he smelled like October the third.
rain dipping down green hills on a cold autumn night, mud and grit squelching beneath his boots. the smell of ozone and dirt, overflowing river and of damp cornstalks, of sun-warmed pavement cooled by night and dark and wet.
he smelled like electricity. t(more)he scorching burnt tang of alchemy, rich with oxygen, with metal, with sparks. he smelled like blood, rich dark and flowing blood, painting a concrete floor, sweet salted youth with flesh torn asunder. he smelled like death, and innocence, and that twisted his gut like the violent wringing of rags.
he smelled like fallen leaves. spice. his hair, warm, faintly exuded the scent of crushed cinnamon, of honey, sweet and light and homey; he smelled like clean cotton, and beneath it all, the subtle notes of oil.
Edward smelled like the October third that was a distant catastrophe, a fever dream, yesterday's perfume. and Roy would not change that. (less)
"I'm going to enjoy having a couch again," Gotou said, seated on the bed and leaning back against the wall. He had his phone out, but he was scrolling through websites and trying to ignore the fact that Masayoshi had decided his lap made a better pillow than the(more) actual pillows on the bed.
"You never had a couch, I had a couch," Masayoshi said absently. He was playing a handheld game system - given the tinny yelling that emanated from it it was probably one of the shitty knockoff Flamengers games he'd downloaded from the internet. He had been so proud he'd found this cache of fan-created games, at least until he found the 'undress a Flamenger' one.
Gotou maybe saved that one to his phone to torture Masayoshi with later. (Among other scientific uses.)
"Yes it was your couch, and I slept on it several times, and I can't wait to have a couch again." Gotou switched over to a cell phone game.
"Good. I need someplace to banish you to when you're being stupid," Masayoshi said, never ceasing in his button pressing. "Besides, I don't think you slept on the old couch. You slept under the table a few times though."
"Don't remind me," Gotou muttered. "I still get nightmares about that tequila hangover." He lowered his phone and glared at the top of Masayoshi's head. "Also, what the hell makes you think I'M going to be the one spending nights on the couch?"
Masayoshi looked up at him from the game and grinned. "Well, if you're GOOD, you won't have to worry about that, hm?"
Gotou put his phone down and pinched both of Masayoshi's cheeks. "You do not get to kick me out of OUR bed," he growled. "You do just as much stupid shit."
He smelled like a penny because he was rolled in blood and the red dirt of the hill.
The shin of his right leg stung broken plod by crooked plod across the rock into the ocean.
(more) He smelled like sweat and the ocean bathed him in salt as he plunged into the shallow water and began to frantically flap into the waves.
He felt like he would kick off the lower part of his leg along a jagged line and the foot was uncooperative but he felt the need to plunge deeper into the current.
His heart beat against his ribcage, he kicked and swung his arms and thought about being smelled by sharks.
Behind was a winged thing that would swoop out from between the forest pillars, the pine canopy and wander over him.
He had to swim, had to find a place to hide, he thought he smelled like blood to the sharks.
His heart thumped in time to frantic breathing.
He knew it had come out of the trees and was near him and over him. He turned over onto his back and he felt the sharks below him and he saw the winged thing above him and he shot up sweat covered and heart beating.
He waded through the damp blankets into his bathroom and rested on the edge of the tub.
He looked down at the tub and thought of filling it with cold water and thought of sharks and thought of black winged women in the dark of 5 am along the street.
He thought of Beth and was uncertain and horrified and miserable for his inability even to have the courage to let himself go.
John slumped over his legs propping himself up like the thinker and felt himself feel doubt and fear.(less)
His breath reeked of booze and stale cigarette smoke, something clawing at the inside of his chest as he blinked at me again, those soft eyelashes fluttering like the rapid pulse of a butterfly's wings.
"At Thanksgiving, really?"
"Isaac, shut the fuck up," his words rammed into each other, sliding and pushing to get out as fast as they can. His tongue got tangled in his mouth, and then he swore when he nearly dropped his glass, ice tinkling along the edges.
"Fucking cocaine at family holidays, you are a piece of work, Harry, really. You want mom to see that?"
"At least I'm not getting blasted fucking drunk, you prick," there was venom there, but it barely stung because Harry's lower lip was starting to tremor. "You're turning into dad, right? Booze it up some more, have another scotch, some whiskey maybe, and then get all pissed off and call Wendy a dyke like you did last Thanksgiving. That ought to be fun."
"You're bringing fucking drugs into our house," I hissed. Harry's left hand wouldn't stop shaking, and the ice jumped around his glass. "Mom will straight up disown you, that is such shit."
