TEST DRIVE MEME #5

[penancemods]

ARRIVAL

You remember a dream.

Or maybe nightmare is more accurate.

It was full of hellfire nipping at your skin and a sensation of being pulled down no matter how much you struggle or cry for help. There's a voice that feels like it's coming from all around you at once. Contrasting with the nightmare unfolding around you, it's smooth as silk. It makes you want to listen with every bit of attention you can muster in the moment.

"Judgement has come upon you, but not to worry. It can still be undone."

The voice promises you redemption for your sins. It promises you a better life and everything you could ever want, if only you just stop struggling so much.

And so you do.


Everyone wakes up in the same room initially. The room is done up in red with a cushy bed, a window, an old TV in the corner on a desk, and a few Hieronymus Bosch paintings lining the wall. There's a bathroom to clean up in and any belongings will be sat around the room to be gathered later. There's a duffel bag provided for your convenience.

After feeling a sensation of falling or dropping onto the bed, characters wake up feeling like they've just slept for a week. Their body will feel heavy and stiff, they'll have a massive headache at first.

They'll quickly notice the list of their sins written with their blood on a bedside table on an old piece of parchment. This will mean the list is tied to them and can't be changed or tampered with. They'll also receive their device to connect with others and the network. It won't be anything terribly fancy. As a matter of fact, it looks like a very old Blackberry type phone.

Once characters are ready to leave the room, they'll head down long, winding halls. They're dimly lit and ominous feeling. They may encounter fellow sinners or demonic staff that will direct the newcomer down to the lobby to get their actual room key to settle in. They may be pushy, they may border on courteous. It really just depends on the mood of the staff at the time and how they're treated in return. Eventually, everyone comes to stairs that lead downward.



Once down to the lobby, you'll notice the front desk manned by a demon who looks bored out of its mind. To the side of him is the door to the kitchen where guests may help themselves. To the right is a small duty free shop that seems to have a surprisingly normal, expected stock of items. Look around a bit further, there will be a tiny bar tucked in through a corner door. It seems pretty well-stocked and best of all, self-serve if you want to get away from your demonic hosts for a bit. Of course there's some seating, bar games, and a jukebox tucked in the corner if you'd rather stay and socialize a bit.

Please note that all the songs on the jukebox are appropriately hell-themed. Hopefully Sympathy for the Devil is universally loved.

STAND YOUR GROUND

Prompt I

With the Mares leaving, the nightmares fade right along with them. Unfortunately, the hotel outside is looking rather worse for wear because of it. It's been pummeled, cracks in the siding and broken windows are everywhere. It looks much more befitting of the hellish landscape surrounding it, true, but Lucifer is already putting the demonic staff on repairs. They'll be enlisting the help of guests, whether they want to or not. Watch out when the whips and other punishments come out to play for those who seem to be slacking too hard.

The staff hardly has patience for it, whether the guests are feeling up to it or not. In truth, neither are the demons. Exhaustion is hanging heavy in the air for everyone.

But life must go on.

On the plus side, at least all the doorknobs and locks seem to be returning.

For current guests, they may now be dealing with a Frenzy come down and finding that they still itch for another fix. It won't be an easy ride. Withdrawals come with extreme fatigue, aches and pains, chills, depression, and an urge to potentially hurt yourself or others as agitation sets in. If asked for tips on dealing with it, the staff will tell the guests to just rest whenever they can, stay hydrated, and eat. The nausea that follows might make that difficult, but the staff seems to have very little time for sympathy at this point in time.

For new guests, they'll find things in quite a bit of disarray. Fortunately the demons are eager to hand out chores. They range from cleaning up broken glass and other items around the hotel, to removing boards from windows, to Hell beasts that need to be moved back from the basement to their enclosure just outside the hotel and helped to settle back in.

Anyone is free to visit any new beast friends they've made whenever they desire after this point. As a distraction, the hotel staff will even be offering riding lessons for larger beasts, both horse and canine-like ones.

Despite the push for normalcy though, there's a wariness in the air. Whether that's because of the recent bout with the Mares or the hushed whispers continuing on about the Veiled Order, it's uncertain. Something just feels off. Not to worry though, it's probably just paranoia creeping in. No one really wants to talk about it either way.

Every evening, once all the hard work is done, the staff seems to find the time to get a roaring fire going in the lobby fireplace and set up a buffet of food and drink for everyone to enjoy. There's every sort of food imaginable, and even some you wish you'd never seen. Spit-roasted dog, anyone? It's a delicacy here. There's also a lot of desserts of varying kinds from chocolates to ice cream to cakes and pies. Beer, coffee, sodas, and anything else people could want to drink is also on offer. There are even some specialty drinks for the vampiric guests around here.

There's entertainment as well. The demons are putting on makeshift plays and doing improv comedy routines, as well as dragging guests into the act if they seem interested. They'll ask them to perform tricks or act out Shakespearean scenes. For what it's worth, it does actually seem like everyone is trying to just have some fun. There's no harm in refusing to act anything out beyond some mostly good-natured booing and ribbing.

The succubi have also been given a room to set up for personal massages (with or without the happy ending). Massages are done in groups though, so you might want to rethink anything too frisky. If asked, the succubi will step aside and allow guests to massage each other instead, if that's more comfortable.

They're offering to help bathe and wash anyone who desires it for extra pampering, but most folks are understandably wary of the succubi and incubi around. No sexual play is actually being forced in these circumstances since, for once, the demons are well fed on sexual energy.

Oddly enough, the staff does seem to just genuinely want to do something refreshing. Although it's still probably clearly more for themselves than anyone else. Better enjoy it while it lasts though!

