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morallyinept · 3 months

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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 4

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it; harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak; but he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 6.4k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude both wash up on the island.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 3

Jude lets go of the piece of wreckage involuntarily when she falls into a weary unconsciousness.

Exhaustion renders her to fade into the fuzzy pull of blank inertia, but as soon as her face hits the water, the shock wakes her back up again. She clings onto the debris once more, shivering and trying with all her might to stay afloat.

The sky is pitch black now; the blackest she’s ever seen it in her entire life, a great expanse of a void unknown, and she ponders the bleak outcome of her situation with a creeping sense of dread as each second passes and she’s not waking up out of this torrid nightmare.

I mean, think about it; she’s floating on her own in the middle of the ocean, God knows where exactly. Freezing, clinging onto life and the piece of debris to stay buoyant as much as she can, and not knowing what the next few seconds will bring, let alone the next few hours, in this shit storm of a ghastly predicament.

It doesn’t take a genius to work out she’s royally screwed in the ass.

Perhaps it would have been better if whatever it was that bonked her on the head in the plane had killed her instantly. Jude looks up at the sky and whispers to God that this isn’t a funny joke anymore.

Seriously, dude.

She cries out when she feels something brush against her leg in the water and freezes instantly.

The searing pain at the back of her calf makes itself known to her again, and she hopes to Hell that it isn’t a hungry shark sizing her up for its next meal.

The water seems calmer somehow.

Frankie isn’t being tossed about in the current so much anymore and can finally release his death-like grip on the sides of the broken wing piece.

He curls himself up on it as best as he can, hugging his body for warmth. He blows into his aching, cold hands, shivering and shaking relentlessly. He’s thankful he’s wearing his jacket at least, even if it’s completely soaked through.

Any chance of fully drying off is moot; water still splashes over the edges as he drifts on the ocean’s tide carrying him further and further into the deep swallowing mouth of the sea.

He licks his lips, still tasting salt, and listens to the sounds of the water, the only thing to accompany him as he floats off into the sheer depths of Hell.

And despite it all, he can’t help but think that this is probably what he deserves.

The orange phosphenes dance behind her eyelids, and as Jude opens her eyes, her head is resting on the debris at a weird angle; she has a severe crick in the neck from it.

It’s daylight and she hasn't a clue how early it is in the morning, or if it is even morning at all. She looks up squinting, and the sky is a bright blue with the hot sun making its ascent across it as she zones out, just watching it for what seems like hours until it’s burned holes into the back of her skull.

She rubs a wet, pruny hand over her face to wake herself up and keep afloat on the debris as she looks about her surroundings. The vast expanse of the ocean before Jude is an incredibly daunting sight. It goes on for miles; a bluey-grey poignant line on the horizon that seems perfectly straight. No wonder early man thought the world was flat…

She touches the side of her head and her hair, although drying, is still matted with blood and she winces as she prods there tentatively.

Jude leans back, holding onto the debris, and dips her head into the water, closing her eyes and swishing her hair around inside the sea water. Which is probably a bad idea because the ocean’s water is not sterile in any sense of the word - she’s basically swimming around in a giant toilet - but the cool water on her throbbing head feels good, offering a respite from the intense, stinging heat of the pain.

She opens her eyes and then gasps out, sinking under the water as she clumsily lets go.

Twisting around she chokes; she can see that there’s a land shadow behind her. Either that or she’s fully crossed over into delirium.

“Oh shit!” Jude cries out and begins frantically swimming towards the knobbly mass in the distance.

She can make it. She’s a good swimmer if she paces herself, but right in this moment sheer adrenaline and euphoria has taken over and she’s dashing through the water as fast as she can go, leaving the debris to carry on a lonely existence from their one-night stand.

As she swims, the shoreline grows in size, and when she eventually reaches it, her lungs are burning through chronic exhaustion and wheezing.

Jude crawls up the bank and flops down face first into it, swallowing a mouthful of sand in the process.

Jude awakes, what feels like hours later, with coarse sand clumps sticking to the side of her face exfoliating it as she stirs.

She coughs after automatically licking her lips and groaning when she realises she’s still living in this warped reality and it wasn’t a bad dream like she hoped it was.

She pushes herself upright into a sitting position and feels immensely dizzy. The sun is high in the sky now and she feels too hot, like her skin is pulled really tight over her skeleton. She coughs again and can taste sand around her taught gums and tries spitting it out as it crunches over her teeth.

Jude glances around at her surroundings. She’s definitely on land, which is good thing; a real fucking blessing. Where there’s land, there are people and she can finally get some help.

She calls out from her stupefied position in the sand.

“Hello?”

She waits to see if anyone will trundle out from the underbrush where the sand leads into grasses, reeds and then bigger trees that seem to be overgrown. Imagine their surprise to see Jude washed up on the beach casually like plastic pollution.

“HELLO?” She shouts louder, groggily, and then coughs more; hacking up gooey mucus which she spits on the sand and wrinkles her nose at the sight of it.

She looks back out to the ocean and the debris that had been her flotation saviour through the night has washed up on the shore. Standing slowly, she walks over towards it and picks it up. It appears to be some sheet metal from the plane which is white on one side; the metal is ribbed on the other from being melted in the fire.

She runs her fingers over it as her mind flashes the images of the ocean coming up fast when she was looking out the window as the plane hurtled towards it at breakneck speeds.

All those people... God, what the hell happened?

It’s heavy to carry, but nothing she can’t manage. Picking it up, she raises it over her head, trying to block out the sun’s intense heat frying her, wishing she had her sweater right now to wrap over her burning shoulders, and begins walking slowly towards the grass.

It’s rockier past the sand; the shrubs and bushes entwine around each other through a forced copulation as they overgrow into one another’s territories, and it’s evident that no-one has cut them back in a long time, which is a slightly distressing thought.

But Jude pushes on and carries on walking through where they merge with some trees that look like they belong in a forest, not a presumed tropical island, until she breaks through them and starts climbing at a slight ascent.

The landscape becomes hilly and more on a vertical incline. The hill is covered in tree species she’s not familiar with. She hadn’t seen this steep gradient from the beach front either.

Jude puts down the sheet metal to use her hands to help hoist herself to the top, pulling on shrubs and branches for support. She breaks through the tree line and is puffing and out of breath, sweating profusely, when she finally reaches the top, which becomes a ridge overlooking the island.

She stands upright, shielding her eyes from the glare of the intense sun on the ocean’s water blinding her momentarily.

From this vantage point on the ridge, Jude does a full three-sixty turn, and can see the whole of the island practically. Mostly bare, rocky terrain is presented to her with hilly dips and peaks. Clusters of trees are dotted about with the largest gathering of them to the north-east, and the sandy coastline that extends further north of the island curls round the shoreline like a snake on the rim before it disappears into the trees.

It’s much smaller than she anticipated it would be from up here.

“Fuck…”

Jude crouches down, her elbows on her knees, when she realises with a sinking feeling in her gut that there’s absolutely no evidence of human life on this island whatsoever from what she’s observed.

She groans out, clutching her stomach and resting her palm on the ground, trying not to vomit despite the swilling nausea bubbling around her gut.

She licks her lips, feeling her cheeks tingle, and promptly throws up a few moments later. Gasping through the heaving, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and stands again, slowly feeling lightheaded.

Think. Think... You need water. You need help. What the fuck do they do on those survivor programmes?!

Her mind is racing with all the things she should do.

Build a fire, maybe someone will see the smoke. How do you even build a fire?

With parched lips and a growing sense of desperation, she knows that finding water is no longer a choice but a matter of survival. Jude slowly begins her descent down the hilly ridge and picks up the sheet metal again as she passes it.

It’s starting to get dark and she’d figured she'd be able to do a full loop of the island in that time, but it seems to keep going somehow.

Like perhaps Jude had gotten lost and kept taking wrong turns in the trees that seemed to be whispering about her. Although she’s thankful for the shade, walking through the wooded area gives her some reprieve from the harsh sun; she discards the sheet metal when her arms begin to ache.

She sits and rests on a fallen tree branch that’s in the early stages of decay and glances down at her calf that’s stinging. Walking about on her wounded leg has made the pain start to throb uncontrollably.

Her jeans are stained a dark ruby red around the tear in the denim, and she probes gently, revealing a long gash in her skin that’s still oozing and wet.

It doesn’t look to be infected, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t be, eventually.

Jude views her surroundings and listens out to see if any sounds of snapping branches indicate any signs of life, like animals perhaps. If there are animals on the island then that means there’s a source of food at least.

The more worrying thought is how she’s going to get water. Licking her salty, dry lips again, she’s unbelievably thirsty and has exuded a lot of energy traipsing and hobbling around the island in the swampy heat so far, and coming up desperately blank with every eventuality.

The fear of dying from dehydration claws at her throat, each laboured breath intensifying the panic that grips her as she tries to recall when exactly it was she last took a drink. The sun, an unrelenting adversary, seems to mock her with its unyielding blaze, despite the thick clouds starting to condense.

The human body can survive up to three days maximum, usually, without water intake. Other factors fall into that of course, such as your age, weight and all that jazz. But for the most part, the longer you go without it, the further you venture into dehydration town, and that isn’t a pleasant walk in the park at all, bub. The effects of dehydration come on quickly, especially in extremely hot conditions when a person sweats, and Jude’s sweating alright.

The body uses water to produce sweat you see, which evaporates and lowers a person’s body temperature. Without water, the body simply cannot produce any sweat. This can lead to a dangerous increase in body temperature and put pressure on the existing fluids in the body, including the blood. If this then leads to a drop in blood volume, less blood circulates in the body, causing a severe drop in blood pressure, capiche?

And then you’re pretty much a goner at that point. Dehydration equals imminent death.

Trying not to think about it, Jude stands up and ventures forward, carrying on her journey into desolate island exploration; searching for any signs of life. The dense foliage ahead offers a glimmer of hope, and she pushes through the tangled underbrush, fueled by the instinct for self-preservation. After a while, she notices a dilapidated, wooden shack that she’d almost passed by entirely at first, it’s so embedded into the dank underbrush.

It’s half buried in the shrubs with skeletal vines wrapped around its outer body and seemingly squeezing the life out of it. It looks like something constructed in a horror film, predominantly an eighties slasher; a creepy cabin in the woods type deal.

She approaches it carefully, and reaches slowly for a large branch in the bushes beside her. Picking it up for protection, she ventures closer and calls out.

“Hello?”

There’s no response, just the eerily quiet. Jude peers in at a hole in the wood where she can only assume a window used to be, however there isn’t any sign of glass, not even broken, on the ground.

She can’t see much as it’s dark in there.

She rounds it and pulls vines and branches off until she finds a door-sized hole and pokes her head inside.

