|The Night's Watch|
|Location||New York City|
|Participants||Alexandra, Armando, Maxim, Richard, Rosalie, Sumit, Talya, Tiffany|
|Summary||Tiffany lives vicariously through strangers and friends.|
|Warning: Sexual Content|
Tonight in her apartment, Talya is watching a movie. She's dressed in a vague cross between work-out and bed, braless with a tank top and stretchy, casual skirt. Reclining on the couch, she eats a Russian pastry from a plate placed on her lap to capture at least most of the crumbs. In an absent, doodling way, images from the screen are made manifest in all dimensions to either side of it, sharpening in detail, then growing even more fantastical, then drifting away, smoke-like, for the next doodle.
To the reader, Talya’s own red hair is briefly replaced with near-ebony. Tiffany smiles in delight, cupping the baked treat with both hands and slowly bringing it up to her mouth. From her sunken spot on the couch, she watches the illusions come to life around her with innocent, childlike awe. As the tart fruit pastry explodes against her taste buds, she is just as pleased to see the images waft back into nothingness. Their temporary nature is part of their appeal.
It is a warm spring night, and the windows of Rosalie's apartment are thrown open, letting in the warm air and the sounds of the street below. The air within her apartment, however, is a little warmer still, with a hint of electric humidity. It's an annoying atmosphere. Rosalie is annoyed. Annoyed, and trying not to be. She's currently trying to calm herself by doing yoga. A yoga mat (it's purple) is spread out in her living room and she is stretched out, butt in the air, in her best downward facing dog.
Undetectable to conventional senses, Tiffany's consciousness is also present in the room. Though she has no flesh to goosebump or fine hairs to stand on end, she experiences the charged air around as if she does.
Rosalie stretches, pushing her hips upward, and her heels downward. Her yoga pants fit snugly over the curves of her ass, and Tiffany really has a great vantage point. Good thing she's invisible. Otherwise this is likely a recipe for a thunderstorm.
Tiffany can feel her hips spreading as she arches her spine and presses her ass into the air. Pressing the fingers in front of her against the mat, she stares down at them. They are not hers. For one, they’re far too small. Not to mention their modest, unpainted nails.
Rosalie shifts a little, and, somehow, slips. Perhaps she stepped off the mat onto the slippery floor. Perhaps all blood rushed to her head. In any case, she crashes into a small weather which heap with a most characteristic cry of "FUCK!" and a sudden gust of wind.
The wind carries the faintest hint of fading laughter. It is so slight that perhaps it is a product of the imagination, entirely.
"Y andar arrojando..." Spanish pop music blares through the Avenue B apartment, a collection of quick beats, loud horns and quick guitar riffs. With the thinness of the building's walls, the music leaks into the the neighboring apartments as well. Someone has already banged on the ceiling, hoping it will stop, up to no avail. The thumping just becomes part of the song. "A los cerdos miles de perlas..."
"Ay amor!" Tiffany closes her eyes tight, basking in the newfound sense of freedom that having sprouted a pair of wings awards her. Bare-chested and in Armando’s open robe, she swings around both arms high over her head and whips around her hair. At the same time, she presses her knees in close together and thrusts the side of her hip against the air in either direction. “Me duele tanto, me duele tanto!” Not being a Spanish speaker, she remains blissfully ignorant of any meaning the words might have.
"Que no creas más en mis promesas!" Armando sings enthusiastically and without shame along to the music, even though he's a little off-key. The small size of the kitchen doesn't stop him from dancing around in it while he fries something on the stove-top. He shakes boxer clad hips to the music, getting low to the floor and then hopping back up again with a flap of wings that disturbs some of the items sitting around on the counter-tops. His untied robe, brightly printed with a colorful luchador tessellation on it, flares out as he spins in the air once before his feet touch the ground again. The spatula is waved in the air for a moment, then used as if it's a drumstick, as he dances and sings in-between moments of actually cooking. This goes on for the next several songs.
Never having been a particularly heavy sleeper, in a large part due to his previous line of work, Sumit never sleeps through in NYC. He's got the sounds of the city tuned out well enough, but a car backfiring, or an unexpected floorboard creak and he's awake.
It's 2am, or there abouts, Rohan is away, there's no one else in the flat, and Sumit is, to all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Then, there's a creak of his door, followed by the faintest of footsteps on the floorboards. The newcomer gets perhaps three of four paces into the room before a stray sneeze wakes the sleeper in a sudden start. There's a blur of movement. Where before there had been a prone form, now there's a man crouched on the bed, back to the wall, with a pistol retrieved from under his pillow that's pointed straight at the intruder.
