guppylestrade:

{ ♚ }——MURDER AU;

Lestrade loosened his grip on the law long ago.He is currently living in a constant delusion andwill do anything—and everything—to make this city his own again. If that means going behindthe backs of those he once cherished alive—                                                        so be it.

{ start; ——more to commence; }

guppylestrade:

{}——MURDER AU;

Lestrade loosened his grip on the law long ago.
He is currently living in a constant delusion and
will do anything—and everything—to make this 
city his own again. If that means going behind
the backs of those he once cherished alive—
                                                        so be it.

{ start; ——more to commence; }

Reblog - Posted 2 months ago - via / Source with 9 notes
tagged as → #roleplay #archived
Stark Differences

sevenawkwarddays:

How had it come to this? The years spent in early elementary school, dodging hurtful comments and attempting to keep a little brother out of trouble. The years in middle school and high school, avoiding any form of attention whatsoever from absolutely anybody. The prep school years, hiding behind textbooks to make sure he went by unnoticed. And, now, he was the center of attention to a one-man audience, his roommate, perched precariously on his bed, staring at him in expectation – no, anticipation of his undress.

[Read More]

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Reblog - Posted 3 months ago - via / Source with 7 notes
sevenawkwarddays asked: Monday and Mark (or David) ¤❦♠

faranan:

[Sometimes I don’t blame them for wanting you.
You look good, and they need something to do.
Until I look at you, and then I condemn them—
I know my kind; what goes on in our minds. 
It’s just a question of time.]

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I finally have you, he muttered, lifting his thumb to pull back the hammer on the gun. The two men stared at one another. One found himself held down only by the threat of a bullet, cast down on one knee, trembling.

I’ve never been caught so quickly, Monday whispered. The fear he felt was only drawn from the mystery of his own death, whether or not Mark was man enough to pull the trigger. “You’ve never stooped so low… never told a single soul about what I did to you, or to anyone. Did your daddy give you that gun?”

Mark wanted to kill him right then and there, but something was physically stopping him from pulling the trigger past the first barrier. His finger actually lifting, quivering, as if his hold hand meant to drop the firearm. All the two men could go was stare wearily at one another.

I— He began to tremble all over, as if his body had seized under the stress. I can do this. I can save them!

Who? The word left so hollowly. The question hung between them. There was no one. David had left this world with very little of a whimper. The case had been left open, no one suspecting the doctor that had treated him like his own son. Who is there left to save?

Now felt like a better time than ever. Monday pulled his weight back up, slowly getting to both feet. Mark watched him, taking a careful step back to maintain distance. The gun still shook in his grip. Would he really fucking shoot?

If you don’t stop, so what? There are plenty of cowards down the line that will try to desperately to defend the ones they love. Maybe they’ll learn to act a bit more quickly. Monday glared at the pistol, heavy brow falling. Even if you kill me, you’ll have no one here to—

Something ripped through the silence. Monday’s eyes lifted from the gun itself, to Mark’s eyes. The man stared down at his finger which had pulled the trigger back. He held it back, thumb already lifting to grab at the hammer. And he had never felt such disappointment in himself.

A spot grew on Monday’s shirt, just above his belt. He reached for it, even pressed a few fingers into the hole of the fabric. The hole of his flesh. It was terrible aim, but he could even feel the slight draft that moved within and out the other side. Terrible aim… but it didn’t miss.

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Reblog - Posted 3 months ago - via / Source with 4 notes
sevenawkwarddays asked: Hark and Jackson ☄☢

faranan:

                                           [Who’s gonna fight for what’s right?                                                                                                         Who’s gonna help us survive?]

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There was no joking about the footage they had received— The mayor was in the hands of a higher power, the threat to have him assassinated no longer a joke. Jackson struggled against his restraints, sometimes looking at the camera and then right passed it. He had no idea he was being watched.

This is serious, Emily muttered, letting his spine straighten. She had been watching the footage for nearly an hour. No one moved. No one breathed. If they themselves were being watched, their profanities would only contribute to the man’s demise.

Having said that, the only proof of any office tampering was Casper searching all too hard for the IP of the user that had sent the live feed to them. He only came back up from the under the desk flustered and red in the face. Isaac took him by the arm and helped him.

I have no idea, the small man choked out, bright eyes turning to their leader on the screen. No one else said a word, but eyes turned to Yorrick and Hark as they lingered in the office door.