There isn’t much of anything of use in here; more overgrown evidence of Mother Nature devouring whatever this place used to be. It’s clearly manmade; no nails hammered in, but it’s tied together with the vines and it looks to be cemented with mud and leaves as her eyes scan up to the enclosing ceiling.

She enters further inside and her foot kicks against something; she flinches backwards as a loud tinny noise startles her. She looks down to see a dirty plastic bag of rubbish that has toppled over, and crouches down, swiping her fingers curiously through it all.

There are old tin cans, some that have rusted over completely, and then her fingers touch what appears to be an old, two litre plastic bottle. She snatches it up, and standing up too fast, collides with the side of the wall feeling dizzy again.

The shack creaks and wobbles with the force, and as she scarpers outside, she falls backwards on her ass as the shack collapses fully upon itself.

Fuck!

Jude lays back against the ground catching her breath and stares at the crumpled water bottle in her arms, cradled to her chest. It’s stained a repellent yellowish colour in the bottom, probably desiccated urine, she thinks, but it would do at catching water for sure.

And pissy tasting water might be better than none whatsoever, as much as the thought disgusts her and causes that nauseated feeling to swill around the back of her throat again.

The light through the trees seems to dim further. Jude stands up and carries on through the woodland until she exits out the other side of the copse to some larger rocks clusters dotted about on the south-west shoreline of the island. The hills are steeper here and almost seem mountainous on this side.

She rounds across the sand towards the shoreline, scanning the horizon to be met with the bleak, empty blue.

She bends down at the water’s edge, her Converse drenched with the ocean water again as it laps over her feet, and trails the bottle around, swishing it in and out of the water to rinse it and make it take some of its original shape again.

She then places it in the sand a bit further up, standing it upright and looking up at the sky. The gritty reality of her world casts a harsh contrast against the darkening sky as she stands there, shoulders slumped, staring up at the stars that slowly reveal themselves.

Jude’s no stranger to life's rough edges, the recent bitter have left more scars on her heart. Right now however, the weight of it all bears down on her in a way that feels insurmountable.

The bitter taste of cynicism lingers on her lips as she mutters words she never thought she'd say - a plea for help. It isn't a prayer to a higher power; it’s a raw, guttural cry to the damn universe, a challenge thrown into the abyss.

She’s grasping at something beyond her control, something she isn't even sure exists and telling God, or whomever is up there listening, in no uncertain terms to make it rain.

You hear me you bastard, you owe me!

It isn't about finding faith; it’s about survival. A recognition that, even in the face of crushing hopelessness, there’s a primal need to keep fighting. She has to keep fighting. The grit that defines her is still there, but now it mingles with a reluctant admission that some battles might be too vast for a lone warrior to endure.

The terrifying reality remains, but she’ll face it head-on, with or without the cosmic intervention she seeks in that fleeting moment under the unforgiving gaze of the indifferent stars coming out to mock her plight.

Jude takes shelter in a cave mouth close by, sitting on the rocks and resting her back against them. Inside it’s warm, like a muggy, damp feeling where the cave has been a heat trap all day. She hopes it’s enough heat to keep her warm all evening; she’s just in her damp t-shirt and her arms are prickling already.

She looks to her left and the cave mouth seems to get darker and more engulfing like a vortex, and she hopes nothing will come crawling out of it during the night to eat her or crawl in her orifices to lay eggs. Her body involuntarily shudders thinking of being back in the freezing water.

Jude processes the whole event over and over inside her mind, reliving it; living back through the terror, the uncertainty - the events that led up to her taking this stupid damn trip in the first place.

She wonders if anyone has noticed the plane is missing yet.

Isn’t there radar or something that tracks them? What about the black box? Are there any other survivors at all? I mean, if I made it, then there’s a chance right?

How did I even make it?

Somebody has to know what’s happened when the flight isn’t radioing in when it should. It’s a commercial airliner; these things just don’t go unnoticed, right?

Yeah. Someone will be looking for the plane and then they’ll happen upon the island and then find me, they just have to. The plane couldn’t have gone down too far from here.

Perhaps it would be on the news back home soon enough. Someone would report Jude missing when she didn’t call.

Oh God! My family'll be so worried!

She sighs out and can feel the prickling around her eyes as they fill with water, thinking about her plight.

What if no-one finds me? What if I actually die here?

The tears come heavier now and blind her through her anguish of repeated doom filled scenarios of how she might die alone, and no-one ever knowing what has become of her deserted body.

From her position in the cave she can see more rocks that filter into the sand and a small incline down to the beach front. The sand seems less plentiful on this side of the island and the terrain much more rugged.

Jude can only hope that through the oncoming dark, she’ll spot lights on the horizon from a boat passing by.

She really fucking hopes so.

Rain pelts his face and he’s blinded momentarily as he opens his eyes, sitting up unsteadily on the wobbly debris as he continues to drift on the water.

Frankie’s clothes feel dry in patches and damp in others; his desert boots and the bottom of his jeans are still soaking wet. He can’t feel his toes and hasn't for some time now.

Wiping his face, he winces when turning; his neck makes the pain rip across it once more. He’s unsure of the extent of the burns on his skin from the aviation fuel coating him and setting him ablaze.

His mind casts back to the sheer panic when he was all too aware suddenly that the plane was falling out of the sky. He clocked a gentleman in the seat adjacent to him in a business suit, whose face smacked right into the seat in front of him with such force, it knocked him clean out and broke his nose.

Frankie can still hear the screams from the passengers inside the cabin ringing through his jangled senses.

It had then gone black for a while. He could hear water in his ears and screamed out when he realised he was being cooked alive as he thrashed about in the ocean fighting for his life.

When his vision comes back into focus from that oneiric, thousand-yard haze, he stares out in dumb wonderment at the ghostly shoreline through the rain, considering if he’s seeing things.

Fuck!

He starts using his hands to wade and steer himself on the wing towards the shoreline in a frantic desperation, but he soon gives up when he realises it’s a tiring feat, and plops rather ungracefully back into the water and begins swimming, even though his body is utterly spent of any energy.

He kicks his legs through the current with determined grit; his long arms reaching forward and pulling him through the water with each stroke closer and closer. The shoreline is getting nearer and he grapples through the water and rocks desperately as he crawls and clambers up the bank and falls to his knees on the pebbly sand.

Frankie collapses backwards, panting and out of breath; his oesophagus burning like his skin and heaves in deep hits of oxygen not quite believing he’s made it ashore.

He lays on the sand for quite some time summoning the strength to move again until he eventually blacks out from acute exhaustion.

His cap washes up on the shore beside his feet.

The sound of the heavy rain wakes Jude.

Her head has slumped forward in her sleep and her dreams are MIA. She swallows through a sore, dry throat and looks out to see the rain coming down heavily and scrambles upright, dashing out into the downpour and grabbing the bottle.

Fat raindrops fall like a benediction, splattering against the sand and rocks. She stands there, dumbfounded for a moment, arms outstretched and face upturned to the heavens, as the rain soaks her to the bone.

The cool droplets mingle with the salty residue on her skin, offering a reprieve from the scorching sun of the day. The primal instinct to survive, to drink deeply from the wellspring of the sky, overwhelms her.

As the rain intensifies, she abandons any remnants of restraint, revelling in the raw, unfiltered joy of the moment. The once-barren island transforms into a watery oasis within minutes, and she dances amidst the deluge, squealing with her mouth open.

The bottle is half full - or empty, depending on your outlook - and she gulps it back greedily, laughing in crazed relief as the droplets coat her well sucked-on tongue that’s swollen. With a newfound respect for the primal fear that has gripped her, she pledges to navigate this island with a tenacity fueled by the memory of that life-threatening thirst - a thirst that had almost condemned her to the merciless embrace of the island.

She lingers in the aftermath as the downpour lightens. Her clothes cling to her body, drenched, but she’s alive.

Jude puts the bottle back in the sand and retreats to the cave when she hears the rumbles of thunder echo across the sky in the distance.

She glances up at the swell of the sky and mutters a belligerent thank you to whomever may be listening.

Everything. Hurts. Like. Hell.

Even the simple thought of standing hurts. His legs feel as though an iron vice holds them shackled together, feeling as though they’ll never part again freely.

His abdomen and pelvis sears with burning and intense stinging when the slightest intake of breath disturbs them. His toes are numb and after wiggling them for a few minutes, eventually find their life again. But they hurt as does everything else.

His neck is stiff and tight, his head heavy and banging, and his back… Oh God, the intensity of that ache will be with him for days.

He reminds himself though, that he’s endured through worse.

When Frankie eventually comes to, he pushes himself up on his unsteady feet, marvelling at how he even has any energy left to stand at all. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach as he scans the immediate surroundings, desperately searching for the familiar brim of the cap that has shielded him from both sun and rain.

His fingers instinctively reach for the bare crown of his head, realising the absence of the well-worn garment that has become an integral part of him.

Then, as if offering a bittersweet reunion, the tide laps at the shoreline, revealing the familiar shape of his baseball cap nestled in the wet sand. It’s worn and weathered much like him, but there it is, as if the sea has decided to return a piece of his identity to ease him into this waking nightmare.

Frankie's eyes widen with a mixture of relief and nostalgia. He reaches down and picks up the cap; its damp fabric cool against his shaky fingertips. As he holds it in his hands, memories flood back - a flashback to a different time, a different life.

In the recesses of his mind, Frankie sees the face of a distant friend from his days in the forces, a companion who had shared laughter and hardship. The cap, a token of their unspoken bond, had been a gift from that very friend. His name was etched in the seams of Frankie's memory - a friend who had stood by his side through thick and thin.

A friend that was on the other side of the world basking in a new life and had seemingly forgotten about him.

As Frankie traces the frayed edges of the cap, he remembers the day it had been handed to him by Pope. A smile plays on his lips as he recalls Pope’s mischievous grin, the kind that could convince Frankie to do just about anything crazy, and often had.

They had been deployed together, alongside Will and Benny and held together at the disjointed seams by Tom; navigating the complexities of combat, and the cap was more than just headgear; it was a symbol of brotherhood.

A pang of sorrow grips Frankie's tattered heart as he remembers a brighter time before life in Delta Force got dark. A time when the eager, yet somewhat naive young soldier, was excited to serve his country when he enlisted. A country that had now abandoned him, in every sense of the word, as he looked out at the never ending expanse of the ocean, never feeling so far from home as he did now.

It was nothing special; a navy blue cap with the logo of some heating company Frankie had never heard of before, yet, over time, the grip of his addiction had tightened its hold, alienating him from his fellow comrades and friends. And this cap had travelled with Frankie through life's battles, a vestibule of protection, shielding himself from the disapproving and disappointed looks etched into the faces of the people he knew he had let down, and now, it’s found its way to the desolate shores of this unknown island with him.

