Your touch gets me so tender, everything comes up black and blue. My heart looks like a bruise and I almost don’t mind. God, I almost don’t mind.
Trista Mateer (28 of 30)
styofa doing anything
Jules of Nature
Sweet Seals For You, Always
we're not kids anymore.

JBB: An Artblog!
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
🪼
Misplaced Lens Cap
taylor price
almost home
Game of Thrones Daily

pixel skylines
NASA

JVL
dirt enthusiast

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
trying on a metaphor
h
todays bird

blake kathryn
seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States

seen from Chile

seen from Türkiye

seen from South Korea

seen from Indonesia
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seen from United States
@mr-casey
Your touch gets me so tender, everything comes up black and blue. My heart looks like a bruise and I almost don’t mind. God, I almost don’t mind.
Trista Mateer (28 of 30)
renegades || asshole squad
“They always say they’re not gay until they are,” he winked in Corvo’s direction, allowing the implications to linger in the air as he ducked his head into the back room behind the counter. A snicker rumbled through his chest at the dark haired male’s jest. “Yeah, I borrowed them from your baby mama.” His voice rang merrily from out of sight before he finally reappeared, smirk tugging at full lips. “Right and I was a fucking girl scout.” Lifting the bolt cutters over one broad shoulder, he nodded towards a corner leading to an unseen area of the department. “That’s why I got these, unless you plan to unlock every goddamn deadbolt in this place with that cute little key.”
“Y’tryin’ to tell me we’re not ‘ere for that orgy?” A faux look of confusion grazed his facial features as he spoke; only to alter with the brief roll of his eyes and the shake of his rugged jaw. “How d’you know Gwen wears paper bags?” It was no surprise the sight before him had been ransacked dry - it was a prime place to visit first when the world had blurred moral lines. “Well, at least scouts explains why you know how to deliver a child.” With the stuffing of his hands into his pockets, Corvo slouched into his familiar position. The difference between either item the opposing men possessed was far from his concern; whichever worked was more of the importance. “As much as you two wanna compete for which works best, I’ll take whatever ends up being more useful.”
He was pulling a face at the implications. “Knew I’d never be an equal part of this little pack. Never thought sex was a requirement.” Casey shrugged it off and swung the keychain around with an air of nonchalance. “Always knew you were hot for me, Corvo. Nice to get some confirmation on that.” He raised his eyebrows, before situating himself on a desk. “Girl scout, huh? Where’s my cookies, Woods?” The bolt cutters were effective. The key was the back-up plan. Casey gestured for Logan to do the honours with a nod, while lacing his fingers around the straps of his new bulletproof vest.
@adabelcher
With his back pressed against the building, he could feel the brickwork through the fabric of his shirt. He could hear the sounds of an infant crying through the walls. It’s what kept him from knocking at the door; the reminder of it all. Nights spent with heavy eyes and tired bones, wandering into the nursery to soothe a weeping baby boy. Ada had a girl. He found himself feeling grateful for that -- he could obscure it, differentiate the two situations. He could breathe a little bit easier.
When the crying turned into a low buzz deep within his ears, he found himself rapping at the door. It opened to find the young girl, eyes a bright blue, with the baby girl balanced on her hip. Casey offered her a shy smile. The interactions had never gone further than that till now. He stepped out of the way so she could see the baby seat resting on the concrete. “I found this when I was searching through some of the cars down the main road. Cleaned it up a bit. I thought... I thought you might want to have it.”
Terra had always preferred to be by herself. Having a partner on patrol was good, but when she went out scavenging for something that was unnecessary to their survival she thought it was better to go alone. If she died for wine, it would be her fault. She had walked the three miles there and back with ease. Pain and was a wonderful supplier of adrenaline and simple I-don’t-give-a-shits. Everybody else was dead, so it could not be so bad! Maybe these thoughts came from having had half a bottle by the time she arrived back at the motel. She did not deprive herself. One of them had a child, another one soon would. Three had lovers and Terra had a dog.
