amusebox | Open RP Post

( idc if you set it in abax or somewhere else. i miss this cr. making you do all the work too bc i am not easy tyvm. )

Edited 2013-07-25 04:10 (UTC)

[ Some nights it's simply too much. The ship, the death, the stink of rotting in the air, screams echoing in his head, and the nightmares pile up. Some gross macarbe mix of agonized faces of friends, other people on the ship - crying, pained - mixed in with the ones he never knew but memorized every line of, those terrified and begging as some creature than moved his limbs outside of his control mercilessly sunk Jackson's fingers, his hands, his teeth, into flesh and spilled warm blood over each of them, spilling and staining anything and anyone around.

Some nights he wouldn't stay in his regular room, knowing he might wake up near screaming and he'd rather not have to meet Sherlock's eyes sharp on him from across the room. And some nights he doesn't want to go inviting himself in Wesley's container to pass out, given that usually earns some questions in the morning and occasionally a lecture.

The last island hadn't been any kind of easy, and he'd seen more gore than he could literally stomach at some points. Wounds lingered, something COMPASS apparently didn't want those with healing abilities to forget so quickly, and Jackson found himself unconsciously running dull nails over the cuts and bruises still decorating his hands and arms - there's more, on his face, under his clothes. Those he doesn't have to look at and maybe that's why he hasn't gone for his typical shower off the horror ritual yet. Instead, he's just wandering the holds, not really sure where he's going, but just going. At least until he glances up to see Isaac near one of the shipping containers. He's studying him in a side long sort of manner, even without stopping or appearing to want to stop to talk with him, for all intents and purposes, going to pass him by. But he sees those same marks on him - the purple, red, and black of bruises turning a sickly yellow around the edges; the bright red at the center of raised, torn skin from cuts and scraps here and there. Jackson's wondering if he looks similar, and maybe his steps are turning more towards his pack member as he considers it. If Isaac glances up, Jackson doesn't comment on it, either out of not caring how strange he's acting or not noticing, as his eyes are following other features - the curve of his lips, angles of his cheekbones and jaw. The way his collarbones look prominent with the shadows cast from dim lights in the hold.

As much as he doesn't want to remember the things his body did while his mind was imprisoned while he was the kanima, they're there all the same, as if that memory of the night at the rave - of Erica's body pressed hot against his and Isaac hovering so close, breath mingling, near misses on so many thing, and it's like there's electricity courses through him at the thought of it. For the half a year Jackson's been here, he hasn't had that kind of physical release, hasn't sought it out and hasn't taken anyone up on it. Maybe something thinking he doesn't deserve it, thinking he shouldn't, but on nights like these? He's half doubting he'll ever make it back to a place and a person that would mean he shouldn't.

It's almost a natural progression, no real pause or hitch in the motion, as Jackson steps fluidly up into Isaac's space, crowds him back against the container behind him, brings a hand to hook behind Isaac's neck and the other to grab a handful of the thin cotton shirt over his chest, dragging him forward as lips press firm, demanding and hot against Isaac's. Nothing else has been able to shut off that suffocating spiral of horror in him, might as well try this - regardless of whether it goes somewhere pleasant or unpleasant. A fight is just as good a distraction. ]

Edited 2013-07-26 09:37 (UTC)

[ It's basically Werewolf 101 shoved into a shitty summer minimester, and Derek and his pack have two months, two full months, to get Jackson under some sembiance of control of this thing. He'd practically had to be dragged into it, his refusal to do anything even remotely having to do with any of the supernatural, superhuman crap that had swallowed him whole before being something that was a hard thing to break him of. Well, hard enough that Derek had to throw hm around and get in his face about it and tell him about how much bigger his innocent body count would be if he didn't do this. And it might have taken some actual slapping of blood onto Jackson's hands to drive that home.

Either way, it ended with Jackson chained up to the back of a dank warehouse wall while the rest of the pack stood watch. For the longest time, they just waited - Jackson near motionless as he curled back against the wall behind him, waiting for that familiar drowning feeling of something primal, animalistic, clawing itself over him, taking any small, sad attempt at control he may have been clinging to. Eventually, a taco run is in order, however, because this is taking too damn long, and it's Isaac stuck on babysitting detail.

