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Dirt & Opulence » Places

Places in Dirt & Opulence

This is a list of locations that can be found in Dirt & Opulence.


All Places

Brooklyn, New York

89 posts · 30 characters present · last post 2017-10-20 15:40:33 »

         
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these violent delights have violent ends




He supposed if he wanted to place blame on anything, he could grind back the gears to the night of the club.

Simon had been low already- he'd yelled at his mom, spent hours in his cave trying to lose himself in weed and keep his thoughts off of his demon, but ended up grinding against some fucked up kid cause he looked like a strung out version of Jasper anyway. He'd stared hard at Lar's cocaine and had to restrain himself from moving towards it, told himself 'it's not him', even if the drugs were stained with that inky-black smugness that could only belong to one person.

Jasper had been there that night. But Jasper was always there really, a black web in the back of his thoughts that he kept getting caught in. He'd pull himself free only to find threads still clinging to him, pulling him back in. That night Jasper had kept his distance at first, his presence in the darkness of the club tugging on Simon's attention- a constant reminder. It didn't matter how much whiskey he drank or how much weed he smoked, his eyes would still scan the crowd to make sure Jasper was still there.

It drove Simon crazy that he'd stayed away. Made him want to storm over and yank that disgusting hair, force their faces together, shove his hands up his awful clothing and rip and tear until he'd indulged himself fully. He was drunk, but sober enough that he wouldn't indulge those parts of him that were tangled up in that darkness. Instead he'd lingered at the bar, demanding refills and avoiding that blackhole that tugged at him to come. He forced himself to slide down silently next to his brother, bent over the bar, his agitation showing through with the tap tap tap of his rings against his whiskey glass. Glaring at wall of glass and alcohol across from him while his neck prickled for him to turn around. Like something dangerous and beautiful was watching and his instincts wanted him look.

Dom was always steady. Steady and silent and present, someone that could handle all the shit that was constantly dumped on their family. He'd look at his baby brother smoothly, taking in the tightly wound knobs of his shoulders under pricey clothing, the way anxiety seeped out through his fingers. He hadn't been concerned- Simon seemed to always have some sort of shit winding him tight- but his agitation was strong enough that Dom could taste it on the back of his tongue. He'd taken a long sip of his glass before muttering a gruff, "Alright?"

His brother rarely talked, let alone insert himself into a situation that he wasn't readily needed in. Dom's time was too precious and too pulled thin for him to meddle into every little fuck up his brothers got themselves into. His attention was enough to pull Simon's thoughts out of that fucked up darkness and back to the bar, where he glanced sideways and nodded, "Dealing. Just needed a break from all that" He gestured a limp hand at the loudness behind him, "You alright?"

Of course Dominic Bates would never utter any truth to such a simple question, too wrapped up in his world of questionable morals and decisions based solely on the protection of his family. So Simon didn't expect much when Dom takes a moment to run his too-knowing eyes over his baby brothers form, knowing there's more the younger Bates isn't owning up to, but deciding it can wait. He's fine. Dom lifts a shoulder, throws back the last of his whiskey. "Dealing."

Simon had nodded, followed suit with his own drink. The bartender was ready with two more glasses, knowing the Bates well enough to not leave them waiting.

Simon raised his glass to his brother, locking eyes with Dom. He trusted Dominic to make the right choices, that whatever he did was always for the well being of them all. Even as aloof as he was, Dom cared. Cared too much maybe? It was enough that Simon would never burden his brother with trivial shit like Jasper, so he just clinked their glasses together and slipped back into the crowd.

He'd known where Jasper was without searching. Maybe it really was some sort of magnetism, or maybe it was just because he'd spent the last hour trying really hard to not know where Jasper was.

Locking eyes with him had been his last mistake, but the relief in his chest at the slow crawl of that devilish grin was enough for him to know he'd fucking enjoy himself for his sin. It was relief to feel that web circle around him, even if he hadn't realized at the time how tightly he was ensnared.

