come_sailaway | AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

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AUGUST EVENT: DRAGSTRIP RIOT

[it begins with a PA announcement on the morning of the 12th, Friday’s voice coming through clear and cheerful.]

Any passengers that wish to debark to our latest port of call can exit the ship through the metal detectors on deck zero! Please be advised that all alcohol will be confiscated prior to your exit!

[and whoever heads down to the lowest deck will find that what she said was true: there is a metal detector set up there, with Friday manning it. after placing all metal objects (including weapons, and all your weapons) onto the tray, she gestures for the passenger to step through the metal detector.

they exit in an entirely different location. suffering from a splitting headache, and wearing an entirely different outfit than they had put on this morning, but unscathed. they even got their weapons back!

the interior of the diner is essentially your average jonathan rockets establishment. the narrow lane between booths and counter is manned by an entirely mute Friday clone, who cheerily takes orders and serves up food (cooked??? somewhere???) with an almost unnatural talent for roller blading. there is a jukebox in the corner that can be fed with quarters passengers will inexplicably find on their person. the available songs range from the 50s to the 80s, with a particularly wide selection of songs from the platters.

outside, the diner is a great chrome boxcar, circled by a small parking lot. a large neon sign proclaims it to be GIL’S; it buzzes and flickers on and off often. passengers who have regained vehicles will find these vehicles parked outside. there are also a handful of midcentury American cars; none of them seem to require keys, and the gas tank seems set at full.

past the parking lot is a seemingly endless expanse of desert sand and scrubland, bisecting by the empty highway that the diner abuts. a few miles down this highway, the road forks into a smaller one, which winds its way up a steep, ragged mountain until plateauing into another parking lot, with only a small, old wooden fence between the cars and the edge of the cliff.

should they wish to return to the ship, passengers can leave at any time the same way they entered: walking through a doorway that now claims to be a mop closet. passing through will leave them on deck zero, again with a splitting headache. it’s probably fine.]

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[Ironically, maybe, Palamedes might have stopped if she had not asked him if he wanted to. He might have let his overthinking drown out his want, disentangled himself, and declared that it was time to head back. That would be the practical thing to do in these circumstances, wouldn’t it?

But when she looks at him so intently, and asks her question so gently, he immediately knows the answer. Palamedes doesn’t like to lie even when it’s necessary; now, he could barely do it if his life depended on it.

He slides his hand down to gently cup the side of her neck with one hand, and brushes the thumb of his other hand against her lower lip.]

No. No, I don’t.

( humble enough not to outright say yeah, that's what i thought, but conceited enough to let the drag of his thumb across her lips spark a curling smile that borders between delighted and predatory. sweetly predatory, perhaps? no intention of ripping, tearing, or mauling, but ready and wanting for every little thing he'd give her — gentle kisses, wet kisses, maybe small groans, the soft tug against her scalp when fingers tangled in her hair and pulled a little too hard, tactile escape, friction... — before slamming on the brakes. )

Good. ( breathed out like a contented sigh. hand on her throat, can pal feel how quick and unsteady her pulse has become, how hard her blood rushes? every inch of a flush across clarke's skin is too dark, ruddy and closer to the purple of a bruise than the pink of a blush, but at least pal ought to know why. )

I'm glad. ( permission given that he could retract at any time and it'd be cool, but until then. the demanding come here, then dies on her lips, and clarke leans in to bump their noses together; a teasing nuzzle to goad pal into turning his face and resuming kissing her with little thought, and even less conversation. nothing shy or overly cautious remains once he does, either; tongue and teeth tease across his lips, nostrils flare and breathing picks up, and she's fully engulfed in the taste and scent of another living, breathing human being.

and it doesn't take much of that at all before clarke's squeezing further into his personal space, crowding as much as the rover seats allow until they're practically flush, face to face. and where the slight hitches of her hips are innocuous at first, they become languid, heavy rolls as i want more, touch me more becomes her main objective, and heat pools from the edges of her fingertips all the way down to pool in her stomach. )

[Of course he can feel it. The thrum of Clarke’s pulse against Pal’s fingers makes his head swim. If one thing can be said for necromancers, it is that they are scholars of the body, blessed and cursed with the power to manipulate it down to its atoms, forever tied to its continuous death and rebirth. By temperament, Palamedes is a creature of ideas, inclined to spend too much time in his thoughts and to neglect the irritating needs of his physical existence. But physical existence can only be ignored for so long before it asserts itself.