Prompt II

As another way to spoil (or distract) the guests a bit more, a new location has been brought to life!

Lucifer has insisted upon a movie theatre. It's located a short walk from the hotel. It's impossible to miss as the sign flickers and it's surrounded by a few very broken down, abandoned buildings still.

Outside, it looks like an old classic establishment from a time long since passed, but it has all the modern conveniences inside at least. From plush seats that recline and maybe get a bit too into giving a massage to all the treats you could ask for. So grab yourself some popcorn, a soda, hot dogs, or whatever else you want. There's also alcoholic beverages available for those who really need help getting through a movie.



Currently, the theatre is showing: Bedazzled, Manos: The Hands of Fate, Captain America (1990 version), Troll 2.

But there are request slips to be filled out by sinners if there's another movie they'd like to see when they rotate films around each month.

Located within the theatre is an arcade with zombie-themed shooter games, Pac-Man, motorcycle racing, and claw machines. There are also a few other gaming machines and one that's supposed to test romantic compatibility between couples. See if you're truly meant to be!

REACH UP HIGH

Prompt I
Warnings: cutting, blood, torture.

Whether you've been here for months or you're freshly arrived, your demonic overlord expects some participation. You can try and shirk the responsibility, of course. You can bargain your way out of it for a while. But eventually, you may find yourself trapped in a room just off the gym that's been fondly dubbed the torture room. It has all manner of equipment in there, along with an iron maiden even.

But don't worry about any of that right now. It probably won't be used.

You can try the door, but even with super human strength or every lock picking skill in the book, you won't be able to open it.

It soon becomes apparent what you're supposed to do soon enough when someone else is eventually shoved in with you. Both of your lists of sins will appear on a table that's been placed in the center of the room with two handy knives. You can choose to guard these or not care at all that they're on display.

"Know that honesty is a good place to start on your road to redemption. Sure, it can be terrifying at first, but that's why you've been given a partner in this journey. Pick up your knives and carve at least one sin into each other's flesh. Help in the journey to be candid with everyone you should meet here!"

The voice echoes all around you again, just like in the nightmare, and once again there's the pull to give in. This voice really does seem like it has your best interests at heart.

"If you need a bit of encouragement, we'll be giving it shortly."

It isn't a lie or idle threat either. The longer you wait to do what's been requested of you, the more shallow cuts that will appear on both of your bodies. Are you really prepared to endure this pain when giving in would be so much easier?

And more than that, are you willing to let another suffer along with you?

Eventually, the cuts will stop if you suffer them long enough, but you'll have failed this challenge and sustained more damage than if you'd just gone along with it. Satan will also be very disappointed in you.

Prompt II

"Offering one another counsel is a trait God rather admires. Compassion, goodwill... all of that. He has requested a demonstration that all of you are complying with your redemption, so I thought of a rather interesting way to show him." Lucifer's voice rings out warm and almost affectionate as he speaks within the guests' heads, the sound ringing within their skulls and beckoning them to trust him.

Even as demons grab at guests and haul them into a room only to lock the door. As usual, the doors can't be opened through any means guests will be able to perform. At least the room is cozy looking, with a plush couch and chairs.

"I must say that I'm proud of all of you. What I ask, I have no doubt that you will accomplish. Please, both of you have a seat and discuss anything from a bad memory, a fear, or even a silly little phobia you may not be proud of. Listen to each other, help one another as I know you can."

That's right. Guests are expected to share a bit about themselves, whether it's a trauma or a past sin they feel guilty for. Maybe it's even something as simple as an irrational fear of spiders... as long as it's sincere, it counts. Guests must absolutely share something if they don't want to be punished. They'll also have to provide sympathy or counsel.

If no one speaks, there's always a catch. The longer one of the participants refuses to speak of anything real, or lies, the more a headache will start to set in. Guests will feel a slight throbbing in the temples that grows steadily worse until it's almost blinding. Gradually, blood will start oozing from eyes, nose, and ears.

All of it will stop the minute guests comply and play along.

It is possible to wait out the punishment if guests are willing to let each other suffer for it, but this will be considered a failed challenge and Lucifer will have to rethink all that pride he said he had.

FOLLOW ME DOWN

Prompt I
Warnings: Alcohol and drug abuse, potential non-con/dub-con, kinks.

Those newly arrived to Hell will hear about a drug called Frenzy. The effects of which include the lack of a need to sleep for as long as one uses it, feeling like the best version of oneself, and feeling better than they possibly ever have. It may even get to the point where pain is minimized or even welcomed as a pleasurable experience.

The downsides of the drug include giving into a frenzy of one's basest instincts, whether it's lust or anger or anything else that they're naturally inclined towards.

This drug will be offered at the club outside the hotel, but the succubi who make it will demand payment up front this time. This can come in the form of keeping the club up and cleaned, serving guests, or performing on stage. It may also include sex with the demons or other patrons, or putting on solo performances for an audience. The succubi won't particularly care how willing guests are when they come to demand their payment and may force it.

Some will tell you that it's absolutely worth the price though, especially down in Hell where there's so much pain already. What's wrong with a little bit of escape, really? Others will tell you to stay far away from it all.

Of course the demons fail to mention it has the potential to be addictive, but users will probably figure that out on their own once they've come down. It isn't their fault if no one did their research!

Beyond Frenzy, the club also offers a variety of drinks and aphrodisiac-laced foods. There are poles for dancing, plush couches throughout as well as more private tables. There are stages where sex machines are set up, as well as other areas to tie up volunteers or to set up any other type of play imaginable. There are private rooms that can be rented out for the night for those who really want to explore their desires.