"What about that time that you crashed dad's car on Christmas, eh?" Harry's gone now, words spilling on top of each other, and an ice cube leaps from its cage. "You were fucking wasted, and you totaled that hunk of junk. Do you remember Wendy having to come bail you out? Cause I sure fucking do."
He smelled like old oil paints and cocaine. (less)
The smell that was emitted from this one man's body told dividends about him. The scents were that of the most masculine delights. Hints of pine, oak, and the hardest of liquors wafted from the entirety of his person. The liquors that lingered upon him were not too strong, but(more) strong enough to tell that the man enjoyed a nice shot of scotch or bourbon to start the day. He also must have worked in a lumber mill judging by the woodland scents and his large forearms. God only knows what kind of a man he was though. (less)
Gerald had a voice like a ribbon of honey being poured into hot tea. He began his career doing radio commercials but soon took to acting in local theatre. His first major role was taking on the character of the CEO in an adapted version of the Wizard of Oz. Alongside Dorothy,(more) the scientist and the politician Gerald followed the Interstate Highway all the way to the Temple of Pan-religious Harmony where they all learned the true nature of their existence.
The performance was met with rave reviews and especially Gerald's performance of the CEO, with one reviewer commenting: "Never before have we seen such depth of character from the small stage at the Arts Depot theatre. Gerald Hurtzwinder's performance of the CEO has set a new bar for corporate representation in adapted children's plays."
After the play and the glowing reviews that followed Gerald found he had become somewhat of a celebrity. He developed a small fan base and was even convinced to host a few master classes for aspiring actors.
Very quickly however, Gerald found that all silver linings have a tarnished surface. The roles he was being offered all began to resemble his character from the Wizard of Is. After his first performance as an amateur actor, Gerald realized that he had very quickly become typecast.
Rather than being worked like a puppet, Gerald took a hard left turn in his career and opened a store that sold salt-water aquariums, fish and coral called "Papa G's Assorted Aquarium Accessories." Business was slow to begin with so to help with sales Gerald returned to his past and recorded a few radio commercials.
No one in the small town of Berwick could resist Gerald's sweet, imploring voice insisting that "no den is complete without a few Leeri Pearl Gouramis."(less)
She knew she shouldn't. But that was what made it even more tempting. It sat there, slick and oozing with dark chocolate. It was like a cake from an advertisement, with just the right triangle of slice taken out of it to showcase the filling to it's best advantage. Her mouth wate(more)red at the very sight of it. The sponge was dark and moist and the filling thick and creamy but it was the icing that was the crowning glory. It shimmered , almost whispering to her in the bakery fridge.
She had been going to pick up a health loaf on the way back from her run. Well, I say run, it was more of a well meaning shuffling panting affair. She had all the gear and everything, lycra, a sweat band and a pedometer. She had even gotten special running shoes that were fitted to the exact arch of her foot. In one way she looked the part. The running was the only bit missing.
It had started that Monday. It had been a hard week and now it was Saturday and she was a health loaf down but no shift on the scales. It was disappointing. She caught a glimpse of herself in the glass behind the counter. Who was she fooling? A forty year old woman wearing day-glo and a headband? Her face was flushed and sweaty. She could feel the skinny girls behind the counter silently judging her. Their stick thin arms like those of a grasshopper, cutting and slicing and all the time picking at a muffin here, a croissant there. It was sickening. She was next in the queue. She held up the health-loaf. "Anything else for you today, love?" the girl behind the counter asked. "Em...." her gaze fell on the cake.(less)
The scabs were all wrong. They were setting badly, all wrinkled and crooked, and Doc MacEvans was sure that they would pull and stretch. There was nothing he could do, he said, nothing but cutting them open again, resetting them and hoping the wounds wouldn’t fill with sand.
“But that’s a waste o’time, an’ ah figure it might git infected,” he said and prodded me hard with the handle of his knife. I yowled.
“Stop doin’ that, Doc,” I cried and put my hands over the scab reaching from jawbone to eye, the one he had poked at. It was jagged and uneven like the stone axe that had cut me, and it burned. “Fucking Indian had to carve me up good…”
“Oh, shut yer mouth, Del Innosh.” My name was Degl’Innocenti, but you’ve got to respect a man for trying. Out here in the bush, trying was far more than could be expected from anyone. “No use whinin’, my care’s all you’ve got. Take it or leave it.”
I nodded; he was right. Nearest town was Moab, and that was hundreds of miles away, with nothing but desert, tumble weed and Indians in between. I wasn’t even sure if there still were people there. Fuck the Indians.