Tiffany trains the gun to the door. She’s never held a gun before. It’s cold to the touch and heavy in her hand but perfectly weighted for her. The sensation is intoxicating.
Piggybacking on Sumit’s manic-fueled senses, a look of horror crosses her face as the would-be intruder's identity is revealed to her a fraction of a second before the man himself picks up on it. She tries to pull the weapon up or point it away, perhaps to frame her face with it like in cop television shows. But she’s not in control.
There's no gunshot though, as a faintly pitiful mew for attention reveals the threat to be Holly, Rohan's first cat. Putting the gun down again Sumit eyes the moggy for a moment while he deals with the adrenalin that's introduced itself into his system then lies back down and drapes one arm over the side of his bed so the cat can have a fuss. "Don't tell your Dad I did this," he mutters to her as he drifts off to sleep again, and soon enough, he's asleep on the bed, and her on his chest.
The psionic is awash with relief, laying back into Sumit’s bed with him and the feline. She settles in for the moment of rest, too prepared for the next sound to be lulled into the same sleep that Sumit is. Mostly, she's afraid one of these cats really is going to bite the big one.
She's the big spoon, tangled up with Maxim in her bed that's not too much too small for the both of them as it is just too small for him. She's aggressively reluctant to get out of bed, as if she can just squeeze her pillows and make the morning last forever. She's bleary-eyed in the bathroom as she brushes her teeth and takes pills from a bottle without looking.
Later he calmly and quietly works her into a burst of temper so that he can haul her over his shoulder and back into the bedroom, where her anger clearly has a direct correlation with /how hard/ and /how fast/ and all sorts of things related to holding her down and inflicting multiple orgasms on her. By the end, Lexie's a boneless sprawl on the bed, and Maxim's the big spoon.
Tiffany is aware of every touch. She is the big spoon. She is the little spoon. Her hands tighten around Lexie’s wrists while at the same time, twisting to break free against Maxim’s grasp. She is the penetrator and the penetrated, twisting and tossing against every single euphoric sensation.
Still, even throughout the vigorous lovemaking session, Tiffany does not achieve orgasm, herself. Perhaps it’s the distance.
Lying on the bed as the couple catches their breath, the psionic traveler curls her body into Maxim’s chest and arms and presses herself, flaccid, into the safe flesh of Lexie’s firm backside.
He's awake. He's definitely awake because his eyes are open and he's been looking at the ceiling of his apartment for at least fifteen minutes.
She’s awake. She’s definitely awake because her eyes are open and she’s been looking at the ceiling of her apartment for at least fifteen minutes.
"I don't want to talk about it," he says, although no one else appears to be there.
She blinks, desperately wanting to turn her head on her neck to see who she might be speaking to. Probing out with her mind’s invisible tendrils, she can glean no information past what the man's senses can pick up on.
There's a silence, and then he says, "I /definitely/ don't want to talk about /that/. No, I don't care how much Wikipedia you made me read, you're not a psychiatric professional."
She’s talking to herself, again.
Eventually, something has him twisting his expression and finally shoving out of bed. "I hate you," he tells the silence blandly, but he drags himself over to his bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. He holds the prescription bottle between his fingers for several long minutes before he opens it and swallows two pills.
“I hate you,” Tiffany tells the silence, blandly. It’s not her voice. She catches his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror before swinging it open. Placing the pills on her tongue, she winces as they dryly force their way down her and Richard’s collective throat.
There are closets larger than Tiffany’s room. The twin mattress on the floor takes up a great deal of it. The bed is bare, without any sheets. There is no dresser, so most of her clothes are in folded stacks against the opposite wall or hanging on a cumbersome stand-alone clothing rack. The pile of expensive shoes isn’t half as organized. Dawn's light filters in through the pathetic, jail-cell sized window.
She passed out, again. It isn’t alcohol related ...although some alcohol is present.
Her body is twisted in an awkward position and her hand is outstretched as if there might have been some effort to catch the can of Tecate it had been holding. There certainly wasn’t. By now, yellow-brown beer has spread and set in. The beverage’s heavy, wheaty smell permeates the room.
Tiffany shifts her weight, rolling onto her stomach for better leverage as she pushes up into a sitting position. She rubs the heel of her hand into her cheek and eye, surveying her surroundings. This time, when she catches her reflection in the cheap, cardboard-backed full-length mirror that leans against the wall --- it’s actually Tiffany looking back at her.Probing out with her hand, she watches her reflection pat around behind her. Finding the half-empty can of Tecate, Tiffany gives it a shake to check its contents before bringinging it back to her mouth. Before she takes a sip, she pauses to let out loud belch. “Oh, that felt good.”