rapturerising-blog

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{ this blog is an archive }

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evandrelical:

somewhere, waiting for me

        It's quiet. Too quiet, given that Rapture's streets run wild with splicers and explosions these days. He takes a long drag of the cigarette between this lips, flicking the ash carelessly to the ground at the sound of footfalls behind him. The cadence ratchets his heartbeat up a notch, familiar aggression rearing its head but hesitating to strikes. Isaiah would know that sound anywhere.

        He turns to face him slowly, the stuff of moving pictures worth a handful of cash and a bucket of popcorn, before stubbing the cigarette out with a toe.

        “ I said I wouldn't miss the next time, Lee. What're ya doin' here? ”

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that’s it, it’s split, it won’t recover just frame the halves and call them brothers

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                            introduction — Name: Isaiah Timothy Hall Age: 29 Your favorite picture of your muse’s fc:

                            questions —

What would be their twitter name? what sorts of tweets would they tweet?

@thatboyhall definitely. His twitter would be a general dumping ground for things that pop into his mind, replies to friends near and far, and the occasional instagram share. He's really informal in his tweets (no punctuation and little use of capitalization, slang, etc...) and uses hashtags liberally.

What’s their favourite genre of movies? Of music?

Anything but horror. He's terrified of horror. Music-wise, he's a hip-hop fan and secretly really loves Micheal Buble but anything with a beat and a tune will get him going. Isaiah's the kind to sing along too.

What’s on their top queue on Netflix? 

Criminal Minds, Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Police procedurals, comedy basically.

What’s their favourite scent? Do they smell like that?

Clean, simple scents like soap and lemon. Alcohol and tobacco. He smells of cigarette smoke, machine oil and woodsy cologne, with a liberal dose of coffee (or whisky, if it's after work).

Favourite season? Least favourite season?

Late spring. Winter is his least favourite. He dislikes the cold.

Are they a bottom or top or versatile?

Versatile but he's rather proactive (and ends up topping).

Describe their morning routine. Do they wake up early or sleep in? Do they press the snooze button a bunch of times or do they immediately get up? 

On a work day, Isaiah is up bright and early. Or at least, he's dragging himself out of bed at 6AM (and untangling himself from his still-sleeping partner). Coffee, breakfast and brushing/shaving, not necessarily in that order, before he's out the door. It doesn't take him more than half an hour to get ready. Weekends, he barely even registers the alarm until at least ten in the morning.

tag five people so they can get to know their muse too:

bruh you wanna do it go ahead

underused character questions.

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dragon age au. reversaltechnician is an elf rogue and isaiah is a templar.

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"I lied," Isaiah snapped back, reloading his pistol with silver bullets. Not that it would do much good against this particular foe, the adversary in question being the building around them. "The damned house is alive. We’re all gonna die. Don't you wish it didn't invite you inside now?"

    Hector lingers in the doorway with a brow furrowed in deep concern, watching a while in silence as Isaiah waves his gun around. With a heaving sigh, he eventuallycrosses he threshold into their shared apartment, mindingthe wreckage littering the floor, and joins Hall at his side. A gentle hand is placed to Isaiah’s shoulder, a gentler peck brushed to the man’s temple. It’s a feeble attempt to groundhim back in reality. When it inevitable fails, Hector’s arm hooks tight around Hall’s throat, holding firm until the hunter’seyes flutter shut and lungs are temporarily emptied.

    Hall’s dead weight in his arms as Hector  totes him over to the sofa, having to first flip it upright before neatly layinghis lover out on his back. The new bruise splayed overIsaiah’s neck makes him cringe, then growl as he digsinto his pocket for his phone. Katherine Piper’s name’salready filled up half his call history. Ever reluctantly,he adds another mark to that tally.    ”Hey, s’me.” He rakes a set of restless fingers through his hair. ”He’s hallucinating. Again. The  ’house was alive’ this time.”

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    His gaze falls first upon the half-emptied bottle in Hector's grasp, and next to the decidedly-unpleasant expression that twists the handsome features of the disciple's face. Humour, Isaiah realizes, may not have been the best course of action but all the options left to him now are damage control, and leaving the apartment. But he's never been one to give up.

    “Hec,” Isaiah twists on the sofa, shifting to better fix the other with a steely gaze. The borrowed jacket heavy on his shoulders, he holds out a hand palm up. "Gimme the bottle. I think ya might've had enough for now."

    The disciple rolls his eyes, more vexed for having asked a question with an obvious answer. Had it’d been any other day, he might’ve laughed or shook his head with a fond sigh. Instead, an aggravated huff is muffled by the lip of a bottle of Lacas Scotch, already half emptied in his hand. He’s drinking to cope—that much is obvious. With what, however, is never anyone’s business. Not even the pretty boy’s who he’s allowed to wear his father’s jacket.

