#mimicksyou

Cutting through rural America harkened back to a time Alex could never forget. It’d be great if he could shake off the memories the way he did the rain. He thinks to himself as he rushes from his car towards the diner, getting soaked through in the short time it’d taken to get from one place to the next. He sighs, arms dropping to his sides as he tries to wring out the worst of it before going inside. He enters to a heated discussion amidst the locals. Alex intends to ignore it, he really does, and he does just that. He skirts the entire exchange and takes a seat in the back booth, and to his astonishment he’s recognized.

It’d been years since he’d done anything related to investigating. The last show he’d worked on had been focused on Europe and socioeconomic events. All of the trio’s videos had been removed years ago  ––  not that it stopped the re-uploads . . . But the waitress who brings him his coffee leans in and whispers, like it’s a secret, “You’re Alex Kalinsky aren’t you?” He blinks owlishly up at her, and she takes it for the confirmation it isn’t. She looks young, younger than him at least, and he asks her how she knows about him, and she says she grew up watching their videos, had even bought some of their merch back in the day. Alex chuckles, having forgotten what this felt like. The conversation takes a stark turn when she proceeds to infodump on him about how her town could use some help.

His stomach drops, and he takes a sip of the coffee to hide the way he grimaces. That must have been part of what he’d overheard. The group of people gathered around a table while they heatedly talking about needing to ‘deal with it’.

“I’m sorry I just .  .  .  I don’t do that anymore.” Alex explains softly. Crestfallen doesn’t come close to how dejected she looks when he says it. But she nods, goes to fill his order and seems to bounce back quickly enough. Alex opts to spend the night in the town since it’s raining hard enough to apparently wash out some roads further down. The promise he’d made to himself about not getting involved gets broken the second he opens his laptop and starts searching for information about the area.

To his surprise it’s been going on for years. There’s articles, video feed, paranormal investigators, you name it, they’ve had it. “The hell?” He mumbles to himself as he pulls out a notebook to make a rough timeline of events. Alex works through the night, and come morning the rain has died down to a light drizzle. Easy enough to wander in around and check out some of the woods for himself, in the safety of daylight of course. He pays up through the week for his room, figuring he has no pressing deadlines so he can spend a few days here. Alex stands on one of the worn-down trails, arms folded as he stares out at the scenery.

It reminds him of Montana. The details are where things shift around. Different types of trees, the overcast weather, but he can’t help making the comparison as he stands out in the quiet of nature.

@mimicksyou​ said: [ TURN ] 👉👈 ( meme )

[ turn ]   your muse rolling from beneath to atop my muse.

Their time together had always been some frenzied affair, mouths blazing fire down skin, violent and angry as though locked in a final stand. Rarely did they have the luxury of an empty safe house, but today they have some gratifying, cocaine-fuelled casino-pub-stripclub crawl to thank-- an invitation to which Sokol politely declined. With the way Miller lay beneath him like a feast, there’s something else he’d much rather indulge in. 

Sokol isn’t drunk. Not yet. But there’s that high from the adrenaline of a successful heist, a high enough to warrant more self-indulging risky behaviour; bags and bags of money and masks all but forgotten at the back of the van still sputtering in the garage. Nothing had linked them to the crime save for the clothes they were in and the lingering smell of thermite. For some reason he’d expected hookers, Russian ones. Or some kind of elaborate hockey trick shot that made him look stupid.

The way Miller had sold it was tantalising, really. Voice dripping with sin. Sounded like a dangerous quest and a formidable one and Sokol, damned overachiever that he is, isn’t one to back down from a challenge. 

“ Jacket? ” His brow’s raised so high they vanish beneath his hair. “ Not the crazy American... Asshole. ” 

Impossible. The man had kept the tape player on his person and probably slept with knives beneath his pillow. Speaking of whom, the dude was no where to be seen; probably escaped down to his lair somewhere. Robbing the casino was probably a more realistic goal. But suppose that he succeeded... then what? 

This close, and Sokol realizes how strong the smell of booze is on him, but he neither flinched nor pulled away. Just trepidation niggling at the top of his spine, sliding down it like a cracked egg. And if Miller’s been paying close attention, his pupils were blown wide with arousal.  “ Okay. ” Sokol had torn his gaze away, lets it arrest on his tie coiled like a snake on the table. Pointedly puts a foot of distance between them; measured intimacy with a ruler. 

HANDCUFFED TOGETHER BUT NOT CAUGHT. Yet. Two idiots linked by a piece of metal, shielded by a counter that can only take so many hits before it gives. 

Something his stupid, sex-addled brain clearly hadn’t thought through the night before.

This isn’t like him at all. Locked into a passionate bond and he’s lost the key. Still rolling in the haze of debauchery when Clover rapped on Miller’s door for a morning call, they’ve forgotten about the mission. Honestly, he’s surprised Dallas even allowed him them on the field, but suppose they really were short on people. 

The van ride there had been pure torture. A fraction of an hour spent dodging Houston’s open-faced curiosity and the obvious disdain on Hoxton’s face. Fockin’ poof, Sokol heard him mutter and his fists had twitched to life. But with another fucking human anchored by his side, an altercation's not an option. 

