Virginia Woolf, Orlando || Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray || Richard Siken, War of the Foxes || Harry Styles, Falling

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@untestxd
Virginia Woolf, Orlando || Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray || Richard Siken, War of the Foxes || Harry Styles, Falling

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cutfoot:
… HE’S NO ONE. the rotting insides of lawrence are masked by human skin ( mold has grown into the fibers of his lungs, black spots over organs that should gleam red : the geography of his body, every slope of broken bone and lake of wolf’s blood, was rendered in the darkness of self - rot … he knits himself into unscathed skin and ignores the wound where his leg once was ). he doesn’t even flinch when scott bleeds blasphemy into his holy office, that’s how deeply his human skin sits around his skin. he doesn’t clasp his human hands into prayer and beg for unnamed forgiveness : scott is dirt upon dirt upon dirt and he spits vehement stains over john kramer’s name. as if he’s worth anything … as if he knows anything. ‘ you talk about the same man as if he can be split. he’s jigsaw and he’s john kramer. to separate them is to create … i won’t bore you with too many words. you’re idiotic for believing one to not be the other. ’
scott pretends he rages against the machine but can barely name the machine that sparks this telltale anger inside of him ( he is another outline of a boy without the spaces filled in : he exists as nothing, as no one, another faded mark from shaking hands … blight would attribute him too much control over his environment ). BLIGHT WOULD PRETEND SCOTT WAS ANYTHING BUT A STANDARD NUISANCE. he isn’t smart enough to present as formidable, but even idiots can be threats : he’s a child playing dress up with only his anger to guide him. lawrence would feel pity if annoyance wasn’t swelling in his chest. his shoulders roll back again, muffling a sigh between the crease of his lips.
a hand is thrust into his face, the marred wrist shining below his gaze ( lawrence has never watched the documentary, but his little circle of lost lambs enjoy their chatter : a self - made jigsaw victim, they’d all sneered in careful unison, as if their trauma was something that could be homegrown … a quick recipe on how to recreate what had torn them apart, the disease of their specialness gripping at them ). ‘ you think that’s what it takes to be a survivor? a few scars, scott? you’ve deluded even yourself. take a seat again. ’
He’d stitched himself into the seams of a story he had not been written into. With threads of blood and persistence, he’d been woven into a narrative he had once only observed. But a passive audience member Scott Tibbs was not; he could pretend all he wanted that he was doing this for his friend, but even he knew the need for stardom rot at his core. He was a child’s drawing, scrawled in thick and unpractised hand over bloody and beautiful oil canvas. Self-inserted and out of place, the scars that plagued his skin were testaments only to ignorance, nothing more than a waste of flesh.
Alice truly didn’t know how deep the rabbit hole went when she began her descent, and still Scott was tumbling down into the dark. There’s a need, a desire so hot and bright in the back of his throat and in the pits of his stomach, to prove himself. To who? To Lawrence? To John Kramer? To himself? A sickly green rest in the seas of his wild hues, an envy that stained itself over each name he devoured in his research. Barely anyone made it. Adam hadn’t made it. But HE could. Scott could, Lawrence could. Maybe the need to certify his survival to the SURVIVED is what dragged him back to the foot of the doctor, more than the thirst for answers.
It’s certainly what breeds bitter taste on tongue as Lawrence continues to dismiss him. The thrusted limb retracts, man tucking his sleeve back over he skin and complies with all the enthusiasm of a sulking teen. He finds himself back in the chair, body slumping with frustration as he fights every call in his body to smash something again. How DARE he.
“I’ve survived more than half those fuckers out there! I faced a challenge and I got through it; I fucking BLED and in the face of adversity I got myself outta there. I’m a survivor, just as much as you or any of you motherfuckers in that fucking group.” His words are poker-hot, branding Scott Tibbs patent frustration in rising tone. His anger would tear him apart, his frustration would destroy him, the rage would consume; it had already began to decay the flesh, leaving palms clasp together and shaking in uncoordinated prayer.
You’re either ALIVE or you’re NOTHING. Here the two men sat opposed, hearts beating, blood pumping, the ghost of distain haunting brow as they struggled even to meet each other’s gaze. What was this? The smallest part of Scott’s brain, the last remaining blob of grey matter than had not been consumed by his wrath, considered that perhaps this was one of those many stages of grief. He’d never looked into it at all, only hearing in passing. This awful acid bubbling on his tongue had to be one of them, right? Was this one denial? Or bargaining?
“I survived. I’m alive- so what if it wasn’t Jigsaw, John- whatever the fuck you wanna call that old fucker- I still made it. That’s SOMETHING.” Alive and something. He huffs, sigh blooming fire in his breath as it burns in his throat, “Just--- let me come to the group. Just once. Let me check it out, and I’ll leave you the fuck alone. – It’s not like you have any answers anyway.”
ADAM WAS STILL DEAD, he was fooling himself if he thought that debating with Lawrence further could change that. It was fruitless to try and find the corpse of the man in the decay of the doctor’s story. Adam wasn’t coming back. He looks away quickly, bringing bruised knuckle to lips in contemplation. The inferno that had raged between them had been tempered by the blonde’s words. A shakey breath was the tell-tale signs of flame dwindling. Maybe this really was bargaining, but Lawrence had nothing to offer.
