#raptureatnight

[allgrift]

continued from here || @rapture-at-night

On Ronny’s face, his blood was a shocking crimson. Hector was always shocked by how RED true blood was- in theatre, you used squibs, filled with false blood, dyed so that it was neither too red or too brown. REAL BLOOD was a slap in the face, a distress signal.  He fished a somewhat threadbare handkerchief from his pocket. Thankfully, it was clean (and how embarrassing it would have been if it had been stained or dirty already!). 

“Here,” he said, hurrying to hold the handkerchief to Ronny’s nose. “Need some help?”

[longestconofallarchive]

[ @rapture-at-night ]

“I’d like to discuss setting up some ADVERTISING.”

[rumoursfromrapture-blog]

Rumour has it that the only reason @rapture-at-night has such a silky voice isn’t because of splicing, but because of the amount of times he’s sucked Silas’ dick.

[rumoursfromrapture-blog]

Rumour has it that @rapture-at-night splices to accentuate his voice. 

[allgrift]

continued from here || @rapture-at-night

Hector often went whole days in a half-drunk state, his mood up through the roof,  his PASSION just as high. Ronny inspired confused feelings lust and cramped frustration. The way Ronny has fastened his hands around Hector’s waist, the proximity they shared:  it was overwhelming.  “No,” he said slowly, taking a moment to collect himself, to avoid any UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENTS.  “I was just going to ask you what you were going to say.” Perhaps Ronny would be frustrated. GOD KNOWS he was, himself. 

[steinman-closed-blog]

like for a starter !!

[aceinthehcle]

{Cont}

@rapture-at-night​

Jack loathed spider splicers. They were even more disgusting than the arachnids for which they were named; at least real spiders didn’t contort themselves quite so grotesquely when they hung from rafters or perched on pipes and outcroppings jutting out along the walls. And real spiders didn’t screech and wail and slash like these parodies of people did when they attacked. Spider splicers were without a doubt among the very worst of Rapture’s demons, and Jack didn’t mind killing them at all.

Jack snarled as he twisted to avoid the falling splicer, unable to fully evade a sharp, painful jab to the front of his left shoulder that mirrored the bullet wound he had given his attacker. He tore himself away without thinking and had to grit his teeth to hold back a low grunt of pain when the tip of the hook tore into his flesh and ripped at the fabric of his sweater. The pain was distracting, and when he shot off two more bullets from his pistol, he wasn’t quite sure whether they were well-aimed enough to meet their mark. ...maybe he should have tried a plasmid, instead.