As their mouths again connect, Pal’s fingers trace a path from Clarke’s pulse point to her heart: external jugular vein, to subclavian vein, to vena cava. Their lungs expand and contract rapidly with each harsh, fast breath they take, and every nerve in Pal’s body sings.

Then the movement of her hips drags a moan from Pal, and suddenly he’s too aware: of the heat in the rover, of every place their bodies touch, of the fact that Clarke can undoubtably feel that he’s hard.]

Wait— [This time he means it, this time there really is a hint of panic in his voice.] Clarke, stop...

( she can be so, so patient.

to a point.

abiding by a solemn internal vow to back off if that too much? oh green flag allowance was rescinded doesn't mean she's not frustrated by it, and this time when he breaks their mouths apart to bid her wait-stop, clarke's sighing hot, low, and disappointed directly in his face. but she freezes all the same, hips still despite the excited flutter of butterflies in her stomach sinking lower to spread the warm beginnings of arousal from head to toe. tilts her head back, giving a few inches between their faces for him to talk, despite conversation being at the bottom of her list of wants right now.

it feels dangerous, like inviting reality to crash back down around them, when that inevitability could have been staved off for just a little while longer. )

What's wrong? ( wins out as the first sentiment past her lips, caution and concern triumphant over the selfish and wanting beg of pal, please? that rings in her head like an echo. )

I— [Palamedes closes his eyes tightly. God, this is embarrassing.] I need a moment. Please.

[It’s all so good, but it’s all too sudden. Twenty minutes ago they were inspecting the surrounding area for clues regarding their fate, and surely not expecting they would end up here. Pal has felt the tug of the emotional thread that connects them, yes, but he hadn’t thought about kissing her before this—and certainly not anything else. Now, his mind is scrambling to catch up to his body, trying to grasp what brought them to this point, and what it means for whatever lies ahead.

Pal bows his head slightly, his breath coming in harsh little bursts. His hands are still on Clarke’s body, but they move over her lightly now, sliding down her sides as he tries to come back to himself, just a little.]

...okay.

( she operates with the same fevered rush towards a finish line in all walks of life — into conflict, out of mountainside damn service exits, over center consoles in cars, into her own arm with a needle full of questionable serums, into ebalon's bedroom to steal his sigil notes, all but onto the captain's lap to take dulled eating instruments to his temple, out onto the sports deck in the middle of pirate jenny's stormy tantrum, etc. and has forged ahead with many plans that pushed at, if not outright punctured, boundaries.

but this isn't like that. it's different, making the masses upset with a decision rooted around survival tactics has to be a cold, borderline impersonal choice. and here, with flushed skin and their breaths intermingling, sweaty, close, and the taste of his mouth readily apparent when tongue darts out to wet her lips — it is very personal. intimate, and boiling down to the fact she cares for pal. trust begetting friendship begetting something new, apparently. and he looks uncomfortable, which is the last thing she wants to contribute to here. )

That's okay. Hey — ( open your eyes and look at her, catch the beginnings of a warm, reassuring smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. ) Whatever you need, Pal. Okay?

( she won't move in to kiss him again, nor allow want to drag her hips back into a desperate search for friction. but still idly raises a hand to his hairline, smoothing down a few errant strands that have escaped the hold of gel between the heat and exertion. )

[Palamedes nods and takes a few steadying breaths; then his eyelashes flutter and he opens his eye, offering a tiny, sheepish smile in exchange for hers. His pulse still thrums in his ears, but after a few moments to gather himself, he no longer feels like his heart might burst.]

Sorry. Um. I’ve never done this. [Pal brushes his nose against hers, flushing pink.] …I suppose that makes you the expert this time.