@cutfoot
vswrld:
SCOTT PILGRIM VS TOXIC MASCULINITY : FIGHT. his current hp stores were high, thanks to him not yet taking a sip of the drink ( and it would remain in his hand for the next fifteen pages before miraculously disappearing due to the laziness of the comic book artists tasked with this specific issue … what? they’re overworked, take your complaints elsewhere – besides, every good story needed a disappearing drink that’ll reappear later for dramatic effect ). turns out scott tibbs was the kind of person that could only be rendered in terms of comic books and real life, fiction melting with the assholes you find in every bar. the kind of huge dickhead that was only brave when alcohol stained his teeth : he was like if gideon graves had a younger brother without any of the charisma. NOT THAT GIDEON HAD ANY CHARISMA. ‘ dude, you’re, like, disgusting. ’
ZINGER! the comic book artists focus on a scene just beyond scott, where a tired old bartender with a story for a heart rubs down at the crusty bar, brushing peanut crumbs to the floor ( the reason we’re not focusing on the two scotts is because this scene has become hard to watch ). ‘ i know because she has, like, taste. and dignity. and a working sense of smell. and – dude, this list can go on and on. ’ there are very few spots in scott’s life that he would call sensitive or sore : he strives to be as chill as any other empty - headed dude in his twenties. but kim was kim.
He had prodded the buzzing little nest that was Scott’s mind a bit too hard, or just hard enough, for the swarm of scathing words to come hurtling out. Each sting brings with a private joy; his goading coming to fruition as the other attempts to spew venom at the viper himself. It’s the most entertainment he’d had all night; watching the awkward little mouse pull itself apart before the big cat and attempt to show its guts- as if it were not the exact treat the feline had been waiting for.
The attempt leaves Scott spluttering a buzz of laughter between lips. He pretends to hold it back as he looks around to see if anyone ELSE saw just how embarrassing that must have been for the Canadian. “She has taste huh? Yeah, a taste for these nuts on her chin.” He grins with that Cheshire smile; he is only playing- but perhaps a game that is less than favourable to the unwitting participant.
He toys with the next steps, the possibility of direction as he drains the last of his drink. Does he play it off, call his hand and leave the other be? Does he implore the dealer to continue these hits? Or does he start hitting back? “Dude, like you can fucking talk I can smell that whack-ass breath from back stage. It’s the only thing that stinks more than your music. Which is pretty hard to do considering how much you guys suck.”
@vswrld
slashre:
… HE EYES HER AS IF SHE IS LIVESTOCK : he takes her apart into segments ( the body and the face and the lips and the hair, rendered only in terms of physicality … would you like to see under these clothes? beneath bone and sinew, where rot and blackened honey lies, there is no girl left here ). she is used to crawling eyes and men with wolf - tamed jaws trying to lick the rot from between her lungs. she notices and she does not cast judgement : to judge him would be to judge humanity.
SCOTT TIBBS, AN ANATOMY LESSON : he has wolfish paws that speak to a nature beyond the rockstar, one of grassy nooks and pack dynamics ( communities always needed a leader, the singular beast that prowls with its thorned crown … had jesus worn a thorned crown when time slashed his wrists? animals are circular creatures ). his paw smacks down against her chalkboard, smearing white across black, letting the dust settle over his claws. he stalks away from her and izzy watches, for a beat. the taunt skin of his back, the huddle of his shoulders, shaggy hair falling over his neck. she’s unsure as to whether he’s handsome because he’s a rockstar, fanned by flames and fans, or because he is a self - made god : perhaps there’s never truly been a difference. but the truth is that he is handsome, cleansed by his own hands. but the lamb abhours loneliness ( a pack and a flock are largely the same, even when one would devour her whole : she closes himself into a community and pretends it does not feel suffocating ). she taps chalk against her board and wipes away the smears he has left behind, the ruinous intent in which he’d swallowed her words whole.
she has no choice but to skip - walk towards him, two steps for every one of his. she writes in anticipation : her rockstar doesn’t seem intent to listen. ‘ did i do something wrong? ’ she scribbles over her board. loopy and soft, she twists her body in front of his, tangling herself up in his path. the board is held up level with her head to make sure he sees it, rocking back and forth on fairytale feet. her hands tremble around the chalkboard, tugging it down until her chin can notch over the board. the lamb is pouting ( confused at being cast out so readily, a child sacrificed to the night … her own behaviour is one kissed by mystery, self - reflection impossible to do without the reflection of a mirror to ground her ).
Did these corridors get narrower? Did he get bigger?
As Scott marches past the found lamb, he feels his skin burn. Did it get hotter? Shutter-pale skin flushes pink under layers of dirt and grunge, a nauseous warmth rotting from stomach to chest, scribing swirling scrawl across sinew and scar. He needed air.
It had been the look in her eyes, beady and hungry; as if he had caught glimpse of the ravenous wolf that drowned itself in snowy fleece. For just a moment, as she gestured to wound, to weakness, with all the intent to devour. It was not the type of hunger he wanted to see. It was not a hunger for his flesh, for his touch, for his taste; it was so something far deeper, for something he did not have to offer.
He did not fear her. He was not running from sunshine silent smile, he just needed some air. It had been the shock of it, had been struck off guard. He didn’t know why he bothered to come to these things anymore, the pack around him only content to mock in vicious grin. What a cute set up. Send some star-kissed groupie to lay the trap underfoot whilst he concerned himself with the beasts above. Fucking assholes.
He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve, not even looking to where he was going. He just needed AWAY. He was done with this night, with the placating and the posturing. With the bullshit. The guitarist nearly stumbles right into the girl as she tangles her cotton-coated claws into his path.
She’s fiddling with the board again, and irritation sits sickly on his tongue. It burns at the gum; it aches at the bone like decay as the rot festers in ocean eyes. They look tired. Amongst cobalt flame lies that exhaustion; that sailor holding onto every piece of rigging to stop the ship left abandoned from sinking – and Izzy had sought fit to bring shears.
