X.0918 [ impressionistic swirl | broadcast mind ]
[ooc: Two posts in as many days…? Sorry. Call it his forge rebelling against Trep's menial use of it, or Trep rebelling against my ignoring him all month for Lupin.]
Hi Anatole. Congratulations. Another fucking broadcast mind video of fully graphic sex. 'Cause you haven't had nearly enough of that. …Maybe you really haven't. But surely it should be coming from the forge of Ms Iolanthe or Mr Belmont or… y'know, someone you might enjoy seeing thus inappropriately.
On the other hand, it might be reassuring to know that even Dr Strangeshove can have relatable impulses now and again.
Endsex. Cut to unromantically lit bedroom. Or possibly dorm room. Or office. Or closet. The place is tiny and completely full up with a desk and a bed. Back room of something, or apartment. Wouldn't be a dorm room. Not ever. Bad enough violation of teacher/student-
-Grad student. It's different. It's legal.
-It's not great.
-Oh *really*.
-Don't play dumb. You can do anything. Never do that.
Trepkos is about the same age he is now. But in some undefinable way, maybe about the eyes, or the lines of his face, or the way he breathes-or the fact that his lips aren't blue and he doesn't shiver-or how he's a million (a.k.a. four) times less haunted-or how he's even more hyperactive in thought-and absolutely confident in his view of reality-he's almost completely unrecognizable.
He's got what everyone not-20th-century-American in Anatole would think of as a variation of a Forge, and what everyone post-1990s Macdimension Earthling would recognize as an early PDA, in one hand. Its stylus and a sheaf of papers alternate between his other hand and between his teeth. He usually has the hands reversed, but right now he's keeping the PDA, as more stationary option, in his left hand.
Because against his chest near his left shoulder, Jessie's resting her head. Boyish, short dark hair, everything else long: neck, limbs, face, which gives her a wistful pensiveness. She's wearing a t-shirt that says Si hoc legere scis nimium eruditiones habes which doesn't fit her. She'd bought it for him, but the only person who wears it is her-always here, usually like this. She's naked from the waist down, and thank you, Forge, for preserving some belated privacy by choosing an angle that focuses on their faces, rather than one of her legs crossed very high over the other, so she can brace the looseleaf notebook she's writing in against her knee. Every time one of Daniel's pages or stylus gets between her and her paper, she swipes at it with her hand or snaps at it with her teeth.
"Why aren't you using the computer," murmured Danny.
"They always come out better longhand," she murmured back. "But I don't have the patience for it except when I'm here."
He cranes his neck and squints at the notebook. "Seriously?"
"Why not?"
"No. You're doing that here?"
She lowered the notebook onto her stomach and craned her neck to peer more at his face.
"That's for my class," he said.
"And I want to do well," she said.
…Okay, she'd been about to tease/berate him for ridiculous, unnecessary and compulsive persona-division, but even she has to pause when she hears herself say that.
One of the few times when he's the one who breaks the tension. He traces part of her with the stylus and returns his focus to his own work. "Don't get too complicated," his voice that same unharried, unforced, intimate murmur that has never been heard from him in Anatole at all.
He meant her thesis. She decides to let it mean that.
Aw how sweet. Right, gentle viewers? No, it isn't. 'Cause here's the thing. Here's the disgusting, cold-hearted, deranged, sociopathic crux.
Paranoia not gone just shifted is it now here I am anthropormorphizing a palm pilot and maliciously too attributing vengeful mischievous intent mad am I completely unutterably
He's not dreaming about Jessie-oh of course sex and the far more startling stunning and intimate unurgent aimless calm-because he misses her. Not to revive or revitalize her. Not to take comfort or enjoyment in memory. Not, laugh, accidentally.
I killed her I don't get to revive I don't get to take comfort or enjoy I don't get to miss
He's dreaming about her very deliberately because he knows it's Broadcast Week and he's focusing on her to drown out protected information.
Protected.
Oh laugh. Laugh.
Don't get to protect.
Hi Anatole. Congratulations. Another fucking broadcast mind video of fully graphic sex. 'Cause you haven't had nearly enough of that. …Maybe you really haven't. But surely it should be coming from the forge of Ms Iolanthe or Mr Belmont or… y'know, someone you might enjoy seeing thus inappropriately.
On the other hand, it might be reassuring to know that even Dr Strangeshove can have relatable impulses now and again.
Endsex. Cut to unromantically lit bedroom. Or possibly dorm room. Or office. Or closet. The place is tiny and completely full up with a desk and a bed. Back room of something, or apartment. Wouldn't be a dorm room. Not ever. Bad enough violation of teacher/student-
-Grad student. It's different. It's legal.
-It's not great.
-Oh *really*.
-Don't play dumb. You can do anything. Never do that.
Trepkos is about the same age he is now. But in some undefinable way, maybe about the eyes, or the lines of his face, or the way he breathes-or the fact that his lips aren't blue and he doesn't shiver-or how he's a million (a.k.a. four) times less haunted-or how he's even more hyperactive in thought-and absolutely confident in his view of reality-he's almost completely unrecognizable.
He's got what everyone not-20th-century-American in Anatole would think of as a variation of a Forge, and what everyone post-1990s Macdimension Earthling would recognize as an early PDA, in one hand. Its stylus and a sheaf of papers alternate between his other hand and between his teeth. He usually has the hands reversed, but right now he's keeping the PDA, as more stationary option, in his left hand.
Because against his chest near his left shoulder, Jessie's resting her head. Boyish, short dark hair, everything else long: neck, limbs, face, which gives her a wistful pensiveness. She's wearing a t-shirt that says Si hoc legere scis nimium eruditiones habes which doesn't fit her. She'd bought it for him, but the only person who wears it is her-always here, usually like this. She's naked from the waist down, and thank you, Forge, for preserving some belated privacy by choosing an angle that focuses on their faces, rather than one of her legs crossed very high over the other, so she can brace the looseleaf notebook she's writing in against her knee. Every time one of Daniel's pages or stylus gets between her and her paper, she swipes at it with her hand or snaps at it with her teeth.
"Why aren't you using the computer," murmured Danny.
"They always come out better longhand," she murmured back. "But I don't have the patience for it except when I'm here."
He cranes his neck and squints at the notebook. "Seriously?"
"Why not?"
"No. You're doing that here?"
She lowered the notebook onto her stomach and craned her neck to peer more at his face.
"That's for my class," he said.
"And I want to do well," she said.
…Okay, she'd been about to tease/berate him for ridiculous, unnecessary and compulsive persona-division, but even she has to pause when she hears herself say that.
One of the few times when he's the one who breaks the tension. He traces part of her with the stylus and returns his focus to his own work. "Don't get too complicated," his voice that same unharried, unforced, intimate murmur that has never been heard from him in Anatole at all.
He meant her thesis. She decides to let it mean that.
Aw how sweet. Right, gentle viewers? No, it isn't. 'Cause here's the thing. Here's the disgusting, cold-hearted, deranged, sociopathic crux.
Paranoia not gone just shifted is it now here I am anthropormorphizing a palm pilot and maliciously too attributing vengeful mischievous intent mad am I completely unutterably
He's not dreaming about Jessie-oh of course sex and the far more startling stunning and intimate unurgent aimless calm-because he misses her. Not to revive or revitalize her. Not to take comfort or enjoyment in memory. Not, laugh, accidentally.
I killed her I don't get to revive I don't get to take comfort or enjoy I don't get to miss
He's dreaming about her very deliberately because he knows it's Broadcast Week and he's focusing on her to drown out protected information.
Protected.
Oh laugh. Laugh.
Don't get to protect.