PRØDIGY / PRØPHECY

clove-modius​:

{Clove can’t help but feel a little defensive after Angel raises his wrist, proudly showing off the tattoo of an Uninfected citizen. It makes Clove look a little stupid, and even worse, it makes him sound like he’s disagreeing with HQ - and who is he to do that? It’s a bit of a bitter pill to swallow, but maybe Angel does have a point: if HQ deems him Uninfected and trustworthy enough to join the cause, it must be so. And while there are a few things HQ has done that Clove disagrees with, he would never voice those concerns out loud.}

I’m not- I’m not doubting HQ, I would never. It is as you say. They are the ones with the science and the knowledge. I do apologise if I’ve come across as rude, it was never my intention. The simple truth is that we still know so very little about the Infections and it’s somewhat unnerving. How do you win against an enemy you can’t see or don’t understand? It’s not exactly an even battlefield. And most days… Well. It all seems a little futile at the moment. Almost every new arrival we’ve had over the recent weeks has been Infected. It’s like we’ve become a dumping ground. And considering how grossly outnumbered we’ve become, my caution has served me well thus far.

{When Angel mentions his mission to sanitise the Infected, Clove can’t help but laugh a little. It’s quiet and uneasy and he by no means feels any more comfortable in Angel’s presence, but he’s beginning to see why HQ has been so adamant about folding Angel into their ranks. He’s the picture perfect Reformist, readily equipped with a talent that could solve all their problems.} So you died and came back with a new purpose? Why you? {As far as Clove can tell there’s nothing special about Angel. He might be bordering on being the most narcissistic person Clove’s ever met, but apart from that he seems very ordinary.} You’ll have to forgive my incessant questions, I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of this.

{Gradually it’s becoming easier for Clove to sit so casually beside Angel, and little by little some of the tension seeps from his shoulders. It’s by no means total relaxation and Clove still has his upper body shifted to the left to maintain the distance between them, but it’s something.}

[It’s the first time Angel has heard Clove falter in his otherwise carefully delivered words. Interesting. He cuts a hasty retreat in order to agree with HQ. Not much of a free thinker, then, eh? Angel regards him with bright, curious eyes, wondering if he’s devoted heart and soul to the cause, or if he doubts the cause and that’s why he’s so quick to agree with them; trying to avoid looking suspicious.

He shrugs off the apology. It’s not necessary. Angel is used to his ability being met with consternation, usually by the Infected -- but even for the Uninfected it can be uncomfortable to meet someone with an identifiably unique skill. The fact that he is cleared as Uninfected by HQ seems to ease Clove’s concerns a little, at least.] 

I don’t know why me. Why not me? I ain’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth -- I got this ability, I don’t think it’s my place to question why. I just wanna use it for good. Can I ask you somethin’ back? [He doesn’t wait for a response before he continues, because he’s going to ask anyway.] How is it you see this as a battle? Are the Infected really our enemy? They didn’t ask for what happened to them.

teiloembry​:

[It’s not a question he’d been expecting, and he defies himself with another small, surprised laugh. A little frustrating, because though he would much rather be civil with Thorne than at odds with him, he also doesn’t want to be contributing to the other’s inflated sense of ego—Maker knows he must already have a hard time getting through doors, with a head that size.]

Ah—if you’re looking to get something more colourful out of me, I have to warn you, you’re very likely to be disappointed. I’m distinctly uninteresting when it comes to that kind of thing. How is it that Siddhartha always puts it…? Oh, yes: ‘the grating, relentless congeniality isn’t an act—Teilo’s just Like That.’ 

[People had a tendency to think that Teilo had some sort of secret dark side, underneath all the manners and class. But take away his practiced cloak of bookish refinery there’s just more…. bookish refinery. He truly is an old man in a young man’s body. Perhaps even, an aristocratic soul living out of his time.

He gives Angel another calm smile as starts to pack up his personal items into a locker.] But if I were to put it more directly—I made a complete ass of myself. Fortunately, I don’t humiliate easily. To be fair, I looked like a fool because I acted foolishly. You don’t lose a game of Go-Fish and then decide to go All-In at a pro’s poker table. 

Ooh, great title for your autobiography though. ‘The Grating, Relentless Congeniality; Teilo’s Tale. [Angel would read that. Alright -- he’d probably not. Angel wasn’t much of a reader. He dipped into the odd poetry book, following Cameron’s recommendations, but he simply didn’t have the focus for novels. He does like dreaming up titles though. It was often his favourite part of the creative process, coming up with the title. There’s something beautiful in their simplicity. How can you boil a story down to a handful of words? How can you tell people what’s inside just by its label?

And he thinks this Siddhartha person is on to something with his descriptor. Despite Teilo’s obvious kneejerk distaste towards Angel on their first meeting, he really is relentlessly polite. If there’s a quiet voice saying ‘fuck you, fuck you, fuck you’ in Teilo’s head, he does a marvellous job hiding it. It doesn’t incline Angel to trust him, but he does respect people that are willing to put past differences behind.] 