Hand finds the board again, a decay of the mind that tells him to rip it from her- to snap it in two and steal whatever words she had left before they harmed further. But he doesn’t. He releases it from his grasp, wiping the chalk from his fingers to his jeans.
“I don’t have time for this. For----whatever the fuck game this is.” He barks, though mutt is muzzled- voice a shaking rage of near whisper. He knows the others remain just down the hall, and if he raises his voice too much, they’ll hear him and THEY’LL know they’ve gotten to him. So instead, he snarls through teeth in hushed tone, but its no less as spiteful in the pretty girl’s face.
There’s silence where there’d be reply, and an uncomfortable sailor sees fit to fill the gap himself. “I get it, it’s fucking funny. We’ve been through the jokes before. He made himself look fucking stupid, alright?? But at least I was out there doing something- putting my fucking life on the line to prove that I was strong enough to survive one of those games. And I’m still here, aren’t I? At least I’ve proven something. More than you or any of you fuckers will ever understand.”
He speaks of false flock, of a presumption of belonging to a tribe he had outgrown, or maybe they had outgrown him. Scott’s eyes dart back to where they had come from, hearing the echoes of laughter rattle its way across the hall- he was sure they could hear him already. He turns his attention back to the woman and wipes his brow again, an anger sitting feverishly and only saw fit to grow.
“And it’s pretty fucking rich of you to being playing along with all this huh? What’d he promise you? I can tell you nothing he has to give you is fucking worth it. This is pathetic. You’re pathetic. All of you.”
@slashre
rabbitsrun:
𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐁𝐁𝐒 ( @untestxd : continued ).

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blendintowalls:
STARE, UNWAVERING AND DAUNTLESS. he’d continue to watch the wrath god with a complacent smile - and those piercing blues, they proceed to claw, claw, claw … attempting to beckon the orderly closer with unvoiced lure. and he succeeds ; placing the bottle aside onto checkered tile with a slight clink when digits curl around hem, hues dropping to the brazen mouth of the man beneath before pulling him in. ——— david yielded when he should have resisted, he always did. because it was only a matter of time before sweet tunes of laughter would turn SOUR yet again ; the bits of glass scattered across a darkened livingroom nothing but a chamber of TORTURE for poor, unwitting feet ! not that david actually gave a shit. not anymore. because welcome is the tongue that parts wanting lips open so deliciously. brew - laced yet incredibly sweet upon watering palate —— call him hedonistic … but who could blame him ? scott tibbs knew exactly what david urged for and beyond ; now who wouldn’t avail themselves of such pamper ? man makes himself shamelessly comfortable on other’s lap, digits finding their way into disheveled mass of mousy brown - yanking the other back lightly as kiss deepens. the people outside, the BATHROOM DOOR that’s left ajar completely and utterly forgotten … until musician speaks.
HARSHLY HE LETS GO OF HIS HOLD OF HAIR. playfully snappy at scott’s request. ‘ … yessir— ‘ david huffs, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand as he removes himself off him. orderly scoops up the bottle of beer to quickly down the last of its luke - warm contents. locking the door to keep any unwanted disruption out. ——— face hot, if he didn’t feel intoxicated before he definitely did now.
They were the moon and its tide, an unwavering rhythm, a perpetual back and forth; rise and retreat. Scott tugged when David should shove, Scott pushed when David should pull. It was a complicated dance, with steps countless and beat immeasurable, but one the two messy men were well versed in. How delicious the taste of his tempo was, the feeling of his fingers tugging at his hair nothing more than a warm-up to the chorus that was burned into flesh by now.
The fallout of events prior would go unspoken; it was a mess that Scott had no intention of treading over or cleaning up. It was far easier to run from accountability, to drown in distraction with something different and shiny than collect the shards of the mess you’d left behind. Whilst he was sure it’d catch up with him, he would stumble over it eventually, there was always the sweet call of procrastination he was powerless not to heed.
Hungry eyes devour the sight of him as he steps away, feasting on his silhouette restlessly. He pulls himself up from his seat on toilet lid and staggers a little; the wave of intoxication only just hitting his head as he rises to his feet. Previously, the searing pain in his hand had seemed to sober him up but it looks like he was just as drunk as ever on the dark-haired man. The rim of the sink helps guide him to a stand as impatient he waits for the other to lock the door. The drop in heat between them is near too much, the smile loosening from Scott’s lips when David turns to face him.
Uncoordinated in their little dance, a flurry of movement as he wraps limbs around him, reclaiming what was his once more in their kiss and groans his name. Teeth snag at skin as he pushes himself against the orderly and with little time to waste he’s already wriggling pesky hand into the trouser of the other. He’s impatient, frustrated, fumbling with the belt with only one hand, before finally letting David do it himself. His kiss his rough, touch infectious in the rise of heat in stolen breath. Scott pushes David against the door, stumbling together as his back hits the frame and Scott takes no time in pulling he man’s jeans to his ankle.
Already, he mouths at the fabric, breath hot and wet and utterly depraved as he feels his head rush with the sudden movement. His good hand latches itself onto David’s thigh to keep himself rooted in place in fear of toppling backwards. Just another part of their stupid little dance. “Fuck---” he breathes heavy and low in mutter and mumbles into the growing heat trapped away. Before he says anything further, he’s already got his eyes shut tight and his mouth full of David’s cock.
