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 m i s t a k e s, jem / forest
chris james carter
 Posted on: Dec 11 2017, 07:40 AM
the sensor
❝ Fuck me the fuck up. ❞
animated original
23
6'2"
touch
swinging
58

sam



i've made my mistakes
He was very good at stupid decisions. In fact it could probably be considered a staple of his personality. It wasn't that he was inherently an idiot, no matter how dumb he liked to think he was, Chris was rather intelligent. He simply had no sense of personal safety and self-preservation. His mouth was always running even when it shouldn't be, and he enjoyed getting into fights even if it was plainly obvious that he couldn't possibly win them. While this hadn't killed him just yet, it had gotten him pretty damn close to death's door. How many fights had he gotten himself into in the past year alone? How many hospital visits had he been forced to make? He'd lost count somewhere, but his body was keeping a nice running tally for him either case. Signs of long-time abuse littering his skin and x-rays; healed fractures, fading scars. The stab wound in his torso would be the newest addition to his long list of injuries, and possibly the worst he'd had in a long time. He'd been in enough ambulances and hospital rooms to know when something was serious. Even if he joked and laughed about it the entire trip to the hospital, and teased the hot nurses when they gave him the least bit of attention. A flurry of activity had built up around him as doctors raced to patch up the wound before the bleeding got any worse, unaware that his lack of pain wasn't a symptom of the damage.

He'd denied morphine and any other pain medication, even went so far as to tell them that he was allergic to anesthesia. A blatant lie if there had ever been one. Honestly? He hated hospitals, but he hated being under the influence of something in a hospital even worse. The idea of the world slipping away from him left a sour taste in his mouth, and while looking up to see the doctors and nurses rushing back and forth around him brought to mind some unpleasant memories- nobody said he actually had to look. He'd let the world fade as they'd laid him out on the operating table. The only senses still active being his sense of hearing and his sense of taste; even smell was shut off to avoid the strong over-clean hospital stink. The coiling smell of sickness and antiseptic that was just as unwelcome as looking up into the eyes of a random nurse or doctor with half their face covered. He could hear them working, knew that they'd numbed the area with Novocaine, but they still marveled at his lack of reaction. The knife wound had missed anything vital but it had caused some damage that would have been a lot worse had he attempted to pull it out ( or let his attacker yank it free ) in the alley way.

Once the surgery was done and he was 'fixed' he wanted out. He'd tried at least twice already to get them to discharge him, and a third time to outright escape. Especially after the cops showed up to ask him questions about the attack and what the guy looked like. He had no problems describing the asshole down to the smell of his clothes, but he also didn't want to be laying around in case the cops realized he was...well, himself. It's not like he exactly had a good track record with them. He'd been lucky that this particular pair hadn't recognized him on site or been the ones who usually get sent to his hospital calls to get a statement. They'd left without a fuss, but Chris couldn't help but feel like the walls were closing in on him.

"C'mon please, I feel great. I can go." Not that he felt anything at all. Even the lingering fear at realizing he almost died was gone. All he felt was the blissful numbness of having his sense of touch turned off but he knew that that would only last so long. Eventually he'd forget why he had it off in the first place and he'd get a painful reminder that he had a pretty large-ass knife shoved just north of one of his kidneys.

Considering how often he was in this situation it was only a matter of time before he had to put someone on his emergency contacts. He recognized Jem's footsteps before he heard her voice, and couldn't help but shrink himself down on the bed just a little bit. One hand pressing over his wounded side as thought that would somehow hide the thick bandages wrapped around his torso. "He's lucky, the knife just barely missed any vital organs. A little more in any direction." He could hear the doctor on the other side of the door and couldn't help rolling his eyes, almost calling out bullshit as he did. "He keeps trying to leave, maybe you can convince him to stay? His stitches could burst and make things worse if he doesn't get bed rest."

A groan, before he perked up as Jem finally entered the room. "I told them not to call you." Brows furrowing, "I'm fine, okay? They just won't let me leave." Had he almost died? Technically. He was fine now, the only problem he had was that he hated hospitals and the fact that he was stuck here just made his anxiety grow stronger. The exact reason he wasn't comfortable in a hospital might be locked somewhere in the back of his mind where memories are fuzzy and almost non-existent, but the feeling they caused wasn't. It was present and at the forefront of everything, causing a growing sense of discomfort and unease that made him shift in his bed.