I promise you this is a lot easier than magic.

( close enough to bump noses means close enough to tilt her head and press another feather light, borderline chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. no pressure, no hot and heavy intent. just a want to remain close and in contact, and a warm spread of affection dragged forth by that sheepish little grin. )

If you wanted to try...

( and then another, pecks serving as punctuation. )

Plus — makeout point is a staple of any classic horror movie.

( and again, with a concerted effort made not to linger. )

Or I can take us back to the diner.

[Palamedes actually laughs, a soft breath of sound in the small space between them.] Is that right? Funny, I would think all the murdering would dampen the mood.

[Too close to home? Maybe. But Palamedes and Clarke alike excel at dark humor.

After her last soft kiss, Pal chases her mouth, capturing it for something decidedly more lingering, even if it does not have quite the same heat as earlier. He’s as uncertain as ever, but something in the comfort of Clarke’s words and the softness of her eyes tells him that it’s all right for him to be a little lost, just for a while.]

Let’s not go just yet.

( murder — and the constant, overhanging threat of more murder — is just the way they're living now. the mood exists despite that, or perhaps because of it in the sense that not being able to control their own pain and suffering meant reveling in playing architect to their own pleasures and delight. and also because, you know, repressed, put-upon, focused, and duty-bound young adults still had pulses, and were thus still weak in the face in hormones — oxytocin laced with adrenaline in particular. all in all, it's actually super funny and clarke gives a little shrug in acknowledgement.

back to kissing and, just because some of the initial rushing exhilaration has waned doesn't make it any less nice. there's an easy comfort in the wake of laughing about something darkly amusing together, and after pal's affirmation that he'd like to stay, clarke hums as if to say good answer.

the hand that'd been playing with his hair drags down to cradle the side of pal's face again, her turn to drag the pad of her thumb over his mouth before crowding in to nip at his lower lip. loose atmosphere mussed blonde hair curtains both their faces with a light tickle, she's leaning in until their chests are flushed and every breath felt in unison, and her eyes flutter closed of their own indulgent accord. the fingers running tentatively along her ribcage and torso feel like little burning embers, sparking delightful tendrils of anticipation along her spine — touch me more — but refuses to buck her hips and rut out gratification. or, at least, won't until he does first.

they're all a little lost here, aren't they? it's decidedly okay to cling to an anchor for a while. )

[The approval in Clarke’s eyes makes Pal feel a bit like a student who has gotten an answer right, and his smile, before it disappears into another kiss, is a triumphant one.

Like Clarke, Pal’s body still longs for more, but it’s a longing that frightens him too much to push things further. He’s more comfortable letting things grow languid; they are still pressed together, lost in the embrace of one another, but the mad rush of before is tempered. As they kiss, his hands roam her body with more confidence, running across her shoulderblades and tracing her spine, memorizing the shape of her. He slides his hands down to her hips and squeezes them, and when he whimpers softly against her mouth, he doesn’t startle himself quite so much as he had previously.]

( with an ounce more understanding, and limits drawn tentatively but plainly in the sand between them, this is a rather nice moment. pressed close, easy and languid kisses, the near constant tactile reassurance of skin and clothing beneath fingertips, ambient heat of the desert and the warm sunshine streaking through the skylight and barred windshield. almost too nice, almost a comedic cane coming around her neck and dragging clarke back to the last time she'd indulgently kissed a brunette while bathed in evening sunlight. naked and on a fur lined bed, instead of covered in a layer of dust and sweat, precariously perched on the edge of a seat. but a distraction is meant to be a distraction, and even as the ghost of lexa looms in her mind — not unlike the way it'll confront her later, when the bodies of loved ones and enemies alike drag themselves from the earth — clarke doesn't allow herself to go there.

