unknownfate: (gunslinger)
[personal profile] unknownfate
I saw the WIP Meme over at [livejournal.com profile] steals_thyme which got me thinking about my own works in progress, so I made one too. I have more WIPS than is probably healthy, but it could be nobody notices but me.

1. Why had Jon even bothered to keep human form? Wouldn’t a sphere of blue light been more efficient? What was he really that he had chosen his own species (perfected, admittedly) as a form when he could’ve been anything? They felt his mind clicking away in predestined patterns, more like one of his machines. And there he was facing the monstrosity, a muculent nightmare, and the turmoil in whatever it thought with was far more recognizable.

2. “Look at you,” he moaned. “You’re so perfect and I could ruin it all. And I want to. I could tear you apart and I want to. I do. Just to hear you scream and see all the layers peeled off and the straight lines shattered and everything you wouldn’t show ripped into too many pieces to hide anymore.” His voice grew more hot and desperate with each word, but never lost the despair.

3. He couldn’t stay warm. He finally gave up trying to adjust the thermostat when the plants started to suffer and his energy usage tripled. He added another layer of clothing, and then another, and then begin to wonder if he was sick for the first time since childhood. What else could chill him so deeply that he prickled and shivered under his layers, under the heat lamps, made the part of him he should’ve been able to control despair that this unnatural winter would never give way? This was his own nuclear winter, inside and out.

4. She was reading some mindless magazine in bed, in an old, worn soft t-shirt with an owl on it. She had curled her bare legs up over the duvet and caught him looking. She didn’t let on, didn’t smirk or chuckle, just turned a page like she hadn’t noticed and had an actual interest in a celebrity’s décolletage. His hand crept out, shyly, and the fingertips brushed the outside curve of her thigh. She did look up then and he jerked away as if burned.

“Sorry,” he whispered, going red.

“It’s about time,” she said and hooked the leg over his.

5. He was being grappled with, clutched. Fingers were digging into him and wounds were being pulled open and that was nothing new. The fact that he couldn’t mind it, that he was actually a little relieved to have some pain to compare to his partner’s anguish. A scream was muffled against his neck and he wanted to soothe, wanted to comfort, but he didn’t have the words and knew they would be useless anyway.

“Hold me,” he whispered anyway. It wasn’t a request for his own comfort, more an order to reestablish control. “I’m here. You’re not alone. We’re both still alive.” The scream choked on a sob and he felt the mouth move against his neck without hearing any words.

6. It wasn’t fair! It never had been, fair or right, but at least before he had been able to blame it on being human. Humans needed each other, reached out in pain or to comfort, for a common need. Now, they didn’t even have humanity in common. And it hurt more than it ever had. Of all the things they had lost, to lose even the possibility, made even his memories of past daydreams ache like they had been lost too.

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