Attractive succubi and incubi roam the club as staff or active participants. Some will become more forceful if they're hungry, others will gladly offer any sort of temptations they can.

Careful if you ever see through a their pretty illusion and see the old, angry crones they really are though. It's a bit hard to forget that.

Regular demons also frequent the club, ranging in looks from tiny, mischief-making goblins to goat-like beasts to more humanoid types. There may even be tentacled-beasts who may not be the best at conversation, but will be eager to participate any play they're invited to.

There's a dance floor and loud music pumping through the club in a dedicated space for those who'd rather just dance the night away safely detached from the sexual side of things. All manner of drugs will be offered for those who ask staff, not just Frenzy.

Prompt II
Warnings: Potential violence and abuse.
There are hooded figures making their way through the hotel, but it's oddly hard to focus on them. The more guests try, the more their attention wants to drift to anything else.

For those magically inclined, they may notice the hint of a spell or black magic, but it's just as easily forgotten as everything else.

Guests won't even notice when the figure brushes against them, a skeletal hand adorned with gold brushing over any exposed skin they can reach with a whisper light touch.

It's an encounter that's so easily written off as guests continue on with their day, it really isn't worth mentioning at all later.

But ever since it happened, it feels like there's a poison that's entered the guest's system, twisting around their insides until they feel almost hollowed out. It's a whisper in the ear, inspiring envious feelings towards their fellow guests and the local demons that may never have been there before.

Why do they have it so easy? Why do they have fewer sins and why do more people love them than they do you? Why are you so unimportant to them? Why does everything come so easily to them when you have to work so hard for it?

Envy doesn't have to make any rational sense at all. It can happen at the most inopportune times and leave one feeling like they're burning up from the inside at the injustice of it all.

Even if it's someone a guest generally likes or gets along with, they'll feel this nasty little sensation creeping in.

Rage replaces the envy eventually. The anger starts to become overwhelming. After all, you're the one who is truly worthy of all the attention, all the adoration, all the things they've got. Other people are merely foolish for not realizing it.

Or perhaps it's not even envy at what the other guy has. Perhaps it's because the guest craves all the attention and all the affection of this other person. The guest may never have sought love or possession before, but suddenly it's all they seem to crave from this one person. They'll do anything to have it or to become as close to one person as possible.

Doesn't it eventually just make you want to hurt them for it all? Whether verbally or physically, guests will be drawn to action, or even force if they must. They will desire to either claim what they want or make the other admit to never having deserved it.

Alternatively, guests may also be reduced to begging to be noticed by the object of their envy, desperate enough to do anything to get what they feel is rightfully theirs.

This influence will be hard to fight off, but stronger guests will be able to fend off the envious effects of the mysterious demons. Others won't be so lucky.

MISC.
Thanks for joining us for our fifth test drive meme, sinners! Reserves are now open for the upcoming app round on September 1st

If you want to speak with Lucifer, you're free to text or pray to him right here.

If you have questions, comments, suggestions, etc., go here.


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code bases by tricklet

Comments

sorry for the delay. hurricane shit.

[clozapine]

There's only a handful of people who could smile like that while feeling pressure against their airway. If this kid has taken up the mantle of Hawkeye then whoever gave it to him made a huge fucking mistake. It takes someone twisted to see it in others, he guesses, so it could have slipped by unnoticed.

"I'm a little too old for you to be making eyes at me when I try to choke you." Lester mumbles, flinching at the cuts that just keep coming the longer he wastes time. At first it's something he was stubborn enough to think he could ignore, but now? Now it feels like hell. Slow, painful, steadily growing hell. Whatever this was between them he could figure out and finish later.

He eases up when the skin is exposed. While Lester could be sensible and ask for the sin written on his paper, he's also curious to see if he can guess what it is. Lester scrawls the word murder into Francis' arm with the knife to see if there's any change in the frequency of cuts he still feels over his skin. They're starting to get deeper now.

no worries at all. glad you're okay tho!

[knucklesdirty]

It was easy to hide it, to bundle it up behind altruism, to excuse the violence as protecting people. To stand next to people that carried the legacies of people like Captain America and Thor; James with his shield and his belief that it was possible to fix things. And so Francis pretended he was cut from the same cloth. That the world hadn't ruined him in ways people didn't see.

"I 'unno, you've still got your looks," he quips with a smile that's razor-sharp, because he's never had a great grasp on boundaries. Francis flirts because it's easy, it's something he can lose himself in. But in honesty this is more about the violence and the competence which is the flip-side to the same thing. "How old do you think I am, anyway?" His tone is casual disregard. It didn't really matter to him, and he grew up hard, grew up fast; all young and bloody until he wasn't quite so young.

His breath catches a little as the knife touches his skin, and the other man doesn't even ask for his sins, just writes it in the flesh of his arm. Like he already knows and just prints the letters in scarlet. Murder. And he's right: the cuts against their flesh slow and then pause, like a reward for good behavior, although the door out stays locked.

Francis isn't ashamed, and there's clarity in his eyes, because Bullseye was right about him. There's a slight shiver in his shoulders at the blood, the idea that someone saw through him this clearly, could put together the things no one else ever did was more than he'd expected. He hasn't been hiding that he was a little broken, sort of twisted, a mess of fractured pieces that didn't quite fit. But this is Francis all raw and exposed, the truth of just how dirty his hands are. Blue eyes flicker up, and he doesn't bother trying to pretend that there are excuses.