She sat by the stairs outside of the motel, keeping watch. Even when there were no assigned jobs, Terra did what she had done the last year. She still felt responsible for these people. Knight on one side, a bottle of wine on the other, she took the last light of the day to read a book she had found in one of the motel rooms. It was a good distraction. Good enough for today, even though she was hardly able to make out the letters through wine-clouded eyes.
Safety meant celebration. There were a few ways this could be achieved. Sex? Checked that one off. Alcohol? With his fingers wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle, arms swinging as he traipsed back toward the motel complex, Casey checked that one off, too. It was quite the trek, but the wine cellar in the lodge was completely untouched. They’d be stocked up for a lifetime. Maybe not, with this lot of survivors -- he thought. The wine was a little rich for his taste (he preferred it cheap. Blinked and thought about Rachel clinking her glass to his over dinner, with Noah crawling up to the table.) but he chugged it down regardless. Someone else had the same idea, it seemed, as he rounded the corner to get back to his motel room. He couldn’t identify them at first, with the alcohol caught in his throat, and the exhaustion wearing on his shoulders -- but Knight, with his head resting on the concrete, made Terra recognisable through the darkness.
“Looks like I lucked out on the good reading material.” He lifted the wine bottle to his lips and took a quick swig. Had to wipe the excess with the back of his palm. “I’ve only got the Bible in my room.” Maybe he’d read about Noah’s Ark. Maybe after he met the bottom of the bottle. Casey lowered himself down onto the step, gesturing to his own bottle of wine. “Looks like we both had the same idea, huh?” Maybe it alcohol wasn’t a celebration at all. He tried not to think about it too much. Safety meant not having to think about these types of things -- not right now. Not after the day they’d had. Despite this twisted line of thinking, he still had his concerns. It was the wine that made him voice them. “Did you get hurt?”
NAME: Jake Casey
Age: 26
Origin: Reading, Massachusetts
Formerly: Elementary School Teacher
Skills: Weaponry, Combat, Communications + Diplomacy, First Aid
Jake Casey grew up in Milanville, Pennsylvania with two loving parents and an annoying older sister. His childhood was average.
The start of adolescence saw the reveal of Casey’s anger issues. He used to fight a lot in school, always came home with a black eye or bruised ribs. His mom put him into boxing classes at the local gym in an attempt to smother out his anger. His father started taking him out on his hog hunting trips, where he encouraged him to fire away at his anger. Both were successful, and both became useful at a later date, when combat and weaponry became essential skills needed to survive.
Casey moved to Reading, Massachusetts to attend Salem State University, where he got a teaching degree. It was at college that he met Rachel, a one-night-stand turned into a lifelong commitment. Her parents pressured them to marry once they were told of Rachel’s pregnancy, but Casey wasn’t too bothered by it. It didn’t take very long for him to fall in love with her.
He was only nineteen years old when their son, Noah, was born. Despite her parent’s pleas, Rachel dropped out of college before her third trimester, and spent the remaining years looking after Noah at home and working part-time at a grocery store.
After his degree, Casey started teaching at the local elementary school. He mainly taught second graders. When Noah came of age, he attended the same elementary school, and Casey got to teach his son.
Getting married so young and after such a short little time, they found it easy to argue. A few months before the outbreak of the infection, they were close to reaching a breaking point. Despite it all, the fighting and hushed arguments in the middle of the night, Casey loved Rachel. And he loved Noah. He loved his family more than anything.
THE DISCOVERY
Casey was setting up for the next day’s activities in his classroom when the infection hit town. Rachel was working late, so Noah was stuck in after-school-care. Casey was sitting at his desk when one of his favorite students entered the classroom, feet shuffling against the linoleum, half the flesh from her face torn. She attacked Casey—and it was the adrenaline that drove him to fight her back. A seven-year-old girl, moaning and teeth clicking. Casey had to kill her, slammed her head into a desk and watched as the brain matter spilled onto the floor. Shaken, stricken with fear for his son out in the yard, Casey left the building in search for Noah.
