( A whirlwind, aren't you? )

[ It's not said snidely, or even meanly. Almost like stating a fact, except for the hint of humor that edges it in. Calmly, he meets her chaos with an unperturbed air, watches as she leaves fingerprints on the crisp edges of white, billowing curtains. All along the countertops. Teacups come crashing down on the tiled floors, scattering ceramic and fine china into little colorful bits.

In reality, it should be upsetting, but it isn't. Not here, where he's charged with the logical reordering of his own mind. He'll fix it, eventually. Maybe the cups will be a different color, different pattern. The curtains– maybe he'll keep the colorful handprints. He sort of likes how they stick out on the white.

The ceramic cups are neither here nor there and a breeze blows in, cool to the touch, refreshing. It mimics how he blows a gust of air along her neck, follows it with a kiss. There's flashes of warm sun filtering in through the window, too hot to stand in for long, but sinking into the skin all the same.

She's intangible and tangible like this. In their connection, he laughs as he lifts her and all her colors and sounds off her feet, twirling. Some of his icy edges drip, cool water puddling under them. ]

[ She is an absolute natural disaster. It came with the territory, really, of being so much more than just a woman. She's also every particle of an ocean, every inch of growth in a forest, every decaying pile of bones, every quake in the earth, every breeze-- She's a very good choice for a host, in her way. She already knew how to hold many things in her mind, but... she was a force of nature; not a careful creature of logic the way the Nest really needed her to be. Her strengths were her weaknesses; her strengths were what made her dangerous to the hosts around her who did not have her immensity. She had warned him, that while this could assuredly be fun, it wouldn't necessarily be easy on him.

Not that he's struggling to keep up with her, retaining his composure beyond the sweat on his brow. She'd love to him really rumpled and absolutely fucking put out one day. Her grin is sharp, mean-spirited, at the thought, and she doesn't bother to hide it. How could she, at this point. Cruel little daydreams, but she's relented her struggle and settled comfortably across his lap, her sigh of breath a lot sweeter; liquid and warm.

She hadn't intended to get quite so comfortable. These kind of things were usually a lot more desperate but the smell of lavender and mint makes her breathing slower, eyes heavy lidded and content like she's complacent with a lover she's known a long time. Not that she ever stuck with any lover for long at all, that was a vulnerable business that might lead to something like an actual relationship--

An unwelcome thought, that one, and she shivers, huffs a breath and buries her face in his hair, more demanding than before. That's exactly the kind of shit he should be distracting her from. ]

( My apologies. )

[ He can tell she's not trying to be comfortable, content. But something in how she moves like a natural disaster clicks on all of his defenses, willing or not. Here, it's to subdue, to keep her from breaking too much. November isn't intent on doing it on purpose, but his mind rearranges and reorganizes to do it anyway. Contractor instinct.

But, he's also in charge of what his mind projects. So he leans down, kisses her neck, scrapes his teeth along the skin there. His hands are sliding up her small top, thumbs picking out her ribs and scratching with short nails. Instead of mint and warm breezes, the sun slips lower, hot and in their eyes from the mental window.

Shadows creep along the corners, spread up the walls, eating away at the details. The fog of it blankets the floor, curls around their ankles and sits there, an emptiness, a hunger. It thrums with an unnerving electricity, sparking at the nerve endings. ]

[ There's something interesting there in the way he both does and does not have control of that. Even more so as a new host. There are questions to be asked about what he really is and what he can really do, but... Well, the change in gears does the trick. Her next huff of breath is more from excitement than impatience, heat building low in her body. ]

( Shut up, sweetheart. )

[ And just let the dark hungry bits of themselves twine together. ]

DISTANCE hammer at it long enough and fissures run through	TACTILE maybe what you want isn't so far after all
LOYALTY you're making this harder than it has to be	CONTRACTOR pay up

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