Ah, but that’s the Colony 22 way, ain’t it? Just dive in feet first, give it your all. Fight together, thrive together, never mind if you look the fool when you try ‘n fight. Perhaps it ain’t my place to criticise, bein’ as new as I am, but there feels like a bit of a fish climbin’ a tree attitude here. Bit difficult to thrive if you ain’t a fighter, eh? You make an arse of yourself daily in trainin’, and the infrastructure for the more artistic or intellectually inclined folk just ain’t there.

claytonboyd​:

[Whilst still a skill he’s in the process of mastering the sudden surge of something…sharp…feels oddly familiar. He can’t place it exactly but it reminds him of school. It makes the space beneath the skin on his cheeks feel uncomfortably warm, not warm enough to make him think of embarrassment, but warm in a way that feels self aware. It makes Clayton shake out his shoulders with a set of quick shrugs. 

But music had always been a bit of a vague past time for Clayton. He wasn’t a sociopath, he liked music, he listened to music but he knew next to nothing about it. He was a musical magpie really. If someone he knew didn’t like it then he didn’t know it. The idea of sourcing new sounds and artists had always felt like a bit of a task to him, so he’d more or less recycled the same playlist from when he was eighteen and only a handful of times added to it with his own finds. If he had any real idea the Angel was offended he’d tell him not to be. If anything it was Clayton’s personality that should be offended, he like he so often did, was doing it dirty with his lack of shit giving. 

He snorts softly, rolling his shoulders backwards into the back of his chair.] Alright, well I warned you. It’s obnoxiously anticlimactic and I’m way too fucking tired to try and fabricate an interesting lie. [He sniffed.] My sister shoved me down the stairs ye-e-ars ago. I don’t remember why, she never really needed a reason. But chances are I deserved it. We had these really brutal wooden stairs at our old house so my poor baby ankle didn’t stand a chance. [Clay pulls a dramatic face, pushes out his bottom lip for the briefest of moments.] Or something, something about a bar fight…

.

[Alright, so there’s no such thing as a dull story these days, but this one isn’t exactly riveting. It makes him laugh anyway, just because he’d been so eager to hear it. Often when people say they won’t bore you with the details they really mean they don’t want to get into it, but apparently in this case Clayton had been quite earnest.] 

No, no, I love the mundanity, very real! I never had siblings to push me down the stairs so in a way I’m envious. All my own scars and aches and pains are purely self inflicted, which is far less deservin’ of sympathy. And I’m sure you didn’t deserve the push. Sibling rivalry aside, nobody really deserves to get pushed down the stairs. [He says this with his usual easy, rapidfire mellowness.] Me name’s Angel by the way. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure?

@the-original-charley​:

[She leaves her hands over her eyes for a few moments, contemplating what she wants to do. She knows a break would do her some good, but the mound of new (old?) work she now has to do here- in addition to the rest of the work she should probably do back in the relative security of her office, seems rather daunting. 

A smell wafts closer to her- warm and sweet and comforting. Pancakes? No, not here. They’d be.. flapjacks, right? The confusing schematics really doesn’t matter, as a twinge in her stomach tells her: She could eat, if she wanted to. 

The problem was: she really doesn’t know if she wants to. She’s not hungry, exactly. Just frustrated and snacky. The line of thought brings up an old, ingrained memory of her mother warning her of the dangers of snacking on a full stomach. ‘Emotional eating is a bad habit and will lead to a bad relationship with food..’ blah blah blah. Charlotte sighed again and forced the memory away. Mom wasn’t here, and therefore couldn’t nitpick. 

That was almost enough rationalization to make her jump out of her seat to grab the snack. Some little voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she should probably talk to someone about spite being one of her main motivators. Meh.

Her hands slid from her face and she stared at the papers in front of her again, though her mind was still on the deliciously tempting smell. How had she missed it before now? Missed the commotion of the food being served? Had she really been so engrossed in her work that she had forgotten one of her favorite things? That was damn near a slight to the William’s name. 

Before she could get very far down that road, a body filled the seat next to hear. With a plate of the source of her distraction.

Her eyes went to the plate first.]

Thanks. [She turned a tired smile up towards the stranger and she eyed the flask he brought up with a chuckle. Now that’s a good idea.] Cute note taking is supposed to make it more fun to do. I’ve got more than a dozen of these with me and I promise you: It does not. 

[As if on cue with his question, Charlotte’s arms reached out in front of her what was supposed to be an invigorating stretch. She laughs and nods her head, her smile turning only a shade embarrassed. The slip into her casual, extroverted self is an easy one. 

She was in need of a distraction. A new face is one of her favorite kinds.] 

Only, the longest. I just gave myself two hours of extra work before I call it a day. [A shrug and she brushes the statement off like it’s no big deal. She’s only crying on the inside, it’s fine.] How about you? Here for a distraction or, don’t tell me- [Mock disbelief shifts her features.] The machine has released a cog?! What’s freedom like? Is it wonderful?

[The idea of ‘cute’ note taking is pretty foreign to Angel. He’s a prolific note taker, especially as his memory has been so rocky since his rebirth, but they’re not cute. Barely coherent, in fact. Just loopy handwriting scrawled across a page, committing the words to paper as fast as he can in case the thoughts are forgotten before he can see them in ink.

