#faolancrowe

[orbytes-blog]

rusted-shut & faolancrowe

        “ For me, kitten? You shouldn't have. ” He smiles, icepick sharp and just for him and Ferdinand cannot breathe for the momentary flash of warmth that suffocates him.

        Fingers twine and tug in hair a shade lighter than the ADAM staining the corner of his mouth, nose slotting sharp against Faolan's own. They fit as if carved from each other, halves of a whole seeking and searching as lips bruise against each other. They kiss as if wolves would fight to tear them apart, violence and the nip of teeth sharp and bloody. There is a war in Ferdinand's veins, a screaming that grows increasingly hard to silence but here in the moment, in the warmth of Faolan's coat and the press of chapped lips against his own, the noise grows quiet.

        Is that what love is, he wonders, and the corner of his mouth curves like a knife beneath the Irishman's thumb. It must be.

[rapturerising-blog]

rusted-shut & faolancrowe. You can commission roofgoat to draw stuff here!

[rusted-shut-blog]

"Got bit, Ferdie."

In the moment before he met Faolan's gaze, he nearly managed to convince himself it was some warped joke. There was a dull numbness in his eyes though, whether from fever already rising or certainty of the inevitable, and Ferdinand's stomach dropped. This was how everyone expected to go out, himself included, and he still hadn't planned for this. Somewhere along the line he'd deluded himself into thinking he would be the one to go first, no matter what. There was no course of action here that he'd been able to bring himself to consider. He nudged the other man's shoulder and said something witty, something cool and off the cuff to let Faolan know he was okay. Something to lighten the mood. He grabbed Faolan by the collar of his jacket, jerking him forward and screamed, You stupid bastard. What were you thinking. What did you expect when you go out fucking around with the dead like classroom science experiments. He took Faolan's wrists in his hands, forcing himself not to defensively stiffen up at the contact, and the clamminess already setting into his partner's skin. Don't worry about it, he said softly. We'll find help.What actually came out of his mouth as he stood there immobile, voice breaking and muffled as he pressed his hands to his face, was much less impressive. "So...what do we do now, Fay?"

[rapturerising-blog]

▼

Answering for all four of your Bioshock OCs in one swoop.

reversaltechnician

Parallels, his motivations and doing the wrong thing for the right thing. You've got me waving the Team Atlas banner hardcore and I'm supposed to be bleeding for Rapture, ya know.

He cares so much for his friends and rebels that he'd rather hurt himself than hurt them. But in doing so, he's hurting them and I could go on and on about this.

Some are born leaders. Those are the lucky ones. Others have leadership thrust upon their bandaged hands, and must bear the burden of making difficult decisions so that others don't have to. These are the ones history will remember, if history remembers anything at all.

geneticanomalies

For science, you monster.

FC GAME WAY TOO STRONG STEP ON ME

Makin' my way around, splicers pass and I'm Big Daddy-bound.

faolancrowe

Blood as eyeshadow aesthetic, did you mean merder me gently?

Morally ambiguous to all heck iceman.

He’s still got a heart. It’s just a little further away than most, and beating in another body that’s just as messed up as he’s going to be.

alicelamont

He’s not afraid to run and get someone else to do the dirty work. Look at those manicured hands.

Power bottom.

He’s only looking out for his own skin.

[rapturerising-blog]

"It would be a shame if i had to damage that pretty face of yours."

He’d only pushed open the door ever so slightly, but he was regretting that hairline fracture in the closed room right about now. Isaiah drags the back of his hand across his cheek, making an absolutely bloody mess from the cut that Faolan’s left there.

"The solution, Crowe," he says with no small amount of venom in his tone, "Is to stop aimin’ for my face. And maybe you shouldn’t say such things when he’s right there.” Scalpel blades are ludicrously sharp in the other’s hands, and he has no further desire to be on the other end of them.

"I’ll make sure to knock next time you and your partner-in-crime go into the same room."

[rusted-shut-blog]

"I don't want to love you, but I do."

He turns his head to fix his good eye on the other man, eyebrows drawn up and what’s left of his face crumpled in an expression of something close to exasperation. After a minute, he gives an off sort of breathy half-laugh through his teeth. “Wow. Always know what to say to make a guy feel wanted,” Ferdindand mutters, not unkindly. “And you call me dramatic.”

He leans over, gingerly bumps his shoulder against Faolan’s arm. “Love you too.”

[rapturerising-blog]

cadence [Ferdinand/Faolan]

Summary: They don't need music to dance, not when they've harmony of their own.

“I can hum something, kitten,” Faolan says quite simply, and he catches the momentary quirk of the man’s lip upwards into a smile.

He’s circling Faolan even as he pipes up with another complaint, an ever-decreasing spiral inwards to the gravity of his dearest companion. “I can’t dance.”

“Could’ve fooled me the last time we did.”

“The floor is broken.”

“So is the rest of Rapture.”

He’s almost forgotten how tall the other man is. Hands touching now, Ferdinand looks away. “You’ll laugh.”

“Mo chuisle,” Faolan sighs close to his ear, lips a breath away from his cheek, “Ferdinand. Please.”

Ferdinand nods just once, bumping his head against Faolan’s chest wordlessly. Nothing more needs to be said, understanding of each other’s unspoken language.

With Faolan’s hand in the small of his back, they move in a one-two-three step, slowly but surely moving across the debris-strewn floor in some semblance of a waltz to the tune hummed under Faolan’s breath. If Faolan notices Ferdinand stepping all over his feet, he makes no sign of it.

Ferdinand leans his head against Faolan’s chest, and it’s almost as if it’s 1958 again, and they’re cautiously pacing circles around each other until they meet somewhere in the middle. On a deserted stage, twirling the quiet hours of the morning away to a stolen record player, when life was right and things were going his way.

A misstep and they’re back in 1959 again. He hazards a glance up to Faolan’s face, and in spite of himself, Ferdinand smiles. No matter what they’ve lost, they still have this. Maybe it’s enough, and when Faolan stops humming, they still dance on.

[rusted-shut-blog]

"I can prove you wrong."

Ferdinand squints up at him for a minute, trying and failing to pick up any slight undercurrent of insincerity in Crowe’s voice. He fixes his gaze hard on the other’s face.

“Really?” he says, perhaps more venom bleeding into his tone than he altogether intends. Too late to take it back, so he presses on. “So you’re not going to up and ditch me for some younger, nicer guy in a couple of months? When you realize maybe it’s not as much fun as you thought to be with someone who won’t hold your hand or kiss you goodbye on dates?” There’s too much bite to his voice now, and Ferdinand manages to catch himself.

He looks down, abandoning the attempt to keep his expression even, and folds his arms. “I’m not a fun person to be around...and I can tell you from past experience I’m even less fun to be courting.” Ferdinand sighs a little and glances up, sunken eyes a little softer. “I don’t want to go through the same old shit I get dragged through every time I try and date someone. I like you, Faolan. But I don’t want you to go into this thinking you’re gonna fix me.”