"Your turn," he murmurs low. "Should get it over with before it starts up again." It's a deflection, but a convenient one.

ty. the storm has shifted east so my area seems to be in the clear

[clozapine]

The flirting is pronounced enough now that it's likely reckless to entertain it any longer than this. But the compliment has him smirking for a moment. He's deranged, sure, but he's still susceptible to flattery like everyone else. "I don't know. At least 18 or I'm gonna have another sin to add to that list they have on me."

He's focused on what he does, but it doesn't make him blind to Francis' response to it. Shit like that is hard to hide from this close. The fact that Francis doesn't once stop him is enough to show that he'd guessed right. Which entirely complicates his idea of who exactly he was and what sort of moral stance he has. It all just comes together to make Lester suspicious as fuck.

When the doors don't unlock he sighs, supposing there's no alternative than to let Francis return the favor so they can be done here. "Yeah, as much as it looks like you're getting off on this, no one gets a happy ending if I bleed out on top of you in this room." He drops the knife on the younger man's chest and gives it a couple pats as he gets off him to sit nearby. Thankfully he's not in costume or it would take a while to reveal skin.

Lester turns his back to Francis and pulls off his shirt. "Hurry up before I change my mind." He mumbles, hunching over a bit since he's pretty sure he's not going to enjoy it the way Francis seemed to. Maybe.

oh good. I used to live along the coast and they can be horrible.

[knucklesdirty]

The assumption that he was at least eighteen was good, anyway. Sometimes people thought he was younger than he was. He knows he's still on the younger side compared to a lot of people around here, but he's not a child. He shrugs his shoulders a little, and figures he might as well answer. "Twenty-one." Almost twenty-two, but the months and particulars aren't actually important. But he's not a kid, even if the words don't really bother him.

Even if his history wasn't all horror, he's still a mess. He'd never really had a chance to be a child, not with the world he'd lived in, and by the time things got better the only option was pushing forward. Some things were too broken to fix, and maybe he was like that too. He's all wired wrong and damaged, probably too late to take it back. But what childhood he had once had burned behind him.

He shrugs it off when Bullseye calls him out on getting off on it, but doesn't argue with it. Figures it's probably a bit late and that particular ship has likely sailed, since they both know he's right. "Well, I'm not particularly into you bleeding out all over me, either." He comments as he picks up the knife the man drops on his chest. Francis sitting up slowly as he watches him take off his shirt. He only looks for a few moments, before trying to settle on where to put it.

"Yeah, alright. I'll make it quick," he breathes as he leans in, pressing the knife to skin. Left side, just above his shoulderblade, more muscle and tissue and not so close to bone, the other side from that earlier injury. He's careful, keeps the cuts shallow, just enough to cut the skin, to bleed. Francis is good with a knife, and he doesn't go slow, since that just drags out the pain. So he makes short work of each letter, quick and confident, just a beat before he moves to the next one, even and careful. He writes that same word on Bullseye's skin, though the man hadn't made any attempt to hide that he was a killer. He could guess for something different, but it seemed better to leave it like this.

"There," he says when he finishes, voice soft and quiet as his thumb swipes briefly against where the blood wells up, and then he's pulling away. He didn't hear the door unlock, but it's open now anyway, along with an eerie sense of warm approval that Francis chooses not to think about too hard. He grabs his jacket off the floor as he gets to his feet. Least they can get out of this sorry excuse for torture. "You ever wanna play without all this pretense, gimme a call," he says with a twitch of his mouth. He's not quite sure he wants to leave him like this, but he's not going to insult him by asking if he needs help. But it did seem like he took it worse than Francis had, even if they're both flecked with blood.

i get to eat all the hurricane snacks

[clozapine]

Lester just sort of gives him a look when he says his age. He's not trying to give off the impression that he's interested, but he is at least a little bit curious. Maybe being turned off by the fact that Francis is a version of Hawkeye, particularly a Barton, isn't a complete deal breaker. Fuck, even he'd gone around in the purple tights calling himself Hawkeye for a while. He should be able to play nice if he needs to.

He hisses at first at the first feel of knife to skin and the weird warm trickle of his blood from the cuts. Francis doesn't ask what he should write, and he's thankful not to have that annoyance. The guy might have been a hero normally but right here in this room they'd both end up with the same label. At least his body count was more impressive.

When it's done he pulls his shirt back on, not caring if blood seeps out and into his clothing. Thankfully the cuts have stopped, and he's already able to think straight again. Well, as straight as he's normally able. "Play?" Lester isn't sure he means it in a sexual or violent way, but either way doesn't matter. He'll bite. "What if I'm not done with you yet?" He asks, slowly getting to his feet to avoid angering any of the fresh cuts on his skin.

ahh best snacks tho.

[knucklesdirty]

He watches him pull his shirt back on, that flex of muscle, the way the blood seeps into the fabric a little. But it's not bad. Nothing to worry about, and the cloth will probably be enough to stop the rest of it. Good enough for now, anyway.

He's actually thinking about leaving it here, about turning and waiting for the next time, because there's something here that gets under his skin too deep for him to believe they wont run across each other again. But then there's that question and Francis turns back to face him, a spark in his blue eyes, a flicker of heat at the suggestion there. He shrugs his shoulders as the other man gets to his feet, taking a step in closer.

"Yeah? Then I'd stick around. See what you had in mind." His voice is even, low suggestion that plays along the edges.

He'd meant violence if they're being precise, wanted to see what he could do when it wasn't some torture trap. But in truth sex tended to weave into that for him anyway, so the difference was mostly one of context and degrees, how far things went. And it's not like the idea of making it about sex is unwelcome, when he's already on edge. He doesn't bother trying to hide that he's interested, since that had ended up pretty overt given Bullseye had called him on getting off on it. And he hadn't been wrong, not really, still has his skin hot and his pupils a little wide.

