#allgrift

@allgrift

@allgrift @ears-off continued from here

It was dark and quiet in the very back of the dressing room. The theatre had not yet truly opened for the morning, and all was still- except for the last stall of the dressing room, where the curtains hiding the very last cubicle stirred, as though caught in a high breeze.

“Bite my fingers,” Hector commanded, his nails digging into Archer’s shoulders as he moved with the other man, their bodies writhing. Archer was naked, and Hector was as well, barring the buttondown that still draped his shoulders.

As Hector moved more roughly, his hand went out to grasp the curtain- and down came the curtain rod with a clatter. They both froze, caught in their moment of climax. Sander Cohen’s voice echoed out, much too close.

“Good morning!”

Archer choked on a hard moan with the demand. Giving in and closing his teeth around Hector’s fingers. He lapped them with his tongue, one hand rolling through the other’s hair hard while he kept himself propped up on his other elbow. Eyes rolling in his head as their stolen 10 minute romp was hitting it’s height.

It cut short as the curtain was yanked. He gave a startled hard gasp, eyes going wide as he froze in place. That would have been something he could recover from, to continue from, but then he heard a voice and instantly his stomach went cold.

A curled, nervous smile poured on his sweat soaked face. He tilted ever so slightly towards the Artist, immediately going apologetic. “Cohen! G-g-... good... Morning...”

     “How are you doing, my friend?”

GIVE ME AN AU AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT MY MUSE WOULD BE IN IT {ACCEPTING}

Send “So you’re the prisoner they’ve been talking about.” for your muse to find my muse in jail.

IT SEEMED LIKE YEARS since he’d been placed in this cell. He didn’t even know what he’d done to end up here: the night before his arrest had been a blur. He only remembered fighting back, taking a pool cue and wielding it against the officers who’d been sent to bring him in, until he’d passed out, either from their efforts or his own altered state.

Either Cohen had managed to piss someone off, or he was meant to be an example- or both.

He’d fought them tooth and claw, and now, he stirred into wakefulness. His entire body felt like a toothache, but in his bones, not just in his mouth.

“Don’t know why they’d talk about me,” he mumbled, tongue aching as he forced the words out. “Don’t even know why I’m here.”

@aquickdisguise​

Hector Rodriguez. According to the whispers he was someone who’d fallen from Cohen’s good graces. Someone who’d rubbed the artist the wrong way one too many times. Though, in certain circles it was whispered there was more to it. Not Cohen picking a disciple to make an example of, but rather Ryan. Picking up one of Cohen’s boys and locking him up. Reminding the man who ran Fort Frolic who was really in charge.

No government. What a lie that had turned out to be.

The blond flipped through a few papers, as if he had information about Mr. Rodriguez on the pages.

“It is all over Fort Frolic. Apparently, you and Sander Cohen had a falling out. And this is what you get.”

How funny. He’d felt like a ticking time bomb ever since needle kissed flesh. There had been reports, of course: whispered rumors of people going crazy, MUTILATING each other, like animals- or explosions. These rumors were hushed up quickly, of course, but still- one heard things. How many hours did he have left until the fire inside his veins reached out, pulled in more than just him?

Conflagration. A word he’d seen in a newspaper, describing an air-raid, fire rained down upon towns from the sky. That was how he felt these days, as though he’d rain down fire at any moment.

And now, some newpaper hound had grabbed those rumors, pieced them into a headline.

The newspaper, folded innocuously, lay on the bar between them. It could accompany a similarly innocuous cup of coffee, some light morning reading. Of course, when you opened it up, you’d see the pictures. People with horrible injuries, caused by other people.

“You think we’re gonna tear ourselves apart?” he asked, tapping the newspaper with his knuckles. “You think we’re doomed?”

@technicianthompson

Of course he did. Anyone who spent half a second in Rapture would think the same. A utopia. They had all been blind. There was a story he’d heard... sometime. About a man who thought he could reach the heavens if he flew high enough. And the wings broke. And he fell to his death. 

That’s what Rapture was. Icarus. With all of them clinging to his back as tiny insects unable to be saved.

Daniel hadn’t read the paper. But he saw the pictures. Listened to the conversations. ADAM would kill them all eventually. Thank fuck he never used shit like that. It had always seemed pretentious.