Both of them were products influence, ready to lay down their lives for their brothers, their lovers. Both of them nodded their heads down in response. Emily sighed, smacking the button on the side of her computer. She didn’t hesitate, bursting from the office to find something else to do before they could do— well, anything.

Yorrick turned and followed, Casper and Isaac treading behind and murmuring something about tracking devices. But Hark lingered, staring down at his boots as he pulled a heel back to disrupt the carpet. Alas, what could be done? Money would be given, blackmail would be exchanged. Eventually, they’d have the mayor, but perhaps not in one, sturdy piece.

Something had to be done.

Hark gripped the doorframe as he turned to leave, looking back once more to the computer that now showed them nothing. His heart sank. Something had to be done, and if he was the only one to take initiative, so be it.

Don’t worry, Stark, he whispered.

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Reblog - Posted 4 months ago - via / Source with 3 notes
tagged as → #archived
ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏᴇʀ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴀᴄʜᴇs;

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ʀᴏʙᴇʀᴛ ᴛʀᴇɴᴏɪs. Hemophilliac cop often hospitalized due to reckless behavior in the field leading to internalized bleeding. Rob bribes easy and, above all, buys easy. Of all people, Rob buys the most and for the most money. Part of it, he passes off as rogue drug busts he’s successfully attained without warrant or arrest (a legal gray area if you don’t explain how you got it). It doesn’t matter how he got it, to him, all that matters is that it’s off the street… and up his nose but HEY, he’s not the one to worry about, right? It’s those crack addicts!

"Cocky, self-established haughtiness, paranoid, nosebleeds from crack drove him to marijuana since a childhood fear of needles (perpetuated by his bleeding) dispells heroin as an option. Does do good work when scrutinized but, otherwise, could be considered a slacker."

In relation to the rest of the team, Rob’s behavior is a burden. Where he is contact with the law every single day, his failure to cooperate makes it difficult to understand his own comprehension of what rules he himself are permitted to follow. Many have diagnosed him as impulsive and psychotic, but to actually do anything to construct his behavior is beyond their own level of, well, giving a shit. So long as he does his job or doesn’t drag others into his mess, he is well off running into his own discipline.

ᴄᴀsᴘᴇʀ: When assigned a new partner (Isaiah announced dead, despite further investigation of medical condition), Casper expected less of a handful. After being put on leave due to his own current state of mental health, he was more than happy to get back on the saddle— but only to find that someone else was up there waiting for him. It’s obvious that these two do not get along, and will probably never find something to agree on. Robert knows just how vulnerable his new partner is, and has an obvious eye to drag him down into the trouble of addictive drug use. If, perhaps, this problem was not already Casper’s own. 

Reblog - Posted 5 months ago with 3 notes
tagged as → #writing #roleplay #trenois #oc

OAU; Fenton abandons his morals and turns Thomas, somehow finding himself dominated.

Reblog - Posted 5 months ago - via / Source with 4 notes

faranan:

AU In which Monday dies instead of Mike.

The effort was difficult, but he promised to lay down his life for the brother he had known; the one he had seduced into drug use and, more respectively, into crime. This pact was in his own heart, never spoken of, and only to be carried out when the time was right—when the time came to expose the man’s brutality. Jerry would never have believed him otherwise, and with this one, final pushed, Martin hoped his little brother would finally understand what he had been warning him about all those years.

However, with this exposure, came the true identity of Martin Mandeaux— a monster and a freak, with fuzzy intentions and even more credible record. No one would believe Jerry, then, but at least one mark had been made. “He tried to kill him,” they would say. “Mike was only acting in self defense.

Reblog - Posted 5 months ago - via / Source with 7 notes
tagged as → #roleplay #archived #monday #jerry
Jon sat numbly behind his desk, holding the photo with its jagged edges across his desk, staring fondly at it. There were tears in his eyes, but he could not muster a proper blink to dismiss them. His heart hurt. His head hurt. What was he supposed to do in this situation? Gerardo was gone, the one fragile memory of their corporate romance encased within a thin film of gloss, held desperately between the remaining man’s fingers.
He often had dreams about how Jake killed his father. Shot through the head, and he had seen such carnage before. His reaction to Gerardo’s death, initially, had been silence. There was no reply to the messenger, no passing of emotion upon his features. Jon had been cold before, and his only opportunity to return to such a state had been offered then. And he took it, found at a standstill in the middle of his room.
He had collapsed, crying, unable to find his words. Memories spilled, but only at his fingertips. To tell anyone of what they had would have been suicide. No one was to know, not even the currently bereaved; for to remember the nights he had been blessed with were enough pain alone.
[[MORE]]
They had only come to the beach in this photo by chance, the moment spontaneous and the day being their first together as what they considered to be a couple. The stress of certain chained thoughts had brought Jon to the calming scenery and, upon waking to find his friend gone, Gerardo had followed. Upon discussion, the two discovered how hesitant the two seemed with one another— Honey was Gerardo’s wife, but their “love” had never been in the picture before.

