#theyicarus

@theyicarus​:   ‵ if i can still breathe, i’m fine. ′

❝   HANNA,  YOU’RE  NOT  FINE,  LOVE.  ❞     maven  shakes  his  head,  reaching  out  to  cup  her  cheek,  the  pad  of  his  thumb  brushing  over  the  heavy,  dark  circles  under  her  eye.     ❝   you  haven’t  slept  in  almost  four  days.  whenever  you  try  to  sleep,  you  wake  up  screaming,  crying.  and  when  was  the  last  time  you  had  a  decent  meal?   ❞     she’s  not  fine.  maven  can  see  it,  feel  it.  his  own  heart  breaks  for  her,  his  own  bones  feel  heavy  with  misery  and  concern.     ❝   talk  to  me.  i  know  you’re  used  to  keeping  secrets  and  trying  to  protect  the  people  you  love,  but  that  is  not  your  life  anymore.  whatever’s  going  on,  i  can  help.  even  if  someone’s  telling  you  i  can’t,  or  threatening  my  safety   —   i  can  help.  i  promise  you  that  i  can  help.   ❞     he  swears.

              He pulls off his tie while her fingernails dig into his hips, pulling him against her body. Blood in his palms, fire on her fingertips -- this chance meeting of theirs turning from cordial conversation to last-minute companionship. They meet with a kiss, far from delicate, far from neat ; it’s fierce and eager, all while the tastes of alcohol become mellowed and mixed between the two of them. The door was just hardly closed behind them before the instinct and urge took over.  ( Are they not allowed the carnal knowledge they sometimes so desperately need? )  She tugs up and his shirt is untucked while he wraps an arm around her, running fingers up the zipper of her dress.

              Not the most elegant of dances they perform, fingers slipping off buckles and zippers, trying not to trip over one another’s feet. He leads as best he can toward the bedroom, as he exposes her back, touching a hand now to the bare skin. John presses lingering kisses to her jawline, her neck, as her hands work furiously at the small buttons of his shirt. He hears her groan and mutter something about the  ‘ damn buttons ’  . He pulls away quickly to undo the buttons himself  --  “ Here ”  -- while she slips her dress off her shoulders. And so they return where they were with bodies aching for physical touch. Eventually, they fall to the bed, hoping to feel less lonely than they are.

              And just how well do they know each other’s names? Why did she not question the gun at his hip? Will her hands wander over the bruises and scars? Will he feel that fire within her, and wonder? How well has the alcohol fogged both of their minds? A quick fix, they seem to think, this one night together will be to those questions. Surely, that is all it will take.  ( Just one night. )

❛ Are you kidding? Nothing’s perfectly reasonable here. ❜    Murphy puts his hands on her shoulders, in attempt to prevent her from leaving the building. He didn’t know what the hell was going to be out there; they were trapped, but the rain was pouring - and if they learned anything... it was that nothing good ever happened in the rain in Silent Hill.

              “ Oh, f... ”  he groans before gritting his teeth. His back arches slightly and his hand grips onto the arm of the couch when Jean places more pressure against his abdomen.  ( Surprising, how much pain the body can take when running with adrenaline, versus how little when under the impression one is safe. )  He stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds, just holding his breath, before he finally exhales and shuts his eyes. John sits back against the couch more comfortably now, not even thinking -- nor caring -- about the fact that he’s already stained the upholstery  ( he can replace it )  . 

              He wouldn’t call himself  ‘ old ’  just yet  ( even with the mileage growing by the day )  yet he can’t help but sometimes feel held together with stitches and bandages at times. That is, until the stitches come loose. It only took moving the wrong way, hands in the wrong place, and they’re torn. It was a shock to them both, but he assured her that  “ could’ve happened at worse times, believe me. ”  

              One phone-call of,  “ You still take house calls, don’t you, doc? ”  later and the waiting is somehow worse than the pain. He mumbles something to Jean about her going to clean up, that he can keep himself from bleeding out for ten more minutes ; it’s only marginal surprise when she declines and keeps her hand where it is. John looks at her, eyes perhaps not unexpectedly warm, but strangely affectionate -- in their own way. He groans again as her hand shifts but he forces out a genuine,  “ Thanks. ”

"I shouldn't be here."

Coming to Metropolis was a bit risky given who she was. But she'd been offered an interview,  a way to get her company out to a broader audience and she knew that it would be risky. It was why she'd decided to use the name she'd created for herself to put distance between herself and her father. The world hated Ra's al Ghul and she'd made a similar name for herself. But no one knew Miranda Tate. Not like that. And she knew it was the perfect cover to travel to Metropolis for the interview. Or so Talia thought. The longer she sat there the more she knew that this was a mistake and that someone would figure out who she really was. She didn't like the idea of leaving. This interview would give her company the boost it needed. But her damn nerves — "I'm sorry, I don't think I can give you an interview at the moment."

𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨  —  𝙝𝙚  𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙨  𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩  𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙  𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨  𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙠.   nell is definitely ‘precocious.’  he says that to mom when they’re going over the word, and they both laugh, knowing that it’s so perfectly true.  he reaches and ruffles nell’s hair, looping his arm around her so she can’t get away from him, grinning and teasing. 

“  𝗼𝗵,  𝗶’𝗺  𝘀𝗼,  𝘀𝗼  𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆!  𝗰𝗮𝗻  𝘆𝗼𝘂  𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿  𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲  𝗺𝗲,  𝗻𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗲?  𝗶  𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗼𝘁  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝘀𝗶𝘅  𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀  𝗼𝗹𝗱  𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀  𝘆𝗼𝘂  𝗮  𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘄𝗻𝘂𝗽!  ”