@blendintowalls
slashre:
… FRUIT IS ROTTING FROM THE MOMENT ITS PICKED. it stains the fingers with apple - pinks and peach - yellows, the rot of delicious sweetness sharp against the prying tongue ( there’s enough rot to rival macbeth and his horrid stain, strawberry blot ripening his skin : i have been rotting since the day i was born, plucked from the safety of an overripe womb and thrust into a world of endless growth ). she knows that guilt tastes like fruit, bitter and too sharp, the lemon - fizz of your own emotional toll … she knows his mouth must be full of it and yet he still talks, swallowing the rind of fruit that stings the body into an endless song. fruitless, people say about efforts that will amount to little, as if humanity’s rot is a good thing.
the thank you is soft. its riddled with the exhaustion that she’s trying not to feel, too heavy over her shoulders ( she slumps beneath the weight of it all : her posture has been ruined, the physical effects of their joint tiredness collapsing the bleach - white bone of her spine ). she has thought of abandonment in generic terms before, an abstract emotion that only becomes complicated when exposed to humanity … feelings were better in isolation ( she thinks she can become the objective observer to something thoroughly subjective, that she can deliver her own heart to herself an explain every little divot and dip that has sunk its fangs into her ). she thinks of herself as the abandoner, the turned back where sun stains the back of her neck with its brutal rays. she says i’ll leave with teeth suck into her bottom lip and it’s true, in part : she’ll leave and she’ll hate you for not bothering to pull her back ( but scott has her claws sunk deep and she can’t help but collapse into his words, to usher undue belief into his every sentiment ).
‘ you tell me. every time i get mad at you. ‘ she brushes a stray piece of hair behind her ear and huffs out the soft ramble of a laugh, a little delicate, a little shy. she colours the air with her half - mirth and pretends that reality can shift in her mouth if she tries hard enough. she drifts slowly back to the couch, retracing the steps of her retreat. she perches on the edge, before she surrenders : her body slumps against the couch. ‘ you know i couldn’t do this without you, don’t you? ’
Things don’t look too bad in this light. The warmth of the moment, as cloud rolls by on ashy day to kiss golden blessing on sun-parched skin. Amongst the storm, there is that silver, and on her tongue it is laid to rest. The waters have settled, at least for now. The bitter winds that chased his sail were bound to sneak back up on him, churning dark blues and blacks into whatever argument would be next. But for now, there is sanctuary in her smile.
Gaze chases her form as she returns to where it had all started, body sinking into the sag of the old couch. The furniture itself almost sighs, Scott’s relief and gratitude and regret breathing out into all things around him; this too was a part of him. A patchwork of dingy fabric, worn and rough, stained and torn. But there was so much comfort found here, despite that all. He leans his head back, closing his eyes for the moment as he soaked in these intangible rays and allows smile to replace frown at the call of her words.
“Because it’s true,” he heralds back, releasing one eye from its cavern to peek out at the last drops of day, “Getting me all worked up every time you tell me how awful I am. Like some messed up Pavlovian experiment.” A side effect of working with Charlie Townes; picking up some vocabulary along the way. Never had his lexicon expanded over such a short period of time, and that wasn’t even a dick joke! The sheer amount of reading he’d done alongside the whirlwind of internet-talk he’d been alarmingly exposed to had meant room for experimentation with words. Hell, maybe his song writing would get better, though there was room for doubt there.
A consumption of her mannerisms, a reading of her body language- he’d become the number one fan of the novel that was Charlie. Eager to trace grubby fingers of the pages of her past, delving head-first into the chapters of her present, and so desperate to co-author the lines yet unwritten. He wanted it to be a happy story; paper bleached in endless sun.
“Now that’s not true.” Scott follows, shifting now to rest arm against the rest, holding up skull with the palm of his hand. (Alas, poor Scott) “You’ve got this whole investigation shit in the bag. If anything, I’m sure I’m holding the story up.” He speaks in earnest, not self-deprecation, as eyes glimmer to the half-empty bottle before they return back to her. He reaches out in this moment, to act while he can in the slither of daylight they had been given, and rest his hand on her knee- a touch soft and seldom found.
“We’ve got this. You’re the only one who’s given this shit a chance, and we’re gonna show those motherfuckers just how much we’ve got this. Gonna be the story of the century when you’re the one with this big scoop on the Jigsaw Killer.” Here he is already, pen in hand, forging the future he wants to see. “And you’re not gonna do this without me. Hate to break that one to you.” I’m here just as much for you as the story. The next cluster of words were swept away by the tease of breeze rolling clouds across mind; a future without her is not one worth imagining- not a story worth reading.
@slashre
vswrld:
AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF SONGS SUNG BY SEX BO - BOMB :
1. OUR MUSIC IS WAY BETTER THAN THE SHIT MADE BY WRATH OF THE GODS : a five minute rock number where stephen stills kicks scott tibbs’ ass ( even in his grand fantasies, it’s stephen who plays the hero … what? scott’s saving the world days were thoroughly retired – he would happily cheer from the sidelines, though ). 2. IT’S SEX BO - BOMB SO BACK OFF : a slow ballad made entirely of wails and whines, a spotlight fixed on the glare that shone over scott’s face. the better scott. scott prime. 3. THIS GUY’S A TOTAL PERV AND OTHER THINGS SCOTT PILGRIM SHOULD’VE NOTICED TEN MINUTES AGO. seriously, their drummer? kim? whatever score that scott tibbs wanted to attribute to her didn’t matter … she was thoroughly out of his league. 4. FUCK SCOTT TIBBS. this song is clearly self - explanatory. 5. okay, he’s making some of these up.
‘ who even uses tapping that anymore? THAT’S NOT A HIP OR CURRENT PHRASE : it’s also, like, super sexist, i think, to imply you can … tap a woman. ’ scott pilgrim vs the off - hand feminism he’d learned from kim pines. she jumbled together theories, picking random seashells from each wave and holding them as sacred truths, and he tries to regurgitate half - thoughts. ‘ she wouldn’t even look at you, dude. ’
The trapped nerve in Scott’s tone is accented bright and bold in the curve of his frown, the dash of pink beneath the skin. An ASSHOLE and a CANADIAN walk into a bar. ... Who’d be the first to throw fists?