It was absolute hell out in the school yard. Little kids chasing teachers. Blood and moans. Screaming. Casey caught sight of his son across the quad, ran towards him, ducking around clickers and flying bullets. He was only a few meters away when he noticed Noah’s face half-sunken, clothes torn and bloody, eyes a scary hue. It was before he could reach him that another teacher struck out with a baseball bat against his son, and he was falling to the ground. His brains, his life, splattered out onto the pavement. Casey couldn’t see, blinded by rage and adrenaline, as he snatched the baseball bat from the teacher’s hand and pummelled him into the same fate as his infected – and now dead – son.
He carried his body, limp and lifeless, back to the house. His wife, Rachel, was huddled in a corner, his rifle clutched to her chest. Her sobs echoed through the house. She struck his cheek, over and over, and he allowed it, the guilt eating at his insides.
Soon after that she was gone. Fled with a bunch of non-infected people in town, leaving Casey to fend for himself. For the first few days, he sat there, rocking back and forth with his mangled son in his arms. Once he started hearing noises, clickers creeping up to his house, his survival instinct finally kicked into gear. He packed up the remaining supplies within the house, grabbed some ammo from the shed and headed off out into the unknown.
He spent months travelling with a variety of people; women, men, children. People from all walks of life. The one constant he had was a group of people he found on the border of Seattle. They spent a lot of time together, over two months, were starting to build up a small camp deep within the forest. Everybody looked to Casey for leadership and advice. His past experiences since Massachusetts allowed his growth. He didn’t like killing people, but he knew it was a necessity. It was the end of the world, after all. He still had full faith in humanity and hope, surrounded by this group of people, until it abruptly ended.
An enemy clan, run by Xavier Maverick, he later discovered, came through and tore them down. Some were slaughtered, others fled. Casey was left alone, left running. For a few weeks he survived on his own, eating squirrel and anything else he could find. He was basically left without supplies or companionship.
It was early morning when he saw the smoke in the air, sounds of gunfire. Fire crackling in the distance. He followed it; found a gated community. He hadn’t experienced such a thing since before the outbreak. Desperate, wondering how much longer he could survive by himself, he called out and was greeted by the citizens of Fall City.
The safe haven he found in Fall City was short-lived. A week he indulged in cooked meals and hot showers; made a few connections with people before the bombs levelled the town and surrounding area. He broke off with a small group of survivors. They found refuge in a warehouse, where Casey was figured as the leader of the clan. A midnight stroll with Lexie Rivera had them stumbling upon a hospital deep past the forest – the newest place in which they found sanctuary.
STATISTICS
Face Claim: Jesse Lee Soffer
Availability: Taken by Amanda
sad songs for dirty lovers; casey & lexie
You’re stuck with me now.
The very phrase would have once had her hightailing away from this particular vicinity; her connection to those in the apocalypse far more difficult than prior this new world. It was as if those moments, where the acknowledgement of death remained as consistent as their shadows threaded outwards from underneath their own feet, were enough to make all relationships (whether platonic or romantic) far more significant than the days of functioning humanity. Perhaps it was a trait of selfishness; appreciating the extremities of change and what came with it. Had the world not shattered within the clutches of each survivor, the stretch of her journey would have never included him; his existence unfamiliar until several months prior.
A concept, she knew, was as destined as if Ananke had forged it herself.
Her head dipped when the curvature of her spine was warmed by his own lips, to which (like a figurine attached to a spindle) she turned to line her gaze with his. The constellations which splayed across his flesh were mottled by the water above them - how the droplets were coaxed away underneath the buds of her fingertips as she drew them across his bicep. They had faded with age, no longer as tawny as those flecked across his facial features. Evidently, it had been a characteristic she adored, with her own fingers grazing against the stubble which enveloped his jawbone. Through blue eyes and the signs of survival, his traits existed to lure out one particular desire she had yet to ease into submission.
“You don’t need to thank me,” the words dismantled against his mouth with the tugging of his bottom lip between her teeth. Whatever desire had grasped her by the throat, left her consumed by unfathomable hunger, had presented itself in a light she had yet to know existed. The last time another had been unwilling to seek proximity had occurred without permission - had torn her in two and forced her to rebuild from the ashes of her remains. Thus, with slender arms coiling around his neck, she offered her trust for the taking; to break it if he so pleased.
