#defiiantpupil

               god, just the look on his face was enough to break her heart. the way he still tried to smile through it. she remained silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond, to tell him that he wasn’t alone while not making light of what he’d been through. how do you respond when the man you love your best friend tells you about his wife’s death? closing her eyes helped nothing, only throws her back to the hospital, seeing fitz lying there in a coma, hanging on to life. to italy and skye and all they tried to do to save her after quinn shot her. to san juan, seeing trip’s body in... in fragments. each of them her responsibility to keep safe and each one she failed. the memories play like a dream, some unknown surreal quality to it that makes it feel not quite real, detached from reality. except it is. they were. all of it. and there’s no way to change the past.

               somehow, her hand ended up resting atop his, as if a reassurance that she wasn’t going anywhere.   “i don’t...i don’t think it ever goes away. when someone’s that important to you, they’re– they’re never really gone. they’re always a part of you. you still feel like one day you’ll wake up and... and they’ll be there.”

               it’s like a punch to the gut, his question. like someone’s got her heart in their hands and they’re squeezing it as hard as they possibly can, trying to crush it. tentatively, she reaches to him, her palm resting against the side of his face. god, she wishes she knew a way to tell him just how much that kills her inside to hear him say.   “jackson…”   his name spills over her lips, as soft and gentle as a breath. her other hand cups the other side of his face, ensuring that he is looking at her. her thumb strokes his cheekbone, careful to avoid the newest of the bruises and injuries. the past few months with him, even with all the dangers, the near misses, the hits, she still would rather be nowhere else, and it’s now at a point she can’t imagine her life without him. nor does she want to, not ever.   “i know… i know i’m hardly one to talk about it…”   especially given her own track record of destruction, both self imposed and otherwise.   “but— but if not for your own sake, then—”

               jemma’s voice cracks.   “—if you’re not living for your own sake, then do it for mine.”

her arms tug up at an extremely uncomfortable angle as she comes to, pain sharpening her senses. she blinks slowly, taking inventory of her surroundings and the situation she’s found herself in; her feet barely touch the floor, causing further strain on her shoulders, cuffs attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling bite into her wrists, one of which is already bleeding, and cool air brushes against her stomach, letting her know that she’s at least semi-exposed. not good. this is not a situation she wants to be in, and while panic begins to flood her system, she refuses to let it show on her face, in her eyes. whoever her captor may be might be watching. she won’t give them that satisfaction.

a groan off to her side catches her attention – someone else coming to? there is no hiding the concern and outright fear when she catches a glimpse of his face, blood trickling down his forehead, when he stirs. his name slips out like a soft prayer, pleading that he answer her.  “ are you alright? please... please answer me.”

frightfully long overdue sinday meme.

scents: 

there isn’t a generic scent such as ‘sandalwood’ or ‘musk’ that she prefers. an old college professor she had a thing for wore old spice. a man she hooked up with in a bar once had the combo of aftershave and bourbon. if she’s mentally interested in a guy--his scent becomes her turn on.  doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy specific smells, but it’s only a turn on when she associates it with a person.

sounds:

                 𝑺𝑯𝑬’𝑺 𝑭𝑬𝑳𝑻 𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑹 𝑩𝑬𝑭𝑶𝑹𝑬,   living so cut off from society on the farm.   she’s felt this before,   each time a lion got too close to her husband.   or her son brought home some new animal to be nursed back to health.   but,   never has she seen something like this,   never felt this level of terror.   she can feel her heart beating in her stomach,   but what was she to do ?   the farm had grown   LOUD,   cacophonous with each lion call.   even the hyena enclosure had become a source of chaos.   it wasn’t just the lions anymore.   kevin was gone,   no sign of his body or the lions that had taken him.   but,   the property was still surrounded.

                the children were sent to their rooms in hopes of protecting them from seeing any more horrors.   all she could do now was wait   ——   as she had been for the past few hours now.   the sun was setting,   shadows creeping up around the farmhouse.   alice sits at the dining room table,   chin resting in hand as the other hand idly taps fingers against the wood.

‘he wanted me to tell you thank you.’

screw that. screw abraham kenyata for delivering the news--for letting him die. screw mitch morgan and his martyr mentality. screw it all.

at least, that was her mindset at three in the morning after the worst day of her life. nearly being killed by hybrids, mourning the loss of her--whatever mitch had been to her, rushing to maine (her first time there should have been with mitch), and explaining to a child that her father was gone. all while being the mature one here-- this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. none of this was right. 

clem had finally managed to fall asleep--the young girl and her dog curled up in jamie’s bed--what good was the bed going to be to her anyway? she wasn’t going to sleep. would she ever sleep again? the occupied bedroom meant she had to find solace elsewhere---the bar.

‘i don’t go to bars’.

she could hear his voice. the first day she ever met mitch--he claimed to not frequent bars even though it was one of his favorite places to be in the plane. it would soon turn into jamie’s as well.

the silent plane--all seemingly asleep for the night, meant she didn't have to smile. she didn't have to try and be okay with the events of the last 24 hours. she didn't have to find the silver lining or talk about the good memories of mitch morgan--no. she could wallow in her misery.

cradling a glass of vodka--her third of the night, the pain from a sip was no match to the ache in her chest. the absolute agony. what the fuck was he trying to prove? that he was a good dad? that only he was smart enough to keep the gate defended? all he managed to prove was that he was an idiot for dying. he proved to jamie that she meant so little to him that he couldn’t even stay alive for her.

various starters.   /   @defiiantpupil

various starters.   /   @defiiantpupil