He puts it back on his head, the beads of water streaking down the back of his neck and trudges towards the rocks aimlessly.

The rain has petered off somewhat and although he’s soaked again from being passed out on the sand and drowned by the heavy downpour, it feels considerably warmer than the sea water at least.

He trips once or twice over his own feet like he’s drunk, and looks about the rocky hilts and caves that are spread across the shoreline. Frankie stumbles, his senses heightened by the eerie silence that envelops the desolate island. The relentless waves pound the shore like a distant war drum, amplifying the prominent isolation that clings to him.

“Hello? Anybody?” He calls out through a hoarse voice.

Inside the cave, Jude’s dozing again and can hear the muffled sounds of what she thinks is a voice calling out to her.

It’s a bit like that moment you’re slipping into a deep sleep and you suddenly jolt out of nowhere thinking you heard something, but didn’t - it’s just your subconscious playing tricks on you.

She passes it off as exhausted calenture, but then she hears it again.

Hello?

She sits bolt upright as the sound grows closer.

That’s definitely a voice!

Jude scrambles out of the cave mouth to see a broad, wet man freeze in his stride and stare right back at her. Mirroring the same relieved, yet deer-in-headlights look about him she’s certain her face is portraying back at him.

“Oh my God!” Jude exclaims in sheer wonderment. Her brain tries to convince her it might be a mirage, that she's seeing things, but when he speaks, he convinces her he is real.

“Thank fuck!” Frankie exclaims back, his shoulders sagging in a sweet relief at the sight of the woman before him, dishevelled and visibly shaken. “Dios mío, no lo puedo creer.” (Oh my God, I can’t believe it.)

Relief grips him, a gut-wrenching mix of surprise and fear. The woman, battered and disoriented, mirrors his own emotions; her eyes reflecting the disbelief of finding another living, breathing survivor in this Godforsaken place.

Their paths converge on the rocky beach; a slow, hesitant approach marked by the crunch of pebbles and sand beneath their weary feet.

“Were you on the plane too?” Jude asks, eyes wide and heart racing. Another survivor!

He nods slowly as though he’s a little out of it. “Yeah...” He bends over, hands on his knees catching his breath as he sways a little.

Jude paces forward and reaches for the bottle, pulling it out of the sand.

“Here, drink it all.” She offers.

He takes the bottle from her with a big, shaky hand and she watches him swallow the water in two big gulps.

“Thanks,” he gasps.

Broad shoulders, squared off under his jacket, cut an imposing figure with his commanding presence as he stands upright. He then wobbles on his feet and Jude clutches onto him, supporting his weight before he fully falls over. He’s ghastly pale despite his tanned skin, and looks absolutely exhausted.

“Come on, you can make it. Lean on me, it's alright.” She encourages, and helps him to walk towards the mouth of the cave as another rumble of thunder rolls overhead.

Once inside the mouth, Jude helps him sit against the cave wall and slumps down opposite him.

He looks across at her utterly spent, and equally disorientated, as they share a confused silence.

A scruff of a patchy beard and moustache adorns his face, framing his mouth with an air of casual dishevelment. Slightly greying on the sides of his jaw, it adds a touch of maturity; a streak of silver threading through the dark strands of his hair and the asymmetry causes Jude to ponder his age.

A large, hooked nose that lends character to his rugged appearance has a pronounced curve above the pale pink of his chapped lips. He looks young despite it all.

His face bears the traces of unspoken experiences etched in the lines around his deep brown eyes, the windows to a soul that has perhaps weathered more storms than the tumultuous sea before them both.

He shuffles out of his wet, heavy jacket and tosses it aside a few moments later.

“You’re hurt, burned.” Jude says to him, looking at the state of his blistered neck skin.

He winces as he touches it with his shaky fingertips gently. “Yeah. The fuel tank must’ve exploded.”

His voice is waning, yet it’s still deep and gravelly and she can’t place his accent, although acutely American.

“Do you know what happened to the plane? Why we came down, I mean?” Jude probes him gently.

He shakes his head slowly and then runs his hand through his damp hair, removing the cap and rubbing sand away in clumps through his thick fingers. Frayed chocolate curls explode riotously from underneath as he separates the knots of them whilst thinking.

“No. I was having a… beer and watching a-a movie, and the next thing I know I’m drowning and on fire.” He swallows through a hiccup. His mouth feels dry again already. “You?”

Jude shrugs. “I got knocked out. Maybe something fell out of the overhead, I don’t know. When I woke up I was still strapped inside my seat. But half the cabin was missing and the water was coming in so fast, and people everywhere around me were just…" she takes in a deep breath. "They were already…”

Frankie nods, pressing his lips together to form a thin line under his fuzzy moustache. It’s a harrowing thought that the plane is now a swilling graveyard at the bottom of the ocean and both of them could have just as easily been down there, lost forever and drowned at sea.

“Is there anybody else with you?” Frankie questions after a few minutes of tentative quiet thought.

Jude shakes her head. “You’re the first person I’ve seen. It’s been about two days, I think.”

“What about this place, is there anyone here? Where are we?” Frankie asks, looking out of the cave mouth bleakly.

“I’ve no idea where we are. I don't know how far off course we ended up. And I don’t think there’s anyone here at all.”

Frankie looks at Jude. She notices his eyes. Dark, but trusting in their sadness.

The words come out, but they’re not going in. He sees her mouth move, but is lost inside of the fuzz that’s now ringing in his ears from growing panic.

“I mean, not now anyway. It looks like there was once; a long time ago maybe... I found an old hut or something in the woods, but it’s empty; nothing there. It’s where I found the bottle.”

“How big is the island?” Frankie enquires.

“Not that big; you can probably walk around it in a few hours or less. I saw it from the ridge. Apart from the trees and rocks, there’s not much else.”

“Food?” He asks as Jude notices him shivering a little; the beds of his nails are purple.

She shakes her head despondently. “I haven’t found any yet. There’s nothing growing on the trees that’s obvious.”

Frankie bites down on his lip. A large hooked nose commands the attention on his face, a testament to his heritage and a feature that adds character to his rugged appearance. Cocoa eyes, deep and contemplative, hold a mix of determination and fatigue, mirroring the weight of the situation they find themselves in.

“You’re flagging, you should rest.” Jude mentions to him as he looks as though he'll pass out at any second again.

He’s been watching her speak through drooping eyelids, trying to come to terms with her omissions that are battering him back and forth across the skull whilst at the same time trying to ward off the impending intrusion of shattered sleep. His eyelids feel heavy, but he blinks out of it and desperately tries to stay awake to decipher it all.

Frankie shakes his head, but knows it’s a fruitless battle that he’ll emerge the loser in. “They’ve gotta be looking for us. Someone will know the plane is missing by now.”

Jude nods. “Yeah, a few days tops and there’ll be someone out here looking for us. There has to be.”

Frankie nods in agreement. “So, I guess until then we stay hydrated as best as we can and find something to eat, right?”

“I guess that’s the plan.”

Frankie draws his knees up to his chest, shivering and resting his elbows on them, contemplating for a bit. Trying to come up with answers, solutions, scenarios and then dispelling them all when he realises they are ominously bleak.

He tries to remember his training, his combat survivalist skills and everything that was drilled into him for years.

“Have you got a phone on you?” He asks Jude suddenly, and is dismayed further when she shakes her head.

“It’s probably at the bottom of the ocean now.” She offers a small crooked smile to him.

“Yeah. What’s your name?” He asks her, eyeing her carefully and taking in her features that seem a little softer somehow. He falls into the colour of her eyes momentarily, drowns in the fierceness of them despite being as tired as his own.

“Judith. Jude.” She corrects.

“Francisco. Frankie."

“Exotic.”

“Not really. Most call me Fish.” He smirks, feeling his bottom lip crack.

“Fish?”

“Well, Catfish. I was… I-I used to be in the forces. Call sign.”

She nods. “Ah. So, you're used to this kind of thing then right, surviving in harsh conditions? At least we have a fighting chance.”

His smile is small and wearisome as he shrugs. “I’ll try my best.”

He tries not to think how useless he might prove to be against that statement. He balls his hands into fists when he notices the tremor again in his fingers.

“Well alright, soldier.” Jude smiles at him with a small salute, two fingers raised to her forehead. “It’s damn good to meet you though, Frankie. Just wish it was under better circumstances.” She surmises with a faint, tired smile. “But you made it.”

“You did too,” Frankie nods, and then gives into the dark fully.

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know.

Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged/commented on/re-blogged my initial teaser & prologue:

@suzdin @missladym1981 @magpiepills @millennial-teenybopper @legendary-pink-dot @linzels-blog @msjarvis @tightjeansjavi @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @casa-boiardi @sin-djarin @rhoorl @disassociation-daydreams @quinnnfabrgay @chronically-ghosted @fuckyeahdindjarin @chiriwritesstuff @copperhalfcent @bluestar22x @5oh5 @gobaaby-blog-blog @myloveistoolittle @pastawench @maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @thethirstwivesclub @seratuyo @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @toomanytookas @survivingandenduring @lizzie-cakes @sawymredfox @iloveenya @elegantduckturtle @covetyou @undercoverpena @connectioneverywhere @trulybetty @nerdieforpedro @thisneozonerecs @fckyeapedrothots99 @goodwithcheese @anavatazes @doughmonkey @lilmizmoz @76bookworm76

#pedro pascal x reader #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal #frankie morales #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #frankie morales angst #frankie morales triple frontier #triple frontier fic #adrift with you series #jett's writing

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witchofdiamonds · 1 year

Text

Thinking about this scene, actually

If we’re running with the assumption that the Colelctor is referring to his own tears, this has… interesting implications about their character.

For starters, this isn’t really the first time we see the Collector crying. There’s this scene, after all.

But, even though they’re clearly distraught, there aren’t actually any tears. Which is kind of weird, right? A chance at having a real friend is clearly a big deal to them, but still, their eyes are dry.

When do they finally do it, then? During the fight with Belos, when he possesses the Titan and kills Luz. With Titan magic on his hands, the Collector cries tears for the first time.

But that isn’t the last time. The Collector tears up again, after the fight has ended, when Amity reaches out to him.

And this? This really makes me wonder, because he only actually starts crying after exposure to Titan magic.

We’ve seen that Titan magic is capable of cancelling out the Collector’s. From the Archivists’ genocide, to the Collector’s failing powers, and even the usage of the Light glyph. Titan magic counters Collector magic.

We’ve also seen that the Archivists, uh. didn’t really like the Collector. At all. Judging by the Collector’s words, they seemed pretty irritated with him.