Succinct and slow, the bourbon didnā€™t help the friction between his sandpaper tongue and the roof of his mouth, but curious onlookers kept ā€˜em coming and Jasper reciprocated in greedy looks. Back married to the countertop; the press of hands against chests when people got a little too close. Sometimes he forgot how easy this game was. Even with his sardonic slur, the words unfurled smooth as wine. A hint of chastisement lost to those desperate for his narcotic stilt and something a little different from the leather clad seraphim-substitutes moving through the club; something different than what they had waiting back home. Rationalized how his fingers were just as quick to graze the fabric of their jeans as they were to carve desperate tracks down the back of his neck, tongue bruised and bitten sour, matchstick bones under skin that screamed exsanguination.

Where was Simon, anyway?

Someone was ready to go and the animal in his chest told him not to fight it, had him leaning closer if only to get the secrets to splash like gin. His skin wared against itself like the fuckin devil sat beneath but he kept it together when he had to. Let the sanguine press of his delivery carry the point home underneath prussian blues and heavy base. When all was said and done heā€™d gotten drunk on the regret of getting everything except what heā€™d came for, lit a cigarette on the ashes of burnt bridges when his body disappeared just as quick as his drink, ended the search just as soon as it started. If all he wanted was to paint someoneā€™s desire red with his blood, he couldā€™ve saved himself a trip.

Jasper caught sight of his paper swan just as he found another spot to sit and the corners of his mouth tugged in the direction of a smirk. Watched him pass from dancer to dancer, chasing streetlights and anything that could be the exception to his calamity. How much easier would shit be if heā€™d just accept that the answer was Jasper, huh? He lost Simon in the crowd just as Deni slid in with those cutting cheekbones. Built chaos off of a lithe frame, tongue sharper than the knife sheā€™d probably be sticking into his neck one of these days. She had a bone to pick and Jasper shrugged his shoulders, wondered at what point between the mere inches separating their visages had he actually welcomed the idea of her viewing him anatomically correct.

An ardent fascination for the killer stained his ventricles, bled fast and raw and ugly, even for himself. Nodded every so often even if his attention was divided between his resident addiction and the idea of letting those nimble fingers slip between his ribs. Thereā€™s no real position for Jasper in the war for Sennaā€™s heart; he won no matter where you looked. So long as Simonā€™s security blanket was out tying up loose ends or fuming from the sidelines, he had what he wanted.
Thatā€™s what he thought anyways. Caught Simon take a seat next to Dom and knitted his brows in scrutiny. Maybe nothing in particular was wrong that night. Maybe Simon was throwing back drinks for no reason, made casual small talk with a man whose words were always, always just that; small. But he knew Simon. Or as much as he needed to know. Spent too many nights picking holes in his empty chest, laying the groundwork for his indoctrination. Simon had too many thoughts for anything to be nothing at all; couldnā€™t let shit slowly smolder into embers the way his brothers could. No, the kid was probably blue in the face from the fact that his constricted lungs hadnā€™t relaxed yet, like heā€™d been cast off to some frostbitten wasteland; limbs frozen, teetering on the edge of a ravine filled with all the emotions he couldnā€™t share even on a good day, let alone now that he was being hounded by his own demons.

Did he know he had one more coming?

Cause Jasper had been there and done that too many times. Bit his fingers until they were mangled dealing with people who had too many reservations, too many thoughts, too many reasons to go back home and sip some coffee and get their lives together. He eyed the back of Simonā€™s head like a dog even though he knew no one saw the tsunami coming, just the low tide washing over Simonā€™s feet like a Sunday pastime.

Still, as most junkies knew, you couldnā€™t hold anything back for emergencies when every time was an emergency. Not when someone still had the opportunity to leave first. Jasperā€™s lips pursed together as he considered it, part of him wanting to be rid of the threat while the other welcomed the competition; it had been so long since anyone questioned his authority and Simon didnā€™t look half bad wearing rebellion like an Armani suit. If he noticed the hunger behind Jasper's eyes Simon didnā€™t seem disturbed, slipped through the crowd with a quickness and showed Jasper he wasnā€™t really gone, not at all, not in that sense.

Good dogs always came home. Jasper had to give him that.



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Foreverā€™s a tripwire, made evident by tormented cities that donā€™t know anything other than backwater remedies and solicited sickness. Silk presses to silk sheets, skinned knees meet the pavement in exchange for a moment's reprieve. Namely in the form of competing product, panacea sneaking up nasal chambers and nerve endings alike. A brand bearing his counterpartā€™s name. Bates.