“I want to.”
His voice was low; the water running down from the shower faucet drowning out his sounds of appreciation. He could wrap his entire palm around her ribcage, and press his lips full against the spot along her collarbone. She had her thumb grazing over the length of his jawline, while Casey tried to find his footing. Dirt circled down the drain. Lexie was tickling his bicep with her touch, and the way the water put even the smallest of distances between them. He found himself guiding them back with a step, and her backside was gently pressed up against the shower tiles.
It wasn’t only a want. This wasn’t desire. It was a need -- impermanence was everywhere, frequently curtain calling. Basic survival: food, water, shelter. Anything else was superficial or materialistic. Like Alcatraz: anything else you get is a privilege. Casey, and every other survivor that loomed about the wasteland of humanity was a prisoner to the infection. Companionship was a luxury. But this-- this right here? Basic Casey survival: food, water, shelter, Lexie. He was hoisting her up into his arms, and kissing the hair out of her face, and leaning in so close to her torso that the water droplets travelled from his skin directly onto hers. Her arms were wound around his neck. He had to take a moment to breathe through the rain, and the way she felt against his skin. His fingers ghosted over her thighs, wrapped around his waist. “D’you want to?” He needed a verbal confirmation. He needed.
Character Questions #016: Make Your Character Choose #002
mornings or nights? summer or winter? dance or running? beach or hiking? coffee or chocolate? pink or blue? ink or pencil? painting or writing? bar or restaurant? cars or bicycles? cake or pie? cats or dogs? trains or buses? roses or cacti? football match or theater?
Character Flaws && Strengths | 001
↳ Bold what applies to your muse!
╳ Flaws
moody | short-tempered | emotionally unstable | whiny
controlling | conceited | possessive | paranoid | lies
impatient | cowardly | bitter | selfish | power-hungry
greedy | lazy | judgemental | forgetful | impulsive
spiteful | stubborn | sadistic | petty | unlucky
♔ Strengths
honest | trustworthy | thoughtful | caring | brave
patient | selfless | ambitious | tolerant | lucky
intelligent | confident | focused | humble | generous
merciful | observant | wise | clever | charming
cheerful | optimistic | decisive | adaptive | calm
renegades || asshole squad
“Trust me, you won’t look more attractive than anyone when I let a clicker bite off your most appealing feature.” Logan snickered lowly at the exchange, face twisting slightly into a grimace due to Casey’s choice of nicknames as they lead the way inside. “Daddy, huh? Thanks for sharing your kink with the group, always figured you for a bottom anyway.” Fingertips began to dance along locked drawers, knowing that no officer in their right mind would have left the necessary keys simply lying around. “Terrible, we can still see your face.” Hoisting himself over yet another countertop, the tallest male began a silent descent into the back room with a half-moon smirk adorning his features. Bolt cutters… Bolt cutters… Of course. Discarded on the floor. How messy of them. “So how familiar are you two,” he announced in his return. “With the jaws of life?” Lifting up the sought after tool as a demonstration, he hopped back over the barrier between their figures.
Restraining the desire to kink-shame his friend, he welcomed the expected comment to depart from the lips of the taller male; suppressing the urging smile with a dip of his head as he pursued into the unfamiliar environment. “Speakin’ of getting laid, I’ll keep my eye out the next time we bump into some strangers. The more dominant, the better, right?” With his attention directed towards Casey, it was soon lured by the opposing end of the station and the possibility of stumbling upon something of use. From the limited weaponry they possessed, it was merely a case of taking whatever their own strength could carry. “That’s why they invented paper bags,” he called back. “I’m sure you have a few of ‘em lying around, Logan.” Despite the humour, through the narrowing of his gaze he caught sight of a rusted Swiss Army knife; some sections unusable but the entirety had yet to be coated with a sign of age. The cleaning of such a product would simply depend on their next visit to a nearby store; cola being the most desirable culprit for removing rust. “A bolt cutter? I was a delivery boy in my old life, buddy. What the hell would I need one of those for?”
