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 Posted: Mon Jul 16, 2012 9:13 pm
a place for me to dump pretty much, well, anything, really.
poems, drabbles, the like.
comments are accepted and encouraged.
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Posted: Mon Jul 16, 2012 9:15 pm
i'm not a poet.
i don’t have wisdom
or experience or elegance
i don’t have the magic
that others seem to possess
only a pen, paper
raw emotion
and words that i whisper
to myself in the dark
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Posted: Mon Jul 16, 2012 9:18 pm
Quote: fanfic drabbles that i spit out at literally two in the morning. there's a reason that this thread is named what it is.
mass effect, vaguely garrus/f!shep. you don't really need prior knowledge other than story-wise. shepard's has to make decisions that have killed a lot of people.
no real time-frame for this.
It didn’t matter when or where she was; she’d simply close her eyes and she’d be somewhere else, that unidentifiable, shadowy forest that her dreams so often brought her to. She’d feel so exposed and claustrophobic at the same time, the whispers and smokey figures closing in to remind her of the blood on her hands, and she’d run.
There would be no destination in mind, just the overwhelming need to get away, to be somewhere other than there. She’d move, neither fast nor far, her armor weighing her down far more than it should have. It felt like running underwater- that was the closest comparison she could find.
And then, then there’d be a hiss, and her surroundings would change. Everything was bright, too bright, red and orange and yellow, and she could feel the heat seeping in through her suit. There’d be something hard against her back she she’d have the breath knocked out of her, her vision blacking for a moment, and when she came to she would always be floating. The hiss was there again, and she couldn’t breathe, the air was being sucked from her helmet and she was gasping into empty space, kicking, adrenaline and panic flooding through her. And then she’d go still.
That was always when she woke up, because she already knew what happened next. Sometimes she would wake up alone, tangled in her sheets with sweat-soaked skin and a heaving chest. Those were always the worst times, because she’d always have to lay still for a moment, eyes wide in the darkness, and convince herself that it wasn’t real, she was alive and it was okay, she wouldn’t be dying soon.
Other times she would snap into awareness overly warm, tucked against his chest. He’d always be making some strange, comforting sound that vaguely reminded her of a cat’s purr, and his talons would trace invisible lines down her back, ghosting over her skin just light enough to make her shiver. It was one of the few times that she’d let anyone see a crack in her (metaphorical) armor, and she’d let out this little sigh and rub the unshed tears from her eyes, lulled back into sleep by the sheer feeling of safety that she found with him.
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