no, this is just nice. there's no hint of regret for leaning on the initial impulse, pal's hands tracing her figure and bone structure leaves little bursts of fireworks dancing along nerve endings, and the second he's set to whimpering, she's set on making him do it more but —

and then, almost belatedly, the pain kicks in. clarke forgot the slow healing stab wound sitting just above her right hip, doesn't think to warn pal or stealthily reposition his hands until it's too late. and when he grabs her hips and presses fingertips through fabric into the give of flesh, his thumb manages to line up directly in the middle of her scar and it feels like being gutted all over again. like being punched directly in the stomach, full force, and clarke's making the least sexy sound humanly possible — hnnghURK — directly into his mouth.

her entire body tenses, then jerks so violently she almost topples backwards into the dashboard in an attempt to put distance between herself and — no offense, pal — the cause of this fresh, teeth chattering wave of hurt. she catches herself, though, and , and manages to avoid accidentally kneeing or headbutting him in this mad dash to escape. left hand slams into the door panel, right curls around his wrist and yanks, but very quickly releases in favor of splaying her palm across the clothing-covered wound; like pressure would ease the pain rocketing along her spine and radiating deep through her entire abdomen. )

— ow, shit. ( is hissed from behind clenched teeth, and clarke's glancing down her front half expecting to see a blooming soak of black blood cutting through the fabric of shorts and shirt — this hurts as much as being stabbed, maybe even more so without the haze of adrenaline and mental push to keep fighting or else she'd die — but it's been five weeks healed, the scar tissue doesn't give. )

[The series of events happens so quickly that Palamedes doesn’t even have the chance the ascertain their case. He yelps as Clarke jerks away, the hand she hasn’t grabbed flying from her, heart still beating fast and breathing hard as he stares at her, wide-eyed. It takes a few seconds for him to register the expression on Clarke’s face as one of pain, and a few more seconds still for him to see the way she is suddenly clutching her middle.]

Clarke! What— [he tries to gently peel her hands away to figure out what happened] Let me see…

( you ever had pain so localized in your gut it feels like you're going to throw up? that's what she's battling through in the immediate aftermath, pain cutting deep and stomach twisting hard enough to kill off any butterflies that remained. she manages to swallow hard, to grit between teeth: )

I'm — fine. It's not...

( and doesn't immediately want to let pal pull her hand away to inspect? it feels most comfortable to keep applying pressure around a long healed, not-bleeding wound in an attempt to offset the hurt. so he's gonna have to work to get her palm away from her side, as clarke just stiffly shakes her head. )

It's just an old stab wound. Don't worry about it, I just need a minute.

Edited 2022-09-11 02:31 (UTC)

[Pal isn’t about to pry her fingers away, though his hands still hover near hers, ready for the chance to examine the wound that is causing so much pain. Though there’s no sign of blood, her response to his touch had been sudden and fierce; something has clearly not yet healed, which raises all sorts of questions.

He lifts a brow] How old exactly, Clarke?

( this is what she imagines the kids in the back of earth skills 101 felt like when singled out by charles pike to answer a question they hadn't been paying attention to. or maybe more aptly, asked to hand over whatever contraband they'd been playing with between the desks. )

F...our and a half weeks?

( not shy at all about climbing over seats to get squarely in pal's lap, but suddenly oh so coy and hesitant about giving details. )

It's fine, though. Not like it's an open wound, Jade cauterized it for me.

[Whatever answer Pal had been expecting, it definitely wasn't that. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, looking, quite unfortunately, a little like a dying fish.]

Pardon, did you just say it's fine because Jade cauterized it for you?

( call it an unflappable sense of intuition, but clarke's gathering it was the right idea to leave off the part where she'd been awake for most of it. )

...yes? It was better than doing it myself.

Well, when you put it that way.

[Pal closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He tells himself that at least Jade was involved, even if he would have suggested at least four alternative’s to cauterizing, for fuck’s sake.]

Let me take a look. Please? Just to make sure I didn’t do any additional damage.

( she bites her tongue on any further complaint or reassurance, if only because dog with a bone recognizes dog with a bone, and she thinks pal's worry is better assuaged than dismissed. better sooner rather than later, if there's even a hope of salvaging the mood here, or at least not ending things on a terribly awkward note. so after a slight huff, clarke nods. )

Yeah, alright.