They were both relentless. The comment had meant to be a light play at Corvo’s impending fatherhood, but the men twisted it, with smirks stretching across their faces. “A bottom? Guess we’ll never know, huh? Y’know, since I’m not gay.” He raised his eyebrows, pulled a face. He’d experimenting in college -- before Rachel -- but they didn’t need to know that. He was ready to justify his ‘Daddy’ comment before coming to the conclusion that the sooner he dropped it (hopefully) the sooner it’d be over and done with. He scoffed. “Like you can talk, Corv. We’ve all heard the stories.” He was skirting his fingertips across a dusty desk, trying to act casual and deflect the attention elsewhere. They disproved of his new attire. Casey quite liked it. It could come in handy. Anything to stop a bullet, or maybe even stop the tear of a clicker bite. “You two are hilarious.” Casey bit back, thumbs hooked inside the belt loop of his jeans. Bolt cutters and a rusted Swiss Army knife. Casey shrugged. His only notable (noticeable) contribution was the bulletproof vest. “Both of you talk a big game, but--” he tilted his chin toward any and all of the locked cabinets that lined the old police station. “Haven’t found any loot yet, have you?” He sat down on the edge of the desk, his hand raised in the air, as a key twirled around his fingertip.
The world cannot defeat you, unless you accept its defeat.
Imam Ali (A.S.)
sad songs for dirty lovers; casey & lexie
Melting against his touch was a simple way of describing her following reaction, how hazel eyes had closed momentarily to embrace the soothing nature of his action; tendrils of dark hair interlacing out against her flesh - the stench of it no different than that of the decay which had varnished the mutated. No matter the gesture, whether it be the mere knotting of her hair behind a single ear or the unspoken acknowledgement of his refusal to leave her to face this world alone, there was always an intimacy professed to her. “You want me to test out your shower?” She arched a brow at the sentiment; the brush with Death itself a harsh reminder to the only life she possessed and the choices in which she would make.
How she knew, whether it a single moment or for what the future would allow, that he was the choice she had made.
With a single sip of red and him between her thighs, she lowered the bottle atop of the carpet and maneuvered herself out of his proximity; footsteps leisurely in pace as she strolled towards the showering cubicle. Lexie could recall the many weeks having gone without warm water prior to the hospital, so to believe such a possibility could reoccur was only further reason to enjoy what each survivor had within arms reach; a concept applicable to the living and the inanimate. With that a prime focus as of late, slender fingertips worked underneath the hem of her tattered shirt, descending it alongside her feet as she paused underneath the archway of the door. Only then did she turn to see if he had followed.
“Something tells me that it’d be a fairer test if it was the two of us.”
Waiting for an answer would have deemed itself unnecessary, a useless action when crimson imprinted visible flesh and she had yet to source any wounds in which could scar her figure; to survive this world without at least a single permanent blemish could only be among the plethora of impossibilities. However, what enticed her further, as (one dainty step after the other) she inched herself underneath the faucet and welcomed the many droplets which rinsed her limbs clean from a past embedded in dirt and grime, was the sense of freedom in which came with freeing herself from the confinements of clothing. The fabric having frayed from months of abuse in all weather conditions and the nightmares which insisted on clinging to closed eyelids.
“I’ve rehearsed a thanks in my head so many times that it feels almost pointless now,” she muttered, running a single palm throughout her hair and refusing to face him as of yet. Honesty came easier when your line of sight could scour for nothing other than blank walls and the dust which speckled the atmosphere. “But I need you to know that I… If I–” lose you among the wreckage. An additional name I only hope to never mourn. “Thank you for not dying on me.”
It had never been his intention for Lexie to make way toward the bathroom all by her lonesome. We, he silently corrected her, but hummed an agreement. She was shifting between his legs, and Casey found himself tensing at the touch. Lexie then took a swig from the wine bottle: drawn out, slow. Lips full against the rim, slender fingers wrapped around its neck. His breath was heavy against her earlobe, where he was mouthing at her hair-- before she was traipsing away, abandoning her shirt by the doorway. The bottle of wine shook against the carpet. Maybe that was just Casey, with his toes curling against the floor while he clambered to the edge of the mattress to follow.