It starts with a small twitch, like a shudder coursed through his body, flexing and testing new muscles and stretching like they'd been long in disuse and needed breaking in. Second, is the growl - a low rumbling that comes from where Jackson's head is ducked, forehead to his knees, and as his head raises, there's that brillant yet so so cold blue glowing in the darkness, focused sharp on the one other body in the room. His mouth twists and the snarl that has his lips pulling back away from his teeth - no, fangs - almost looks mocking - feral but something of that smirking promise of violence that was written all over his features when he was the kanima, disguised as a boy.

His jacket and shirt had been collateral to the fight with Derek before Jackson was wrestled into chains, and the stretched out, ripped neckline hangs loose and open, the muscles in his throat, chest and shoulders clear as they flex, just before a snap of action. He's lunging forward, snapping and snarling and all matters of feral, with chains around his wrists and legs and waist rattling loudly, all just a rabid animal trying to make it to that other creature in the room - to rake claws into warm skin and tear. It isn't the same as the kanima - this isn't Jackson muted out and suffocated in the background, watching his body like it was someone else's. This viciousness is something he wants now, needs. This isn't a spectator's sport. The chains dig into his skin, blood trickling down in some places, and Jackson pays no attention to it - his hunger a singular focus in his mind. ]

Edited 2013-07-27 06:20 (UTC)

[ He should have stayed in goddamn London.

Not that he really would have even knowing that a deep shithole they pack in Beacon Hills had dug themselves into - even a continent away there's still that pull to him. It took him a while to put a name to it, really. He'd thought it was just being homesick. Missing Lydia, Danny, the school. But he kept coming back to what Derek had said about 'pack'. He thought it was some bullshit sentimentality used to keep Derek's little legionnaires around and loyal, but it wasnt' until after he was gone, across the pond and detached that that detachment and lack of something seemed to get very sharp, very specific. There were other werewolves in London, sure, but they weren't his pack. There wasn't that connection. They weren't like a piece of him - like a part of a whole.

God, how did he even get involved in this cheesy load of crap.

Or any of this, really, considering the situation in general is nothing to be overjoyed about - huddled into a dank, musty closet in an abandoned building, listening to the floorboards outside creaking while the Alphas, the goddamn Alphas, paced outside. One breath just a hair too loud and Jackson and Isaac would be getting very suddenly relieved of their throats. It's not easy to sit through, and really, Jackson's using so much of his mental process to try to keep himself from flipping his shit that he's paying zero attention to the pack member next to him. Granted, Jackson isn't really known for paying attention to others, but in this case, more so. It isn't until a long minute passes with no sounds, after feet retreated, that Jackson opens eyes that had been squeeze shut and lets out a shakey exhale before reaching for the door.

And finding it jammed. ]

...Son of a bitch. We're stuck.

[In another timeline, in another universe, the first time Isaac is locked in a small space with someone else is with a hunter who has an almost-Alpha at her beck and call. Things turn out better than expected, no permanent damage is done, and Isaac is left with the awareness that he has an easily preyed upon weakness. One that he'd like to exorcise clean out of him if he ever figures out how.

Here, it isn't so easy. Here, he's essentially become Jackson's babysitter. Because Boyd doesn't want to deal with him, and Erica sure as Hell won't bother, and Derek expects the best of the 'litter' to play nice with everyone. Nobody can quite bring themselves to trust the previously Scaled Wonder, so Isaac plays the good guy buddy cop. Minus the buddy. They are not buddies, which is possibly why it's so stifling. All it takes is the fear of being immediately disemboweled disappearing, and a new one takes its place; the Alphas leave, and the walls start closing in.

He's quiet for a moment, waiting for Jackson to figure out the door situation.

Then it's stuck. He scoffs. Pushes the other boy out of the way and twists hard at the knob himself.]

... No. [Soft-- his voice just then. He shoves harder. Bodily with his shoulder. Nothing.]

No. C'mon-- [Not soft anymore and that's all the warning Jackson is going to get. This discomfort. The tense moment before Isaac loses it.]

Edited (I WAS GONNA POSSIBLY USE THIS AS A SAMPLE so fixed a typo, not rushing u ok) 2013-07-28 23:25 (UTC)

[ Why is he up at 3am, drinking flat soda and watching this blond guy he's pretty sure is clinically insane try to tell him a story involving some fish's epic journey and his goose or goat or whatever friend that helped him. Alex isn't really paying attention and that sock puppet isn't all that distinctive.

Why is this his life.

Why is he still here. ]

What was the fish's name again?

Edited 2013-07-29 05:14 (UTC)

[ Stelios would swear on his left nut that this was the right way to Delphi.

