Fran y Asara

En el futuro

En Loveruin or Lovedhope.

Segundo diseño de Frass.

@loveruined continued from this

“I actually like my name,” he replied, inclining his head in agreement to the rest of her question, icy eyes looking at the fuel gauge. Although it was nearing empty, he took it as a sign that a quick trip to the gas station to fill up and get an armful of snacks was the right way to go in order for the two to change their lives. To get out of this damned town and continue finding his sister. Maybe that was just a decoy path and he was really being led to be beside Jane, the woman he found himself thinking about more and more with each day.

A hand cupped her cheek, a calloused finger stroking it. “But you know me,” he whispered, “isn’t that enough to start over somewhere else? You mean so much to me... and I want you to be happy and live a good life with you, away from these people and their drinking and gossip culture. I can help it be easy for you, you know.”

“Careful, the tea is still hot.” Jane for Thomas pls

“Oh, thank you, you’re Heaven-sent,” Thomas sighed, taking the mug gratefully from her hands. He cupped it in both of his, though his right shook a little, and though she had warned him he took a quick sip and immediately burnt his tongue. Blinking in surprise, he took a moment to process the pain, then laughed. “Ow. I suppose you did warn me.” 

Thomas smiled at her, then set the cup carefully on the bedside table and retreated further into his blankets. He hated the rain - on days like this, where it roared and never ended, he barely moved from bed. James had never asked, and he’d never mined, but Thomas had explained anyway. The thought of so much water, even with a roof over his head, was still too much.

“I’m going to be rather useless today, I’m afraid,” he admitted, patting the side of the bed to invite Jane to sit with him. “The Lord himself couldn’t convince me to leave the house in this weather, so we may as well stay in bed anyway. Has James fed you?” He peered at her, as if he might discern signs of hunger from the look of her alone. “I heard him leave earlier - I assume he’s off to shout in the woods, or whatever it is he does in there. I hoped he’d have made sure you’d eaten before he went.”

“Your freedom, that thing you want so much, he’ll make sure you never see it. You have no idea what he’s capable of.” For Raphael. Said secretly - whispered even though they're alone, because she doesn't want Martel to know that she sees him for who he is. She just hates seeing Raphael treated like someone's possession.

tw: martel, abusive dynamics implied

He won’t look at her. Sometimes when their eyes catch too long he thinks they see each other reflected there, and it unnerves him. He stares down at the unfinished glass of wine Mr. Martel had left him instead. 

It’s rare that he’s left alone in a room with anyone. Mr. Martel must not see Jane as a threat. Presumably, Jane’s–guardian–must believe Martel has a tight enough leash on Raphael for him to not be a threat, too. If he listens carefully, he can hear Martel and Quispe in the kitchen, talking in Spanish. He doesn’t know where Jane’s guardian has gone; outside, maybe. He’ll have a hard time getting anywhere, speaking only English in a place like this.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Raphael, quietly dismissive. He hasn’t raised his voice even once in the week or so they’ve known one another. “And you don’t know what I want. You don’t even know Mr. Martel.”

@loveruined (from here)

    Jane has no intention of using the gun and they both know it. It doesn’t even make her feel braver; she feels like a child playing a make-believe game, like she’s insisted on being the hero this time even though they all know that she hasn’t the guts.

    Loss hits her harder than it does most. Taking stock after a storm or a battle has her throat feeling tight until she knows exactly what it is they’ve lost. Until now, Jane has been lucky – none of the fallen have been people she considered her own. But Billy… Billy was everyone’s. He was kind, and intelligent, and he was there as a reminder of her real home when she felt so fucking far away from it. And all Jane knows is that he had disagreed with the Captain, they’d been alone together, and suddenly Billy – strong, more-than-capable Billy – had somehow fallen overboard. She’s only asking what all of the men want to ask. Did the bastard throw him over?

    She has begun to see Flint through somebody else’s eyes, and she finds it difficult to like or even come to terms with the monster that now stands before her.