He outlined her frame; the way hunger dipped at her hips, had an easy trail to follow straight down her spine. Dimples above her waistline. He was tilting his head to get a better look, blindly unbuttoning his new-old jeans and slipping them down past his ankles. He could see her ribcage, prominent, against her skin -- even from a sideview, where she was craning her neck to see if he was following. Like that was even a question. This wasn’t a random run-in at the hospital shower block. This, along with every other action he swore he’d carry out before her, was deliberate. Slow. He balled his shirt up and tossed it across the room.
“That does sound fair.” Lithe footsteps, and a close-mouthed smile, and Lexie was disappearing through the doorway.
It was an umbrella; testing out the shower. While he craved her touch, and a closeness, it was also a ploy for getting her cleaned up, somehow sourcing the blood that splayed across her forehead and followed all the way up to her hairline. He’d scrub her clean if he had to. He’d try. Lucky enough if they even had water -- let alone being lucky enough for a working gas main (two times in a row) and a functioning stream of hot water. She was turning the faucet, and tendrils of dark brown hair were sticking to her backside. He was rummaging through the cupboards before he was stepping in to join her in the shower. He found some soap (circular, wrapped in plastic, smelled like his Grandmother) and the miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Untouched and unopened. Lexie was facing the wall, with a hand playing at her neck. Casey had his fingers lightly moving against her hips, his hair damp and pressed against his forehead when he stepped in under the faucet behind her.
She was almost stumbling to thank him, express something normally unspoken, or communicated by touch. Casey was rubbing the bar of soap slowly down her back with one hand, the other snaked around her hips and holding her close to his torso. “It’s not pointless.” He leaned down to kiss her on the shoulder. But I need you to know that I… If I– Casey was shaking his head, the ends of his hair dripping droplets into his eyes, and ran the bar of soap down her forearms. “You’re stuck with me now. Can’t fix that.” He murmured, hiding a smile in her spine. The slur was starting to disappear from his voice; the feel of lukewarm water and Lexie against his skin sobering. “Thanks for being here.”
renegades || asshole squad
“How inventive of you,” he quirked a brow at the other male, shielding his own sensibilities behind jest rather than face the distasteful truth that he had undoubtedly lost Kat in the onslaught. Everyone beyond their own feeble grouping were unaccounted for and thus, presumed to be lost; he would not invest hope in the prospect of former companions returning from the dead. The trio proceeded south towards the police station in relative silence, the first spoken words coming as their muscular frames took pause outside of its exterior. “Looks like somebody was really trying to keep the masses out… Who wants to do the honors?”
The silence had gifted the male an atmosphere of appreciation; not necessary to thread conversations from thin air and linger on the devastation which had only wreaked havoc not so long ago. A large plank of wood had been nailed to the entrance of the station, securing whatever remained inside and avoiding an awaited influx of mutated. Overtime, however, as the months had surpassed even the most optimistic beliefs, the nails had rusted and appeared to be a solvable issue with a knife he’d had in possession; slotting it between the decaying metal and the barrier before him until it splintered off. “Try not to get yourselves killed, boys. I ain’t one for delivering death notifications to loved ones,” he spoke, supporting his weight against the now unbarred door as he used his entirety to crack it open; how it creaked from lack of use. “Slightly less attractive men first,” he spoke, extending a single arm and allowing the others to pursue before him.