    “That thing’s older than you are,” he mumbles, perhaps bitterly, ” I oughta toss it already.”

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Isaiah's words were said with effortless charm, politeness ingrained as deeply as the colour of his skin, though the intent of the matter was a far cry from the manners that his mother had been so conscientious about teaching her eldest son. He took the opportunity of their closeness to steal another breath from the disciple, just the barest hint of teeth worrying at soft lips to belying the level of control he possessed.

While his hands were busy steadying himself and coaxing increasingly-louder moans from Anna, Hector's own hands were markedly free. Seeing an opportunity for a suggestion, Isaiah grinned, "Though ya know, yer certainly welcome to help yourself, if yer feelin' greedy yerself."

For a moment she watched her friend, worried she had insulted him. She hadn’t meant to, and she hoped he knew that, but all thoughts of an upset Hector left her quickly.

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Where the hell did you put my jacket?

    He looks up from the paper in his hands, some toilet-paper tabloid that's been left on the coffee table, and shrugs his shoulders. Shoulders that happen to be wearing the other man's coat. In the mechanic's defense, it does look make him look pretty damn good.

    "Dear heart," Isaiah smiles, amusement not the least bit veiled in the upward twist of his lips, and calls back down the hallway, "What in Rapture's name would I do with your jacket?"

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profiteer's pre-300-follower follow forever because let's make that a mouthful to say

     There’s a little under 300 of you following me and I have to say wow. Cause when did this happen, who sent you. I’m thankful to everyone that’s been following me from the beginning. I wouldn’t have kept this blog going for as long as I have without you, friends.

The Black Book - my dear friends

hector-goddamn-rodriguez / rapturerecordssilas / the-back-a-me-feckin-hand / robertenraptured —- ofsplicers / silverdax —- rondeursx / rapturousx / doyle-x —- annaculpepperofrapture —- the-frozen-lark / jacky-and-sparks / the-quiet-painter —- columbiacalling / rapturerising —- the-gunmaker / hyldur —- rapture-at-night —- hxcuspocus —- harrisonlecainemd —- thefrenchdarling —- onlyheroesandcriminals

Sinclair Solutions - honorable mention

sxlverscreen - paranoidcop - intellectandwill - theblessednavigator - rapturessweetheart - cubism-as-medicine - yousickfxck - twospookylittlesisters - transorbitaire - sanctasara - hxphaestus - spookinghercoffin - sanctamater - fauxsalvation - theplatonicideal - i-want-to-take-the-ears-off - silliestdame - bennystango - botanxst

Through A Door - Non-Bioshock

immortalcorrupter - xnthusiastic - lxvelythorns - ofsinners - aghoulishduplicity - justaconsultant - kxrat - hisfavoritegal - titanomyrma - anincoherentrambler - haunting-shanties - ragtxmebear - caedxs

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engxneer

    "Well, 'o course it's simple when ya haven't opened it up. Afraid 'o gettin' a little grody?"

    The young man is bright, Isaiah'll give him that much. But for all his book learning and college smarts, there's nothing that can replace getting ones hands into the workings of the machinery that keeps Rapture running. He sighs good-naturedly, and stoops to kneel at the panel.

    "Hand me that spanner."

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There is no peace here. War is never cheap, dear.

reversaltechnician drew antagonistic leader boys and i am (touches faces) (continues to touch faces)

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 "The ground's splittin' beneath our feet. The sky's rainin' b l o o d  from above.  God's checked out early, and the Devil's riding in on the backs of four horsemen. Hang on to your soul, kiddo; it's gonna be one hell of a night."

JUDGEMENT DAY || A Supernatural!AU Mix

1. End of the World—The Living End || 2. Absolution—The Pretty Reckless || 3. The Devil Takes Care of His Own—Band of Skulls || 4. End of All Days—Thirty Seconds To Mars || 5. Justice for Saint Mary—Diablo Swing Orchestra || 6. Mama—My Chemical Romance || 7. Apocalypse Please—Muse || 8. 9/15ths—Biffy Clyro || 9. Imagine—A Perfect Circle || 10. A Necessary End—Saltillo || 11. Stand By Me—Mona || 12. The Sky is Fallin’—Queens of the Stone Age || 13. The Day the World Went Away—Nine Inch Nails

✟ 8TRACKS ✟ GROOVESHARK

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hector-goddamn-rodriguez replied to your post:[TXT]: What are you wearing?

(I CAN QUIT ANYTIME I WANT)

"Uh huh."

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[TXT]: What are you wearing?

[text] if u looked up from that game u would know im right beside u[text] one of ur shirts.[text] but admit it u need a candy crush intervention

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Demarcation || Hector/Isaiah

How to love a broken boy, or eleven micro-drabbles for a disciple and a lover. For hector-goddamn-rodriguez, who linked the original to me.