TAG: FOREST WORDS: 961

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jemima rhian blackwood
 Posted on: Dec 11 2017, 02:04 PM
emotion snatcher
❝ THERE IS DIRT ON HER SKIN AND WAR IN HER EYES AND YOU WISH YOU’D NEVER TAUGHT HER HOW TO PULL A TRIGGER; YOU WISH YOU’D NEVER TAUGHT HER HOW TO BURY HER LOVE. ❞
hell, probably
24
5'8"
ANYONE
UNFAITHFUL
61

Forest



JUST ANOTHER DRESSED-UP HEARTBREAK

As much as Jem would have liked to say she was surprised when she got the call from the hospital, she wasn’t. Even from the start, if she slowed down long enough to think about what she and her partner in crime were doing with their lives, she knew that their paths were not sustainable, that they couldn’t keep going this way without some kind of accident. It wasn’t something that she thought of often – in fact, it was the sort of thing she had tucked deep in her subconscious as she continued to do exactly the sort of thing that could get her into trouble – but somehow she had always known that the more risks they took, the closer they came to disaster. They both lived the sort of lifestyle that made them feel like they were on top of the world, invincible; they drank and partied and bedded whoever they wanted whenever they wanted. They rode Jem’s motorcycle too fast down darkened streets without helmets, Chris’ hands wandering over Jem’s body as she took turns too sharply and let the rush of adrenaline take her. Chris readjusted his senses however he wanted, to tune out the negative and accentuate whatever felt good, whatever that was in the moment. Jem removed whatever emotions she didn’t want to feel and kept them bottled in the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror, carefully labeled and organized, but quickly pushed from her mind once the deed was done. She had reached the point where, when the feeling of guilt was anything more than a dull ache, it felt unbearable, overwhelming – the first and most prominent sign of addiction that Jem had been ignoring for entirely too long. Somewhere, deep inside, her body was screaming for a change, for her to listen and try, and she’d ignored it far too long.

Perhaps that’s what the call from the hospital was – a wake up call. Though she’d known all along something like this would happen to either her or Chris, she hadn’t been directly confronted with that thought until now. Until the nurse told her in a calm, flat voice that Chris was in surgery for a stab wound to his torso and that he’d lost a lot of blood, and, for a moment, she had gone completely numb, her fingers nearly releasing her phone to clatter to the floor as she began to shake. Was it shock? Yes. But was she really surprised? No. It was the thought of it that terrified her – the thought of Chris’ face, the features that she was so familiar with, always so full of life, going blank and white. The hands that had touched her and held her, that she’d slapped away some days and held in her own others, going cold. The knowledge that he would turn off his sense of touch and smile all the way til the end, never knowing how close he was to death until it took him. God, she hated him and his power – he could ignore anything he wanted to, including the pain that was supposed to signal danger, and she was relieved that someone must have called an ambulance for him, knowing that he wouldn’t have taken the wound seriously unless he had to. And what if he’d tried to come home? Would he have made it? She suddenly realized that she wouldn’t have thought much of his absence for the first couple of days. Both of them had had multi-night stands that kept them too occupied to contact the other, and she would have simply assumed someone interesting had picked him up. The truth would be that he was lying dead somewhere in the city, and she wouldn’t have even thought to look for him until it was entirely too late.

Did she love him? The question seemed moot at this point, even stupid as she scrambled to find her motorcycle keys and make her way to the hospital, heart racing, blinking away tears that held both fear and anger in tiny silver packages. Of course she loved him, that six foot two inch lump of cockiness and kinks. He was a fucking idiot, but he was her fucking idiot, and she loved him in the only way she knew how. Her love was not soft, all sharp edges and cutting words, punches on the arm and well-aimed insults, but it was love nonetheless, and in this moment she was terrified. She raced to the hospital, parked her bike, and, for once, didn’t even fix her hair as she ran, helmet tucked under her arm, up to the front desk. “Where is he? Where’s Chris?” she demanded, her voice sounding higher and more uncertain than usual, but she didn’t care. The nurses calm tones were infuriating, and part of her just wanted to shake them and scream, but she resisted as best she could, focusing instead on giving them the ID they asked for and following their instructions on how to get to Chris’ room. She wanted to see him immediately, but his doctor stopped her at the door, and she chewed on her lip as he explained the situation. She was supposed to convince him to stay where he was, because apparently he’d been trying to escape since he got out of surgery. “Oh, he won’t be leaving,” she replied, anger flaring in her chest at this news. “I’ll make sure of that.”

If the doctor said anything more after that, it was lost on her as she threw open the door and rushed in, throwing her helmet unceremoniously into a chair. “You’re fine?! Really?! What the fuck, Chris – you’re a fucking idiot!” She could feel the tears prickling the backs of her eyes as she made her way to the side of his bed, eyes settling on the bandages that covered his wound. She wanted to slap him so much, but she knew it was useless – he would have turned off his sense of touch the minute the blade cut through his flesh, and he wouldn’t turn it back on now. “You could have died! You had to have surgery to patch everything up, and if that knife had moved it could have cut into an organ! You are not fine! She noticed then that a few tears had escaped down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with a quick, rough swipe of her hand. She rarely cried, but she couldn’t help it – memories of losing her parents swept through her, and she knew she could have lost Chris, her best friend. She wanted to say more, but suddenly she didn’t know what – she was losing steam as she looked down at him, so pathetic and bandaged in the bed before her. She let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob, punching him carefully in the shoulder. “You could have died, you fucking idiot,” she repeated again, her strength failing her as she crumpled against him, sitting on the edge of his bed and folding across him, pressing her forehead against his chest. “You could have died…” ( And I could have lost you. )