Now, it’s starting to turn into some kind of lesson about compromise in and of itself. The push and pull of every action palpable and shared between them which, under other circumstances would’ve been welcomed but not this one. 

The recoil’s much greater with his non-dominant hand. An entire magazine’s spent trying to fall ONE sniper but without success. Where's the blind-fire luck he had in STALKER? Sokol hands the rifle to Miller to reload while he grabs his pistol. Scoffs as he’s tugged to the side, mask knocking against the hard edge of a shoulder. They can’t hold out like this forever. 

The safe’s in the backroom-- he recognises the sign there-- just a few feet away and within reason for them to make a run for it. Sokol gestures wildly at the door with the wrong hand, nearly upends the both. A stray bullet nearly catches him in the foot. 

For Miller ( @mimicksyou​ ), continued from here.

HE’S BEEN SHOT IN THE STOMACH AND DOESN’T NEED FUCKING CPR. Miller’s doing his best, there’s that wide-eyed terror he knows all too well but can see that he’s trying to stem the bleeding, except the hands pressed against the wound feels like knives. Eyes like broken bottle glass sweeps the look on his lover’s—- no, crewmate’s face, pleading, searches for emotion in there and he realises that this is probably the most vulnerable Miller will ever get to see him: Inconsolable, curling into himself on the asphalt in fervent prayer for the pain to stop. Hockey faceplate abandoned by his side, all masked bravado and pretence gone and his pain exposed for all to see. Ugly in the way it contorted his face, angry as the hot tears burning in his eyes while the fight seeps out and darkens the ground beneath him. 

A staticky voice feeds into his earpiece, warns of the two bullets burrowed deep in his side. 

“ Miller, ” Sokol rasps, grasping at straws, and in the flash of a nanosecond hallucinates having a full-blown conversation with the man. Why do you always look so sad, he wants to say, wants to take him into his arms to soothe. Where did you come from? Who hurt you from before? But the words die to a cracked whisper in his throat and in its place is coughed up blood, staining his lips crimson. Sokol wants him, needs him, so why is admitting that not enough to save him for once? 

“ Do something… Wh--What are you... пожалуйста₁… Miller, please… Hurts… ” A string of words garbled in a frenzy, not unlike an echo of his younger, helpless self pining for his mama on living room floor with a bruised, bloodied face. He’ll never be too old for this, never be too old for the pain, for it always found him no matter where he hid. 

He shrinks away when Houston kneels over him, holding a glinting instrument in one hand.

“ No... не трогай меня₂... please... ” A feeble noise pulled from his throat, some attempt to twist away from those hands that singe against his belly. Something needles his side and everything goes blissfully numb, the creature ravaging his gut quelled. His hands frantically grasp for invisible corners in the air, struggling for purchase. And then Miller’s back again with that apologetic smile, says something that he can’t hear but it doesn’t matter anymore. Just latches onto his shirt, tries to drag himself into his lap there for comfort but with none of the energy, anything to keep him from falling into the sinkhole. 

@mimicksyou​ said: lips meet the scar upon his nose carefully and press tender kiss there, a low purr once he draws back " g'mornin'... " warmth in his eyes, in that smile as he drinks him in with pure adulation. savoring every second of their time together, before they had to step out into the world once more.

It must be a dream to see Miller first thing in the morning. His eyes are soft and, Sokol realises with dawning surprise, so pretty. A heart that swells so full with affection this early in the morning can warm the chill that hung in the room. 

“ Доброе утро₁... милая₂,” Sokol murmurs, reaching out to tussle the other man’s hair. He only lets the impassioned gaze linger so long, small smile growing on his lips, before he turns them over, trapping him between his legs and pressing him into the mattress—- the image not unlike a predator guarding its coveted prey. Muscles strain like ripe fruit as he grazes his mouth against the shell of his ear, voice still roughened 'round the edges with sleep. 

“ I know it’s big day today, Miller... but... ” The voice is cajoling now, belonging to someone who wants more. A kiss to Miller’s ear. Another to his neck. Eyes flutter shut, and he briefly thinks about losing the battle to sleep. “ You know how good I can be at job if you let me... hm...? ” 

Everyone who knew Ellis knew he wasn’t one to hold grudges. Perhaps it was a running joke that he had retrograde amnesia, because the lad always seemed to let go of disagreements by sundown. Which made him a popular hang-out choice with most in the community, though some had often taken advantage of his forgiving nature. But with him, Ellis wasn’t going to be fooled. 

“ Aah ain't sure 'bout that, purdy boy. ” The man, no, creature’s smile looked so deceptively real, seemed to mimic human remorse to an uncanny degree. There was no denying the charm the creature exuded, but a monster would probably stop at nothing if it meant scoring his next meal. Was he hungry? It didn’t seem like he was interested in his garden vegetables.  “ The abattoir’s ah ways to go. ” A crooked smile, Ellis seemed proud of that one. “ There’s nothin’ for yew here, beast boy. ”