Each poke and prod rattled dormant beast he could feel pacing beneath the surface of stuttered back words. Pride, ego, and alcohol (Great name for a song Scott, write that down later) were enough of nasty concoction to breed nasty thoughts to reality. And the night had been so boring until now: Scott never gave up the chance to throw his weight around. The pilgrim was on HIS turf, after all.
“Who’s even uses HIP anymore?” Is scoffed back with ease, a verbal hand brushing his own shoulder as he wipes away any spoken assault back at him. His reward is another drink of his beer, sneer blossoming into laughter at the bassist as he continues to prattle on. “Yeah, because you really look like you know ANYTHING about women, kid.”
The moniker is given, a term meant to belittle and reduce the OTHER Scott down to nothing more than a pest in the way of the ADULT in the room. Fish, meet Big Fish- and this was HIS pond.
“You don’t know that. You’d be fucking surprised which girls are total freaks under all that stuffy shit.” His look is incredulous, shaking his head in disbelief, “Motherfucker, she couldn’t keep her eyes OFF me at that last show. Practically undressing me with those eyes.” Prod, prod, prod that wasps’ nest. “You’re not getting jealous, are you? Who’s to say I haven’t been there and DONE that already? Given her the ride of her life.” Now this was far more an interesting topic than mothers.
@vswrld
blendintowalls:
PEERS DOWN AT COTTON - SWATHED HAND, the result of orderly’s handicraft sort of careless, sort of unsystematic - at least it was kept somewhat taut around reddening flesh ; he faults the inattentiveness on his buzzed state of mind ! ——— scott was just as buzzed, though musician remains as OBSTINATE as ever, a whine of veto as foot coaxes itself around limb. gaze drops and darts itself back up just as quickly ; he had a feeling scott wasn’t going to clean up shit tonight. and he had a feeling he was going to let him get away with it. ‘ … jesus, if you wanna fight him then go on an’ fuckin’ fight him. bash his brains in, i don’t care. jus’ take that shit outside. ‘ there’s a small laugh falling from chapped lips, drunken and lazy as the other pulls him closer. oncean hues probing, annoyingly piercing and persuasive. i could make it worth your time. oh, he better ! —— david takes another swig of his drink before squatting down to his previous position before him. mouth stretching into slight smile - raising dark brows at him in a DARING LOOK. ‘ yeah ? ‘cause i start to get real fuckin’ impatient in here. ‘
It’s stiflingly hot in his dingy little bathroom. It’s clean enough, but the adrenaline from the SCENE he’d made outside and the lack of apparent air-flow on beer-flushed skin only saw fit to raise the temperature. The blurriness of the world around him, the pain searing through his hand, the heavy air surrounding him was all something he wanted to forget- needed to forget. Tonight, had been a total SHIT SHOW, and it seemed that Scott was adamant on making everything as terrible as possible,
Foot’s little hook around the ankle tugs only gently; it’s David who puts up little resistance. As the man is coaxed closer so too does the patient’s smile grow. Playful promise dances across his lips as the orderly returns to where he had been before, and the look in David’s eyes is medicine enough to forget the damp red beneath cotton. A creature of ash and flame, Scott would much rather heat up than cool down.
The other is coaxed just that must closer and his good hand finds its fingers toying with the hem of David’s collar. Gaze collapses down onto his lips for just a moment before he brings them crashing into his own. A shift in place and he invites the other to straddle his lap, fingers itching upwards to guide the man’s face back to the guitarist’s, a fervour born from seemingly nothing at all. What sweet a remedy he was for pain beneath bounds, the taste of his teeth against his tongue, the heat from his breath course and thick against his mouth.
“Get the door and I'll get something else.” He speaks against the ghost of stubble that brushes against lips, the lazy residue of sloppy morning ritual. Scott’s unbandaged hands squeeze at the thigh still sat across him, a silent gesture of ownership of the man he’d never have. Scott would take all he could- even if it was just this moment.
@blendintowalls
vswrld:
ISSUE 18 : scott didn’t like drinking ( that’s not a very catchy title! this will never sell! ). NEW TITLE : drinking upsets scott’s tummy! … alright, that’s not exactly snappy, either. but the truth should sell easier than a snappy title, right? right? he left the drinking to wallace and only tried to get fucked up when he was mourning a girl. when he was mourning ramona. the girl to end all girls and other manic - pixie - dream - girl nonsense.
but his hand still wrapped around the glass when it came, an awkward smile dragging itself over his lips. ‘ sex bo - bomb, actually. sex - bomb was taken by a small band of teenagers who wear raccoons on their heads while they sing. whether or not the raccoons are actually helpful to the performance hasn’t been determined yet, but, yeah, sex bo - bomb. ’ WOAH, COMING ONTO KIM? GROSS … and totally disrespectful ( was kim cute? he guessed that wasn’t the point — she was a member of the band, first and foremost ). ‘ don’t talk about our drummer, dude. ’ OBJECTIVE : DEFEND KIM’S HONOUR. before she kicked his ass for not doing that.
Sex Bomb, Sex Bob-Omb- what difference did it make really? Whilst he understood the particulars (the ever-present blister on the roof of his mouth that burns every time HIS band are introduced or listed with an additional ‘THE’ headlining their name), he really couldn’t care less. Their music still sucked. It wasn’t even the sort of trash that the man would listen to passively; the guitar too light, the vocalist too whiney. The drummer was the only redeeming part of it and even then she was only a 6/10 – maybe a Canadian 8. (It’s because of the metric system, right?)
