there must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief Isaac/Erica/Jackson
I.
He's beginning to tangle into Jackson.
She can't remember when it first happened-when one touch began to blur into another.
It's just, it's happened now, and when she's kissing Isaac, she could be kissing Jackson; and when they're kissing each other, then maybe they think they could be kissing her, too. Maybe it works all ways-her way and his way and his, and oh my, aren't they just naughty, she thinks, as she runs her hands through curls, tugs him forwards against her, arches backwards and presses her body flush against his. They're both beautiful, and, when they're together, they're all beautiful people-beautiful and broken, but she supposes all the best people are.
II."You're not my type," he tells her, absently
( ... )
There's an emptiness in his eyes, as he looks at her, as he says, "I've done bad things."
She's seen that same emptiness in Isaac's eyes when he thinks of his father.
She holds up her hands-shows him her claws, the blood on her palms-and says, "We all have."
"Not like me," he replies, after a silence. "Not like me."
She looks across at Isaac, for help, but he just shrugs-looks just as lost as she feels, because Jackson is broken and doesn't know how to be fixed.
That's why she leans across and laces her fingers through his.
That's why she presses her lips against his in a chaste, gentle kiss.
That's why she tells him, "We've all done bad things, Jackson-but not like you."
Isaac bumps his shoulder against Jackson's, and says, "We're not exactly going to judge, though."
V.
They were never going to live happily ever after, though. She's too young for that-too fast, too beautiful, too free. She wouldn't want it even if they were offering it; even if they spoke those three words in her ear, soft and precious, brilliant,
( ... )
Isaac/Erica/Jackson
I.
He's beginning to tangle into Jackson.
She can't remember when it first happened-when one touch began to blur into another.
It's just, it's happened now, and when she's kissing Isaac, she could be kissing Jackson; and when they're kissing each other, then maybe they think they could be kissing her, too. Maybe it works all ways-her way and his way and his, and oh my, aren't they just naughty, she thinks, as she runs her hands through curls, tugs him forwards against her, arches backwards and presses her body flush against his. They're both beautiful, and, when they're together, they're all beautiful people-beautiful and broken, but she supposes all the best people are.
II."You're not my type," he tells her, absently ( ... )
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There's an emptiness in his eyes, as he looks at her, as he says, "I've done bad things."
She's seen that same emptiness in Isaac's eyes when he thinks of his father.
She holds up her hands-shows him her claws, the blood on her palms-and says, "We all have."
"Not like me," he replies, after a silence. "Not like me."
She looks across at Isaac, for help, but he just shrugs-looks just as lost as she feels, because Jackson is broken and doesn't know how to be fixed.
That's why she leans across and laces her fingers through his.
That's why she presses her lips against his in a chaste, gentle kiss.
That's why she tells him, "We've all done bad things, Jackson-but not like you."
Isaac bumps his shoulder against Jackson's, and says, "We're not exactly going to judge, though."
V.
They were never going to live happily ever after, though. She's too young for that-too fast, too beautiful, too free. She wouldn't want it even if they were offering it; even if they spoke those three words in her ear, soft and precious, brilliant, ( ... )
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Is it Argentum_ls?
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Thanks!
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