JACK
see me falling
yeah, down and lonely
yeah, down and lonely
Tracking Flora's astonishment and affection around the room with a soft tilt of his head, Jack senses her approach as a pulse of light and desire that has him stepping against her a second before her arms loop around his neck, as if they're both some part of an imaginary dance where they both know the rules. "You won't like it," Jack warns, of him doing it all the way, but of course Flora has asked and the captain isn't exactly honour-bound to acquiesce, but he can't really say no either.
"Here's the level I try to keep," he says slowly, and with a furrow of his brow, the thoughts from downstairs (and up, and anywhere either side in range) appear again as bursts of colour, this time accompanied by voices.
gods I'd like to fuck her
if he looks at me that way one more time
--this job is going to
and when he's asleep I'll take everything
They cycle quickly, almost automatically, as if trying to filter for anything exciting or interesting or dangerous, like guitar strings plucked to make a symphony of thoughts.
"And if there's no filter at all?"
The delicate webwork of colours becomes a veritable explosion all around - hot whites and soft greys clash with acid greens; crimson splashes drip along a tide of indigo, and the symphony becomes a cacophony that has Jack's eyes creasing with the effort.
"You go mad with it after a while," he says, his voice raised to speak above it.
"Here's the level I try to keep," he says slowly, and with a furrow of his brow, the thoughts from downstairs (and up, and anywhere either side in range) appear again as bursts of colour, this time accompanied by voices.
gods I'd like to fuck her
if he looks at me that way one more time
--this job is going to
and when he's asleep I'll take everything
They cycle quickly, almost automatically, as if trying to filter for anything exciting or interesting or dangerous, like guitar strings plucked to make a symphony of thoughts.
"And if there's no filter at all?"
The delicate webwork of colours becomes a veritable explosion all around - hot whites and soft greys clash with acid greens; crimson splashes drip along a tide of indigo, and the symphony becomes a cacophony that has Jack's eyes creasing with the effort.
"You go mad with it after a while," he says, his voice raised to speak above it.
are the angels on their way?
i’m in the dirt
i’m in the dirt
- Secret Telepath
- Functionally Immortal (Forever 35)
- Two small star tattoos beneath his left eye
- Click for The Ark!