( please let the record reflect this was NOT the reason she'd been expecting to unbutton her shorts and pull up her shirt, but. fingers make quick work all the same, and then the careful peel of fabric from flesh to show:

yup, that's definitely a stab wound from a steak knife that's been cauterized by supernaturally heated metal.

it sits a little above the curve of her right hip. sleek, fresh skin shiny and stretched in the middle, puckered edges of knotted keloided tissue turned dark in the process of healing over. all in all, a rough looking scar, but one that's held up for nearly five weeks with no reopening, no infection and not putting much of a dent in clarke griffin's stride. there's no sign of re-tearing, no oozing of heme or blood, just a lot of burnt, angry nerve endings that scream in agony every time they're brushed too hard — and sometimes just for no reason at all.

pal can look all he wants, and there probably won't be any objection if he chose to gently poke and prod. it's been a few days since she's properly inspected the wound either, but after peering down her front to give it a once over: )

See? It looks fine, you didn't cause anything new.

Thank you.

[There is absolutely nothing sexy about the way Clarke peels back her clothes and Palamedes examines her wound—though in a certain light, one might consider his attention tender. He worries his lip as he looks it over, prodding very gently at the edges in a few places, silent and serious. In the end, he has to concede that as nasty as it looks, the injury is healing well.]

No sign of infection…I’ll have to give Jade my compliments. [He sighs] I suppose if I asked you how you got it, you wouldn’t tell me.

[For all his exasperation, he sounds awfully fond.]

( she hadn't been trying to broadcast the fact she'd been stabbed, and so far as keeping it on the downlow thus far it's been a pretty successful venture. jade and natsuno know out of necessity, sharky she has no control over, and pratt was there — though not in his right mind. her roommate probably has some suspicion, having seen the bottles of painkillers and discarded dressings throughout the room. obviously friday and the captain, for all they care.

but pal's at least a bit of a choice.

something something the intimacy of allowing someone to look at your vulnerabilities and scars. and coupled with the deeply rooted urge to be contrarian, clarke abandons the secrecy of my business and at least gives him the general run down. )

Little while back, a guy was walking around the deck talking about culling the herd and killing the weak. I wasn't about to let that happen, and he tried to gut me. ( emphasis on tried, and greater emphasis on the beat of silence where pal can hopefully infer how that chance, blooding meeting ended. her wound is unhealed, after all. )

We've talked since, though. You could call what he was having a psychotic break, I'm not holding it against him.

( the stabbing? nah, the backstory's too tragic to hold a proper grudge. the unintentional cockblocking though??? )

Clarke. [Pal exhales with something like a laugh. The story is precisely as exasperating as he expects it to be, but it warms him, in a strange sort of way. It’s possible, even, that Palamedes is feeling a little proud at the idea Clarke tried to protect the ship from someone so obviously dangerous.]

Well, at least you’ve settled your differences. [He tries very hard to keep a straight face, but it’s a close thing; there a grin tugging at his lips and a snicker in his throat. Really, Clarke? I’m not holding it against him? And, presumably, he’s not holding it against her? Despite the fact that she killed him? Emperor’s bones, this ship is weird.] Just…try not to get nearly disemboweled next time, all right?

( it's even worse than not just holding it against each other, pratt said thank you and clarke said a jumbled, round about i'm sorry. )

I didn't set out to be nearly disemboweled that time. ( hello? why is that humor catching? it's like a disjointed wave of humor and aggravation washes over her features. )

Are you about to start laughing at me? ( why does she want to take up huffing around a giggle fit right along with him? ) You're not supposed to be laughing at me, Pal, I — ( literally killed a man with a glorified friendship bracelet, then bled all over the hallway and underwent some seriously questionable medical treatment without anesthesia??? )

Clarke. The man just about eviscerated you, and you presumably did even worse to him, and then the two of you sat down and sorted out your differences over tea. I can either laugh or track him down and stop his heart.

[ok, now he’s barely trying not to grin.] Which would you prefer?

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cw: some wound talk

Re: cw: some wound talk

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