Echoes of refusals only add fuel to Jasperā€™s fire. You've got the wrong Bates if you expect a blow buddy. Okay, buddy. How long can you juggle both a fiend and his many affairs before the ball drops?

Denial and self negation were Simonā€™s dogmas. Brought forth on shaky ground, consecrated by the word of the faithless. And if it doesnā€™t make him look every part of the renegade. Too good for a slow burn by means of injection. Makes Jasperā€™s smear campaign all the more fun. Backs pressed against greasy walls, hands snaking up thighs when the bartenderā€™s watching, sinking teeth in his neck every time Simon looks away, like maybe Jasper could take out every spiteful offense he ever garnered on the body thatā€™s been pressed beside him these past few days. Privacy be damned.

Simonā€™s not really there anymore. Not Simon Bates at least, not the person that represents the still existing good of his family, the ever protected Baby Bates. The Simon that was currently entangled in shadowy smiles and heated tongue fully belonged to Jasper- the clutches of his title and family tossed aside. Euphoric, letting all that shit go- family business, expectations, history- and allow this thing to tightly wind itself around him. Heā€™d never realized how ready he was till now, how much this fucking heat had burned till he let Jasper take it away. Or maybe it wasnā€™t gone- maybe this fiend was making it hotter then ever and Simon had just grown too used to burning.

Patience is the name of the game, but tonight's the exception. Groundwork of a malignant nature finally coming together. Weeks ago Jasper wouldā€™ve told himself that Simonā€™s laxity was a feat reserved only for his mother and a joint. Funny how shit changes. When the music starts to bore him Jasper buries fourteen knuckles in the fabric of simonā€™s shirt like they donā€™t have four shots lined and waiting, shifts closer until the distance between them is a figment of oneā€™s imagination. Canines against earlobe. ā€œWanna do something else?ā€

Simon whispering yes sounds more like a prayer, he's sure he's never said the word with more affirmation.



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"Just go with it," Jasper breathes, something almost intimate about the way his mouth curved around hollow words. His hand reaches out to trace the dip of Simon's collar bone, sliding past his throat and the slope of his jaw to entangle itself in the mess of his hair, nails against scalp. Goose bumps race behind Jaspers touch, Simons spine arching back against the filthy brick wall of the alley way. Heā€™s shivering, though his body is hot and molten.

What's it like to burn for what you want but can't have? The feeling always seemed to elude Jasper, shameless as he was, yet Simonā€™s desperate eyes on the syringe spoke volumes. ā€œNot like thereā€™s any consolation prize for getting old in Brooklyn, right?ā€ My god, if anyone knew it, it was this bunch. Junkies and dealers and the whores in between, a morbid kind of synchronicity Jasper clung to like it was his own circadian rhythm. Always bringing him back the gutter. Not that he made much effort to straighten up. Not when gilded patrons were willing to fund his appetite just for a taste. Something Simon was willing to go all the way for. While he still has him Jasper bites his way inside Simonā€™s mouth, doesnā€™t come up until he taste iron, until alcohol leaves a burn in his throat.

Sometimes you need something to take the edge off. Gospel to someone as far south as Jasper, but being around Simon added the necessary exclamation point. Dominic and Gunner had grown man shit to keep them occupied -- bruised knuckles and busted lips all inclusive -- when their own demons came out to play. They were the type who trudged on as if salvation only came through suffering; who lived as if every reassurance was within a prayers reach and backdoor exchange. If they wanted to be saved they must have buried it. And what was Simon? Certainly not that. What with his polished edges on the verge of splitting, Jasper looking like a sleek intruder pressed against his image. No, Simon would sooner hang his hands on hooks and spit out his incisors for the chance to be easy because he never learned that the numbing and hallucinatory loneliness of this world was how you walked through it's conflagrations unscathed in the first place.