So, when you’re a powerful magic being with an annoying child on your hands (and a blatant lack of morals), wouldn’t you want to shut them up?

When he’s crying, wouldn’t you make him stop?

#the owl house #toh #the collector toh #the archivists toh #tl;dr this kid cursed as fuck #oof this is a heavy one #but this thought grabbed me by the throat and Did Not Let Go #witchposting

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blindmagdalena · 3 months

Note

Yaaaaay, so glad asks are open again!

What do you think Homelander would have been like if he had never turned into a corporate toy? Do you think he could have turned into a good person or an actual hero?

I'm working on a story in which Homelander escapes the lab when he's 18 and goes on the live a (mostly) normal life.

I think he would have a desire to do good and even heroic things, mostly because that's what he was groomed to become from the moment of his conception. Also, he likes the attention heroes usually get, ofc, even if they are not sponsored by Vought.

I'm not sure how far I can take that, though, bc he still has so many issues to deal with - PTSD and a multitude of attachment disorders, for starters. Also, a skewed sense of morality and an extremely low mental age.

I would love to hear your thoughts!

yes! welcome back, darling!

ohhhhhh, this is a wicked premise! since he's 18, we do have some canon indicators of how he might behave at this stage of his life. when he was 5, Vogelbaum described him as a very sweet boy who liked to snuggle ( i want to cry every time i remember this ) but that he didn't need him to be sweet, he needed him to be strong. that is definitely a good lead on how he was raised from that point.

the next jump we have in his childhood is this deleted scene, where he honestly is very unsettling. i have a lot of gripes with the young Homelander we see in Diabolical because he's just not weird and off-putting enough for me. Homelander really needs that unsettling homeschooled kid energy.

(i very much say this as someone who WAS the weird homeschooled kid)

we also know he was shown off to a group of private investors when he was 16, and the anxiety he experienced was so severe he flew off and cried. Homelander's lack of real world experience and inability to navigate it is a weapon that Vought utilized to keep him under their thumb.

so i'd say something to keep in mind would just be his sheer inexperience. i'd treat him like an alien from another planet whose only understanding of earth is baseball, select american history trivia and the bible. any good he wanted to do in the world would require the very stressful ordeal of actually learning the world he lives in, which in this case would be America in 1999.

he would probably latch onto any kind of authority figure he could find and base his morality on theirs.

i definitely think you could do a lot of fun and interesting stuff with this! 🖤

#ask and you shall receive #darling anon #homelander #homelander meta

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silvergolddraco28 · 7 days

Text

LMK x Hazbin Hotel- part 11- Settling and Planning

()()()()

“AND WE’RE-“ Lucifer paused glancing at the snoozing fawn toddler clearing his throat. “And~ we’re~ back~!” He grinned. ‘Wonderful save… not! I nearly woke the baby!’

Wukong blinked again from the bright light of the teleport. “Looks like we will have to adjust this place to be cub-proof,” Wukong mumbled mostly to himself.

"Oh for sure!" Lucifer muttered in agreement, staring intently at the eyesore of a bar already thinking of what dangers a young toddler would get into just looking at all the bottles and the uneven edges. "Now that has to go for starters." The demon king pointed, which earnt a far cry from a certain albino arachnoid.

"WHAT?! NO! NO! NO! WE NEED THE BAR! I NEED THE BAR! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO COPE?!" Angel cried from the sofa, attention finally setting on the group.

"By reading a book or something?" Lucifer cringed. Clearly noting this sinner's methods of salvation did not align with the hotel's morals. There was still much work to be done.

"N-Now let's....calm down Angel okay?" Charlie attempted to soothe stepping in. "Nothing's been set in stone just yet but we have a situa-"

"IS THAT A FUCKING BABY?!" Angel screamed looking past Charlie towards the fawn in Wukongs arms.

“Any more shouting and I will cast a three-hour muting spell. Do not wake the baby.” Wukong calmly intoned. “Lucifer, may I have my staff back?” Wukong asked with a slight smirk on his lips.

"Who's fucking baby is that?!" Angel continued, though his tone had noticeably reduced.

"No swearing in front of the fucking kid!" Lucifer countered, earning a pointed look from the room.

"A baby? There's a baby?! Someone gave birth?" Nifty's chipper tone seemed to come from within the floorboards.

"Angel..." Charlie stressed before the spider in question groaned, rolling his eyes as he stood.

"This is way too fu-”

“You finished that word and I will personally put a bar of soap in your mouth!” Wukong interrupted with a small glare before he placed a pair of earmuffs over the fawn’s ears.

“-fudging much. I need a drink." He grumbled with a small shiver at the very parent-like threat Wukong had promised while making his way towards the bar only to be halted in his steps by an eerily enthusiastic Husk. "Don't even try it. I need this." Angel stressed.

The king's attention went back to Wukong with a growing grin at seeing the earmuffs knowing it was probably a good call for the rest of the night until it could properly be addressed with new ground rules tuning out the hushed whispers between Angel and Husk. "Sure! Check this little baby out!" Holding up the crafted duckling, with the staff, much more miniature around its neck. "I made it travel sized! Isn't it just precious~?!" He cooed before extracting the weapon with ease. A golden light dusted the staff as Charlie watched in awe as it grew to a comfortable size now in the dapper man's grasp. "Honestly I thought you were kidding earlier but holy moly! It's pretty light actually!" Lucifer noted spinning the staff much like his own cane in his fingers.

"That's… probably because you can wield it dad…" Charlie noted recalling Wukong’s predictions on who would be able to lift the weapon.

Wukong gave a nearly predatory grin. “Looks like i got someone to help whip to shape after all!” Wukong chirped. “That goes double both of you, Charlie and Husk.” Wukong stated taking the staff out of Lucifer’s hand, shrinking it down to slip it on his left ear like an earring with a slim golden chain of energy on the two ends holding it in place from behind.

"Sounds like a lotta of manual work..." Lucifer narrowed his eyes but he wouldn’t pass up the chance to connect with his little girl on something they could both do. "I love it! Just what this hotel needs! Hard working and trained staff! Except you sweetie, lettou old man take care of any trash that would dare harm you." The demon cooed towards his offspring. "Throw in these guys too. Hell they could surely use it! Practically skin and bone. No muscle. What good will that do against an attack?" Lucifer tutted towards the of the group. "After all… We have a wittle baby to defend.- And the hotel-...of course."

"Training...?" Charlie murmured before her eyes grew wide with sparkles. "You'd train me? Eeee!!! That sounds super incredible! Does that mean I'll be able to lift the staff too?!" She questioned the celestial with excitement.

With Husk distracted by Wukong's statement, Angel used the opportunity to slip free, making a beeline towards the bar. "Training? Is that really necessary? I ain't planning on jumping into any deals if that's your worry." The feline expressed

“You’ve regained strength you’ve been unable to tap into for some time. You can easily end up breaking glass just as easily as breaking bone. Are you willing to harm someone unintentionally to keep up your pride?” Wukong asked Husk while resting the sleeping fawn on his hip, looking more like a mother dressing down their eldest son while taking care of their youngest.

"Oooo~ he's got ya there Mr. Big Dick!~" Angel crassly called downing a drink from the bar.

Husk turned with a growl, wings outstretched with building rage but in an instant he retracted. Stumbling as he did so. The simple action felt different. He could feel the sheer difference in strength. Wukong's words were clear. "...No." He sighed, correcting himself. Even he had seen enough to know that was never the case. Nor would he argue with the six foot celestial who defeated Alastor either. "It ain't worth it." The feline admitted. "I'll do the training, I guess."

The princess watched with a growing smile. The celestial seemed so motherly and especially handling a baby Alastor of all things! He was a clear natural. The sentiment was clearly shared as she gazed towards her father who bore a similar smirk at the scene. She wondered if he had felt the same at some point during their once shared lives.

“Good.” Wukong nodded. “Now seeing as Lucifer and I will be staying, Charlie, are there any connected rooms near the top? Ones that share a slightly smaller room that can be changed into a nursery? Seeing as only two of us have any experience in raising cubs it would be ideal for something like that.” Wukong asked the young woman.

Charlie gleefully paused in thought. ‘Connecting rooms… Connecting rooms…’ The princess’ eyes widened. “Oh my gosh- We do! Yes! We do!” Charlie beamed. She had always dreamed for a family of sinners to feel welcomed and touched enough to move in. Though it had never happened until now she had still designed the hotel with space and possibility for it to occur. Sure Vaggie had been a little skeptical but it paid off! It was great to think ahead like that. "Right at the top with a perfect view! Ooh I can get it ready!" She bounced on her heels with excitement.

“That would be a good idea if the room needs cleaning and to be aired out.” Wukong agreed. “For now is there just a quiet room I can put him down for a nap in?” Wukong motioned to the toddler on his hip.

"Of course! Hey Nifty?" Charlie called to which the little cyclops eagerly showed on her face fully removing herself from the floorboards.

"There were bugs down there!" She answered before anyone had even asked. "I'm on it!" She saluted already knowing what Charlie would ask of her as she made her ways towards the upper floors. She would double check later however, just to be sure.

"Now right this way," She ushered Wukong gently to one of the free rooms on the lower ground. "Not as spacious but it'll do nicely in the meantime." She assured the golden monkey.

“Good. I have to speak King-to-King with your Father after I put this little one down with one of my clones to watch over him.” Wukong stated to Charlie.

"Of course." She nodded, still coming to terms with the fact her co-worker would now need his diapers changed. "-Wait you can make clones too?! Awesome...!" She squealed before continuing in a more hushed tone. Oh she couldn't wait to start with the training! "There's a balcony on the upper floors, knowing dad he's probably marking it as his." Sighing with a small smile. "It's… never really in use but perfect for privacy." She smiled. There was so much she wanted to ask but the celestial probably needed time to digest it all as of right now. "I won't keep you but! I'd love for you to feel at home." Charlie murmured

“Charlie, any bed is fine after being forced to camp for fourteen mortal years on the ground,” Wukong replied with a chuckle.

Charlie gawped, both appalled and fascinated at the notion. "But you're our guest! Not to mention you helped calm down Alastor! It's only right that you get a proper warm welcome..." And suddenly the princess' eyes widened with an idea. How could she have not jumped immediately onto the idea of a welcome party?! She needed to find Vaggie and stat! "Rest assured Mr. King that all changes from today!" Charlie decreed with a look of determination burning in her eyes.