But he can see the appeal. Charlotte’s notes are pleasing to look at, although evidently not if you’re poring over them for hours. She’s a stronger person than Angel if she can focus like that.] 

I take mortal offence at being called a cog. I’m a part of no man’s machinations. Just don’t tell me boss down at the docks, I’m trying to stay in his good books. [He is trying no such thing. Everyone at the docks finds Angel incredibly frustrating. No respect for time management, makes up his own priorities, and doesn’t listen to anyone.] But nah, just popped in for a snack. Nothin’ interesting to report from the land of freedom I’m afraid. What is it you’re workin’ on?

clove-modius​:

I may be paranoid, as you put it, but I’m simply being cautious. You have to know that people like you aren’t exactly common. I can count on one hand the amount of Infected willing to align themselves with us. {And few of them, in his experience, are quite as open and blatant about their work with the Reformists as Angel is. But this caution of his has kept Clove alive so far, even if it is as unnecessary as Angel suggests.

And maybe Clove is being overly weary considering Angel’s Infection isn’t exactly the type with the ability to cause potential harm to others. But the fact nonetheless remains that it’s an Infection. It’s unnatural, and it makes Clove’s skin crawl sitting so close beside Angel despite the latter’s attempts to give him more space. Angel might not see it that way but in Clove’s eyes he’s just as much a part of the problem as the likes of Corbin, or Kaiser. Amicable enough on the outside but rotten to the core within.}

Well. That, at least, we can agree on. The world does need to return to normal, and quickly. The longer these Infections are allowed to exist the more dangerous they become. God only knows what might happen if they’re left to develop or mutate unchecked. Any use of them should be strictly forbidden. The last thing we need is people become too comfortable using them. {Why exactly they’re promoting training of the Infections continues to be beyond him.} But let me ask you a question, since you’re already here. What makes you believe you’re not one of them? I mean… You have the ability to cut off someone else’s Infection, yes? That sounds like just as much an Infection as telepathy or telekinesis to me. It’s not natural. What makes you so special?

[Paranoia and caution have always been much of a muchness to Angel. They both result in the same thing: missed opportunities. He might have learnt his lesson after his live-fast-die-young attitude led to him overdosing, but somehow it had the opposite effect. He’s seen the fragility of life, and can’t bear the thought of wasting it. He is more careful with his body now, mindful of avoiding meat and alcohol and other pollutants, but in terms of experiences, he would never want to miss out.

He respects Clove’s desire for self preservation, but does wonder if he is depriving himself of wonderful things. It does occur to Angel, now, that he may be slightly hypocritical in his thought process, because for all his talk of seeking out beautiful experiences, he quite agrees with Clove’s notion that people shouldn’t be using their Infections, or getting too comfortable with them. There’s an argument to be made that an Infected person using that Infection is just seeking out those new experiences.

But it’s not quite the same thing, not to Angel’s mind. Infections aren’t a part of the human experience.] 

You could ask HQ the same question, no? [Angel holds up his wrist, where the tattoo denotes him as Uninfected.] They’re the ones with the science and the knowledge. But for my part, I never believed I’m one of ‘em because my ability came from a different place. Mine wasn’t caused by the asteroids, it came before D-Day, so it ain’t the same thing. I’m so special because I was chosen to have this gift, to sanitise the Infected. It ain’t natural, but it’s unnatural in a different way. I died once, so of course I came back unnatural; no point pretendin’ otherwise.

lake-valentine​:

[Lake nods. All of that makes sense. And it’s sort of surprising to hear it from a Reformist, because aren’t the Reformists supposed to be all, er, pro-caging and control? Maybe Lake just doesn’t know everything there is to know about how the politics really work. That is very believable, because Lake doesn’t pay much attention to politics. Tries to avoid talking about them at all, where possible. ]

Yeah, that’s true. I mean, I definitely do want to be able to go other places and see if..there’s anything left to see out there, for sure, eventually. But like, I have to admit… I think there’s something I like about the communal living thing. It’s.. comforting. Like, having all these familiar faces around all the time and living in this sort of, tight knit community thing. I mean, sure, there are a lot of problems here, but besides those… like, I think I like the sort of.. found family type thing.

[He shrugs. He’d never really thought about it before, but maybe boarding school would have been something he’d liked for that reason. Then again, he can’t really imagine himself as being like, disciplined enough to be good in boarding school. Plus he would have really missed his parents. Yeah, he definitely would have been a big baby about it, too.] 

[Oddly -- for Angel -- he feels a twinge of guilt, to hear Lake mention so casually that there’s a lot of problems here. Angel could play stupid and pretend he doesn’t know what Lake means by that, but it has become abundantly clear in his time here that most people consider the NWRF to be the root of just about every problem. 

It’s certainly not making Angel rethink his beliefs, but it does make him want to engage more, and find out how he can make things easier for the Infected. Even the process of being near Angel can be uncomfortable for some, which is something he feels regretful for. He wants to help, and even if growing and healing can hurt, Angel hates that part of it.] 