He just. Didn't remember their being as much fire between Sparta and Delphi. And you know, he loves his bro in leather speedos and arms, Spartacus, but sometimes he wonders if maybe he's just a liiiiiittle bit on the dense side. Everyone knows, you pass the rock that looks like a bear, walk along the river until you get to the tree that looks like two ladies humping if you tilt your head to the right and then travel on through the valley until you get to the raised city before the sea. Everyone knows that.

And Stelios had tried to tell that to beligerent pauper not-soldiern villiager they'd crossed by when they found this town where there shouldn't be a town, and its not his fault the man insulted his honor in calling him dim-witted for thinking a tree looked like a couple women fucking, and maybe if Spartacus hadn't have gotten all up in Stelios's way in trying to take the man's tongue for the dishonor, the camp fire wouldn't have been kicked around in the scuffle and the man's house wouldn't be on fire and the next few houses over wouldn't have caught flame because of the strong wind in the valley.

Really, it's Spartacus's fault.

Lets be real. ]

[ He's not sure at what point dragging Alyss around with him stopped being 'finding a safe place to leave her' and turning into 'a safe place for her is with me'. Something, when Jake considers is, really, is laughable. Safe? Around him? Everyone around him has died. Always. He's been the last one standing of large squads of mercs before, and he's not expecting that running around with the BSAA is going to make that any less likely. It's some run down near third world country, it usually always is - Neo-Umbrella really knows how to pick 'em. But it isn't just infected; they've done what they did in Edonia, brought in some guns for hire, throw it all in the middle of a city torn apart in civil war. Annoying, but managable. Just means you have to look closer.

Managable, at least, until Jake's running for the safe zone, dragging Alyss behind him with his hand in hers, and rounds the corner to land himself only a couple yards in front of a kid with an assualt rifle. He couldn't be any older than fifteen, and Jake thinks he's looking at himself for a frozen moment. It's an involunatry reaction, simple muscle memory - the hand holding the pistol whips up and before the eruption of sound even registers, there's a neat bullet hole in the teenager's forehead, the body slumping to the side. And Jake was frozen, eyes wide but expression otherwise empty. That had been him - five years ago. What did that kid have to go back to? What this him trying to make it how alive, because if he didn't, the family he had left wouldn't be able to finish out the week? Or had he already lost all of them? And this was just all that was left? Dying in one quick second in the dirty alley of some shitty country half the world hasn't heard of. He doesn't realize his hands are shaking until he felt Alyss closing hers around the one still holding the gun, prying it slowly away. He blinks at her, watching, and wonders how someone like her could have fallen here of all place. She doesn't fit, isn't a part of this sick, grime coated world.

On the rest of the way to the safe camp the BSAA set up, Jake's silent, and continues to be so as he finds them their own tent to crash in, grabbing some food and water to fill themselves up on as best they can, and after wordlessly handing her her safe, Jake stretches out on the sleeping roll on the opposite end. It's not a huge tent, but not incredibly cramped either. A heavy exhale and he shuts his eyes, not expecting to sleep, but just hoping to spend the next few hours going over that image in his mind and trying to at least give his muscles some rest.

The shuffling of fabric is ignored, as is the feeling of another warm body brushing up against him - the tent isn't that huge and he won't make things awkward by commenting on it - but the lips on his are entirely unexpected. At first, he's frozen, a quick inhale of surprise, but she moves confidently and he falls into the pace with her. There's the why and a few million questions, and any other day he'd be blurting them out. But his mind is too worn, too tired, and for the last few hours, too ready to give up on the world arough him. Instead, he brings a hand up that brushes rouch fingertips against the side of her neck - a gently kind of touch that isn't much like anything else that Jake is. When the kiss breaks, he simply blinks at her, not sure what to ask, not sure if it's worth it to ask right now. Not sure if he wants to break the moment. ]

Open RP Post

plasmabitch bc i just might miss him.

Jackson Whittemore | Teen Wolf

Alex Summers ➟ X-Men: First Class

Stelios ➟ 300

Jake Muller ➟ Resident Evil

Jack ➟ Mass Effect

Thor Odinson ➟ Marvel Cinematic Universe

Christopher Hitchcock ➟ Everworld

Owen ➟ Original Character

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idfk have two

UM UM UM. HI. 8D

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I DON'T EVEN KNOW

idek

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ugu give me all of them 83 also hurgh tldr and im half asleep, pls forgive typos ;;

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DIS 4 U SAE

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HAI BABBY 8D

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cw: child death :|