Wukong simply gave her a slightly raised brow before thinking nothing of it as she rushed off leaving Wukong alone to tuck the fawn into the bed allowing his magic to seep into the large bed and change it into a toddler-sized bed with raised sides carved with monkeys and peaches within the wood. He plucked a hair from his tail giving it a blow before a clone popped into existence. “Watch over him.” Wukong stated to the clone that saluted and transformed into a golden tabby cat with teal, scarlet, and peach-colored ‘tiger’ stripes. ‘Time to tell my story.’ Wukong thought.

TBC…

Until next time!

Heart comment reblog!

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ofwulf · 8 months

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Starter: open (@hollowstarters) Event: Holloway Event 01 (Leland Manor)

Douglas has no intention of attending the 'lock in'. Because, well ... Bad idea. Too many people. Too enclosed an environment. There's a chance that something - bad - might happen. And he most determinedly doesn't want to be said 'bad' thing. That hasn't stopped him from heading in the general direction of the Leland Manor... Or lingering in the garden and wandering a little distractedly around the different vendors and booths. So far he has a coffee and a salted pretzel - not that he particularly wanted either but it's a good enough guise under which to nose around.

Because there are weird things slipping into the town. Causing harm... causing fear. And Douglas is scared - not for himself but for the people who live here... His friends. His family. And this... this event. He's just not sure. Is it a good thing to raise a little morale? To give people the space to let their hair down and have a little harmless fun? Or is it a damn beacon. Drawing people in... Locking them in. A place where any screams or cries for help may just be assumed to be part of the entertainment. He's trying to shake the words - 'lambs to the slaughter' - out of his head... But without a great deal of success.

So no. He won't be stepping through those doors when the key turns. But maybe he won't head too far out of the neighborhood... Just in case...

He's trying to keep an eye on who is coming and going through the front door, but the place has a buzz of almost nervous excitement - and he's finding it hard to keep track.

"You going in, or just here for the spectacle?"

He asks half distractedly to someone near by.

#hollowstarters #paranoid? nooooo

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musinghotline · 3 months

Text

MILGRAM TRIAL 2 MVs : Sentence Starters

Lyrics from the second trial music videos of the MILGRAM project! Feel free to change as needed.

"Don't leave me alone."

"I want to be by your side."

"Why was I born this way?"

"I will definitely make you love me again!"

"It wasn't a mistake, I wasn't wrong!"

"Hug me again as you once did."

"Can I be your favorite this time?"

"Am I still innocent?"

"Poor naive little girl? That's so off the mark."

"Don't measure me against your morality."

"Just shut it, would you, you know-it-all?"

"Innocent? I'm so not that."

"Who needs your self-righteous pardon?"

"Where'd you get your half-baked sense of justice?"

"So nauseating... so creepy... Will you please disappear?"

"Is it all okay if I offer penance?"

"The fight's up here!"

"Come up to the ring and face me!"

"Should I succumb and make your wish come true?"

"Full of yourselves, are you?"

"Just one mistake, and I'm out of chances."

"Bless me, please, with one more chance."

"Tears aren't enough, there's no way it's going to end."

"There's no solace for my heart."

"Are both sides losers?"

"I told you, I'm the queen."

"Don't you think it's wonderful to control them with my gentle sting?"

"If you betray me out of jealousy, you know what's gonna happen to you."

"It's not my fault. I am absolutely right."

"I am innocent, as everyone desires."

"Sorry for hurting you, but I didn't mean it."

"Don't hate me."

"I can't take it anymore. I surrender."

"Now I see, the world is cruel and merciless."

"See? I'm indispensable."

"I yearn to be found guilty."

"In that case, give me the chance to make amends."

"I want to be innocent... I want to live!"

"I don't yet know the correct answer, but there are lives that need saving."

"I can't even breathe anymore."

"It's okay for everyone else, but not for me."

"If you won't tell me, I can't be me."

"This can't go on, something's got to give."

"I even love saying the words I love you!"

"My emotions are out of control!"

"That's inconvenient? I don't care!"

"Tell me, why won't you just accept me?"

"I don't need anyone else, as long as I have you."

"I could do anything as long as it made you smile."

"If I could see you again, I wonder, what would I say and how?"

"I know I have no right, crossed and covered in sin."

"Why can't I just do it right?"

"Lie, until it gets better."

"Since when have I ignored my feelings?"

"It's better to be a let down than to be let down yourself."

"So it's wrong? Oh, shove that!"

"It's for the sake of true love- who wouldn't lie for that?"

"Phew, oh wow, I'm drunk."

"Hey, if I said I like-liked you, what would you do?"

"I gotta keep it inside and act."

"I realize the futility, but I still can't help but dream."

"I can't stop, I can't be normal."

"This feeling can't be gratified."

"Let's take a breather."

"To be caressed by you, that would be perfection."

"I want to be loved, just like a cat."

"We must not give in to them, they are the ones that should be judged."

"With pure, unsullied body and soul, let us preach all that is true and right!"

"That makes them doubtlessly, clearly, absolutely, unequivocally, beyond any doubt, GUILTY!"

"Eyes corrupted must be crushed."

"So nary a sound can be uttered again, I'll crush your throat too."

"It's now your turn to give that hopeless apology."

"Here and now, it's my turn to tear you apart."

"I'll give back the judgment that you gave to me."

"You're sorry? I don't care!"

"Please go ahead and die already."

"Remember my cries, my repents, my apologies?"

"I've got you, leave it to me!"

"Doesn't matter if you wished for it or not, you can't get rid of me now."

"Just the two of us- relieved, aren't you?"

"I'll protect us."

"All I did was dream, and that's what you found guilty?"

"Hey now, I saved you, right? So why the hell are you crying?"

"Hoist me up as your savior."

"You're already broken."

"I'll take it all on."

"Some days are hard, but... I'm doing alright, don't worry."

"Come to know me as an honest man."

"Hey, I just wanted to save you, so why did it come to this?"

"If only I were never born, if only..."

"I'm so sorry."

"Isn't it so ridiculous?"

"Bringing back the cocky hero again? How embarrassing."

"Who don't we want? Give me the verdicts."

"Don't you dare stop now!"

"I want a reason for judgment and execution."

"Give me the next target."

"Sympathy is useless."

"Hate evil as the evil that it is."

"Come on, rely on me."

"They're still here, it grates me."

#rp sentence prompts #sentence meme #rp sentence starters #sentence prompts #sentence starters #rp meme

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etxrnaleclipse · 1 year

Text

Open: m 39+ Connection:colleague (can be any kind of agent or law enforcement) From this list

"I appreciate the lift, man.” Cris knew that his luck was running out with his car, but part of him just didn’t know if it was worth spending money on a new one. Not when he wouldn’t be around much to use it. “Do you wanna come in for a drink? I got a bottle of Glenlivet for my birthday we could crack open.”

#indie rp #indie gay rp #indie crime rp #open rp #cris morales || starters

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ofmusingsxandmayhem · 2 years

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Open: any (m 40+ if romance) Connection: colleague, friend, partner etc

“What?” Cris’ voice was slightly muffled from the strings of pasta hanging from his lips as he looked at them, brow furrowing slightly. “Sure, they say carbs are evil and all that crap, but what’s the point in living if you can’t, y’know? Live.” And frankly, this was life to him - dinner from his favourite restaurant. Living on borrowed time made one appreciate the little things.

#indie rp #indie gay rp #crime rp #supernatural rp #open rp #cris morales || starters

0 notes

smolcuriouskitten · 6 months

Text

Laughing gas my ass: Starter for @nightmarefuele

Now this was her breaking point. She was supposed to stay in Gotham for about a month, to go back to her old stomping ground, for nostalgic purposes and to perform a big homecoming tour. The city's morale has been down ever since the events of the Jokers terror fest, which ended after he was thrown into one of the highest security level prisons.

Bruce insisted on a security team, saying that it wouldnt be smart to come alone. She scoffed and waved him off, after all, what are the chances of the Joker picking on her? He knew how stubborn she was, so she was irritated at him not listening to her but he could sleep knowing shes safe. The threat of the joker loomed over the horizon and it made everyone nervous but she kept a level head.

What would this lunatic possibly want with her? She stays out of trouble and last she checked, money wasnt a concern. Why bother her to hell and back? For his own amusement? For some sick twist of fate? She refused to believe it and she didnt fear him despite everyone else showing otherwise. Then cries for Batman began to come out but all of them were met with silence. Soon her dancers started to get killed or injured one by one, her rides to and from venues became a nightmare, and all the while her blood was boiling.

Then things were silent. Peaceful almost. It felt like she could breath again after her shows/parties went off without a hitch. She was too egotistical to disappoint her fans, so she refused to be ran off of the city due to a local terrorist. She has been running for most of her life and she refuses to be ran off now after working so hard to get to this point.

#playing with yarn: {ic}

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morallyinept · 3 months

Text

Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 3

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter word count: 4.9k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: Frankie and Jude both step onto the plane not knowing what awaits them. Descriptions of injury, blood, death and a plane crash.

Enjoy! 🖤

Chapter 2

Present Day...

Overhead storage on a plane is a pointless endeavour.

They say your bag has to be a certain height and width, and you go through that whole rule abiding rigmarole of sticking to a tiny bag - despite not being able to fucking pack anything of use actually in it - and the sucker still doesn’t fit in there just to spite you.

Jude shoves it with her fist, practically punching the bag in whilst having a mild breakdown in the process until she’s composed herself and slumps into the window seat and buckles in, tasting wisps of her hair in her mouth.

She’s seated at the very back of the plane; the last row that backs onto the emergency exit in coach, and will give off the subtle feculent stench of the toilets right behind her throughout the flight.

The faint cries of a grumpy toddler down the front somewhere can already be heard droning, even over the hum of the engine as the plane is loaded up with bleating passengers ready for the eighteen hour long flight.

It was an easy decision to make; an unconscious autopilot. Jude had some savings and decided to quit life for a time out and take a break from the aftermath of Nate's continuous infidelity. The destination was purely left to the spin of her old, antique globe on her desk, having racked up nearly forty-nine countries already in her career, and wherever her finger landed, that’s where she’d go.

It landed on Madagascar and that was it, decision made. Ideal opportunity for some relaxation, to forget that shit-stain Nate, and maybe take some photographs whilst she was at it. Or maybe she would just mellow out on a hammock on the beach for two weeks, forgetting the world and plying herself with strong drinks until she forgot her own name. She'd carefully packed minimal camera gear into her carry on regardless - old habits die hard and her camera was like a limb, essential.

She checks her phone one last time before switching it into flight mode. The constant barrage of calls from Nate has died off somewhat since her stark warning in the café, but he’s still haranguing her by text message, or Whatsapp, or via any other social media platform he can try and reach her on to just ‘talk to me’ or ‘give me another chance, please babe.’

But holding strong only works if she is strong. And that's questionable right about now.