It’s a lovely little community here. [Angel nods his agreement. It surprises him, actually, because he was a city boy. He liked crowds and bustle and chaos and twenty four hour distraction. He never saw himself liking a quiet little island. Sounds boring. But... in fact there’s a different sort of magic here, quiet and beautiful songs audible in the sea salt breeze. Sometimes he feels calm; something Angel never really experienced anywhere but the tip of a needle before.] You been here a while then? You’re a long way from home.

@claytonboyd​:

[Over the years he’d perfected his ability to take in a face, commit it to memory and analyse it privately in all a matter of seconds. As a young child he had a tendency to stare, a habit that had wildly infuriated his dad and led to many sharply slapped wrists. But he liked faces, he liked it when voices seamlessly resonated from features that supported it perfectly. Like this guys did. There was an essence of husk that suited his cheek bones. 

Having only stolen a quick glance he was looking back down at his ankle when he replied, pressing a frozen corner into a little dippy bit that he’d never be able to identify by name.] Nah, this is an old injury, just flares up from time to time. I wont bore you with its gruesome origin story. 

[Disdain for the games wasn’t a unique opinion around here, so for the most part he kept his own to himself. Clayton liked the games. He didn’t like the politics, mostly because he knew he wasn’t supposed to like them due to his infected status. But he’d never been overly political or up to date with anything that seemed a little too complicated. Fuck, he wasn’t sure he’d ever even picked up a newspaper. Unless unfolding some to put down in his rabbits hutch that one time he cleaned it out before palming the pet he’d begged for off to his sister by that same afternoon, counted. But the games, outside of the complications that surrounded it, were good for him. They’ve gave him a purpose. They gave him something to work towards. A nice distraction from an otherwise overwhelming reality. Truthfully he was scared for his mental health without them, as ridiculous as that sounded. 

He cleared his throat, glanced up briefly.] It’ll be fine, I caught it early, I’ll be fighting fit. I’m basically a moody golden retriever. I need an excuse to get out and run around otherwise [He clicks his tongue] I’d be a nightmare.  

.

[Arrogant as he is, Angel is always a little disappointed when people don’t recognise him. It’s his own fault for surrounding himself with yes-men all his life, people willing to gas him up just as he liked. Now, sometimes people recognise him but play it cool, but he’s pretty sure that there’s no flash of recognition from this young man. 

So now he’s just some person, and Angel never knows how to behave when people don’t have preconceived notions of him. He has always existed for an audience, so when that audience has no idea who he is Angel tends to feel a little deflated.

He has been told it’s an unlikable facet of his personality, but Angel was never concerned about being liked. He just wanted to be known. He wanted people to hear his music and understand, even if they didn’t like what they understood. But, today it looks like he’s just some guy, talking to some other guy with an injured ankle. It shouldn’t surprise him really; Clay looks very cleancut, somehow, polished despite the apocalypse, and Wing’ed Things fans were invariably not the most cleancut people.] 

Ooh, you are a tease, tellin’ me there’s a gruesome origin story and then keeping it to yourself. In this day ‘n age there’s no such thing as a dull story. We’re all just cavemen around the campfire, lookin’ for tales to while the time away.

teiloembry​:

[In this environment, it’s a lot easier to see—that certain charisma of Angel’s that no doubt made him popular before D-Day, and one that may or may not make him popular now. As a Reformist, he’d definitely be fighting an up hill battle but…well, as far as swaggering, 30 year old, eyeliner-wearing twinks go, he’s top of his class. He has a certain… Je ne sais quoi about him, certainly. Delicate fingertips somehow both deft and sloppy at the same time, the smokey-eyed look from yesterday’s makeup, the casual lilt to a warm, affected voice. An act designed to look like it’s rejecting an act, at all. Authenticity to the point of falseness. 

As a package, however, it works pretty well for him, Teilo presumes. There’s sex appeal in confidence, after all, and Angel is certainly confident. Even now, in the haze of this reluctant morning, the frustration simmering under his skin pretty fresh, Teilo feels vaguely influenced by him. His shoulders loosen, even when he’d almost prefer them to tense. He feels grateful, even when he’d almost rather he didn’t. 

Pacifist’s Paradise… hmm. It’s something that sounds like a better thing than it is, Teilo thinks. Something that someone with less context, less experience, might see as being pleasantly contrary to Angel’s political position. But in reality, it tracks. Angel considers himself a pacifist because he doesn’t believe in fighting—including fighting for what’s right. He’d rather sit back and pretend everything is just fine, laze about in his throne of privilege and ‘extraordinary talent’ where nothing can touch him, and act like he’s doing the world a favour just by existing. ‘Helping’ the Infected by muting what makes them different, what makes them feared. Like a fucking Playboy Bandaid.

Suddenly, Teilo is feeling significantly less ‘influenced’. Nonetheless, he muzzles his quiet resentment. That he’d rather be civil with Angel still stands. He chuckles a little, shaking his head as he turns around, fidgeting with the fit of his gear and idly watching Angel pull on his own.] 

I wouldn’t necessarily count on that. My performance both times so far have been pretty lacking. I even tried to get more involved last time and it… well, it more or less bit me in the ass, and that’s putting it gently.

