#picadorage

[coldreads]

@picadorage​ / CONT.

THE LINE CROSSED is sunlight bleached, faded red. Still, it's there. (Always there, the walls blood-painted, impossible to scrub clean.) And Jane threads the other side consciously, counting on their likely retaliation. Coppers are as they always will be — predictable, relying on the visceral, no matter what letters they stitch to their suits.

The narrow room trembles before giving in, powerless before her wrath. Yet, the mentalist hardly moves. A cup of tea in one, a highly classified paper in the other, he is a picture of serenity, canvas expertly painted.

The rest, chaos.

“ Meh. ”  A smile, blinding white, boyish glee. Perhaps part of a performance, that rotten part of him he cannot shut down. Her threats are waved off, her rage, her fear met with an invitation to join him. Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree...  “ You have to read this — this is incredible. ”

[armasdefuego]

@picadorage​ //liked for a starter

                    “Yeah, I heard you the first time: we’re still not punching his lights out. You got it?”

          Leon pinned her with a flat look before turning toward the establishment they were standing just outside of. He held back a sigh. Scumbag or not, intel said the place was hot. Start something with one of them, they were going to cause a chain reaction. Leon knew what the rap sheet looked like. Three counts of assault, robbery, grand theft auto, and that was just from what he remembered. Three weeks ago, the guy was seen in driving a cargo van which may or may not have been stolen virus samples. 

                    “Wanna bet how long it takes for us to get pinned as ‘cops’?” Leon glanced back at Helena with a smirk. They weren’t gonna last ten minutes.

[armasdefuego]

steve harrington 100%

@selfregicide

i moved him over to the multi but thats where i had hiiim.

[armasdefuego]

" jesus... what have they done to you... "

@picadorage //

Would you believe me if I said it's not as bad as it looks?

Is what he wanted to say, but the words come out muddy, as if his tongue is too thick. It's a blatant lie, either way. His breath comes in a wheeze. It's hard to focus. Her visage is blurry, abstract shapes. One eye is swollen. Blood leaks into the other from a wound on his head, and his bangs are plastered to his skin. Dark bruises tie dye his neck, traveling beneath the bloody compression shirt.

He'd been radio silent 72 hours and counting.

At first when her shadow had darkened the entrance of the cell, he had stiffened up. Slumped to the side against the wall, his hands tied behind his back, there's nothing more he could do. If breathing hurts, moving might as well be lighting a fire to his veins. Leon licks his dry lips, swallows through his sandpaper throat.

"Wha'took y'so long?" This comes out clearer, slurred, with the slightest hint of a smirk. He expected to die here, and the relief of rescue was almost dizzying.