It's a reeling thing. Every flicker of laughter and joy that sprouted with a memory felt so bright, so clear, and made it feel like it was a knife stabbing her chest. A reminder of what had mattered. What she should have chosen. What she should have focusing on, instead of taking short cuts and doing in the other times the kind of parenting her father probably would have approved of.
There isn't much time for anything more than the heartbreakingly beautiful pain of Claire's face, Claire's laughter, before it receding again, too. Something she has to way to reach out and try to hold on to when it's already turning sideways. When there's another house, and another life, suddenly rippling across it all, washing everything out. Claire. Patrick.
It's disorienting, confusing, she can feel her fingers tips digging into metal, but she can't get her eyes open. She knows this place, too. The carpet and the counters. It's only the two of them, only the two of them, only ever the two of them in that world. And where it turns hazy. Almost unable to breathe, it's too close to too many too well-known dreams she's had.
Except it feels more real than that. Like nothing else ever was.
Hands that don't touch her like she precious and delicate, but like she's a storm. To be challenged, fought, met, chased, embraced. A searing kiss, fierce and breathless, an attack on the edge of control, while the backs of her shoulders as hitting a wall, and her fingers pushing into the shortest strands of hair, grabbing the back of someone's head, pulling them even closer still, and all of it is cut through with words she just can't hear.
Except she knows there's something. She's straining towards it—every nerve.
A rumble on the cut of sharp teeth and sharper gasps, but she can't quite make out the words, pressed into her skin.
Even as it bubbles at the edge of her thoughts, her body goes rigid when Luther's demand of her name suddenly imprinted over everything in her vision. It makes her cringe back. Gives her back the feeling of impossible tension of her fisted hands. Pushes herself through pain and overwhelming orientation.
Still standing
Sometimes she's still too much her father's daughter. She hates him for it. But she thinks it when those are the first words she sends. Not even about whether she's here, whether she's okay. That she's still standing. Hadn't fallen (even if she hasn't let go of the chair yet). Ready, if she has to be. Needs to be. Is. It throws another shade of sharpness of the galloping speed of her heartbeat (the strange twisted hot-cold confusion of her skin).
What the hell was that?
It looks like it's everyone over here, as far as I can see.
no subject
There isn't much time for anything more than the heartbreakingly beautiful pain of Claire's face, Claire's laughter, before it receding again, too. Something she has to way to reach out and try to hold on to when it's already turning sideways. When there's another house, and another life, suddenly rippling across it all, washing everything out. Claire. Patrick.
It's disorienting, confusing, she can feel her fingers tips digging into metal, but she can't get her eyes open. She knows this place, too. The carpet and the counters. It's only the two of them, only the two of them, only ever the two of them in that world. And where it turns hazy. Almost unable to breathe, it's too close to too many too well-known dreams she's had.
Except it feels more real than that. Like nothing else ever was.
Hands that don't touch her like she precious and delicate, but like she's a storm. To be challenged, fought, met, chased, embraced. A searing kiss, fierce and breathless, an attack on the edge of control, while the backs of her shoulders as hitting a wall, and her fingers pushing into the shortest strands of hair, grabbing the back of someone's head, pulling them even closer still, and all of it is cut through with words she just can't hear.
Except she knows there's something.
She's straining towards it—every nerve.
A rumble on the cut of sharp teeth and sharper gasps,
but she can't quite make out the words, pressed into her skin.
Even as it bubbles at the edge of her thoughts, her body goes rigid when Luther's demand of her name suddenly imprinted over everything in her vision. It makes her cringe back. Gives her back the feeling of impossible tension of her fisted hands. Pushes herself through pain and overwhelming orientation.
Still standing
Sometimes she's still too much her father's daughter. She hates him for it. But she thinks it when those are the first words she sends. Not even about whether she's here, whether she's okay. That she's still standing. Hadn't fallen (even if she hasn't let go of the chair yet). Ready, if she has to be. Needs to be. Is. It throws another shade of sharpness of the galloping speed of her heartbeat (the strange twisted hot-cold confusion of her skin).
What the hell was that?
It looks like it's everyone over here, as far as I can see.
Where are you?