Doc MacEvans waved my hands away and went back to fingering the wound gently. A drop of sweat ran from under his scabby hat, down his nose, and I could’ve counted the hairs growing out his ears if I wanted.
“Well,” he said and leaned back. “You won’t be pretty, but you weren’t that to begin with.”(less)
It was three o'clock in the afternoon on a Sunday in September, sunlight streaming in through the window and illuminating a warm patch of Souji's floor. That was where he and Yosuke were lying now, shirts hastily discarded in a passionate flurry; now Yosuke was hovering over Souji and had(more) suddenly forgotten how to move.
The kissing part had been fine. It'd been weird at first, okay, but it was ultimately fine. It had been easy enough to extrapolate from images of any two people kissing. This, though, well... most of Yosuke's porn had nurses in it. Female ones.
"Are you okay?" Souji's brow crinkled in that concerned way that Yosuke usually found cute, but now seemed a little patronizing. "We don't have to do this."
Yosuke felt unsteady, and he abruptly realized it was because the arm that was propping him up was shaking. His other hand was shaking too -- he was probably shaking all over -- so he tucked his fingers into Souji's hair in a vague attempt to hide it. "J- just nervous, I guess. I, uh, kind of don't know what I'm doing."
Souji reached up his own hand to touch the one Yosuke had put in his hair; he twined their fingers together and gently guided it down Souji's side, feathering over the skin until it reached his waist. Once it was there, Souji let go. "Me either," he admitted, cheeks going a little pink. "I think we can figure it out, partner."
The entirety of Yosuke's face went hot, like he could melt or explode right on the spot. His fight-or-flight response was kicking in badly, so before he could decide it was a bad idea he slipped his fingers under Souji's waistband and started to pull.(less)
Marcus pressed the tips of his fingers together, dark eyes evaluating Henry with cold calculation. He was smaller than Henry imagined. For some reason he thought "the doctor" would be some huge Haitian with gold teeth and arms covered in prison tattoos. Instead, the man before him barely(more) reached 5'6". He was well-dressed and well-spoken, and Henry wondered if he was a doctor after all. He just assumed- well, considering the people who came pounding on his door early this morning.
Someone nudged the back of his head. They were expecting him to say something, but he couldn't remember a question. "I... uh..." His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
He glanced over Marcus's polished desk, trying to collect his thoughts. There were four smart phones all lined up in a neat little row. Were they all his? What an odd thing, having four cell phones. This time the nudge was much harder. A quiet ringing filled his ears.
"I'm sorry. It's just that I haven't slept in three days and I'm finding it extremely difficult--" He heard a rustling behind him, but Marcus held up a hand and the movement stopped.
"Do you know why you are here, Harry?"
"Henry. It's Hen-ry..." he trailed off as Marcus's left eye narrowed. "I think so. It has something to so with my research."
"You have knowledge of something that can be very useful to me, and to society. Something that will make us very rich men."
"Look, if you are talking about the T-cell..."
Marcus leaned forward. "You have unlocked the cure to cancer, Henry. You have no idea how many people have been watching you." His hand stroked the cell phones, a plan hidden behind his too-white smile- a plan Henry wouldn't be allowed to refuse.
The second she stepped into that back alley, it was like time had stopped around her. Not in the way she imagined it did for people who didn't experience the Dark Hour (she wouldn't know, she'd been living it since she was ten), but a gradual slowing followed by a(more) freeze that dulled her senses and chilled her to the bone. It felt like something a Shadow might cast on her in Tartarus, except there weren't any Shadows here, it was just Akihiko and Ken-kun and...
She was kneeling at his side but she had no clear recollection of how she got there; she'd been standing next to Mitsuru, and then she was on the cold asphalt next to Shinji's body, with no apparent steps in between. She took one of his hands in hers, squeezing it with all her strength; the other hand reached out to the hole in his coat. Her fingers brushed against the wool, wet and warm and sticky.
"Don't cry," she heard him say, but it was already too late for that. She reached her bloodstained hand into her pocket and took out the pocket watch, the one she'd gotten from Kurosawa the police station, and pressed it into Shinji's palm. She'd wanted to give it to him sooner, but they'd gone into Tartarus instead; she hadn't known, she hadn't REALIZED...
Shinji coughed and her eyes shot to his face; he was SMILING and she couldn't begin to fathom why. The whole world was blurry through the haze of her tears. Fuuka nad Mitsuru were talking but their words had no meaning. She had both hands around his now, crushing his hand into a fist around the watch, as though she could turn it into a time machine if she just wished hard enough.(less)