    “Tell me you didn’t push him.“ Gun lowered now, she repeats herself because it’s all she has to say to him. Until he gives her an answer, it’s all Flint will hear from her. “Tell me you didn’t.”

"He fell.” 

Flint’s voice is quiet. Deadly quiet, with the kind of soft-sharp edge that only creeps into it when he feels himself being backed into a corner and knows that the only way out is to tear through whoever put him there, by any means possible. He’s been lying to everyone around him for months now; what’s one more? What’s one more lie, with so much at stake? 

When he thinks about the Andromache it’s like the world slows down and detaches itself from him; he can’t feel Billy’s hand gripping onto his but he remembers it, and he hears the rush of the sea and the crew shouting out of sight. If he thinks about it for too long he can’t be certain whether or not he let go of that hand on purpose.

“Billy. Fell.” He says it through his teeth for emphasis, stepping forwards. He meets Jane’s eyes and doesn’t know what the fuck it is he sees in them, or what she sees in his. It doesn’t matter. He tells himself this over and over. The important thing is that she believes he didn’t kill Billy, or that she at least doesn’t give the crew a good reason to believe otherwise. “The Andromache fired on us, and he lost his footing. What the fuck did you think?"

&  UNDETERMINED  /  @loveruined .

          his REFLEXES are slower than the speed his legs possess , already late for the band rehearsal before the gig .  it’s entirely his fault , he got all the way roger’s house only to have forgotten his GUITAR --- arguably the most important thing he needed --- and had to run back home to grab it .  he’s having an off day , clearly .   brian is bumping someone with his case , unaware of the motion until the red special nearly drops from his hands onto the body of a girl now on the ground .  “ oh , jesus , i’m sorry , here --- ” he reaches a ringed hand out , slinging the case across his back with remorse written clear across his face from nearly assaulting the poor woman .  she looked just a bit younger than him , brian a sophomore in college but taking much harder classes than someone his age should .  “ i’m so sorry , are you alright ? ----- WAIT .... have i seen you before ? ”

❝ Don’t touch me ever again. ❞ (idk context but make it hurt pls)

“–I’m sorry.” The apology is pulled from him almost against his will, some unnamed sickness tugging at his gut as he stares wide-eyed back at her. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. This time the false lilt in his voice is nearly gone. “I won’t. You have my word.” 

It had only been a touch to the arm, to get her attention as he approached- but Silver knows this reaction, knows that it isn’t only anything, for some people. He’s seen this kind of thing before but sometimes he, too, finds himse–

Quieter, and with the air of someone uncertain of the consequences, Silver says: “I’ll… wait outside.”

🔪       ╱           @loveruined  ( ♥ )

she’s a pretty girl . plain but pretty . enough so that he decides to go back and ask her what’s wrong .       ❝   hey , are you -- okay ?    ❞     he’s not sure what’s going on, or if somethings happened .  but he’d come in look for pie & found her instead . looking for all the world like someone had broke her new toy .

{ @loveruined - 💜’d this for a starter }

Being a vessel made him innately attuned to others. Even when his angel wasn’t present, he still had a way of understanding people-- call it a sixth sense. He looks her over-- not knowing the details but-- able to tell there’s great pain in her past. He leans toward her over the table, resting his chin on his forearms in some effort to make himself seem smaller-- less intimidating.

When he speaks his voice is soft, non-confrontational. “Hey...you okay?”

"What’s your problem with me?" The question comes out of the blue, but one more short answer from Erik and she'd lose her temper. If it's just the way he is, then fine -- she can forgive that, and work around it, but if it's personal... She'd rather know. Arms folded, she asks again. "What is it about me that's so awful?"

“My problem with you,” Erik repeats, almost a question but not quite. His expression barely changes when he looks at her, save for the faint furrow of his brow. As far as he can tell, he’s treated her no differently than he’d treat anyone else he barely knew, mutant or not- 

But then, Charles has always said that’s the problem.