He’s not listening as Scott corrects him, instead opting to drink the newly acquired beverage, casting lips around the rim of the bottle and draining the contents like the parched mutt he was. His attention is only brought back as he appears to have struck a nerve in the previously bland-looking man. Its reward is a dirty sneer creeping onto whistle-wet lips as he removes glass, gas catching in his throat.
Now that’d be an attention grabber. He’d only been talking to this guy anyway because of how dead this graveyard of a bar had been tonight. They glower playfully at him, alive and bright as his stance opens up a bit more, tucking one hand into his jean pocket. “What? You tapping that or something? She’s cute, what can I say? I’d fuck her.” The Scott Tibbs seal of approval is granted to unwitting recipient not even present to accept the award in person. Dirty consolation is instead offered to the bassist, “She here tonight or is it just ..,. you?” Eyes are already sweeping back around the premises, looking for that bright beacon of orange in the dark.
@vswrld

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cutfoot:
… LAWRENCE DOES NOT MOURN : his time with adam had amounted to a few messy hours, brotherhood a thin creature stretching itself across broken tile and deep - seated rot ( lawrence does not mourn because he doesn’t allow himself to mourn … grief is kept contained beneath the splintering edge of his fingertips, held together with patient hands that do not shake, that do not tremble ). there was a pathetic little grave erected somewhere that lawrence had never visited, a world away from his middle - class home. he had seen the pictures of it online : adam faulker - stanheight still remains missing, even while the other half of jigsaw’s infamous ‘ bathroom trap ’ walks free. doctor lawrence gordon is still refusing an interview, which has led many people to be suspicious of his exact involvement. lawrence does not mourn and he supposes that makes life easier … while scott’s grief gathered in the corner of his eyes, the messy threat of tears soaking holes in lawrence’s cool demeanor, the older man held steadfast and unrelenting : ship, meet habour. sinking man, meet the lifeboat that will always remain out of reach. scott, meet the good doctor and the ice that has replaced his heart, the chest cut open to reveal the beating crow that had once been called a heart has escaped ( lawrence does not mourn adam but he wants to … he just isn’t sure how anymore ).
his thoughts turn macabre as he wonders whether or not he would mourn scott. this feral creature had seemed bound to him since that fateful day in his office, where broken pieces of a camera had stained his carpet, where a bruise had bloomed across lawrence’s cheek like a kept promise … we’ll see each other again, the faded words unsaid between them in those moments, but still resonating against grief - soaked walls ( and under john’s machinations, he had found himself tugging the leash that others had abandoned, guiding the puppy away from any trail that seemed too hot ). HE WOULD MOURN SCOTT LIKED HE MOURNED ADAM, HE THINKS … he’s known scott for longer than a few hours, but both boys held the same fiery temper, the same mischief - soaked smile, the same ruthless need to light themselves on fire just to keep warm. scott can dress himself up as a sailor in whatever metaphor best suits his sinking nature, but the truth is that he’s one misplaced match away from tasting flame. scott turns away from him to grip at the counter, trying to tame his anger into something manageable : lawrence counts the breaths that it takes, the inhale of onetwothree, the exhale of fourfivesix. this is a boy waiting to die, so every breath feels stolen. this anger is merely borrowed time — lawrence tolerates it ( scott tibbs’ body was finally found … the frontman of the rock band ‘ wrath of the gods ’ was mutilated in a jigsaw trap after attempting to replicate the man’s methods … doctor lawrence gordon has refused to comment ).
‘ you must excuse me if i wasn’t thinking rationally. i was suffering from intense blood loss from the gaping wound i’d created in my leg and acute delirium on account of being chained up for hours. you’re approaching this situation from a position of rationality : there was no rationality in the bathroom. you couldn’t imagine what it was like … the details are hazy to me, anyway. an attempt to suppress traumatic memories — it’s what happens after someone undergoes that much stress. i wouldn’t be able to continue living if i remembered every part of it. ’ lawrence speaks as if the conversation is a wound opening up in his chest. these are words stolen from between gritted teeth, from the anger that sits in his mouth. his fingers clench into a fist before they relax. you wouldn’t know what it’s like ( no one would ever really understand it ). ‘ is that all? ’
vswrld:
… YOU KNOW ME. scott had sat through a lecture or two from stephen stills about what bands were playing tonight ( and what bands were just scoping out potential competition, like like moths drawn towards better lights : meet sex bo - bomb, certified lightest band in the world! ). READERS, LET’S TAKE A LITTLE QUIZ … what has scott pilgrim remembered about scott tibbs?
1. SCOTT TIBBS IS PART OF WRATH OF THE GODS AND ALSO A HUGE ASSHOLE. DO NOT INTERACT. 2. SCOTT TIBBS IS PART OF WRATH OF THE GODS AND ALSO A HUGE ASSHOLE. YOU STILL HAVE TO INTERACT WITH HIM, SCOTT. SUCK IT UP. 3. SCOTT TIBBS IS PART OF WRATH OF THE GODS AND NOT AN ASSHOLE. WHY IS HE BEING SO WEIRD WITH YOU, THEN?
‘ do i have any what? huh? … i think i lost the plot of what you were saying a few pages back, dude. ’ scott blinks down at the other, folding his arms around himself in the form of a semi - hug. self - soothing. ‘ i’m scott pilgrim. sex bo - bomb? we’re pretty well known or whatever. i think. ’
ANSWER : SCOTT THINKS THE ANSWER IS TWO, BUT IT’S ACTUALLY ONE.