[clozapine]

Good. He's got questions that need answers, but he's not sure he wants this to be the place he hangs around, though. Who knew how long those doors would stay unlocked. Lester, without any sort or warning or pretense, grabs the younger man by the back of his forearm to lead him out of the room, get a bit of help with his balance, and make sure he doesn't go anywhere.

"Is there somewhere we can go?" He's not been here for long and doesn't know his way around so good, but anywhere they could talk should work. Definitely the only thing on his mind is talking. Keeping his hold on him, he drapes his other arm over Francis' shoulders.

"It's funny. You sort of look like Barton, but younger--like the girl, Bishop. Are they just giving anyone with half decent aim the name Hawkeye these days? But I like you, kid. You're not afraid to get your hands dirty. It already sets you apart from the lot of them. And I can't hold that shit against you. I was Hawkeye for a little bit in my day."

[knucklesdirty]

Francis isn't exactly a fan of hanging out in the torture room either, honestly. Last thing he wants is for those doors to lock again and have to go through the whole game of invisible encouragement all over again. The man grabs his arm, and Francis doesn't fight it as they head back outside. At the question he hums, considering. Sure, there's the hotel bar, but there's not much around that's private, so he shrugs a little. It's probably fine.

"Guess I can take you back to my room, if you want. It's quiet and has a door, which is more than I can say for most places around here." Francis has always been a little bit impulsive, and right now isn't much different. It's honestly practical more than salacious, since he's sharp enough to know there are probably questions, and not necessarily ones that Francis wants to talk about in public. Although he does lean a little into the arm around his shoulders almost on reflex, but he disguises it for the most part in shifting to let Bullseye get a better grip. He's still on edge though, and Francis has always been touch-starved.

"Everyone always says I have his eyes," he comments quietly. It's the sort of compliment that cuts, even if there's a sort of warmth and good intention to it. He'd never really met Kate, she'd been dead by the time he was old enough to have remembered much about her. Maybe a blur of dark hair and a tone of voice if he thinks really hard, but no details. Just a name, his dad's stories when the memories didn't hurt too much to talk about.

"Well, with the sort of world I used to live in, someone had to." It's his excuse, the one he hides just how dirty his hands really are behind. The idea of necessity. Like he's never taken pleasure in it. Never been shaking out of his skin so bad that blood and violence was the only way to breathe straight. Clint's hands weren't pristine either, but you could always tell that he really did regret it. And the one here had been so soft it made his chest ache.

"You were Hawkeye?" There's a tilt of his head, a look there, and it means something. Hawkeye was a name with weight to it for Francis, even if it was sometimes something to hide behind. There's a breath, a pause as he tries to slot the pieces of his father's old stories together. "Was that when he was doing the weird ninja thing?" It's also a curiosity, wondering just how the lines of space and time line up here.

[clozapine]

"You want to take me back to your room?" That wasn't the response he was expecting, but he shrugs his shoulders. Maybe he'd find more information there by snooping around. Not that Francis hadn't been pretty forthcoming so far. "Yeah, sure. Take me to your room."

The comment about Francis having Clint's eyes has Lester leaning in closer to look at his profile closer while they walk. So he was Barton's kid? Lester was interested before but now doesn't even try to hide it as he mumbles near his ear. "I'm sure you did the best you could to do in a shitty situation." He deliberately bumps his nose against the side of Francis' face. Lester wasn't held as a child either, just beaten, so he does enjoy when he has excuses to share non-violent moments with people. Even if he'd never admit that to anyone.

"Yeah, it's a long story. I dunno what he was up to, honestly. Just that the Avengers had disassembled and dude name Osborne decided to put together a team. Got an ex con with the Venom symbiote to take up the spiderman title, Wolverine's bastard son took up his father's name, and got to be Hawkeye...for obvious reasons."

[knucklesdirty]

The way he phrases it sounds a little more of an overt invitation than he'd quite intended, but Francis rolls with it, nods with a lazy sort of smile that curves over his mouth as he looks at the man he's leaning into. But he agrees easy enough and Francis angles them in the direction of the suite where his room is.

He doesn't seem to mind when the other man leans in closer, and he can feel the way he looks at him, and there's something to it as he murmurs words close against his ear, the way his nose bumps against his cheek. The words mean something, because he had been, for years, doing everything he could even if that didn't really amount to much. Didn't make a difference, but having someone else that believes he was doing all he could, it's-- good. He leans in a little, not too overtly, but he likes the contact. It's that mix of Clint who he'd hung so much on and his death, the weight of carrying everything. Contact is one of those things that makes sense.

"Yeah, I haven't seen anyone nearly as good as you. Not in years." Which is the quiet way of saying not since Clint died. Where he doesn't have to admit to the fact that it was still something uneasy. The hurt and the anger and being alone. But it was that skill that had caught his eyes, thrilled something just at the sight of someone that sharp. Not that the Avengers he ran around with weren't good in their own ways, but it was different. "Guess I'm not surprised you're good with a bow." He sort of wants to see, of course, but maybe sometime when they're not just out of some punishment room. Thankfully his room's not too far.

[clozapine]

Flattery, too? He's not used to this but could get used to it pretty easy. "I'm sure I'm the best you've ever seen, but I haven't gotten to show you the extent of my talents yet. So, just wait for that." He smirks, looking around as they move, trying to remember where everything is in case he needs to find the place again.

"I'm good with any projectile. Sometimes non-projectiles too if I'm desperate enough."