“I don’t have a problem with you. I assure you, if I did, you wouldn’t need to ask about it.” 

@loveruined - gets barker holmes - smol call.

   ❝ i’m supposed to be a funny man - that means you’re supposed to laugh. ❞

         ‘ this is a nice jail, ’ he says, gesturing one-handed and lazily about their studio backdrop before he tucks it back into his pocket. ‘ really, it is. we’ve had some wonderful hangings here. ’

@loveruined, call.

“You seem to be lost,” Blair said, pausing for a moment. “Actually, I think I’m the one that’s lost here. Where is there a train station, diner... maybe both?”

@loveruined // starter call

@loveruined (from here)

“You could come with me, if you like.”

Jane knows as soon as she’s made the offer that he’ll never take her up on it. This place is his home, and the things that that man will do to it if he ever goes against him… They don’t bear thinking about. All she knows is that this is the best window for escaping she’s ever going to get, and that regardless of whether she’s alone or not, she’s going to leave tonight.

If she keeps moving, the guilt won’t have the chance to settle, and so she keeps her eyes off of his sad little face and focuses instead on the tiny bag into which she’s packing the bare minimum. “They can’t blame you,” she says, knowing full well that they will. “Tell them I gave you no choice. That I attacked you.”

   She draws back, hands smoothing out her skirt. “Or you could come with me.”

Raphael didn’t look at her. He’d been watching her hands as they pushed her meager belongings into the bag, but after she spoke he stared hard at the floor and didn’t look up. The idea of telling Mr. Martel that he had let the woman escape because she’d attacked him would have been laughable if it didn’t make him feel so sick with dread. 

“Come with you,” he said flatly, “And leave a village full of sick people to fend for themselves. Good idea.”

His arms were folded, and he looked as immovable as ever, but he wasn’t blocking the doorway. He had known from the moment she said she was leaving that he had two choices: confine her against her will, or let her go. If he did the former, his village would be safe - but she wouldn’t. Raphael had done horrible things. He had done them to protect people, or he had done them for Martel, but this--

He took a deep, silent breath through his nose, willing himself to stay calm. His hands were shaking the way they did after losing time. 

“Where are you going to go? You’re in a country you barely know, you’re a white woman travelling unaccompanied - I don’t need to tell you the kind of trouble you could get in, and that’s even if no-one realises you’re a runaway.” 

Frustrated now, he added: 

“They’re going to know I let you go. That man you’re with--he’ll want Mr. Martel to do something about it. I’m going to need a better lie than ‘I was overpowered by a girl half my age and size’.”

"How many people have you killed?" She asks it with genuine curiosity, almost excited by the idea. There's something thrilling about knowing that here sits a man from all the stories she's heard -- she wants to know how much truth there is to it all. "I heard it was thousands." (v v early into them knowing each other, definitely before she has Killed a Man)

Flint looks back at her, quietly critical. It’s been a long time since he’s been around anyone too far removed from the threat of piracy to have a real fear of it, and longer still since he’s been around someone so far removed that he can hear the faintest traces of eagerness in their voice when they ask him about it. There is no hiding what Flint is: even if he were to shed his clothing and weaponry and replace them with softer things at the door, there is a distinct sense of the Other about him. One might suppose violence leaves its mark on people.

He knows, because she’s asked, that she’s never killed anyone. That she’s probably never even lifted her hands in anger.

“No-one keeps count,” he tells her, flatly. That isn’t strictly true. Some people do. As far as Flint is concerned they’re more beast than men and don’t bear including. “You don’t always have people at the end of a sword, or a gun. Hard to keep track even if you wanted to.” 

Hard to tell which deaths would count as his when he’s in charge of a hundred other men with their own kill counts. 

Something cold crawls up the back of his neck, makes him shift in his seat, jaw tight. He itches to leave, to go home to Miranda, to curl up under her bedsheets and sleep.

          ❛   it’s the  ONLY WAY  people ever get out of here.   ❜       //       @loveruined.  sc.