Damn, the kid looked spacey. If he’d been in a better mood, he’d probably inquire about what substance the other Scott had taken that night and how he could get his grubby hands on some of it. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be doing a good job- he certainly didn’t seem like he was having anything remotely close to a good time. But that was his problem, Scott Tibbs was delightful company. When the bartender comes around he orders two beers for the both of them without asking and gives the bassist a smile accepting the gratitude that was never offered.
“Oh yeah. Sex-Bomb. Heard of you guys, I think.Uh---- Canadian, right?” Scott asks without asking, speaks without seeking answer nor reciprocation: all the world was a stage tonight, and Scott Tibbs was the only player- the other Scott had unfortunately been wrangled into the crowd to see this spectacle play out. He takes a swig of the beer.
“You guys have that little acoustic sound going on------ and that drummer, right? Shit’s cute.” There’s little semblance of respect for his fellow artist found amongst the scrapings of syllables, no matter how hard you would look.
Scott’s comment brings with it a roll of the eyes and an inked fist rapping against the mop on the other’s skull. “Uh, hello? The MILFS? You get any action or what? What’re the MILFS like up north huh? The mom’s were always fucking UGLY on Degrassi, man.”
@vswrld
blendintowalls:
‘ —— shut the fuck up. wanna do it yourself, then ? ‘ david raises his brows at him and sneers. it’s a lingering gaze ; crooked smile reluctantly present just to compensate for the growing annoyance building in his voice - orderly’s patience might be weaing thin with scott, but there’s no point in provoking yet another HISSY FIT from him ( living room currently scattered with bloodied shards of glass ; he didn’t exactly want the musician to give his bathroom the same distreatment. ) ——— takes a swig of his own beer before lightly slapping the other’s bandaged hand away when he’s finished. david pulls himself up from his crouched position before him - looking down at the SULKY man seated on the toilet. ‘ ‘kay. you wanna clean your shit up before i gotta play nurse to any of the other suckers out there ? ‘
@untestxd / continued.
Viper’s hiss shudders between grit teeth, jaw locked tight in attempt to cope with the pain. David’s light slap to his bandaged hand does not come without retaliation, FIGHT or FLIGHT in reaction to pain stressing the former and Scott stupidly bats back at him. Eyes shut tight as the pain sears through cotton, pulling back as if he had just reached palm into an oven. The thought of returning to the mess he’d left behind was not exactly one pleasant, nor was the guitarist anywhere near eager to face the consequences of rage-born action. From his seat atop porcelain throne, the mutt-king in bloody crown hooks his ankle around David’s leg, imploring him to stay with him here a little longer.
A groan parts dry lips in reply, “In a minute…” Eyes dart from the orderly to the door left ajar. “Not exactly cooled off yet—I promise you if that motherfucker’s still out there it won’t be just my blood you gotta clean up tonight.”
What strange form guardian angel could take. Wings dirty, torn and ripped, soft cowl nothing more than sarcastic sneer as he looks down at the burden he’s sworn to bear. Sickly fluorescent paints its divinity, a halo of white light backlighting the man, casting grave shadows across David’s face. Eyes return to the orderly’s handiwork, glancing over the bandages as he twists his wrist to get better look.
“Maybe..” Ankle digs in a little deeper to the back of David’s cast, silent prayer to the divine by way of touch. “You should keep me company in here, just for a while. Until he’s gone.” Frown burns into a grin salacious , “I could make it worth your time.”
@blendintowalls
// OOC: i’m sorry if the next couple of days i’m just posting smut on scott because all my asks and all my drafts now are JUST smut HELPPP that’s ok i’m not complaining scott’s just in his manwhore era, good for him.
𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑻𝒀 𝑶𝑭 𝑴𝒀 𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑬 . ( a series of nsfw prompts , separated by quotes & acts . ‘ my ’ muse belongs to the one who posted the meme . send “ + REVERSE ” to reverse the prompts )
→ WORDS .
❛ i’m sorry , you don’t enjoy being teased ? . ❜ ❛ you know what i’m waiting for . ❜ ❛ keep your hands where they are . ❜ ❛ i want you to ride [ me / my fingers ] . ❜ ❛ you make the prettiest sounds . ❜ ❛ say please . ❜ ❛ i want to make this last . ❜ ❛ look at me . ❜ ❛ i’m yours , only yours - ❜ ❛ yeah , just like that - ❜ ❛ i’ve barely even started . ❜ ❛ i need you . ❜ ❛ god , shut up and fuck me already ! ❜ ❛ god , yes , [ name ] , don’t stop . ❜ ❛ you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do this . ❜ ❛ who gets to touch you like this ? ❜ ❛ come for me . ❜ ❛ ah , ah - don’t touch . ❜ ❛ brace your hands on the wall . ❜ ❛ could you come like this ? ❜ ❛ please , let me come - ❜ ❛ god , you’re beautiful - ❜ ❛ i’ve been waiting for this all night . ❜ ❛ you’re such a tease . ❜ ❛ take these off . ❜ ❛ i want to feel your [ mouth / fingers ] . ❜ ❛ do you have any idea how good you taste ? ❜ ❛ tell me what you want . ❜ ❛ we shouldn’t - ah , we shouldn’t be doing this . ❜ ❛ faster , [ name ] , i need more . ❜ ❛ is this good ? ❜ ❛ keep your eyes open . ❜ ❛ i can’t wait to find out what else you can do . ❜ ❛ you don’t have to be so gentle . ❜ ❛ i want to hear you beg . ❜ ❛ can i take this off ? ❜ ❛ please , please , please - ❜ ❛ you’re doing so well for me . ❜ ❛ please touch me . ❜ ❛ keep reading , i want to see how long you last . ❜ ❛ i’ll buy you another one . ❜ ❛ say my name . louder . ❜ ❛ i can’t wait any longer . ❜ ❛ you feel so good . ❜ ❛ you’re going to leave a mark - ❜ ❛ touch yourself for me . ❜ ❛ do you deserve it ? ❜ ❛ did i say you could come ? ❜ ❛ i’m so close - ❜ ❛ they’re going to catch us - ❜ ❛ i want you right here . ❜ ❛ we have to be quiet . ❜
→ ACTIONS .
