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sixthiterationlogs2017-04-21 06:01 pm
3ofswords) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-04-21 06:01 pm
Entry tags:
[closed] think of me and burn, and let me hold your hand
WHO: Kira
WHERE: House 39 + 40
WHEN: April 21, during/after the feast
OPEN TO: Jyn
WARNINGS: Dealing with old grief and the loss of Casey, possible NSFW content
STATUS: N/A
Somewhere between his second plate of food and his last sip of scotch, a pit had started growing in Kira's gut. His attention had drawn over and over to the dog, as if to make sure she was still there, and finally he'd wondered--why was he watching her alone? Why was he eating alone, was Casey's aversion to the crowd so great he'd resisted the food? Was this like the first day, offering him a second helping of bread and feeling him panic?
Kira had put his hands in his pockets, drawn a card. Not even pulled it free to look at the three spades, hear the crunch and sift of the shovel in the dirt. He'd felt for the die in his other pocket, linked to the others, and found the three side with a scratch through the dots.
Hands shaking, he'd taken several more sips of the scotch and lifted a second bottle--clear, dry gin--before slipping away entirely.
He's wrong. His powers barely work, Casey's been running around the village doing chores, was probably crafting new chairs to replace the missing. Kira would find him and march him to the feast, make him experience real coffee and herb-crusted pheasant and more of the chocolate he seems so fond of. They could fix plates and climb up to the roof like before the move, watch the sun set, watch Aurora turn circles and bark at them from the clearing below. Kira would look at him with the light going gold and amber all around, and he wouldn't keep wasting time, he'd reach across, he'd coax Casey in, he promises--he swears, if Casey can just be at the house--
It's full of shadows when he makes it all the way back, feet sloppy, boots knocking his own ankles as he abandons the party and the dog in a tipsy haze of fear.
He stumbles through the house, throat closing for every empty room, until he finally finds the bathroom door shut and no sound from behind. "You don't have to open that," he murmurs, resting his head on the door, closing his eyes, the bottles still gripped in his hand. "You can fucking walk away." But it's only moments before he pushes inside, eyes already cut in a hot line across his face and his throat choking on nothing.
Casey's shirts are on the sink, Kira's green flannel the focal point of the space. Next to the basin sit the other die, the casings, the harmonica. Like he'd finished a task and actually thought to scrub off before coming to find them, a hundred exchanges of wash your hands and the unsaid make me. His pants and boots are missing, and Kira imagines him half-undressed, the lines of him filling out, the scars below his shoulders and ribs. He stands where he imagines Casey stood, until he didn't anymore, and looks in the mirror, wondering what Casey saw as he disappeared.
Lifting the shirt, he tucks the worn fabric up against his throat. There's a rank but familiar smell to it, the clothing well-worn, happily shared. The bed doesn't smell quite as strong, the way he made Casey wash up before climbing in. This is what he has. A shirt, a grave. Nothing from Ty but the first of three swords in his heart, and he chokes once, bends his head once into the folds, before he drags it all back and tries to put the cork in it.
He's not going to do this here. He's not going to do this period, if he can help it, but he's not going to lose it in the last place Casey stood, where Bodhi could find him and feel obligated.
It's no one's job to fix this, or fix him.
Bottles hanging from one hand and shirt hanging from the other, Kira walks back out of the house, down the steps. His feet keep moving, and he's not going to the grave this time: he's walking across the path, shoving his way into the ruins across the way. Maybe he'll carry all the way through, into the woods, out to the wall. Maybe he'll use the shirt for kindling and set the place alight, finish what the world started and fulfill the fucking prophecy of his end.
Or maybe he'll just crawl under the remnants of the dining table, feeling terrible and small, and curl up around the shirt and bottles both.
WHERE: House 39 + 40
WHEN: April 21, during/after the feast
OPEN TO: Jyn
WARNINGS: Dealing with old grief and the loss of Casey, possible NSFW content
STATUS: N/A
Somewhere between his second plate of food and his last sip of scotch, a pit had started growing in Kira's gut. His attention had drawn over and over to the dog, as if to make sure she was still there, and finally he'd wondered--why was he watching her alone? Why was he eating alone, was Casey's aversion to the crowd so great he'd resisted the food? Was this like the first day, offering him a second helping of bread and feeling him panic?