“’Cause you think that breaking into a cop shop is original?” He was goading him. Despite the influx of infected in the hospital, and the close encounter with a Bloater -- several deaths of the fellow survivors, Casey was seemingly at ease. Before he could get a word in and offer up his services (spoon or no spoon), Corvo was slotting a blade between the nailed-down plank of wood and the entrance, forcing it open with the weight of his muscled frame. “If you say so, Daddy,” Casey teased, elbowing Logan as he passed his way through the doorway. It was empty, a little too quiet. Casey was drumming his fingertips on the rifle strapped over his chest. He opened up a few cabinets here and there before finding anything of real value. He slipped a bulletproof vest, adorned with a police badge and accompanying gun holster, over his head. Stood with his palms forward. “How’s it look?” He joked, before patting himself down. It could definitely come in handy.
sad songs for dirty lovers; casey & lexie
If there was one concept about this new world that Lexie knew she couldn’t shake, it belonged to that of crumbling sanctuaries and the deceased which paved the roads. Her home had dismantled; Fall City had manifested into nothing but ash and the hospital had laced itself into the plethora of wreckage all of which aligned themselves within her history. It was hard to believe that the many could still knot their lips with a smile unforced and somewhat inebriated by the liquor available at their peral. Whatever they were celebrating (whether it be their own lives or the lives of those they cared for) had rekindled a euphoria from one figure to the next. Her closest friend was alive, the useful were still breathing, and familiarity still remained in the mindset of the man with hypnotic blues; something of which bore into her flesh and left her with the inability to writhe from constriction. It only made sense that when her attention was lured upwards, an understanding was settled between them and the dispersing of each survivor had allowed her curiosity to take hold.
Each room appeared symmetrical; objects glazed by a dust from the several months they had endured unkempt by past inhabitants. There would never be any awards gifted for decor, but he (he who had chosen her - girl once lost of all companionship - as his first priority) had all but made the surroundings a mere blur and himself the importance. Always the importance; anchoring her own two feet to the ground and reminding her that there were, in fact, things to live for in a world which continuously threw you into the midst of turmoil. She had edged forwards into the confinements of his own space, examining a room which had once housed many and only meeting his gaze when he addressed her with adoration. “Good thing I had backup,” she twitched a smile at the sentiment - backup. As if they were a team; a duo; two halves to a whole. “Thought it’d only be fair for you to not drink alone.” Words came with an alteration in her posture; opting to sit at the edge of the bed. “Unless that bottle’s only for one and then I can go.”
“You did,” he mouthed against the rim of the wine bottle. “Always will.” The words were slurred. A strange concept, he thought: ever since she’d stumbled into his line of sight, it’d never been anybody else. Trust was limited within this world, but he’d let her hold his own life in her hands, and squeeze it out, if she wanted to. The amount of times he put Lexie, and her life, in front of his own well-being was stifling (or maybe that was the red wine, smooth against his throat). Another thing that had a a hand scraping down his neck was this: he wouldn’t have it any other way. He didn’t want it any other way. He hadn’t felt so attached to another human being, not even something he’d inherited in friendship among the masses, since before the outbreak. Casey couldn’t concentrate on the loss -- the way the number of survivors had been cut straight down the middle -- when she was smiling like that. He couldn’t think at all. eyes outlining the angle of her jaw, and the way the apples of her cheeks puffed up when she grinned. The way that something fluttered in his chest when she pressed against the edge of the mattress. He slowly pulled himself upright, offering her the bottle. “Nah,” he found himself crawling over to her section of the bed, positioning her between his thighs. “You’re staying right here.”
It might’ve been the alcohol, or the way the attraction was bursting out of his chest -- but for once, Noah wasn’t a ghost that lingered behind closed eyelids. Like he’d filled up a quota for the day -- setting the scene for a reenactment, with Lexie fighting off infected a distance away. Casey had reached her in time, before any damage had been done. Even despite that, Lexie wasn’t a seven-year-old child. She’d never been incapable: she was everything but. It was, he thought briefly, a relief that he could focus himself entirely on her, and not the skeletons from his past. He didn’t feel the desire to talk about it, or anything else that had occurred during the day. For once, he didn’t want to talk loss -- and, for once, he didn’t even feel it.
Casey loved her hair. Dark, curled at the tips, and slipping out of a ponytail -- wound by an elastic band. He nudged it along, let her hair fall back down past her shoulders. Even mussed, with dust and blood against her scalp, it felt beautiful between his fingertips. More blood -- hers? Hers. -- sticky on her forehead. “Wanna go test out the shower?” He propositioned, fingers warm as they splayed out against her hips.
detectivehalstead:
You good?