The temptation to listen to him to explain his deceitfulness all over again has been there swilling around the sides of her bandaged heart and rational thinking, and rather than risk the fallout of letting the scumbag wheedle his way back in with his Machiavellian falsehoods - like he usually does knowing Jude's backbone is already at breaking point - it’s best to scarper and seek some clarity in a foreign sunny land and have some much needed alone time to regroup and plan the next course of her life, without Nate.

Plan B always sucks, but you definitely have to have one, right?

She scrolls through her Instagram feed; her thumb hovering over Nate’s profile, hesitating and then clicking on the unfollow button, followed by the block button. If there had been a button to Taser in the balls, she’d have clicked on that one too.

Jude's seat is moderately comfortable, with just enough legroom for her to sit cramped up without developing DVT. She glances around and observes fellow passengers stowing their carry-on luggage in the overhead compartments, some enduring the same frustrating battles as she did, and settling into their seats.

The air inside the cabin carries a distinct blend of aeroplane air - a mix of recycled ventilation and a hint of the disinfectant used to clean the aircraft. The subtle scent of lemons fills her nose.

She hears the gentle murmur of the flight attendants as they go through their pre-flight routine, checking the cabin, demonstrating safety procedures, and preparing for take-off. The occasional announcements over the intercom remind passengers to fasten their seatbelts, stow their tray tables, and turn off electronic devices.

The empty seat beside Jude is soon filled with a middle-aged woman embracing a plethora of gossip magazines to keep her entertained during the flight, to which she's thankful for; polite, strained conversation with a stranger that has absolutely nothing in common with you, and an unhealthy penchant for dried cheese crackers, is never an entertaining feat at thirty-odd thousand feet.

Jude simply puts in her ear buds and sets her phone’s Spotify playlist to uber loud, waiting for the classic rock tunes to fill her ears and block out anything else, and sits back in the seat shutting her eyes and grinding on her teeth.

Further down the plane in business class, Frankie drops his worn backpack at his feet whilst he fishes out the contents of his jeans pockets, glancing down at the oversized seat he’s to be glued into for the next eighteen hours or so.

Plenty of legroom is waiting for him and it’s a surprise, and a relief, that he won’t be cramped up in economy. Dustin had done him a real solid.

He zips up his pack after depositing his iPhone - which flashes up a number of unchecked voice messages from Eddie - his wallet and all manner of random things guys feel the need to carry in their denim pockets, such as crumpled bar receipts from months ago; a night out with Benny and Will and a few games of darts, and ultimately the last time he had seen Will.

Frankie’s mind casts back to them talking about how things were different now that Tom was no longer around to hold them all together. How there were less of them now to have bar nights with now that Santi was shacked up comfortably in Australia with his lady and her millions, and how Frankie had also inadvertently exchanged more of those nights out with the Miller brothers for nights alone in his Pickup with bags of powder as his only company.

As Will scratched away at the layers, trying to push his way in, conversations had turned sour about how different Frankie had seemed as his addiction metastasized; Will regarded him with a concerned look in his frosty blue eyes.

I’m worried about you, Fish. This ain’t like you.

It’s just a rough patch. I’ll get through it. I’m fine.

You’re not fine.

I’m handling it. It’s none of your business-

It is my business. I care about you. We all do. Does Carla know what's going on?

I'm dealing with stuff. It's my problem.

It stops being just your problem when it starts affecting everyone around you. We care about you, Fish. I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this.

Then fuckin' don’t! Frankie had simply snapped at him.

It followed a heated argument, a threat of spilling over into the physical when Benny warned Frankie to leave, and held his brother back as Frankie cussed him out for interfering. He usually wouldn't talk to a friend like that, the way he so belittles himself at times, and he knows that Will meant well, somewhere in the recesses of his befuddled mind.

But that’s the cost of addiction, in the end you end up with nothing and no-one.

In the aftermath of Will's expression of concern, an uncomfortable gap settled between them. It was a silence charged with the weight of unspoken truths, an acknowledgment of the growing distance that addiction was creating between Frankie and his friends. And Frankie left the bar that night to retreat into the safe confines of his own slow destruction.

In the depths of Frankie's life, an insidious force had taken root, spreading its tendrils like an unseen cancer. Addiction, the silent invader, had established its presence in the once quiet corners of his existence. It had started subtly, unnoticed - a small, hidden malignancy that grew and thrived beneath the surface.

The root of origin unknown, but the talking therapy he was forced to endure had convinced him that things had all finally gone to shit when Tom had died on that damned mission. The cherry on top of a mountainous cake of years and years of unresolved trauma carried over from his time in Delta Force.

Leaving behind the regimented world of Special Operations felt like stepping into an uncharted wilderness, once a bastion of discipline, had unfolded as a chapter of his life marked by growing solitude and abhorrent self-discovery. The decision to leave the elite forces wasn't an easy one, but it was one they all had embarked on together. Shit just got too dark.

The camaraderie that had defined his military experience became a distant echo, replaced by the isolating silence of civilian life. The transition was akin to leaving the tight confines of his cockpit and soaring into the open sky, uncertain of the turbulence that awaited.

As Frankie navigated the challenging terrain of civilian life after leaving Special Ops, his reliance on the Veterans Affairs system for support became a crucial aspect of his journey. However, what he encountered was a bureaucratic landscape that often left him feeling more stranded than supported.

The VA proved to be nothing but a labyrinth of paperwork, long wait times, and un-clippable red tape. Despite his sincere efforts to seek help, Frankie found himself grappling with a system that seemed ill-equipped to address the complexities of his post-military challenges.

He couldn't help but lean into the bitterness at how easy Will and Benny seemed to have found the transition. On the outside, their lives seemed far more rosy compared to his. They had each other to lean on, after all.

The system that was supposed to provide a safety net for veterans transitioning back to civvy life became a stumbling block, adding an extra layer of complexity to Frankie's journey. In facing the inadequacies of the VA, Frankie discovered an unexpected coping mechanism of his own which seemed to work far better - cocaine.

But it was one that spiralled out of control when he came back from Santi’s stupid mission that left him even more lost. In something he once dabbled in for a fun high now and again, albeit causing him to lose his license when he was caught smuggling it in for some extra bucks, soon became a daily habit that chipped away more pieces of him.

The bond that Frankie had sorely missed since leaving Special Ops seemed to rekindle in his connection with his sponsor Eddie for a while. Their alliance wasn't forged in the crucible of combat but in the shared struggles of recovery. The Special Ops ethos of "leave no-one behind" found new meaning in the context of addiction, and Eddie became the embodiment of that commitment.

But as Frankie delved deeper into the challenging journey of recovery, a subtle shift occurred in his relationship with Eddie. The once unwavering connection began to fray as Frankie found himself instinctively starting to avoid the very person who had been a crucial anchor in his battle.

The avoidance didn't happen overnight. It began with subtle excuses - a missed call here, an unattended meeting there. An extra shift in the workshop that soon piled on top of his already weakened shoulders. Frankie soon learned that if he kept busy, kept tinkering, kept his mind on something else other than the constant yammering thoughts about coke, then he wouldn't be tempted to give in.

Thus finding his own solution to his addiction, which was akin to slapping on a flimsy plaster over a deep gunshot wound - it would only be a matter of time before it fell off.

I care about you. But I can't stand by and watch you self-destruct like this...

Will's words linger in Frankie's memory like an indelible mark besmirching all the memories that he'd filed away as once good. He shakes his head despondently as he recalls the concern that seems to have faded into ignorance now.

It feels like a long time since Frankie's heard Will’s voice or seen his face. He bites down on the inside of his cheek.

He finds loose change, a shit ton of lint, and his sobriety coin in his pocket too. A small but potent talisman, speaking volumes about the milestones he's conquered on his journey toward recovery, even if it feels like a lead weight in his pocket most of the time.

It nestles comfortably in the palm of his hand, a tangible reminder of the strength he’s summoned to break free from the chains of addiction, even if he doesn't know where that strength has come from. Frankie knows without a shadow of a doubt that he isn't strong. Never has been.

The coin, worn smooth by the constant touch of Frankie's fingers, bears the tactile evidence of countless reflections and countless moments of considering just throwing the towel in. It doesn't seem worth it in the quiet masochistic tendrils of his thoughts.

He squeezes it in his palm tightly, feeling the indents of it bore into his skin. Six months and what does he have to show for it?

He runs his hand over the sparse layer of fluffy stubble covering his tired face, a physical manifestation of the days when self-care took a backseat to the relentless pursuit of an unyielding high, and he's just let it grow out now.

His jaw sets firm before shoving the coin back down into the trenches of his pockets and placing his bag in the spacious compartment above his head.

Frankie sits back in his seat buckling up, and a peppy stewardess, doused in way too much perfume that makes the insides of his nostrils sting and itch as he inhales, approaches him and enquires about what he would like to drink immediately after take-off.

He orders a beer and a bottle of water and sits back staring down the aisle from his single, plush seat, people watching as the other passenger’s faff around with their laptops and briefcases as they fill up the cabin, which makes Frankie feel even more like he doesn’t belong, in his scuffed jeans and faded salmon shirt and worn in cap.

As the plane begins to taxi, he looks out the window, watching the terminal and other aircraft pass by. The distant sound of luggage being loaded onto the conveyor belts and the low hum of the engines create a sense of morbid anticipation; a feeling that causes his fingers to shake as he balls them into a fist and takes a calming breath.

The cabin lights dim slightly as the plane approaches the runway, and Frankie settles in, ready for the long, arduous journey ahead.

Hours later into the flight, Jude stirs in her seat with the heavy feeling swelling in her bladder again, and excuses herself to her fellow passenger, who is crunching loudly on the unbuttered crackers, so she can get up to pee.

Well aware that this is the fourth such instance and that she’s probably annoying the fuck out of the woman, but when you gotta go, you gotta go.

The plane judders slightly as she makes her way towards the tiny cubicle that smells of stagnant piss. The mirrored panel above the sink reflects a condensed version of Jude’s image. She catches a glimpse of herself - perhaps a bit dishevelled from the hustle of the day's travels thus far - but something else lingers in her worn features.

Her reflection is sleepy in the small mirror and the heat of her cheeks paramount as she’s been overheating in her sweater whilst snoozing. She removes it, leaving her in a flimsy t-shirt, and sits down on the toilet staring at her battered Chuck Taylors and thinking idly that it’s probably time for a new pair soon.

Washing up, she glances at her reflection again, revealing the innate vulnerability she’s been trying to hide that hits her. It’s been a minute, since the break-up, that she really stopped to take herself in.

Pronounced tears well up in her eyes. She leans against the cold, metal interior of the cubicle, her breath shaky and uneven. The subtle vibrations from the plane match the tremors of her own emotional upheaval as it pours out of her, seemingly from nowhere.