chris james carter | 1192 WORDS | there's my girl.
^
chris james carter
 Posted on: Dec 17 2017, 09:20 PM
the sensor
❝ Fuck me the fuck up. ❞
animated original
23
6'2"
touch
swinging
58

sam



i've made my mistakes
He's so used to them just brushing things off. Sure this particular incident might have been marginally more serious than anything he'd gotten himself into before, but that never seemed to fully register. It was a side effect of his powers in a lot of ways. Without any pain he had no measure of what was serious and what wasn't in terms of his own body. While he couldn't blame all his reckless behaviors on the mutation that allowed him to shuffle through his senses. His nonchalance in the current situation had a lot to do with the fact that he just couldn't feel any pain. Even though he knew he was shutting off his sense of touch, every human instinct told him he was fine. After all pain was there for a reason. It was a warning to draw your hand away from a hot stove, or a signal that something was wrong. If you didn't feel pain at all...well then, nothing had to be wrong, right? It was bullshit and he knew it. The fact that he was in a hospital room and the doctors seemed adamant that he stay in that room was proof enough. Something was very very wrong, and the fact that he didn't feel it at all shouldn't have changed that.

Then she had to come in like that and the world seemed to shift to somewhere unpleasant. Up until Jem burst through the door he'd been living in a bubble of denial. One that had gone up the instant he felt the knife break skin. He was fine if only because to be anything else was too terrifying. He didn't want to think that he'd almost just died in an alleyway outside of a shitty bar. He didn't want to think about the fact that if he hadn't scared the guy off the knife would have gotten yanked out and the damage could have been a lot worse. Even then he'd come very close to bleeding out and if that girl hadn't found him when she did...well. There was a brief, unpleasant flash of lying on a metal slab in the morgue. One that made his hands move up to his chest where the largest scar rested. One look at her face and the sound of her voice made him almost want to just shut off completely. Anything to protect the wall he'd built between himself and all the unpleasant things in the world. That was another thing about being able to tune out your own senses...his tolerance for things was shit. If he didn't like something he simply tuned it out. Half the time he didn't even need to think about it, it had become so ingrained in him that it was simply reflex now. The first spark of pain and touch shut down. The first hint of an unpleasant smell and suddenly he couldn't smell at all. The same went for all of his senses.

It'd take nothing at all to just...go offline.

Except it was too late for that. The bubble was popped. The imminent danger he'd been avoiding loomed big and foreboding in the small hospital room. The expression on his face faltered and then finally fell as he shrank as deep as the shallow mattress would allow. Too shocked by the sight of her concerned rage to switch his senses off in an attempt to block everything out. They were so reckless in everything they did that it was hard sometimes to realize that there was a reason they stuck together. That he could lie to himself all he wanted but he did care about her and she cared about him. Sure it was in a fucked up sort of way half the time but her concern was more than enough to bring everything home. Reality crashing down around him and making his entire body deflate into the bed.

For the moment all Chris could do was sit in awed silence. Which was probably for the best since he felt like she needed to get all that out. Let her words run their course, and give him time to process. His own silence was uncharacteristic to say the least and it made him feel odd...like he should say or do something. Especially when she curled up on the bed next to him.

One hand moving to brush at her hair, he sucked in a momentary breath then shifted his senses once more. The result was instantaneous; he could feel pain red hot and throbbing from the wound in his side for the first time. It made him bite back a hiss as he tried to focus on her instead. The weight of her against his chest, the softness of her hair under his fingertips. "Ow, ow, ow-" he muttered, wincing and trying to shift only to freeze as it caused a fresh wave of pain to cycle through.

"But I didn't die." He muttered, and he wondered if he felt scared now? The lady in the alleyway said he'd smelled of fear...whatever that meant. "I'm alive. I'm here. I'm okay." Was the fear still there? He hoped not. Letting his head fall back on the pillows, he closed his eyes. Pain. He didn't like pain. He hated it, but he wanted to take comfort in the fact that she was so close and he couldn't do that if he had everything shut down. Even if to anyone else giving up the ability to not feel pain in favor of being able to touch someone's hair or feel the warmth of their skin hardly seemed like a fair trade.

"I'm sorry." He said finally, and because even now he couldn't find it in himself to be a hundred percent serious, he peeked down at her. "Not that we both didn't already know I'm an idiot."

TAG: FOREST WORDS: 982


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