[It’s not really too much of a surprise to learn that Teilo isn’t the most fearsome competitor in the Games -- while Angel would wager the young man might be a touch more graceful than him, he talks with the careful precision of an academic. And what his voice didn’t give away, his slight frame did.

Some people just weren’t natural fighters, and Angel counted himself among that number. There’s no shame in it; you can’t be good at everything.] 

Oh? And how would you put it harshly?

who-is-jr​:

Even though his aborted thrusts are met with Angel taking him deeper, JR still feels the urge to keep himself in check. He wants, but he wants it at Angel’s pace more than anything. Another groan, and finally a less controlled thrust of his hips, are pulled from him when Angel hums with a mouthful of JR.

Then he’s pulling back, the cool air is a pleasant shock when he pops free from Angel’s mouth. His lips are plump and glossy, slick with spit and JR’s precum. It’s a beautiful sight, the way he wipes at his lips, messy and focused only on moving up to kiss JR and let him taste himself. He’s smiling momentarily against the kiss, returns it with the same heat, a forgotten pleasure that feels so right in the moment. 

Petal. He fucking loves that. The moment the pet name slips out JR’s humming with quiet pleasure, hips following his hands with no hesitation. He lets himself be moved, grunting as his front pushes against the sheets. Angel straddles his hips, his weight is a comforting thing, and there’s a thrill in doing this for Angel. Let the other man enjoy JR’s body at his own pace.

The further tightening of his shoulders could be mistaken for coiling in pleasure; at the new sensations; at Angel’s touch and kisses. The held breath could be for similar reasons. Fear and pleasure seem so closely entwined at the moment. Warm and laboured breaths could describe him now or in the wake of a nightmare.

Fingers search out his lips. That’s fine. It’s the barely-there drag across the very bottom of his cheek before they slip in that does it. It’s enough for JR to be pulled out of the moment, even as Angel’s being so careful, only slipping fingers in up to the first knuckle. JR takes Angel’s hand in his, guiding it out of his mouth but still holding onto the hand, two fingers wet and close enough he’ll feel JR’s breath against them.

Everything felt right until it didn’t. He breathes through it because JR knows it’s a blip. Knows Angel will give him all the time he needs before they carry on. All JR needs to do is communicate. His telepathy seems to not be working at the moment or Angel seems to dislike communicating that way so JR takes a moment to think about what he’s going to say. It’s easy, at least, to speak up. Knows he can trust Angel. He’s only pausing to consider exactly what didn’t feel right. It maybe takes a little longer thanks to being disorientated, flipped on his front and hard, left wanting then confused, “Please don’t touch my face with your hands. Not my cheeks.”

Still, the intrusion felt good. It makes JR realise there’s probably a lot more he couldn’t do even if he wanted to. While he has to take a moment, he doesn’t want to stop his own momentum.

“Let me—” he turns his head to look back at Angel as best he can, even if it’s a strain. It’s better if JR can control it. He takes Angel’s fingers back into his mouth, this time past the first joint to the second, pillowing the finger from his teeth as he gently sucks.

For a moment Angel didn’t realise what had happened; there was indeed a fine line between arousal and fear. The same tautening of muscles, same quickening pulse, same breathlessness. And that was fine, for someone like Angel. If you were fearless then you only felt the rush, and Angel had always sought that. There was an intimate pleasure in the rush of blood that coursed through you when you stepped on stage in front of thousands.

The last time he felt real fear, he couldn’t easily say. It could have been D-Day, but he’d approached that with something more akin to awe and curiosity. He had wondered, not if he would die, but if it was the answer to his questions. Maybe the last time he’d felt truly afraid was when he’d woken up in hospital after his overdose, with a dozen tubes and wires sticking out of his body. He’d not looked human, he remembered thinking, and he’d not felt human either, and the enormity of it had frightened him. But ultimately, he concluded he was no longer just human, but something more, and so what could mortal pains possibly offer that might frighten him?

He took mortal pleasures because they rang with heavy divinity beyond the usual scope of humanity, but that was Angel’s choice. In the same way, he chose not to take mortal fears. They had nothing to offer him but limitations, and perhaps he had gotten carried away with that mentality because he almost didn’t realise that something was the matter.

It was only when JR was carefully guiding Angel’s fingers away that he realised. It didn’t feel like a big deal; JR wasn’t panicking or trying to escape, but quietly establishing a boundary. There was just a moment of quiet, as JR presumably searched for words. Angel didn’t really need them; if he didn’t want to be touched like that then Angel wouldn’t do it.

But after a moment he articulated what he needed. It was… oddly specific, but not for Angel to question. Everyone has their quirks, and JR had perhaps more than most. Obviously you didn’t get that many scars without developing some hang ups. Angel nodded, an errant curl sticking to his forehead, ready to move on -- because he felt sure that was what JR wanted. If he was able to speak up about being uncomfortable with his cheek being touched, then he would be comfortable saying if he didn’t want to continue. And that was something Angel appreciated. He liked people that left no room for doubt.

