Ryan Ramos is no (bailarin) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-10-01 18:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, ryan ramos |
Narrative: Marvel
Who: Ryan Ramos
What: Repercussions of losing an injury, and gaining it back
When: Post tiny-plot!
Warnings: Language
When she came back to his apartment it was late, right. Laughing, the smell of smoke and booze rolling off her skin like cheap perfume sold the drug-store her mama liked to get el Día de Reyes, glitter in her hair and stuck to the sweat on her skin. Wild curls tangled round her earrings and a skirt riding up to there on her thighs, clinging nylon static she'd found back of the closet rolled up real tight. Late and her feet hurt from dancing and her throat was rasped with smoke and she fell onto sheets that smelled like cheap detergent and his sweat. Ry, she didn't mind none of that. It was real, right. Fucking the dancers in the company, when they were all bones and muscle, it felt like more of being on stage. Fucking like you were trying to be perfect, like a pas de deux on a yielding mattress or up against a wall, 'stead of across boards and under lights. Nah, Ry she hit her ass on his dresser, and she laughed against his neck and she didn't remember his name from the bar but she knew the shape of his jeans on the floor. She fell asleep, hot sweaty mess sprawled out across his sheets, navy cotton rucked around her hips and sleepy-content with good sex. Then she woke. Morning, early. Ry hadn't broke the habit of a lifetime. Up early for class, eight til two, stretching at the barre twenty minutes before company began. She woke with the light, slow and lazy and creeping under the blinds at the sill. It took a while, most days, right. The meds were heavy and they knocked her out, sent her into dreamless sleep or sleep that gave her weird dreams that made no fucking sense when she woke. Took time, to fight her way outta sleep. Except this morning, heat fired up her hip, a spasm of agony that hooked claws around her belly, her rib-cage, her joints and squeezed in a nauseating crunch that woke her sharp. Her throat worked, hoarse around an airless scream, trying to heave in a breath to lungs that shriveled, crumpled like a balloon starved of air. Couldn't think of nothing except the red, wet heat that shoved everything else outta her head and left her howling, fingers clenched in the sheets. Pounded, with every beat of her heart in an ugly, rapid pulse of jagged teeth against her hip, her knee, every fucking bone in between. She couldn't sit up. Hurt too fucking bad to sit up, rolled over to her belly and screamed some more as the pain sprawled out like she'd forgotten how it felt. She reached, blind-handed for the meds on the side. Fumbled, slid over surface looking but nothing there and felt frenetic panic beat bird-wings in her throat. Had to be there. Had to be. Went to the pharmacy two days back, outta breath and in pain on the crutch but proud, right. She made it. Nothing. Risked winching open an eye and chingados, wasn't home. Different sheets. Different bed. Different room and she was naked. Gorge rose up her throat, rancid wrapped around with panic and she swallowed dry, clawed out for sheets to wrap round herself, right. Naked was worse, naked and yeah, panic flittered through her head, pulled out snapshots night before. Drinks, right. Shots, and a man and laughing and fucking and mierda she remembered right but she didn't know how. Didn't know where this was. Scrap of white, floating in all that sea of blue sheet. Picked it up, read it - male handwriting, loopy. 'thanks for last night' and a cell number. Ry let it drop, and her stomach rolled, heaved up against her throat. The door, right. The door, hadta be. The door and her hands were shaking, slippery with cold sweat because the fuck was she s'posed to do, outta meds and stranded? |