Vile images of her and Nate in happier times plague her thoughts like sharpshooters as it all crumbles away. It was all bullshit wrapped up in pretty crepe paper bows.

The metallic surfaces seem to close in around her, mirroring the claustrophobic ache shoved in her chest where a heart once beat. Tears stream down her face, leaving streaks of mascara like war paint on her cheeks. The mirror, once a reflection of ordinary moments, now bears witness to the shattered remnants of her composure.

Jude’s hands tremble as she clutches at the sink, knuckles turning white with the force of her grip to stop her from collapsing onto the floor and screaming unrestrained like the toddler down the front of the cabin.

Her body convulses with the force of her sobs as she throws her arm over her mouth to muffle them, fingers clenching into fists, nails biting into the palms of her hand. It's a gut-wrenching, primal expression of heartache, the kind that leaves no room for pretence or restraint.

The slow, tumultuous purging of that asswipe out of her blood. Or at least the start of it anyway. It pulses through her veins like poison. Disbelief, heartbreak, and the indignant rage that comes with the sting of betrayal flood through her limbs; a future paradise shattered into a million fragments as she envisions punching the mirror in - she can’t bear looking at her face anymore.

The restroom seems to close in around her, mirroring the suffocation she felt when confronted with the undeniable truth fucking into another woman in their bed. A truth she had always known, but perhaps ignorance really was bliss for a while.

And where has that got you?

With shaky determination, she wipes away the evidence of her breakdown, acutely aware that the scars of betrayal will linger long after the tears have dried, a harsh velocity of time she’ll have to endure and navigate through.

Once back in her seat, her sweater stuffed in the overhead with her crushed bag, Jude glances out the window at the billowy dark gray clouds that are passing underneath the plane mirroring her own self-contempt.

She sees lightning flashes pulse like a camera now and again and rolls her eyes with a deep lacerating sigh. The plane rumbles once more.

It better be fucking hot when we land...

She asks for a bottle of still water from the passing flight attendant to refresh her cottonmouth, but they return with sparkling instead. Before she can ask for another, the attendant disappears off, hurrying down the aisle out of sight, and she’s left to make do with a tight frown.

Sparkling water tastes like licking TV static; such a pointless endeavour, but Jude drinks it anyway, the woman sitting next to her eyeing her oddly as she makes disgusted noises whilst swallowing it down.

Frankie sips at his third beer quietly as he watches a lame comedy film, that doesn’t even make him snicker once, on the screen to the right of his seat; his headphones plugged into it so only he can hear the sound.

He watches without any real enthusiasm, trying to pass the inevitable boredom that accompanies most of the commercial flights he’s endured in his life.

He’s still feeling jangled and all manner of anxiousness swills around him about being somewhere hot and isolated sooner rather than later, so he can throw himself into some work with helicopters - which admittedly has been something he’s looked forward to since Dustin mentioned it - and to forget his troubles and woes for a short time. A rest and recharge of those Morales batteries that have been running on empty for a long time.

His mind does that ominous thing of wandering into territories it shouldn't just to mess with him, and he realises he hasn’t heard from Carla at all since she’d left. He wonders if she had indeed been back to his apartment and cleared it of all her belongings; erasing herself from his life as though she was never there to begin with.

He’d arranged with Benny to be there, albeit through short, clipped texts, to ensure she didn’t cut up his clothes or destroy his shit like some warped revenge fantasy that women harbour when they feel they’re slighted.

It seems weird to think of her now as merely an ex too. At one point Carla was his better half, he’s sure of it. The half of him that propped him up. Frankie engages in unspoken conversations with the ghosts of his past love. Imaginary dialogues played out in the confines of his mind, expressions of sentiments left unsaid.

And it still seems odd to put it together and work out where things had gone so drastically wrong between them to the point they had ended up so far off course.

But he knows why. Knows it’s him. It's all his fault. All she did was have the audacity to love and care for him, and that makes it all the worse somehow.

He finishes his beer a little later, feeling slightly gassy as the bubbles rumble under his sternum, and it's soon cleared away by the pretty steward who offers him another, but he declines reaching for the bottle of water instead and holding in a fizzy belch inside his cheeks until she leaves.

The plane jolts again; this time a little heavier and the steward grips the back of the seat in front of him to stay upright. The smile on her face reassures him it’s just normal turbulence and she then continues on her way with his empty beer bottle back down the aisle; his eyes drop to her ass absentmindedly, tightly bound in her skirt.

Frankie's just swallowed another mouthful of water when the plane judders harshly again and this time his stomach goes with it completely. The seat belt sign flashes on and he looks up at it and its faint yellowing light seems like it’s burning slowly into his retinas.

While Frankie maintains an outward appearance of relaxation, a mild concern lingers in the background. The rhythmic bumps of turbulence become a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the skies; a reality he’s intimately acquainted with from his days in the cockpit himself.

But his eyes, scanning the cabin for the reactions of fellow passengers, reflect a nuanced awareness of the situation. The subtle tightening of his grip on the armrest betrays the reflex of a seasoned aviator attuned to the gradations of flight, even when occupying a passenger's seat.

The plane shakes harshly again and the heavy, grating sound cuts through all rational thinking.

It takes him a moment to register the sounds of screaming, and the sensation that the plane is now descending - and descending real fast.

Frankie looks down the aisle and sees the pretty steward with the ass on the floor in a heap before he’s blinded by the oxygen mask falling into his face.

The seat belt sign flashes on and although Jude’s already buckled in tight, the passenger beside her stands up and heads off towards the toilet, she can only assume. There’s always one, isn’t there?

Sighing, she rests her head back against the headrest and shuts her eyes, letting the loud guitar riffs fill her ears.

The unexpected jolting and commotion as though the plane is dipping forwards a mere few seconds later causes Jude to yank her ear buds out of her ears, one of them rolling out of her grip onto the floor, to be met with the sounds of screaming and hysteria.

The heavy resonances of the turbines and engines whirring seem to shriek behind her at a deafening pitch, and the smell of aviation fuel and burning wafts into her nose sharply.

Jude pushes against the seat in front of her with both hands for support as the plane takes a nose-dive forward on a dangerous slant; a wayward drinks trolley shifts past her sight down the aisle, clattering and making a hell of a racket as it goes.

The oxygen mask flaps in front of Jude’s face and she’s not sure how long it’s been there. She scrambles for it, panicking and fastening the elastic around the back of her head. Her fellow cracker addict is still nowhere to be seen.

Jude glances quickly out the tiny window again and the sight of the ocean coming up fast is the last thing she sees before it all goes black.

When a plane hits a body of water, it invariably breaks apart.

The fuselage splits, the wings crack, practically disintegrating for all intents and purposes, and the tail often breaks off completely. Essentially, it shatters fully on impact and often the fuel tanks will explode.

When a plane hits water, an incompressible fluid, the water hits back at it and causes the aircraft to decelerate. That's all fine and dandy for the plane, but your body is still "flying" at the same speed as the plane was before it hit water, and well... objects inside the fuselage becoming embroiled in a kinetic tornado, are about to make you decelerate too, in a very violent way.

Let’s do the maths, shall we? The equation F=maF=ma simply means that for constant mass, FF is proportional to aa, and so a bigger aa also means a bigger FF. A bigger FF doesn't sound too good, does it?

Did you get that? No, me neither. Basically, you’re up shit creek without a paddle.

Most passengers on the plane will die from blunt head trauma. If they’re lucky it will be quick. A quick bop and you’re gone bye-bye so to speak. Some will be fortunate enough to pass out before their inevitable death through sheer terror alone - lucky bastards.

If you haven’t died before or after impact, your chances of survival then become bleaker as time wears on. Head trauma is the most common fatal blunt injury in a plane crash, followed by injuries to the chest and the abdomen.

Thirty-six per cent of head injuries, and twenty-seven per cent of chest injuries will have associated cervical and thoracic spine fractures, respectively. A slow, painful death would await you as you suffer from internal bleeding. And that’s before you drown.

Remember, you’ve just crashed into the ocean, bub.

It’s all very doom and gloom isn’t it? But Frankie’s flight is currently in pieces, some aflame, and he’s swimming against the current, equally difficult because the impact has created a swirling whirlpool that keeps trying to pull him under within the vicinity of the main body of the plane.

His long arms are striding away and he splutters and coughs as he’s pulled under constantly despite being an adept swimmer.

His skin is burning around his neck; he can see a slick, shimmering gloop mixing in the water’s surface all around him and the stench of aviation fuel and barbecued skin fills his nostrils.

He turns back to see the water literally on fire, and is convinced he can hear some distant screams for help, before he dives under and swims away from the fires before he burns up with them.

His ears are ringing, his sight is blinded continually by water splashing over his face whenever he surfaces for air, and as he swims away to a safe distance, that’s when the shock bites into his body and begins the slow onslaught of trying to drown him.

The freezing stab of the water is what rouses Jude awake and she’s still fastened in her seat; the water pooling at her ankles, soaking into her battered Converse and rising.

She’s unaware at first that blood is blinding her right eye, as she rips off the oxygen mask and claws at her seat belt to unbuckle it frantically.

Oh God! Oh God! Oh Shit!

Jude glances across the aisle and half of the cabin is missing; she gasps out as she can see a couple of the passengers slumped over in their seats, but the rest of them are gone.

She can no longer hear the screaming toddler piercing her ears.

The water is rising fast and is covering her thighs now. She stands up on jellified legs and rushes to the passenger opposite and tries shaking him awake, but he’s unresponsive.

She tries another, but it’s fruitless. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows they’re already gone, but it takes her body a moment to catch up. She wipes at her face and the slick, ruby red that coats her palm panics her further as she observes her trembling hand that now looks like she’s wearing a scarlet coloured latex glove.

But there’s no time to dwell on the root of that blood loss now; the water is already up to her hips.

She wades towards the side of the fuselage in big, quick strides, climbing over seats with limp bodies strapped into them, and takes a deep breath before she jumps into the water on the other side of the gaping tear in the cabin.

Jude cries out as she feels something sharp rip at the back of her calf as she plops ungracefully into the water and begins to swim away, grunting and gasping with sheer terror.

Swim! Swim, come on!

She can smell burning and turns back momentarily to see flames on the water in the distance making the horizon wobbly and opaque through the smoke. She tries to call out for help, but she’s certain no-one is alive to hear her; her mouth keeps filling with rancid sea water as she splashes about frantically.

Jude bobs around on the ocean’s surface, her arms and legs kicking and keeping her afloat and calling out again for help. She shouts as loudly as she can, but is met with no response.