Whatever relationship they had declared, spurred them to leave the beach and take shelter in Gerardo’s office in the back rooms of the diner. And among their fumbles and awkward groping, the two had made love their on the couch for the very first time.

The bed of the truck beside him was cold again, Gerardo finding himself alone. The sounds of the docks had long since departed, families dispersing over the hours, and the gentle brush of water against the midnight’s shores was almost enough to lull him to sleep. But he managed to sit up and stare across the dunes. The fire had died, and Jon’s silhouette was barely disturbed by the glimmering dance of embers.
He carefully stepped down from the back of the truck, sinking into the plush sand. An old camera jumped against the bed as his weight was lifted off of it. A stack of Polaroids was held neatly beneath it.
"What?"
Jon turned slightly, before looking back across the pitch horizon. Gerardo waded up behind him once he was satisfied with the position of the photos, resting his forehead to the man’s shoulder. There was a moment of silence before he felt the man deflate and slouch, a hand reaching back to brush against Gerardo’s cheek. As fleeting as their contact was, he lifted his face to the touch.
Darkness was their only barricade between their relationship and society. Around this time in any affair, one would assume they’d been caught once or twice. But they were steady, precarious men, with much to lose. They may have gone out together for meals once or twice, tossing furtive glances like coins and locking one another’s ankles together under the table, but their facade was executed perfectly.
"You’re fine," Gerardo finally said, bringing himself up under the other man’s arm and up against his chest. They stood there for a few minutes, both straining to see across the water. It was a poor excuse for a beach, but they had made plenty of excuses to get away and be themselves upon these dunes.

They retired back to the bed of the truck after an hour or two, curling up under the heavy sheets and staring at one another. Their faces were almost impossible to make out under the void of a night sky; only if the two had no memorized one another in their quiet nights together. Jon held the man close and his heart even closer.
Oh, and how he could have traced the man’s jawline forever, finger curling to grapple at stubble, but never succeeding in lifting the man from a memory long since suppressed. In fact, his romance with Gerardo had been put aside, in fear he would risk his heart being torn between these two men. Jon had explained that Kent was a healthier and more stable relationship— and Gerardo only said that he understood, hoping his relationship with his own son would be enough to keep his attention level with business.
An effort cut short.
——Jon fell back into his present, feeling his tears weigh down his loose tie and collar. He had no idea how long he had been crying, only knew that there seemed to be no limit to his grieving. His heart kept low under his belt, aching all too aggressively for the love that was lost. No matter how many times he would tell himself that he was okay, or that Jake had never been in the wrong… it was all lies. It had only ever been lies. To keep someone, or something, safe.


                                     Amare non è solo guardarsi l’un l’altro,                                 ma guardare insieme nella stessa direzione.                                                      —A. de Saint-Exupery 

Jon sat numbly behind his desk, holding the photo with its jagged edges across his desk, staring fondly at it. There were tears in his eyes, but he could not muster a proper blink to dismiss them. His heart hurt. His head hurt. What was he supposed to do in this situation? Gerardo was gone, the one fragile memory of their corporate romance encased within a thin film of gloss, held desperately between the remaining man’s fingers.

He often had dreams about how Jake killed his father. Shot through the head, and he had seen such carnage before. His reaction to Gerardo’s death, initially, had been silence. There was no reply to the messenger, no passing of emotion upon his features. Jon had been cold before, and his only opportunity to return to such a state had been offered then. And he took it, found at a standstill in the middle of his room.

He had collapsed, crying, unable to find his words. Memories spilled, but only at his fingertips. To tell anyone of what they had would have been suicide. No one was to know, not even the currently bereaved; for to remember the nights he had been blessed with were enough pain alone.