Kira had put his hands in his pockets, drawn a card. Not even pulled it free to look at the three spades, hear the crunch and sift of the shovel in the dirt. He'd felt for the die in his other pocket, linked to the others, and found the three side with a scratch through the dots.
Hands shaking, he'd taken several more sips of the scotch and lifted a second bottle--clear, dry gin--before slipping away entirely.
He's wrong. His powers barely work, Casey's been running around the village doing chores, was probably crafting new chairs to replace the missing. Kira would find him and march him to the feast, make him experience real coffee and herb-crusted pheasant and more of the chocolate he seems so fond of. They could fix plates and climb up to the roof like before the move, watch the sun set, watch Aurora turn circles and bark at them from the clearing below. Kira would look at him with the light going gold and amber all around, and he wouldn't keep wasting time, he'd reach across, he'd coax Casey in, he promises--he swears, if Casey can just be at the house--
It's full of shadows when he makes it all the way back, feet sloppy, boots knocking his own ankles as he abandons the party and the dog in a tipsy haze of fear.
He stumbles through the house, throat closing for every empty room, until he finally finds the bathroom door shut and no sound from behind. "You don't have to open that," he murmurs, resting his head on the door, closing his eyes, the bottles still gripped in his hand. "You can fucking walk away." But it's only moments before he pushes inside, eyes already cut in a hot line across his face and his throat choking on nothing.
Casey's shirts are on the sink, Kira's green flannel the focal point of the space. Next to the basin sit the other die, the casings, the harmonica. Like he'd finished a task and actually thought to scrub off before coming to find them, a hundred exchanges of wash your hands and the unsaid make me. His pants and boots are missing, and Kira imagines him half-undressed, the lines of him filling out, the scars below his shoulders and ribs. He stands where he imagines Casey stood, until he didn't anymore, and looks in the mirror, wondering what Casey saw as he disappeared.
Lifting the shirt, he tucks the worn fabric up against his throat. There's a rank but familiar smell to it, the clothing well-worn, happily shared. The bed doesn't smell quite as strong, the way he made Casey wash up before climbing in. This is what he has. A shirt, a grave. Nothing from Ty but the first of three swords in his heart, and he chokes once, bends his head once into the folds, before he drags it all back and tries to put the cork in it.
He's not going to do this here. He's not going to do this period, if he can help it, but he's not going to lose it in the last place Casey stood, where Bodhi could find him and feel obligated.
It's no one's job to fix this, or fix him.
Bottles hanging from one hand and shirt hanging from the other, Kira walks back out of the house, down the steps. His feet keep moving, and he's not going to the grave this time: he's walking across the path, shoving his way into the ruins across the way. Maybe he'll carry all the way through, into the woods, out to the wall. Maybe he'll use the shirt for kindling and set the place alight, finish what the world started and fulfill the fucking prophecy of his end.
Or maybe he'll just crawl under the remnants of the dining table, feeling terrible and small, and curl up around the shirt and bottles both.
no subject
He can't do this; he can; he has to. His head wanders and his heart tries not to be here at all, but his body is happy enough, hungry enough, that he shifts to split her on two fingers, giving over to the fact of warm and wet and the tremors running up her body. With his freed hand, he starts to tug her pants down, give himself more room to see, more room to work, both fingers curved in and rubbing the upper wall experimentally before returning to driving into her steady and quick.
Hunger and want are edging into need, and he--follows, needing to see this through, needing to see and feel her go over, and fuck all the rest.
no subject
His fingers threaten to steal her consciousness away - suffocated and drowning in the avalanche of endorphins and the stimulation of nerves firing into her brain like lightning. She's electricity and static and explosion underneath his touch, and although her body shivers on reflex, she reaches up and skims her fingertips along his cheek. A request for cessation, just for a breath.
"You don't have to," she breathes, excluding the rest, knowing he'll hear it in the murmured trail of her words: if you don't want to. For as deep as her hunger is, for as much as every cell in her body vibrates for, with, towards him - there is still no part of her that would demand obligation or obedience here.