OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[avali]

OPEN RP POST

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-Deposit prompt and/ or character.         

-Receive some pretty bad RP in return??

-Threads leading to smut is fine, because hey, sometimes it happens. 




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Muselist

Open RP (smutty version)

 

Comments

[febrile]

Are you sure you want me to answer that?

[crouton]

Maybe if I had a shot or two in me, I'd be more prepared.

[febrile]

You're out of luck, then: I'm not making a run for any. [And at that she pulls away from the scuff of his mouth, patting his chest once for good measure.]

[crouton]

See? Told you. Lousy luck.

[His head sinks into the mattress when she pulls her hand away, but he doesn't chase her.]

I paid for the night. I'll leave tomorrow.

[febrile]

I should go, then. [Her fingers curl in against the blanket. It's not reluctance-- she's not reluctant. never has been-- but the thought of leaving isn't pleasant no matter how she justifies it.

No matter how she knows he needs it.]

[crouton]

I'm not kickin' you out.

[He won't ask her to stay -- not unless...]

But if you're takin' off, pomise me you'll fly back to somewhere safe.

[febrile]

[There's a tug at the edge of her mouth, something too sober, to open to be a smile regardless of how it sinks and settles.]

Don't ask me for promises I can't keep, Crichton.

[crouton]

[The answer doesn't hold his smile in place. John reaches for her hand, pulling it free from the blanket to try and clasp her's before she can pull it away from him.]

Then stay. Its unsafe enough here for both of us.

[febrile]

I'll be fine. [But despite that, despite the way she hardens with resolve, she lets him catch her hand and keep it close. As much as she's ever tried to keep up her defenses when it comes to John Crichton, Aeryn Sun has yet to succeed.]

[crouton]

Aeryn.

[He tugs on her hand to try and get her to come back to him briefly before letting her go.]

How much longer are you going to run away from me?

[febrile]

I'm not-- [It's cut off abruptly, her fingers curling in against the edge of the blanket. She corrects herself. Has to correct herself:] I'm trying to protect you.

[crouton]

From what? From you?

[His eyes flick upward expectantly for a microt before they lay back down to stare at the wall.]

You're a little late.

[febrile]

[It cuts deep, that remark. Deeper than Aeryn's willing to admit, though the slight recoil on her end spells out out easily-- provided he's paying close enough attention to see it.

It's a long, long beat before she speaks up again, voice weaker than usual. Thinner. Pained.]

I um... no. [Aeryn taps a knuckle against his chest. Swallows thickly.] No, not from me. Not exactly.

[crouton]

I'm listening, Aeryn.

[He doesn't look at her, though. John has already been through this song and dance -- reliving it isn't high on his list of priorities, and he's out of escape mechanisms.

He had been trying so hard not to take his frustration out on an Aeryn who hasn't gone through that life yet, but history had an uncanny way of repeating itself.]

What are you protecting me from?

[febrile]

I wasn't lying when I said I'd been following you. Just-- not here. [It's not an easy subject to broach, and the fact that he isn't looking at her doesn't help as much as she'd hoped it might.

He's locking himself up. The truth won't change that.

But she can't leave him in the dark like this, either.] I was in my prowler.

[crouton]

[John waits to see if she's going to continue. He had an idea what she meant after he had made the mistake of opening his mouth -- now he feels even worst for it.]

You can't protect me.

[febrile]

I know. [There's a certain sort of dignity in that-- in how she wards off the dampness at the edges of her eyes and keeps her voice from breaking.]

I drowned trying to.

[crouton]

[A memory he never wanted to remember as long as he lived.

John's entire body tenses feverishly, and the sight of her crashing into the water bringing him back to his right mind simultaneously leaps in front of his eyes. He chokes on the memory of her in that coffin, wheezes and buries his face into the mattress the sight of her frozen in stasis.

He has nothing to say in return. John would die a thousand times to be spared that sort of rescue.]

[febrile]

[She lets him retreat. Shuts her eyes to keep the sting of it all out as her hand settles wearily at the center of his back. Points of contact that feel razor-sharp and grounding all at once.]

I can't leave because I am not alive, John Crichton. [She'd realized it when he'd handed her the mask. When memories came flooding back like frigid water and snapped all the pieces of the puzzle into place.]

[crouton]

[He had known it since arrival -- since he had made contact with his other self, he had known that somewhere on this planet, there was an Aeryn to compliment him. Somewhere in his mind, he had known.

He had tried so hard to convince himself that it wasn't possible.]

I'm sorry. I'm so...so sorry, Aeryn.

[His hands twist painfully in the blankets, his shoulders seize up in an effort to contain his grief.]

[febrile]

I know. [This time there's no stopping the single, rolling tear that charts a path down across her cheek. He can't see it; holding back is so much less of a priority than what it was before. She keeps her palm at his back, smooths the wrinkled fabric there with the pad of her thumb. ]

I know you are, but this is not your fault.

[crouton]

Of course its my fault. You're here because of me.

[Zhaan is probably here too. Every person who's ever been at the receiving end of his pistol is probably here somewhere on top of that.

He swallows thickly and picks up his head after he's managed to swallow his personal grief. His skin remains pale, the corners of his eyes damp and red.

It may have been his fault, but this wasn't about him.]

I love you, Aeryn. And I would've traded anything I've ever known to have been strong enough to prevent this.

[febrile]

I love you, too. [Her fingers move across his shoulder when he shifts, catching under his jaw out of a desire to pull him in close-- and the knowledge that she can't. Shouldn't.

This wasn't meant to make it worse.]

Which is why I need you to listen to me.

[crouton]

[Listening is hard, even harder when you don't want to hear yourself being pushed away. He shakes his head stubbornly in her hand, reaching up to catch at her wrist to keep the contact she tries to offer him.

And then encourages it by lifting his other hand to reach for the back of her head, to invite her close to him again.

She had died for him. He owes her whatever he can give her.]

[febrile]

[And against better judgment, she latches onto him where he reaches out, settling into his arms and the warmth of his chest.

Comforting as it is, the difference in temperature between them makes it somehow-- marginally-- foreign.]

Whatever it is you're afraid of, whatever you're facing, stop running.