- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per day
- Online Availability
- 8:00 AM - 4:00 PM
- Writing Levels
- Prestige
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Political intrigue, fantasy, futuristic, sci fi lite, superheroes, historical fiction, alternate universes. Smittings of romance, but only as side plot.
He was there, and rather suddenly, in that small, dimly lit kitchen there was very little else that mattered. As his arms snaked around her, Ella forgot about trying to be strong, forgot about trying to hold herself together. She poured her tears into his chest until she'd soaked straight through his shirt, her arms slung round his middle as if she were clinging to a buoy in the middle of the ocean. It was unfathomable, the comfort she found in him, and it felt the tiniest bit unfair, considering he'd been through a whole lot, himself, that night.
But she wasn't nearly as tough as she pretended she was. She was terrified. She had never been more frightened in her life and it wasn't something she could shake off, like dust from a carpet. She could taste the vile, sour chemical at the back of her throat, the chloroform and feel the cloth wrapped around her nose, her mouth. She could still feel the weight of that vest heavy as lead, still feel Kevscoff's hand, cupping her knee, hear the twisted reassurance that she was alive because it better suited his plans... And she was scared to the depths of her core.
When she could pull herself together, which took embarrassingly longer than she was prepared for, she leaned against her heels without fully relinquishing her grip on the back of his shirt, wide-eyed gaze tipped up to his, damp and undoubtedly smudged with make up and rimmed in red. Damnably, unfairly, after everything he'd been through, he still managed to smell like heaven, and that warm whisper of his scent lingered as she pried herself away, forcing herself to grasp some degree of self control.
With a shuddering breath, she turned, a little too quickly towards the sink to scramble up the bits of ice and the rag that she'd found, clutching it in her palm. It was half melted, the rag sopping wet, but squeezing it out she twisted round again and held it out to him. Words escaped her, because everything she could think to say felt pathetic and needy, like a clingy little girl. And God, did she need him to believe she could handle herself - she knew if he thought for one second she couldn't, he'd turn her away, tell her to go home, to stay put. She had to help. She needed to - for her sake, for his... for a lot of other reasons that seemed foggy in her brain at the moment.
With her free hand, she brushed at her damp cheeks, frowning softly, meeting his eyes with a touch of hesitancy, "...I um...You... you should be resting."
But she wasn't nearly as tough as she pretended she was. She was terrified. She had never been more frightened in her life and it wasn't something she could shake off, like dust from a carpet. She could taste the vile, sour chemical at the back of her throat, the chloroform and feel the cloth wrapped around her nose, her mouth. She could still feel the weight of that vest heavy as lead, still feel Kevscoff's hand, cupping her knee, hear the twisted reassurance that she was alive because it better suited his plans... And she was scared to the depths of her core.
When she could pull herself together, which took embarrassingly longer than she was prepared for, she leaned against her heels without fully relinquishing her grip on the back of his shirt, wide-eyed gaze tipped up to his, damp and undoubtedly smudged with make up and rimmed in red. Damnably, unfairly, after everything he'd been through, he still managed to smell like heaven, and that warm whisper of his scent lingered as she pried herself away, forcing herself to grasp some degree of self control.
With a shuddering breath, she turned, a little too quickly towards the sink to scramble up the bits of ice and the rag that she'd found, clutching it in her palm. It was half melted, the rag sopping wet, but squeezing it out she twisted round again and held it out to him. Words escaped her, because everything she could think to say felt pathetic and needy, like a clingy little girl. And God, did she need him to believe she could handle herself - she knew if he thought for one second she couldn't, he'd turn her away, tell her to go home, to stay put. She had to help. She needed to - for her sake, for his... for a lot of other reasons that seemed foggy in her brain at the moment.
With her free hand, she brushed at her damp cheeks, frowning softly, meeting his eyes with a touch of hesitancy, "...I um...You... you should be resting."