1. Kiss his spine and his eyelids.

On days like today, shoulders rolling back and sheets wrinkling under his grasp, he is clay in your hands. On nights like tomorrow, he may be porcelain that shatters and splinters bloody against your fingertips. But for now, his skin is warm beneath your tongue, hot as the fire that burns long and slow in his heart, and branding you just the same.

Hector tastes of smoke and alcohol, the whiskey on his tongue sweet against your lips. You kiss as if parched and he is more precious than all the rivers and oceans combined, taking him in with fingers tangled messily in dark hair.

3. These steady hands of yours, put them on his hips, put them around his waist.

Your hands, work-worn and steady from years of practiced work, are low on his waist. He pulls you closer by the loops of your trousers, hips rolling languidly against yours to the beat of the music that weaves its way through the night. You do not tell him this, but you would dance with him until the end of love, and past that.

When he tilts his chin up to steal a kiss from you, you think he already knows.

4. Don't accept the stars when he steals them from the sky to hang them on your walls.

He loves you.

That, in itself, is frightening in its simplicity, the knowledge that he would give himself up for you, simply because it would bring you happiness. But it is no less than you would do for him, if you were in his position—and you are. Hector murmurs sweet nothings against the pillow, forehead pressed to your own, and you are afraid for him, and what love gives him the resolve to do.

5. When he says he hates his father, don't tell him he can't hate someone he never met.

Hector pours an extra glass on a certain day of the year. It sits on the polished bar beside him, the ice slowly puddling condensation on the crystal vessel. You smile uneasily, and let him rake blunt fingernails against your back when he decides that is what will get him through the day.

After all, there is no love without pain.

6. One day he will leap into the abyss.

You are not the one who finds him, curled up still as death. When he comes to, pale as the sheets tucked under him, he asks your forgiveness. You hold his hand, thumb stroking at the bones of his wrist, and grant it with cracking voice and splintering heart.

But it is not your forgiveness that he is truly searching for.

7. His lips taste sweet, and so does his sorrow.

Hector kisses like a man drowning, hands clutching at his face and lips pressed hard against his own. You can't pretend not to see the bruises left on his skin, or the way the disciple flinches away from your touch on these nights. But you hold him close as he'll let you, drawing gently circles over abused flesh, and together, you wait for the mercy that sleep brings to the weary.

8. Don't let him plant his roots inside your chest, don't let him encircle your heart with his presence.

You have never seen him before in your life (this life). But leaning against the railing with the light playing over his foreign (familiar) face, the cityscape have never been more beautiful from where you stand. With a beer in one hand and an open heart in the other, you tell him exactly that. 

9. Don't let him exhale nonsense in your ear late at night.

"London," he murmurs, voice silky-smooth and low against your ear. You laugh as he trails his lips down the curve of your neck, over the planes of your chest, and promise him Paris, and New York City as well.

10. You're drunk and young and crazy when he slams you up against a wall and whispers I need you, and all you want is to drop to your knees, maybe to pray, maybe to get your mouth on him, (maybe both).

He is out of your reach, and if he isn't, then he should very well be. Hector Rodriguez, the man pressing you up against the brick wall, is none other than your employer's grandson, and everybody who's got half a brain cell to their name knows what sort of hell sleeping with him will bring. But his eyes, red-rimmed, flutter shut as he claims your lips for his own.

He burns, the searing heat of him ever-so-slowly grinding into your hip, and the evidence of his need hard against you. In that moment of loathsome bliss, there is nothing that you have ever wanted more than the forbidden.

0. Forget you’re broken too.

The world as you know it has come to a shuddering, grinding, halt, and you couldn't stop soon enough to keep yourself from crashing. The hairline fractures you have hidden for so long have become cracks, and spiderweb cracks to fault lines. You are a china facsimile of the man you once were, thin-skinned and delicate in his hands, ready to shatter at the slightest perturbation.

He murmurs, something soft and low, and you break completely in his arms, grief overwhelming you. Perhaps it won't get better, or maybe it will, but for now, you have each other.

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Blood Runs Thicker

        They were lost in new ecstasy, savoring the privacy they’d been craving for days. The king bed groaned with every thrust of Hall’s hips, and scraped the floor as their bodies rolled together atop Hector’s silken, sodden sheets. The hours flew by there in the dark as they devoured each other with hungry mouths and greedy hands, pulses racing and guards abandoned. Their desire for each other— finally unabashed—was palpably mixed with the heat of every kiss, every press, and every incoherent plea for more. Hector made no point to hide his pleasure, either, given their solitude. In fact, he sought to put on a show for his lover as he was taken from behind, his lidded gaze cast over his shoulder to meet Isaiah’s as he moaned over and over again.

   “Don’t stop.”

                “Wouldn’t dream of it, dear heart.”

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