Read More

Reblog - Posted 5 months ago with 2 notes
tagged as → #roleplay #fic #long reads #romantic

sevenawkwarddays:

M̞̟͈̈́̈̈̐̆ ̼̪̯͔̜̟͉̓ͫ͆̈̂Ī͇̬̺̳̦͙S͚̼̱̻̘͕͓ ̥͔̹͊ͣ͛F̼̙̙́̃ͯO̷̙͕̻̔̽R̖̞̳̫͔̩͖͌̓̑͛̎̎ ̣͔̤̌́̓̄̃ͯ̾M̶̠͚͚ͧ̋̍U̧Rͣ͂ͫ̊D̩̤̥E̜̫ͮ̍ͭ́R̵͖͕̲̖͍̎ͫ̀̒̈́̂͑ S͐͗ͮ̈͏Ë̗̰͚͈̄̂̍̄̔̄ͅA͕̺͍͇ͬͥS̞̗̫͈̳̻͑̊͛̂̽Ȯ̞̫͒̌͆ͯ̇N̲͒̔̓̇͂͒ ͆ͮͬ͊͊5

̹̲̻̓́̓̎
͍̜ͪ̓͌̒̓
̆H̡̘̥̣̤͒̏ͯ̆̊͐A̳̹̝̖͊ͬ͊L̦͈̰͎̱͉ͯ͑ͯ͛ͥ̾̃L̰̟͙ͦ̎͌͟O͈̗̳̭͒̍ͧ͋ͮ͆ͮW̷̯̫̝̭͂̀Ẽ̛̮̞ͦͫ̽E̮̰̪͓͔̟̾̋N͋͐ͤͯ͛ͦ,̦̮̣̙̖̟͎̽ͮͮ̃̊͂ ̨͍͓͖̳͍̌̇͆͗̋ͨ̍9̛̼:̯͍̟̲͉͇ͥ̃0ͤ̂0̵̥̭̻̫͉͙ͬ̈̽̇ͥͅ ̫̮P̵̝̲͌͂̏ͧ͛̑M̨̦̈̓̔̿̚ ̝̗̓̇̿͊̒͊̿E̳͓ͤ͊S̘̙̓̂͋̽̉͆ͪT̝̽̌͛̚͟.̺̖̝̖̜͚͠

Reblog - Posted 5 months ago - via / Source with 3 notes
tagged as → #uduuuuhghhhgs #archived
faranan asked: Prompt: Taken Jake walks/bursts in on Alan showering, but diguises himself as Jake in the haze.

the-spy-and-the-writer:

alsfafasdkfafjjghjg…..

Standing beneath the warm shower, Alan ran his hands through his hair and dropped his shoulders and just stood there in a daze, his eyes sealed as he looked up and let the water rush and run over his face; the soothing drops hitting his face and rolling down his cheeks and forehead. He was in his own silent world - on his own and safe as the light in the bathroom glowed and illuminated the tiled room perfectly. 

Before he could even react or wrap his mind around it; Jake bursts in instantly slamming into Alan and cornering him into the nearest corner of the small shower..

"The hell! .. are you doing?" Alan instantly spits and raised his voice - His eyes meeting Jake’s before the water poured over Jake’s face, letting his hair fall over his face. Only his lips visible as he bit his bottom lip and stuttered… "I-I needed a shower…" He replies with a low tone, Only to have Alan scoff and attempt to move, but Jake keeps him trapped…"you could have waited…" Alan replies with an irritated tone, letting out a huff only to have Jake close Alan into the corner even further. Alan raised his arm up to push him away, but Jake shockingly grabs his arm and presses it against the cold tiled walls… "Jake.. the hell are you doing?" Alan hisses and watches as he moves in closer, a smirk painted his face… "don’t fight it, Alan" He whispers as he leans in, his chest pressed against his, his lips just touching Alan’s ear as he whispered… "Jake…" Alan starts, only to have Jake bite his ear and whisper again "you know i’m not Jake…"

Alan jerked forward, but his efforts were met with Jake slamming him back to the tile wall. For a shadow caught under the force of water, Alan could see him quite clearly now. With his arms bare, the poor man’s reflection could not deny his apparent tattoos; the murky stains that twisted up his forearm and wrists, seeming to dwindle at his fingertips as if they did not know how to jump away.
          “You’re not leaving,” the shadow reassured him, and Alan knew he wasn’t. Jake wasn’t in there, or anywhere to help him now. Even if he did know, there was no chance of getting out of this bathroom unscathed if he tried to push.
          If he closed his eyes, it… looked and felt like Alan. The brush of scruff against his jaw, fighting along side his own, maltreated stubble. Even if it was the Taken side of his nightmare lover, it could have almost been so gentle.

                                     [CUT: Proceed with extreme caution: NSFW→]

Reblog - Posted 5 months ago - via / Source with 8 notes
tagged as → #archived #wischer