But JR surprised him once more, twisting around as best as he could, eyes hazy with lust and cheeks flushed, and took matters into his own hands. Angel made a soft sound of surprise as his fingers were drawn back into the warmth of JR’s mouth, tongue wrapping around the sensitive tips of Angel’s fingers. It felt good; there was something urgently wanton in the fact that JR wanted this so badly that even after a moment of concern he couldn’t resist pulling Angel’s fingers back, even if just on his own terms.

“Good,” Angel said softly, a half muttered syllable as he regarded JR as one would something fantastical, something you can’t quite be sure is even real. It was how he often felt around people. Blessed, just to be with them. He was so glad he had been given a second chance at life. He pushed the pads of his fingers against JR’s tongue, feeling it give, feeling its heat, and feeling the way his fingers grew slick. His other hand moved down JR’s body, trailing spiral touches across the curve of his backside. He barely used any pressure; more the suggestion of touch than anything else, just letting that warm flesh know that it was known. “Do you want me to touch you?” Angel whispered, lips almost brushing JR’s ear with the soft words.

claytonboyd​:

                when: 7:30 pm, saturday march 26th

[When he was twelve his sister had pushed him down the stairs. Well, at least that’s the story he told. In all actuality his retelling of the story was far more dramatic than the event itself. But technicalities aside he’d tumbled down more than two stairs and landed rather awkwardly on his left ankle and fractured the knobbly, sticky out bit. There was obviously a more medical way of explaining it but he didn’t remember and it didn’t matter any way because if anyone were to ask he’d injured it playing football. Not by being kicked up the ass by his slightly older and slightly smaller sister for purposely blocking her from getting down the stairs. Whatever, technicalities. 

And usually it didn’t cause too many problems that couldn’t be fixed with a bit of obstinate ignorance and a paracetamol. But he’d sprinted a little too suddenly in the games and caught the toe of his trainer in a thick, top of the earth tree root. He hadn’t fallen but he’d buckled and whilst he heard it click, Charlie had been too hot on his heels for him to spend any more than a fleeting thoughts worth of time worrying about it. 

Until now, a short while after the games had come to an end. In fact only about as long as it had taken him to angrily shower and have at least three different bitches with three different people about making it to hour five and still not winning. But it was throbbing like a dick and he could already see it starting to swell. 

So like the dramatic, yet stubborn, puppy he was, he’d dragged himself, refusing to limp, from the Delma common room to the cafeteria, swiped himself something ice cold from a freezer and wrapped it in a dry dish cloth and positioned himself intentionally in a corner to see to his upset ankle. Rubbish, the knobbly, sticky out bit was already a bit redder than it should have been. He’d been quite proud of his performance within this particular set of games (even if he was livid at not winning) and an old, stupid injury was doing it’s absolute to ruin that. Surprisingly, Clayton wasn’t the most gracious when injured.] Ow, fucking hell…stupid..[He muttered to himself, reluctantly lowering his makeshift ice pack to his foot with a sharp inhale.] Ow. 

.

[What a drag. After the Games, Angel had been summoned to Carrington’s office for a very thorough dressing down. Apparently Angel’s conduct in the Games had been ‘unprofessional’, and he needed to ‘live up to the expectations placed on him as an Elite’ and... so on and so forth. Angel had stopped listening quite early on.

He disliked being told what to do, particularly when it came to these Games. So what if he had walked out? He didn’t sign up for them, and he’s not learning any valuable skills. Whatever the other Elites think, Angel knows he made the right choice. He’d not engaged in violence, and he’d not had to suffer the pain of getting shot with a stim gun like he had in the last Games. If a boring lecture was the only price he’d have to pay for skipping out on it, then he thought he’d probably do the same in the next round.

He’s come to the dining hall to enjoy the ambience, the hustle and bustle of life. There’s about half a dozen to-do lists scattered through Angel’s notebook and he’s decided it’s probably time to organise them. Armed with his notebook in one hand, flask of ginger honey tea in the other, he’s heading for a near-empty table when he spots a injured young man licking his wounds. Icing them, rather.

Oh, Angel thinks, poor darling. Just another victim to the brutality of the Games, no doubt. He invites himself to sit with the man -- Angel never has any regard for whether his Reformist tendencies, ability to switch off people’s infections, or junkie-rockstar reputation might make him unwelcome company.] 

therealmaisiepace​:

[When he looks at her like that, it really feels like she knows him. In a way, she does. Hadn’t he been the one to get her through many a sleepless night, filled with worries and self-doubt? But the Angel Thorne that she knows, and idolizes, is the one she made up in her head, not the actual person standing in front of her. She could get to know him, and he could get to know her, starting by her answering his question honestly. Maisie’s conducted countless interviews, and she knows an honest answer just resonates differently. More than just on camera. The truth will inevitably touch something inside of you.

And that’s what she wants, isn’t it? For everyone to see each other, Infected or not, as who they truly are. Not what they are, what their Delusions have caused them to believe, or what their Infections are. That was what she wanted even before D-Day, and it was hard enough even then. The kind of world she wanted to capture on film, the stories she wanted to tell, seemed almost impossible to find. But she held on. To hope. To art.]

