nysalogs | Gravity -- why hath thou forsaken me?

Entry tags:

Gravity -- why hath thou forsaken me?

Who: Jessica Jones (

assholic) & Clark Kent (

apricitous) & OPEN
What: New ability rearing its head
When: December 07 - December 14
Where: Closed log @ her and Clark's home, randomly around Wyver.
Warning(s): Language? Will adjust if needed

Whether it was the Orbiters enhancing something she already had or something new creeping into her system, Jessica Jones was now capable of more than just 'falling with style'. Her morning with Clark and how well that had gone (/sarcasm) was making her a little concerned about having to leave the house. As to what that meant to others?

They might come across a scowling woman clutching onto a doorway. Or a tree. Or maybe she's reached out and grabbed someone -- perhaps a little too hard? Anyone noticing this might also notice that during these times, her feet might not always touch the ground, and if she's grabbed onto someone, that someone might feel an odd upward tug.

God help anyone that makes her jump. She'll remember you. She'll owe you.

[Feel free to PM about specifics or pp me @

junglewere. Open prompts for anyone in Wyver, but she can be pinged/messaged by people in Olympia if anyone happens to gossip.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That just gets an even nod. Yes, he likes the holidays. He's not really Christian, per se, but he likes the holiday for what it's become. His parents were, theoretically, Methodist, but he was never brought to church other than for holidays and bake sales and that was more about the community.

"As long as you don't try to spread your holiday cheer all over me, I don't care." No gifts, Clark. She didn't like getting stuff. She could get stuff on her own. Alcohol stuff. And more jeans. "So... shouldn't you be out doing that? The early boyscout gets the cookie, or some shit."

"It's six in the morning?" Which isn't so much a question as... seriously?

"Isn't that late for farmer types? Shouldn't you be up with the cocks..."

No, wait, bad phrasing. That was just making her think of that thing she shouldn't be thinking of. And now it was time to get up and get an actual drink of actual alcohol-- except pushing up from the chair and trying not to think of super vibrating rumble dicks apparently distracted her enough that she pushed up... and then kept going. "Oh... for fuck's sake."

His eyes are still, technically, on his book. But he glances up at her.

"Would you like my assistance?"

She has her teeth clenched, face pressed to the ceiling. She doesn't look down at him when she answers. "Would you like to suck my dick?" She pushes off from the ceiling, moving back down halfway to the floor, then just sort of... hovering there. Well, that was better than bouncing back up.

He's still on the couch, book still in hand.

"You'd have to ask me out for drinks before I considered it. Lucky you, I'm a cheap date."

The book closes.

"I'm not your nanny. I'm not going to tell you what to do. But if you want my help, you have it. So... do you want my assistance?"

She tries to grab for him, but she's just windmilling in the air, kicking her feet and getting nowhere. She huffs, slumping, which looks utterly ridiculous in midair. "I hate you."

"As you like." Book is opened again. "Well, if you change your mind, I'm here."

She glared at him, wishing for just a moment that she had laser eyes. She'd zap him in the ass. Hovering there in the air, she rubbed her face over her hands, trying to take a deep breath and just... think about something else. Like the alcohol she wanted. Another kick of her leg proved that she wasn't going to swim in the air. That, apparently, wasn't how this worked.

So she thought about-- nope. Not thinking about that. That's what had gotten her in this mess... and there she went, back up to the ceiling. "I really, really hate you." No she didn't.

"I'm not holding out for the word 'yes' like a four year old," he says as he turns a page, "but something that actually sounds like an affirmative would do. As opposed to 'really really' hating me."

"It's your fault I'm up here," she grumped, opting to try to pull herself along the ceiling towards the kitchen. Hey, this was kind of working.

Oh, that gets the book closed.

"It most certainly isn't."

"Is so," she shot back, not looking back at him as she reached the little dip in the doorway she had to crawl over, upside down, to get into the kitchen.

"Blameshifting is beneath you, Jessica," because nope, not going to let himself get riled. Nope, because it's ridiculous. His flying wasn't contagious, after all.

"...much like everything else right now."

Yeah, he said that.

"I'm putting it squarely where it belongs. I had it all under control, and then I had to go and think about you and your stupid rumblecock and you can't just say that to someone that hasn't gotten laid in like, two years. It's fucking rude." She was pulling herself over to the cupboard now, letting out a soft 'aha' of victory as she opened the door and reached down for her bottle. "There's a Geneva Convention for a reason."

Blink.

Blink blink.

Blink blink blink.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me." She knew he had. He heard everything. She angled herself around, pushing down so she was mid room level again, pulling the cork free and taking a long, long swallow.

"I certainly heard you," he says with a snort as he puts his book aside and actually looks up at her, "I'm just wonder-"

Okay, he's processed that a couple times and now he's figured out what she meant. Huh. Well, it's certainly a thought, though it strikes him as less helpful than-

Detour. Detour. Deeeetour.

"I was actually talking about my tongue. Though... I suppose I could? It strikes me as more awkward than enjoyable, though."

By which he meant that he had no intention on a cease fire here. After all, no skin off his nose if she decides to float through the apartment all day.

"And I don't believe the Geneva Convention addressed that point."

"Your what?" Her nose wrinkled and she gave him a semi-perplexed look from the kitchen. Then thought about it. "Oh. Enh, I guess that's a thing some people might like."

Another long guzzle, followed by a whoop as Jessica fell flat on her ass, spilling alcohol on... yes. Her jeans. "Goddammit!" She only had two pairs, Clark. This was bullshit. Now she was going to smell like a drunk all day. Great.

Getting up, she brushed at the wet stains, scowling. "Sure they do. I'm sure sexual torture's in there somewhere."

He'd startled and been about to check and see if she was all right before he heard the 'goddammit'. Then he settled back on the couch to watch her stand.

"And I don't recall bringing out the nipple clamps."

But he does actually stand up at that point.

"Are you all right? Other than smelling like a still?"

See this look, Clark? It's the look of a woman who has no problem with coming over and punching you in your smug, pretty face. "Ha, ha. Look who's found their moonlighting job as a comedian."

She had a very strong urge to just go back to bed and try to mulligan this day. Somehow, she doubted that would be effective. "Why, you wanna kiss my booboo better?" At least she hadn't spilled much. The whiskey was actually pretty good, and she went to get an actual glass to pour it in.

And he will be a good moppet and roll with it so you don't break something, even if it smarts. But his head tilts to one side to agree yes, he's being a little snarkier than is necessary. He doesn't like watching people flounder when he's right there. It puts him in a mood.

"Slammed through a mountain, remember? I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"This is why I'm sticking with bobbing around like a lame Disney character inside. Where there are no mountains." Look at her, Clark. She was wise.

"I like to think the mountain had it coming," he says with a shrug. "Not that we were close or anything. Also, it did hurt."

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Haha, that face.

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