Maverick | Bitch Ricky Marten-Taylor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
deuteranope) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
daybreakacademy2019-02-20 09:07 pm
deuteranope) wrote in daybreakacademy2019-02-20 09:07 pm
and we could run away. [open]
WHO: Maverick Taylor and OPEN (mostly/semi).
WHAT: Maverick’s nightmares rear their ugly heads again. Time for late night stress relief.
WHEN: Night of February 20th (into the 21st) “officially”, but time is fake and nightmares happened on more than one night, so chase your bliss.
WHERE: Lumi3/outside and around.
NOTES: Smoking and swearing, as a Mav does.
( SKITTERING - closed to Imelda. )
[His feet are bare against the cold ice, and part of his brain tries to tell him that he should be slipping and splitting his head open, but there isn't time to argue because he needs to go, he needs to be faster, he needs --
crrrack.
He’s falling. The only one reaching out to him is the sharp-nailed, glowing creature he was running from in the first place...but arms still catch him. They're cold, probably from being so far beneath the ice in this dark pit, and dirty. He can't find where any of them stop being an arm, even as that one twitches with a crack and starts slithering over to him, crawling, nails scrabbling. He shouldn't open his mouth, but it's the only thing he can still move, as the cries for help rise up within him.
Maverick sits up with a yelp and an overwhelming feeling of nausea, like those fingers really had clawed their way down his throat and were stirring up his stomach, now. This room is -- weird. But it's his, still. Just the one at the academy. He’s here, and he'd yelled, but not for help, and he wasn't crying, and thank fucking god it had been years since he'd ever wet the bed from this shit. He doesn't know how much lower he can let himself sink. He runs his hand through his sleep-addled curls to try and stop it from shaking, but when that doesn't work immediately, he reaches for a pair of headphones coiled around the bedpost to clamp over his ears and -- ugh, fuck, where was his phone? He doesn't want to turn on the light… If anyone had woken up -- or was still fucking awake -- then he needed some kind of plausible deniability. Totally still fucking asleep…]
( SMOKESCREENS AND SNOWBALLS - open, around campus. )
[The fear had faded some, letting anger take its place. Adults weren't supposed to have nightmares, only little kids -- and yet there he was, eighteen years old, and waking up in the middle of the night scared out of his wits time and time again. All because of some fake bullshit his brain came up with! He needs...something real. And a goddamn smoke.
He’s already working on a second cigarette by the time he's settled into packing snow into something that is a maybe vaguely human-shaped lump? His movements are agitated and restless, punctuated now and again by a string of curses or a cloud of smoke intermingling with his breath, clear from the cold. He's gotta suck it up and build an army.
And then he's gotta take that army out with the metal bat resting on the ground beside him.]
( SORRY NOT SUBTLE - open, Lumiére 3 common area. )
[Now that he’s worked out all that anxious energy… Okay, no, he still can't fucking sleep. But at least he can come back inside and curl up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. He’s swapped out his bat for his laptop, drooping eyes scanning the screen as he scrolls through various, brainless sites. Mav’s got music going, but with the low volume he's set it to, someone probably has to get pretty close to recognize one of many songs by The Cure. Soothing rock.
...there are literally a dozen packets of hot chocolate resting next to him. He probably has more than enough to share, during these lazy, godless hours.]
WHAT: Maverick’s nightmares rear their ugly heads again. Time for late night stress relief.
WHEN: Night of February 20th (into the 21st) “officially”, but time is fake and nightmares happened on more than one night, so chase your bliss.
WHERE: Lumi3/outside and around.
NOTES: Smoking and swearing, as a Mav does.
( SKITTERING - closed to Imelda. )
[His feet are bare against the cold ice, and part of his brain tries to tell him that he should be slipping and splitting his head open, but there isn't time to argue because he needs to go, he needs to be faster, he needs --
crrrack.
He’s falling. The only one reaching out to him is the sharp-nailed, glowing creature he was running from in the first place...but arms still catch him. They're cold, probably from being so far beneath the ice in this dark pit, and dirty. He can't find where any of them stop being an arm, even as that one twitches with a crack and starts slithering over to him, crawling, nails scrabbling. He shouldn't open his mouth, but it's the only thing he can still move, as the cries for help rise up within him.
Maverick sits up with a yelp and an overwhelming feeling of nausea, like those fingers really had clawed their way down his throat and were stirring up his stomach, now. This room is -- weird. But it's his, still. Just the one at the academy. He’s here, and he'd yelled, but not for help, and he wasn't crying, and thank fucking god it had been years since he'd ever wet the bed from this shit. He doesn't know how much lower he can let himself sink. He runs his hand through his sleep-addled curls to try and stop it from shaking, but when that doesn't work immediately, he reaches for a pair of headphones coiled around the bedpost to clamp over his ears and -- ugh, fuck, where was his phone? He doesn't want to turn on the light… If anyone had woken up -- or was still fucking awake -- then he needed some kind of plausible deniability. Totally still fucking asleep…]
( SMOKESCREENS AND SNOWBALLS - open, around campus. )
[The fear had faded some, letting anger take its place. Adults weren't supposed to have nightmares, only little kids -- and yet there he was, eighteen years old, and waking up in the middle of the night scared out of his wits time and time again. All because of some fake bullshit his brain came up with! He needs...something real. And a goddamn smoke.
He’s already working on a second cigarette by the time he's settled into packing snow into something that is a maybe vaguely human-shaped lump? His movements are agitated and restless, punctuated now and again by a string of curses or a cloud of smoke intermingling with his breath, clear from the cold. He's gotta suck it up and build an army.
And then he's gotta take that army out with the metal bat resting on the ground beside him.]
( SORRY NOT SUBTLE - open, Lumiére 3 common area. )
[Now that he’s worked out all that anxious energy… Okay, no, he still can't fucking sleep. But at least he can come back inside and curl up on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate. He’s swapped out his bat for his laptop, drooping eyes scanning the screen as he scrolls through various, brainless sites. Mav’s got music going, but with the low volume he's set it to, someone probably has to get pretty close to recognize one of many songs by The Cure. Soothing rock.
...there are literally a dozen packets of hot chocolate resting next to him. He probably has more than enough to share, during these lazy, godless hours.]
no subject
It's fine, I'll call her. I'm going to her room anyway.
[He scrolls through his contact list to find Orihime's familiar robot-tank Network icon, leaving Maverick to do whatever and keep track of Kuroko apparently.]
no subject
He stays frozen there for a second, brows furrowed even more than normal, before he scoffs and raises his voice.]
I guess this is just my fucking cat now! [...sigh, no, hello Kuroko, he's talking to you, now, as he starts heading off to Lumière dorm again. Cats were better for conversation than people anyway.] Not really. I'll take you home. We should let his roomie know what's up, anyway... Let him set up the fucking rescue team if he never makes it back.
[Maverick, cat babysitter. Not even fully independent cat owner because he was just that fucking useless. Sounds...about right.]