I want to believe that everyone just wants the world to be safe again. I want that, too. But not by controlling other people who might be different from me. Infections or not. [She looks down at her feet, then away to the horizon, and then finally meet his gaze with an understanding smile.] I understand that everyone is trying to do what they think is right. That’s what scares the hell out of me.

[‘I understand that everyone is trying to do what they think is right. That’s what scares the hell out of me.’ Angel blinks. For some reason the perspective touches him. It’s something he often thinks of the Infected. He’s glad for them trying to find the best in their situation, even if he knows they’re wrong. But it’s never occurred to him that they might view him through the same lens. That he’s doing his best but is, ultimately, misguided. Not cruel, or bad, but just wrong.

He always believes that eventually people will come around to see his perspective. But what if that’s just as likely as him coming to see their perspective?]

lake-valentine​:

[The arm around his shoulder surprises him a little, and even though he’s already getting the idea that this is just how Angel Thorne IS, all like, friendly and touchy and stuff, just from being in the same house as him, seeing him around, and seeing him at this party, it still makes Lake feel a LITTLE special or cool or something. Which he’s a little embarrassed about, but he’s not gonna tell anyone, anyway. 

Unless, you know, he accidentally tells someone. Because of the filterless thing. But… eh, that’s future Lake’s problem. 

‘Decide who you’re going to be’. Huh. He’s not sure he’s ever thought of it that way before. That he could DECIDE who he was gonna be. Like the apocalypse was some sort of fresh start in that way, too. He’s not sure how much that really applies to him, in the end, because it’s not like he can just DECIDE to stop being mentally ill or a fuck up (if he could, his life would have gone a lot different, before), but still, it’s sort of nice to think about, he supposes.]

You really think so? [He asks, interest peaked and curious when Angel says he doesn’t think the colonies will be around forever.] 

Man, I’ve never really even like, considered that possibility. It’s always felt like it was just gonna be… like this, for a long, long time. Maybe not, like, totally sucky forever or anything. But.. I dunno, it sorta felt like the Colonies were supposed to be like, the way of the future, or whatever. 

Hm, maybe. [He tilts his head this way and that, never one to knock down another’s thoughts. It’s certainly possible that this is just how life will be for the foreseeable future -- and for now it does feel like the safest option. But with regular sweeps through the Wastes, the world is becoming a less deadly place.]

Feels like a bit of a step backwards to me. Humans ain’t made to live in these cramped spaces; they’re made to roam. You don’t wanna be stuck here forever, do you? Never able to see the world, never able to explore, to try new things. We’re in a fishtank here when there’s a whole ocean to explore. Right now this is the safest place to be, but that’s why we’re clearin’ the Wastes. Gotta make the world livable again. This is just limbo. It ain’t forever.

teiloembry​:

[It takes all his hard-practiced will-power not to roll his eyes when the lofty voice floats into the quiet room, promising that Teilo hardly has to turn around to know who is it. Hell, he should have been able to tell just from the sound of that swaggering stride. 

Of course, since his back is to the other, Teilo probably could have rolled his eyes, but he’d rather take the high road. And despite the fact that Angel feels like the very last person Teilo wants to be dealing with at half six in the morning, he’s also the only one here, and Teilo isn’t too proud to admit that some assistance would be… nice. 

It’s not like he hates the guy, anyway. He finds him irritating, largely unreasonable, and awfully arrogant for a man who knows so pitifully little about what he’s talking about at any given moment—but Teilo doesn’t hate him. Teilo rarely hates anyone. And besides, they’re in the same house, for maker’s sake. Being civil is easily the safest approach. 

He turns his head in greeting, offers a tired, distracted half-smile, but in his defence, it’s mostly distracted thanks to his wardrobe malfunction and the inevitability of the Games.] Oh—morning. Actually, if you wouldn’t mind? That’d be great. I don’t quite have the dexterity I should when the sun’s barely up and I haven’t had any coffee. 

[A flippant attempt at a friendly joke. He’s not sure how well it passes, but again, the Games are currently his source of frustration, not Thorne. If anything, it’ll be the washed-up musician’s lucky day: anyone is friend to Teilo when up against the Games.] 

[Well, there, Angel thinks, isn’t that nice. Bygones will be bygones. There’s no trace of Teilo’s previous distaste, just a taut strain in his voice. And Angel could easily believe that’s just the early hour, as Teilo comments on the time and the lack of coffee. He doesn’t believe that’s all it is, but he chooses to. The world is whatever Angel makes it; and he dislikes strife. He’s only disagreeable when he really feels the need to be, and he’s got no bone to pick with Teilo.]

Bodes well for the Games. [His easy tone mirrors Teilo’s. They’d not parted on particularly good terms last time, but evidently both wish to leave it in the past. Angel approaches, and easily untwists Teilo’s armour, closing the clasp with practiced deftness. While this armour is distinctly not Angel’s usual style, his outfits on stage often featured leather and straps, and consequently he finds it quite easy to take on and off.]

clove-modius​:

Why are you so intent on proving your worth? You’re Infected. As far as I’m aware, it’s become something of a rite of passage for your kind to hate anything that has to do with the party. So why are you so interested in working for us? {‘Intent on proving your worth. Working for us’. Clove is well aware that his choice of words don’t exactly paint a welcoming picture (and much less so one of equality among peers), but Angel’s cooperation does seem a little odd. And it’s a way for Clove to dodge Angel’s question. He’s not too shy or proud to admit he doesn’t feel comfortable around Angel - the chapel simply doesn’t feel like the right place to flame such conversation.