Once they get to the building he takes note of which room belongs to Francis. He does him the courtesy of letting go of him for the moment so he can unlock the door. In the meanwhile he tries to peek over his shoulder to make sure he's not about to step into a torture room or dungeon. With all the bad shit he's done in his life he would believe that this scenario is heading toward the too good to be true category. So excuse him for being reasonably suspicious.

[knucklesdirty]

Francis sort of accepts that taking him back to his room means that he'll be able to find it again uninvited, but he's willing to risk it. So far it hasn't turned out too badly. And he can't help the way he grins when he says he's the best he's ever seen. "Ohh, I'm gonna." There's almost a touch of heat to the words, cause competence is fucking sexy, and oh but he does want to see the extent of the man's skills. Back in the room was just a taste, which isn't really enough. And it's not flattery if it's fact. He's not even playing it up right now.

"Yeah? Put a bow in my hands and I don't miss. But I learned with knives when I was too young to hold one. Can manage okay with most things you can throw if things get bad." So, he's not nearly as versatile as the other man, but he likes his bow anyway, so he's sort of okay with that. And there is that implication there of just how young Francis was when he first had a weapon in his hands.

Really, letting him go so he can unlock the door is practical, but doesn't mean that he doesn't miss the contact, though he doesn't comment on it. Suspicion is entirely reasonable, but Francis' room is almost boring once he gets the key in the lock and the door open, waving Bullseye inside. His bow on the wall, quiver tucked between the bed and the nightstand, and if he's attentive he might be able to tell it's Clint's bow-- or was. It's older, more worn, but lovingly cared for, the same lines, same draw weight.

Who knows where Francis got purple sheets in Hell, but he does like his color theme. It's pretty plain, but not unwelcoming. The bed's bigger than in the temporary shared rooms, and there's a chair near the closet, a mirror above the dresser. Definitely doesn't look like torture, anyway. Francis shrugs out of his coat, slight catch of his breath as it drags against the cuts on his skin, and slides to sit on the edge of the bed. His head tilts slightly as he looks up at him.

"It's not much, but it's Hell, so I guess it's alright." There's a vague humor there; something that implies he's probably had much worse.

[clozapine]

It sounds kind of similar to his own past. He'd played baseball before when it became obvious that he had some kind of skill. It wasn't soon after that he realized he didn't have to take shit from his parents anymore. Or anyone else for that matter. The more Francis goes on the more he sees they have more in common than he suspected.

Inside the room is...very purple. It must be a Barton thing? He doesn't seem to mind it though. "It's a whole lot better than nothing." And also better than the temporary housing he's shacked up in. The bow hung on the wall is cute. It makes the place look a bit more cozy and not like hell, but aside from that there's not much information it gives about Francis. "You wouldn't happen to have a first aid kid, would you?"

Lester pulls his shirt off on his way to the mirror to assess the damage. Most of the cuts were superficial and would heal eventually. One or two were deep enough to maybe need stitches, but he's pretty sure that's not happening. He steps toward Francis to lean forward to pull off his shirt--to assess the damage of course. His own wounds seem worse, and he wonders if it's because his sins far outweigh that of the younger man. Rather than taking a seat in the chair he sets himself down right beside Francis on the bed.

[knucklesdirty]

Francis likes the color. It's one of those things that feels familiar, safe, not that he'd ever admit to it. Of course it's hardly a conscious thing anyway, just what he gravitates toward, one of the things probably twisted up in Clint. He smiles, lips curving as he seems to pick up on the thing Francis didn't quite say out loud. "Yeah. It is." At the question he nods in agreement, reaching over to pull a nondescript black box from the top drawer of the nightstand. It's not really an official first aid kit so much as a box of odds and ends, that also includes tools for adjusting arrow shafts to fit the trick arrowheads he used, lube, and a swiss army knife.

"I don't have too much, but feel free." It had seemed like a good idea, so he'd picked up what he could find from the duty free shop in the hotel. So the supplies he had were mostly gauze, bandages and disinfectant, but it was better than nothing. He sets the box on the bed, a little distracted for a moment as he watches Bullseye peel his shirt off. Francis can't entirely help enjoying the view- even if those cuts are deep in places it doesn't entirely ruin the sight. Nothing that looked dangerous, at least.

And then he's in the blonde's space, hands pulling off his shirt, and he lifts his hands and shrugs out of the fabric. The damage isn't quite so bad on Francis, though there's old scars on his skin, too. Not copious, but evidence of a life of fighting that didn't come with Asgardian physiology or a Super Soldier Serum or mutant powers. There's still fresh cuts on his skin from the punishment room, but they're shallower. Maybe it was chance, or maybe it was the wages of sin, that even for the word cut into arm, Francis did try to do good, could be talked into doing the right thing. Most of the time.

"Doesn't seem that bad. Yours are worse," he murmurs, shifting a little toward the other man as he picks out the first aid supplies and offers them over.

[clozapine]

Of course the first damn thing he notices in the box is lube. He's not going to judge, but he does smirk while Francis is turned away from him. If things go how he imagines, they may be needing it later. Or perhaps sooner if the guy is willing.

"Thanks," he nods. For the most part his older scars were healed up well enough that they didn't show unless someone was looking closely, not counting those left by gunshot wounds. He definitely notices Francis' scars even if he doesn't say anything about them just yet. It would be unfortunate to use his supplies only to anger cuts that had already stopped bleeding and have to bandage them over again. So when the younger man offers up the first aid supplies, Lester ignores him and grabs the lube from the box instead.