Whimpering, she latches onto a nearby piece of scorched debris and clings onto it for dear life. She wipes her face again and more blood rinses off in her hand. She feels all around her head and the searing pain makes itself known at the top side of her right temple in her hair line, just above her ear.

Shit!

Bewildered and panicking further in the process, Jude tries to scan the horizon behind her to see if there is anything, anyone; a hint of land perhaps that she can swim towards.

The thought of barely floating here on the ocean’s surface holding onto a small piece of rubble to keep her suspended births all sorts of nightmarish outcomes that her brain processes in a quick blur; the most notable being a shiver of sharks circling her below because they can smell her blood from miles away.

Her body is buffeted by the currents, causing her to grip onto the makeshift float desperately until she can't feel her fingers anymore, but the numbness doesn’t register.

Her heart races, pounding against her chest. In the midst of the chaos, a primal instinct for survival kicks in. She scans the vast ocean, searching for signs of rescue, grappling with the overwhelming uncertainty of her situation.

The taste of salt on her lips, the sting of the wind against her face, and the weight of her own mortality converge in a disorienting mix of sensations that render her still, frozen in her own paralysis of fear.

There’s nothing as far as the eye can see; absolutely nothing at all except for the burning plane wreckage that makes Jude’s wide eyes glow in terror.

To be continued...

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deceptacons-a · 1 year

Text

# 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒. an independent original character, august hayward, set within the action / thriller / crime genre. as loved by 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔞 ( ᵗʷᵉⁿᵗʸ² | ˢʰᵉ ⁺ ᵗʰᵉʸ | ᵃᵉˢᵗ ). 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 !!!

╰ ⅋̲ 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 : finding yourself within 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙙 complex, this 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 will either free you or drown you / absolution is always one step ahead, the ˢʰⁱᵗ, ˢʰᵒᶜᵏ ⁺ ʰᵒʳʳᵒʳ !! curiosity leading down back alleys desperate to outrun the cries left behind, surviving by the 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙝, waiting for the sun to arrive over the horizon; what is my worth 𝙰𝙵𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙱𝙻𝙴𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶.

　　　　　　　 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃. 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓. 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐘.

001. this is a semi - private, independent & mutually exclusive blog featuring a fandomless, original character - august hayward. with inspiration from a wide range of different mediums, fit to suit the neo noir, kitchen sink drama + crime genre. unless stated otherwise, everything is of my own creation, do not attempt to steal or replicate.

002. this is a plot - centric blog as i enjoy plotting dynamics, possible threads, etc. i love plotting all & any dynamics, adding layers & seeing where chemistry goes. romantic ships will not be written with any mun or muse under the age of twenty1 & will be promptly blocked. open starters + memes will be readily available as icebreakers

003. due to the themes & genre conventions, as well as this being a character study of august, the following will be explored & can possibly be trigger but will be tagged as such: death, emotional & physical trauma, parental neglect, drug use, murder, crime, ptsd, morality, blood & violence & british accents.

004. will absolutely not interact with genderbent muses, or muses that represent/explore harmful ideologies (n/zis, r/cists, h/mophobes, ab/lists, etc). i won't interact also with problematic, deceased or underaged fcs, those who write incest/stepcest, rape, antisemitism, or anything harmful towards minors.

#pinned.

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hereliesbitches--me · 1 year

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“You were crying in your sleep.”

Noticed Trauma Starters (ALWAYS ACCEPTING)

When Rosita Roselyn was a child, she was known for being a weak and timid cry baby. Or so her mother often scolded her for. A child who cried when she was screamed at, cried when she fell, and cried when she was alone. Always too emotional, always too fragile, not built to survive in this world.

She cried when her best friend withered away slowly and died in her arms, deformed and unrecognizable by time. Unnatural and Wrong. Then she just never cried again.

That is the first thing they break out of you when you join the UNSC. Because crying was for the weak, for those who will die -- you had to learn early on to cry was to only waste the tears. It helped her to cope, thinking that way. But at the same time it felt like all the tears she had to shed had died with little Kyle.

To be an ONI officer was to learn that knowledge is power and your body was an expendable weapon like all tools in the trade. As a 17 year girl, she didn’t cry when she was laid out beneath an insurrectionist waiting for the ODST who had come too late. It was just another job. She didn’t cry when Nova beat the stutter out of her and put out her cigarettes on her hand and arms just to make her tough. It was was needed to be done. When the covenant war began, the time of tears was truly no more. Too much death, and not enough tears to spend. She didn’t even cry finding out Kyle, the real Kyle, had in fact lived, and suffered a great deal without her. After years of suffering that plagued their universe, Rosie thought herself the ideal Intelligence agent who smiled in agony and laughed in fear. She led Spartans II to their victories, and some to their demise, but still for their sake and morale she had no place for tears when they all needed a stone.

But even stones have to crack. Not even planets could be saved. She though Rosita Roselyn had died with the little boy she thought to be her best friend -- Truth was, she died with the rest of her family and friends on that day. Burning, screaming, not a soul to hear it. Madrigol glassed. Nobody had ever stood a chance..

When the news had arrived through the vine, it settles into her slow and agonizing. The chilling reality that now there really was no home to turn back to crept on her like frostbite climbing through the nerves. At first she felt nothing ; Disbelief, denial, perhaps shock. Shock had become such a welcome response to trauma in her that it stunted her emotional and physical response to a variety of pains. In her mind her first instinct was to think of her Spartans, to think how Kyle would respond to the news, and how she would have to react accordingly to soften that blow for him. The UNSC had already stolen his life from him for the sake of service, for the sake of Humanity, and for all the good he did, it wasnt enough to protect his parents from their greatest enemy. She hadn’t done enough to protect her mother, and her father suffered that death because Rosie was negligent in being a dutiful daughter.

Still, she had no place to cry... She wasn’t the only one to have lost her family. An entire planet... with people who probably had friends and family on other colonies, in the service, who all probably think the same thoughts she did as they stand there digesting the cold reality of how short life is in war times. They would all be crying.... but tears don’t win wars. Tears don’t make it better. Soldiers like her don’t cry anymore. They plan a counter and act.

Her silence was to be expected, however in the coming days there was too much to be planned that would not afford a second of rest. Accounting dead, amassing data for their next place to make their alien enemies rue the day they fucked with humanity. She may have kept a close eye on Kyle and the team, trusted that the Spartans would do good in keeping their brother afloat in their time of grief, Rosie’s place was among the generals and fleets for their next strike. She’d work for days and would be seen very little.. until even she burned out. In the realm of the living, Agent Valentine was in perfect control of her emotions -- smiling and pleasant and deceptively clever behind her cute short physique -- She had no real control of what her body did while she sleeps. She had a bad habit of curling up in random corners where she wouldn't be found and letting herself cave there. She forgets John-117 had come to know her and her habits just as well as she knew her Spartans.

In her dreams, Rosie thinks back on the very last memories she had in her childhood home, shared with her mother and father before they split ways over her. She remembers most the beaches... the water so clear the child she was thought she could see beneath the waves for miles. The little fish that swam in the shallows and nipped at their toes. In her dreams she remembers the warmth of sunshine as she splashed and chased her little best friend on the shoreline, the both of them laughing and rolling through sand until the sun set on the horizon. Camellia, her mother with her same face, stood at the doorway of their beach home as Roland shuffled down the scrub grass with the Reyes parents to collect the two children worn out by their play. The feeling of sand and dried salt sticking to the skin as Rosie lay in a sandy waterhole with little Kyle is one she could never replicate. Her father was younger in those days, not yet salt and peppered by the stress of political affairs, and his smile held the warmth of a thousand suns. He chuckled down at the little girl, and in the dream his voice and laughter echoed and engraved itself into her bones and mind.

“ Are you ready to go home, sweet girl?” Roland spoke softly, teasingly as he squatted down in the sand to grab her. From her peripherals she watches Kyle’ s father scoop up the sleeping toddler and carry him a way with a farewell to herself and Roland. Rosie turns her head up to see her father so close, she can smell that vintage cologne he liked as he hooked his hands beneath her chubby arms. She raises her ups up to be lifted, gripping his shirt and peering up at his face as he looks down upon her with the look of fond admiration -- suddenly he wasn’t moving. Rosie sat there in his arms, anticipating, confused, watching as his mouth moved to say her name but the rest of him did not.

“ Rosie... Rosie..” The hands that held her shook her lightly, then the corners of her dream began to distort. So did her father’s voice. In a panic fear began to climb in the girl’s throat and thunder in her little heart as a blackness splintered the frame of her colorful world and her father’s voice grew distant. Why did he sound so far when he was so close? Again, he repeated her name, his voice warping with every rattle of her small frame, more aggressive than the last, “ Rosie, you have to wake up.. You have to..”

Her world went black

Rosie jolted, gasping in terror as she woke up in pile of paperwork and files. Her heart thundered in her chest just as it had been in the dream, the adrenalin of fear caused her body to tremble with the initial disorientation of suddenly awaking. She stared at the ground and took seconds to familiarize herself with the scene ; Papers lay beneath her shaking hands, their image blurry as her head senselessly sways from side to side... a few more seconds, blinking in hopes that the image clears, but the hand that touches her cheeks realizes why its not. Her face is hot and wet with what she can only assume are tears. Her fingers wipe the edge of her eyes just enough to clear her vision, her hands then simply fall limp on the table when she sits up. At some point she must have fallen asleep on her mission details... and now they were all smudged with her tears and drool. Fear is slow to subside, in its place finds exhaustion, exasperation, and annoyance. “ God fucking...” She starts to mutter, before she realizes there is a weight and warmth on her shoulder. How long had that been there? Ignoring the pain in her neck, Rosie numbly tilts her head and peers up to find Chief standing there with his usual observant (as she likes to call it) expression. Her neck bones pop as her head falls back, she remains staring a few seconds, before she wills a bashful smile onto her face, “ Oh, hey John... How long have you been there?” She laughs, hollow and perfectly practiced, snapping her head back down to wipe her cheeks in her palms, “ God im such a mess, im asking for scoliosis at this rate if I keep falling asleep at the --”

“You were crying in your sleep.”

John stops her mid sentence, as curt and straight forward as he always is... Rosie finds her mouth to shut quick. For a moment she seems suspended there, looking down at her tingling hands as the the numbed nerves are slow to awaken in them. She says nothing at first, debating her response, before her lips curl again and she muses out a chuckle,

“ I dont think I was, John. I think I was drooling really bad... In my dream, you see, I was having a feast before you woke me... I must have just been so hungry in the real world I salivated enough to cover my whole face...”

#:V: Only the Strongest Will Survive (Halo):#117s #:answered:#:The Unbreakable Sphinx (Rosie Valentine):#sorry this took so long but LETS GOOO

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