And it’s not that just he feels uncomfortable whenever the other is around, there’s just something off about Angel. Clove knows exactly where the NWRF stand in the rank of Infected opinion, so what kind of a past does any Infected have to have to want to work with them? Apart from Charlie, who doesn’t really count, Clove can count on one hand the amount of Infected interested in cooperation. What sins is Angel running from?}

Surely it does nothing but ostracise you from the rest. Or is this some sort of a ploy? Some kind of, ‘take them down from the inside’ type of situation? You seem quite happy flouncing yourself and your Infection all over the place, why are you so intent on getting rid of it? Unless you’re doing this for the power and plan on abandoning ship as soon as something goes wrong. I’m simply having a hard time understanding why.

Workin’ with you. [Angel is quick to correct that. He doesn’t work for the Reformists. He is with them, he supports them, and he allows them to test him extensively because their goals are the same as his. He’s not their pawn, he’s just content to follow their instruction. He’s not content to let any of them think that he’s just a novelty for them to play with.]

You’re awful paranoid, eh? I signed up because I believe in the cause. I have a calling. A purpose. I want the same things as you do; I want those poor Infected folk to go back to normal. I ain’t worried about getting ostracized from them, because I’m not one of them. Maybe I ain’t one of you either, maybe I just don’t fit into anybody’s box, but you and me want the same things.

I just want to see a world without Infections. The NWRF are workin’ towards that. It ain’t really so complicated.

the-original-charley​:

[Charlotte had already been in the dining hall for two whole hours, surrounded by the remaining journals full of her own notes on the French language (made decades ago when she first started learning French), and the correspondences she was determined to finish translating splayed out on the table around her, each little booklet laying open to the whatever page had given her the answers she had needed. She’d been doing the same thing in the small room dubbed her workspace for the three hours prior to entering the dining hall, but since all she had left to do were the non-classified items, she thought a change of scenery would do her some good.

And it had- up until a couple of minutes ago when she realized that the word she’d initially translated to ‘almond’ didn’t make a lick of sense in the sentence. Then it had hit her that she’d written down the word ‘almond’ several times already over the four completed pages and she was fairly certain that a nut was Not what this correspondence was supposed to be about. 

Wasn’t ‘almond’ tied to a French homophone? Something in the back of her mind leaned towards the affirmative, and she found herself reaching for one of the open journals to her right. She thumbed through a few pages, decided it was too early a volume and set it back down. Scooping another composition book up, she flipped through a few pages there before finding a boldly lined page simply headed with: WATCH OUT!! (yes, she made a section devoted to homophones and tricky words/phrases to keep an eye out for. And then used pink and green highlighter to make it pop. It was high school, okay?)

The redhead gave a loud, grumbling sigh and set the book back down. Her subconscious had been correct. Late, but correct; ‘almond’ and ‘fine’ were one of the more common homophones in French. 

She spread the already translated papers out and looked at all the times she had written down ‘almond’ and never thought twice about it. She’d have to redo the whole thing, and double check the rest of her work. 

Her hands lifted to cover and rub her tired eyes and she sighed again.]

Maybe it’s time for a break. 

[Self care isn’t a particularly important part of Angel’s vocabulary, and lately one of the doctors was complaining about his weight. Apparently being a vegan in such a food-scarce society is bad for his health, and with the fairly constant barrage of blood tests he undergoes, Angel found himself a little woozy some of the time.

He’s still not going to eat meat, or any animal byproducts, but he’s compromised with the doctor that he’ll go to the dining hall and snack between meals. The doctor had tried to capitalise on Angel’s goal oriented nature by setting him the goal of gaining two pounds this week, but it had only led to Angel feeling like a child being condescended to. He likes setting his own goals and managing them in his own way.

Still, he’s aware that they had a point. He should try to eat a bit more, and so he would. There’s a fresh tray of flapjacks out, which he ascertains will be fine as they were made with golden syrup and not honey -- according to the baffled and starstruck person behind the counter -- so he grabs one and makes his way to a table. 

Angel still hasn’t made ‘friends’ particularly. It doesn’t bother him. He keeps himself busy, and it isn’t as though he’s lonely. His talkative nature makes it easy enough for him to sit and chat with whomever he fancies, if he’s bored. Today he beelines for someone surrounded by papers, because he is nosey, and because the woman’s red hair simply makes her stand out.

He knows he might be interrupting, as Angel is not as oblivious as he pretends to be. He is, however, a lot more selfish; he just doesn’t care if he interrupts people. But in fact as he approaches, the woman leans back and announces that she needs a break.]

Cool highlighters. [He nods to the pink and green stripes across some of her notes, as he sits next to her with a grin. His ever-present silver flask comes out for a sip (elderflower lemon tea today), and he begins pulling small flakes of oat from his flapjack.] Long day at the office, was it?