"What do we have here?" Lester jokes, holding it out of reach. He suspects Francis doesn't mind that he's bleeding, but just to confirm suspicions he leans in close like he's going to kiss him, but stops just short of his lips. "First aid can wait, can't it?"

[knucklesdirty]

Well, it was better to have it and not need it as the saying went. And well, Francis liked touch, contact, being touched. So it's a bit of practicality as well as optimism. There's an exhale of wry amusement as the other man grabs the lube out of the box, his lips curving with suggestion, although he does grab for it back, it's almost out of reflex than anything else. "Oh, I'm sure you can figure it out," teasing with a curve of his mouth that's wicked and interested.

Bullseye holds it out of reach, leaning in, and Francis exhales at the question. He reaches up, dragging a finger against the man's chest, letting the touch brush against one of the cuts in a way that definitely says he doesn't mind the blood, given how it smears against his fingertip. It might ruin the sheets, but he can get another set. He's pretty sure it'll be worth it. He nods in slow agreement, leaning in so that when he talks his lips hover against the corner of his mouth.

"It can wait," he agrees, warm and a little bit eager. "You look sort of nice like this," he admits softly. The sort of thing he wouldn't normally say out loud, but it was true anyway, and somehow he got the feeling he didn't mind that Francis was sort of a twisted mess. That he ran darker than people liked to see him as.

[clozapine]

The finger against his chest has him biting his lip to avoid offering commentary that might not be welcome. Usually the smear of blood only tended to excite him if the blood belonged to someone else. Apparently he isn't too old to learn new things about himself. Francis' lips are so close he could catch them with a simple turn of his head if he wanted to.

"Like what?" Lester doesn't suspect he means shirtless on his bed. It's probably the combination of shirtless and bleeding though. Or at least the latter. It's delightfully fucked up and exactly the shit he's into. And for obvious reasons he wants to hear Francis say it.

He moves further up the bed, tugging the archer along with him. His hands pull Francis forward by his belt so that he's practically on his lap where it's much easier for Lester to undo the fastening and take it off.

[knucklesdirty]

There's that question, and there's a beat, like Francis is waiting to see if it smooths over, evaporates, but it doesn't. And there's something to his tone that seems to expect an answer. Talkative and playful as he can be, this is not the sort of thing that he's good at saying out loud. It's admitting to just how twisted his desires tend to lean, and in a way that's more clear than just how he reacted to his hand on his wrists, fingers curling against his throat.

"Bloody," he answers after a moment, the words low, leaning back just a little so he can meet his eyes. Like his trying to gauge his reaction. "I like how it looks on your skin." And yeah, it's fucked up, but there's a raw sort of honesty to it too. Even if it's clearly something he's not used to saying or talking about, but he does it anyway. Because there's something about Bullseye where he doesn't feel like the only one that's messed up here. Maybe it's the part where he's still here.

The man shifts more onto the bed, taking Francis with him, and there's a catch of his breath at the way that he almost ends up in the other man's lap. Which isn't a bad position at all, especially with fingers tugging at his belt. He shifts, moving so he straddles his lap a little more properly, because Francis isn't actually shy, not about the sex, anyway. That way his body arches a little, leaning in as his hands drag down against his sides, skimming the marks and watching the way it streaks his skin as he traces against his abs and his eyes glimmer dark.

[clozapine]

For a moment he doesn’t think the guy has it in him to answer. Wouldn’t blame him, honestly. Not with the weight that comes with a family name like Barton. On the other hand he hasn’t failed to surprise him yet, so the smile on his face broadens when he does speak.

“Yeah?” Lester isn’t usually so chatty during sex, but they’d pretty much skipped over the getting to know each other part of meeting new people. “It suits you too.” he adds, running fingers over one of Francis’ cuts to smear the blood over his stomach.

He decides to give the guy a break and leans in to kiss him while a hand runs over his hip and down into the pants he’s just undone. It’s been a little while since the last time he’s had the chance to do this, so he’s less hesitant than any reasonable person would be. Lester palms at the front of Francis’ pants while he enjoys the view of him for another moment.

[knucklesdirty]

He shivers a little, his breath catching on a low gasp as his fingers drag over one of his cuts, smearing the blood on his skin. And Francis likes it when it's his blood too. He likes the compliment, twisted as it might be. And then he's kissing him, and Francis leans into the contact, the warmth and the pressure of the man's mouth against his own. He's eager, almost hungry for it, but there's experience in how he kisses him, one hand curling lightly against his jaw, slight nips of teeth. Francis is soft in small, quiet ways, but not like this.

He likes pushing lines, boundaries, and seeing where that ends up. Of course when his hand is sliding off his hip and into his pants, Francis shivers with how it spikes heat down his spine. The blonde moaning softly into his mouth as his fingers palm against the front of his pants, and he's already mostly hard because everything since they were shoved into that punishment room was like a tease, made his pulse skip.

Having Bullseye's hands on him is just that much better, though. Francis' free hand pushes to his waistband, considers undoing his pants and then settles on just squirming slender fingers underneath. The pads of his fingers are still a little slick as he touches, shameless as he gropes against him with a low hum of want between their mouths. His hips twitch a little into Bullseye's touch and fuck. It's not like he's never been touched or something, but there's something to it. The copper and ache and how their skin presses together.

[clozapine]

Bullseye doesn't doubt for even a moment that someone Francis' age would not have any issue getting aroused, but at the same time he wasn't quite expecting him to be that hard when he feels him over. Making him wait while he's in that state seems like a travesty.