❛ pin . to restrain my muse’s hands during intimacy . ❛ mirror . to have sex with my muse in front of a mirror . ❛ deny . to deny my muse an orgasm . ❛ distance . to have [ phone / video ] sex with my muse . ❛ playlist . to have sex with my muse while music is playing . ❛ paw . to fondle my muse’s [ chest / ass ] . ❛ wall . to pin my muse against a wall . ❛ table . to hoist my muse onto a [ table / counter ] . ❛ clothed . to make my muse come while fully dressed . ❛ finger . to finger my muse . ❛ oral . to give my muse oral . ❛ fervent . to have sex with my muse after a fight . ❛ distraction . to rile my muse up during a film . ❛ mark . to leave marks on my muse [ optional : specify where ] . ❛ tie . to use restraints on my muse during intimacy . ❛ throat . to choke my muse during intimacy . ❛ sparring . for sparring to turn into sex . ❛ toys . to use toys [ vibrator / strap / otherwise ] on my muse . ❛ imagery . to send my muse a risque photo . ❛ drag . to pull my muse closer by a piece of clothing . ❛ tear . to tear a piece of clothing from my muse’s body . ❛ shower . to have sex with my muse in the [ shower / bath ] . ❛ sneaky . to sneak away from a gathering to have sex with my muse . ❛ beg . to make my muse beg . ❛ carnal . to [ scratch / bite ] my muse during intimacy . ❛ preoccupied . to rile my muse up as they [ read / work ] . ❛ jealous . to purposefully make my muse react possessively . ❛ dare . to have sex with my muse based off a dare . ❛ read . to re-enact something from a [ book / show / porn ] with my muse . ❛ collapse . to break a bed during sex with my muse . ❛ caught . to get caught with my muse during sex .

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rabbitsrun:
dirt , sweat , red - hot iron , and burned edges. nostrils flare at the aroma — a peculiar scent for a rare breed — held within his lungs to savor every single moment. between the layers of neglect and disgust held a different scent : one that was more than on the skin ( honeysuckle sweet was the ire that held roots. he could close his eyes and feel himself pluck it , tongue licking along delicate petals to suck on the sweet nectar that rested within. only to be discarded once all of it had been drained ). carnal desires are satisfied with crimson. between dyed locks the man studies the other , watching every little expression , smirk growing on his face at the other’s insecurity. DO NOT SHOW THE WOLF YOUR NECK , FOR IT WILL BREAK IT.
“ whatever you want , man. ” tristan’s voice is kept low , gravely , wetting his lips with a hungry tongue. he slowly rises , laughing vapidly as he makes his way to the other , finally resting his knee between scott’s legs comfortably as he stays standing. head tilted down , eyes ravenous , he leans towards him , offering his cigarette to the lost. “ but don’t make me wait any longer. ”
Sweaty digits fumble in the tight space between fabric and skin, they chase and they chase and take their sweet time prying cigarette from pocket. By the time he’s raised the stick to his lips, the other had began to make his move. He had been joking, right? Just messing with Scott to make him look as stupid as he felt. If it had been Tristan’s idea of fun to get the guitarist flustered, he needn’t continue further; skin a flush canvas glowering pink beneath stubble and ink.
Those eyes… precious gems that glistened deep and dark. The void themselves, beckoning with lofty palm like the tide, back and forth as it coaxes young sailor down into the depths with promises of treasure.
He shifts in his seat, placing cigarette behind his ear and was going to make the move to stand up himself had not Tristan’s knee rest precariously in the space between Scott’s legs. Even that laugh itself was a melody distant, commanding you to listen closer to catch the long-drowned lyrics of the lost siren. With each second the heat grew, throat drying and lid’s growing heavier with greater proximity to the man. It was intoxicating, near unbearable. It was nuclear, a radiation that seemed into the skin and corroded away any last sense of the mind and instead flooded it with that poison desire.
Eyes devour his form with a new-found hunger he didn’t know he had, a craving for a taste and for a flavour palette had not bene privy to. Smooth digits offer themselves up a prize (Tristan’s own cigarette and a smile) and suddenly Scott is met with an appetite unparalleled. A temptation far too sweet to resist, an indescribable starvation tearing him apart as hesitation glimmers in iris for the fraction of a second before finally he BREAKS.
He rips the cigarette from the other’s hand, throwing it to the side as instead palm bawls into fist in the fabric of Tristan’s collar. Yanking him down to his level, lips crash into his own and he kisses him hungrily. That need to consume, that desire to engulf is pleased and appeased somewhat as a low groan trickles from his throat to his tongue. Scott pulls him roughly, his other hand wrapping around Tristan’s waist and pulling him to sit astride his lap, breath heavy and greedy as he kisses him again and again. His desire is incomparable, inescapable; a slave to sensation as he pushes up against the man sat on his lap.
“Whatever I want huh? You’re gonna regret that.” Hands move to tear at clothes, a flurry and fury of fabric and skin as he takes off Tristan’s shirt and runs blisterint tongue from his chest to his neck, kissing hungrily at his jaw; there was not time to waste here.
@rabbitsrun
Malyen Oretsev in Ruin and Rising (Leigh Bardugo)