It's soon clear that he isn't the only one getting handsy when there's one quickly slipping fingers beneath the fabric of his pants. He rocks his hips toward the touch slowly. Gradually his pants begin to feel offensive in how constricting they are, but he tries to push that aside for a moment.

He loops one arm around Francis' waist to pull him up onto his knees just so he can hook his fingers into both pant and underwear and hall it all down to his knees. That's really all he needs for now. While he takes in the sight of having freed the man's cock, he gets a good amount of lube on his fingers. Bullseye doesn't wait to rub slick fingertips against the archer's hole, two fingers pushing inside him shortly after followed by a third with no warning or permission. He just wants to see how much he'll take without complaint.

Bullseye breaks away from the kiss to press kisses along Francis' collar bone. Only not quite kisses. They're more like bites with enough suction to leave behind distinct marks whenever he pauses.

[knucklesdirty]

Francis can't entirely help himself, sliding fingers and slow touches against the shape of his cock, likes how he feels under his hand. He likes the way his hips rock up into the touch, the touch and contact, the heat of his skin. He lets his hand slip from his pants, mostly so that he can tug them open, make it easier.

Then Bullseye's pulling him up onto his knees, dragging his pants down his legs so he's exposed, but Francis is more than willing. He leans up a little, blue eyes dark with lust, aching for it. He drags in a rough breath, trembles slightly from the feeling when those fingers rub against him, lube-slick and then sinking into him and he moans low and needy with the feel of it against his mouth.

He's not expecting the third, but it's not complaint, either. Hands catch on the man's shoulders and there's a sharp catch to his breath, but he presses into it, too. It's harsher than the first two, that way he wasn't expecting it quite so fast, but he likes sex a little harsh most of the time, just like he does with everything else, and he can't resist how he rolls his hips against him, and the heat that's almost electric.

Francis' head tips back as lips part and he's instead kissing his collarbone, nips of teeth and suction that leaves red marks on his pale skin. But he doesn't mind; likes the way teeth scrape and how he can feel the marks even after he's found another bit of skin to occupy his attention. He shifts a little, like he's offering more skin, making it easier. His hands shake, teeth biting at his bottom lip as he tries to not make it too obvious, how he's unraveling, aching for it.

[clozapine]

It's easy to get carried away with how much Francis seems to enjoy the way Bullseye does things. He might be an unstable murderer, but when it comes to things like this he enjoys when his partner is completely into it. Maybe it's an ego thing. The older marksman doesn't waste any more time worrying about it because his impatience is at an all time high.

The sounds Francis is making and the way he feels around his fingers has him not wanting to wait any longer to be inside him. His fingers move more quickly than he might go in an ideal situation, but the desperation seems mutual so he pulls them out so he can slick his cock with lube. He catches those lips in a quick kiss again before pushing Francis down on his back, tugging his pants off the rest of the way to throw them aside and settle between his led.

When he pushes in at last he swears under his breath. "Fuck. Put your hands on me." It's more of a demand than a request, and he knows he's still bleeding in some places, but he obviously doesn't care. He nudges himself deeper little by little, slow stabbing motions until he's filled him up, at which point his hips draw back to push in again but less gentle this time. Bullseye repeats the motion and keeps his eyes on Francis to gauge his response.

[knucklesdirty]

Francis likes it a little rough, likes to push lines. So he likes this, the way they touch, how they move together, the fact that Bullseye doesn't act like he's gonna break. He wants this, wants him, wants the heat and the friction, and the way they both have blood on their skin. The way that his fingers move pull rough sounds from his lips, hot pleasure in whimpers and gasps. Even if he knows why he takes his fingers away, it's still an ache.

He leans into the kiss, nipping playfully at his lips as he lets the older man push him down onto the bed. He helps kick off his pants, leaving him naked, all hard and skin flushed. He's only too eager to help him settle between his legs, breath rough with how much he wants it. So when he finally lines up and starts to sink in, he almost forgets how to breathe for a moment. That low moan as his body stretches around him. It might be a demand, but it's not like Francis would have been able to help himself anyway.

He's tactile, touchy even outside of sex with the right person, so like this? He doesn't worry about the blood, how it smears under his hands as he palms his way over Bullseye's skin, against his chest. He sort of likes it; a little tacky as it dries, more slick on the deeper ones. He pushes his cock into Francis inch by inch, pulling heated sounds from the blonde's lips, rough gasps with every drag of slick friction that makes his hips jerk. He pushes back against him, greedy until he's buried all the way.

And then he draws back, and it's not as gentle, but if anything Francis seems to like that even more. The way his body arches, the way he moans at the feeling, hands clutching tighter against skin. He likes it rough, likes it so the friction and the sex are all he can focus on. He likes seeing just how far someone can take him.

[clozapine]

It's been so long since the last time he had the chance to fuck someone he didn't hate. Being swapped out of one chaotic hellscape into another may have worked out to his advantage this time.

His head lowers to hide his groan against Francis' shoulder as he feels the other man's body stretch to accommodate him. Lester swears against the skin, but the sound is muffled. It feels too good to take his time, but from the way those hands are roaming over his body and smearing his blood he doesn't think Francis is that type of guy. He presses on until he's fully sheathed inside him, and begins to pull back to do it again with more force behind it this time until he gradually builds up to a fast pace.

Sure he's in pain from the cuts and the touching isn't helping, but he'd be a liar if that shit didn't turn him on more. "Fuck, you feel good." He groans out the words against the side of Francis' jaw now, nudging his face with his nose as sort of an apology in advance because he's not going easy on him. Lester's movements are aggressive and unrelenting so the sounds of skin meeting skin roughly seem really loud in the otherwise quiet room.