Heā€™s got one had gripping Jasper to him, the other one fisted in the rumble and dust of the disgusting spot they have drunkenly fallen into. Simonā€™s making some low whine in the back of his throat- a begging noise, the one a dog makes when you have something it wants. He should be embarrassed, but heā€™s too far gone for that. Sucked in, completing ensnared- if Jasper left him right now heā€™d probably sink into despair. But Jaspers too-thin body shows him further against the wall and traps him there- makes him alive and on fire all at the same time. He wants more. More, more, more,- but all he can managed is that fucking whorish whine and a deathly grip on stretch out white cotton.

This lifestyle doesnā€™t suit you. Thatā€™s what Jasper thinks as he relinquishes his grip on Simon. In another time, in which heā€™d never marred or betrayed anyone, he wouldā€™ve said the words out loud and assiduousness wouldnā€™t have felt like muriatic acid flushing through his veins. But at this point, Jasper had no problem snatching stray prospects without pretending his violence was anything but. Junkie through and through. His bloodā€™s been runninā€™ soporific since summer ā€˜11, but he can think of a few things to make it slip like kitchen bleach. Strip the color from anything more vibrant than himself. And fuck if he wasnā€™t more than willing to go as far for this connection as need be. Ready to seize every shortcoming. Peel wax from wings, flesh piled on the concrete. After all, was that not, on some subconscious level, why the youngest Bates had linked himself up with the inky blackness that was Jasper Callaghan in the first place? Because he knew even the sun, in all of itā€™s life-sustaining hellenistic glory, could break the neck of a daisy? Because the thing Simon ached for - what Jasper dubbed control - was only attainable on the reciprocal end? shit, if you want it come get it come get it come get it come-

But Jasper would never control him, would he? So long as Simon had someplace else to skirt off to, someplace else to escape when the walls started closing in. Every breath an excise Jasper wouldnā€™t ever be able to pay where his own merit was concerned. Heā€™d keep Jasper away through sheer respiration. Close but not close enough until the levee breaks; maybe the flood buries him, but maybe it doesn't. Maybe time is just what Simon needs to stop living life at 70 mph, rib cage in his throat, road signs be damned. It didnā€™t matter how soft Simon was. Eventually heā€™d reach some sort of understanding with this virus of life; realize leaning into the bathtub isnā€™t peace and the light doesnā€™t look any different just because youā€™ve buried your head beneath the water.

The thought makes Jasper itch. And thereā€™s no sun out to make everything look shiny and golden, so these street lights will have to do.

ā€œHere--,ā€ he snatches laces out of dusty sneakers with practiced ease, the subtle base in his voice making it almost seem like a command despite its implications having more to do with the fact that something in Jasper had lapsed. His patience, perhaps? Wraps the string around Simonā€™s arm before giving the ends to Simon to keep them tight. Simon takes hold, simply following orders although his heart beats rapidly up his throat. Heā€™s shaking, but heā€™s sure its from anticipation- how long had he been begging for this, only to have that needle turned away? Every so often Jasper looks up from his arm just to find Simons wide eyes in the dark, to reassures himself that this is actually happening. Last thing Jasper needed was realization snatching Simon by the neck, but by the looks of it, thatā€™s the last thing Simon needs as well. Desire glowing brighter than the neon signs advertising smokes and nudes. Good. Heā€™d be damned if he became the sticky note Simon misplaced and forgot about, the dollar bill he never missed. Come hell or high water, he would be the fucking vulture over Simonā€™s shoulder. Jasper was sure of that as he poured the powder onto the spoon and went to work, heating the smack until it liquefied before he filled the syringe and putting the spoon to the side, hands working and turning over themselves like a language without discourse.

Ardent denouement in reverse, fresh veins waste no time in showing up. Take the drug like a champ. It goes in so easy- Simon was expecting pain but he barely realizes the red swirl inside the needle is his own blood. A shiver slides through his body as Jasper pushes the plunger in and it takes Jasper back to his teenage years when every trip was new and predatory hands felt cool to the touch. Heā€™s staring at Jasper, eyes vacant but locked, praising him like some sort of God. He watches as Simonā€™s muscles find a different kind of peace. Eyes lose that cornered sparkle. Jasper pulls the shoestring off as liquid purgation settles into Simonā€™s body, stakes a claim like a welcomed invader, crosses erect and ready to go.

Heā€™s stunned by the warmth, not burning, just a smooth comfort that wraps around him. Jasperā€™s web turned soft and gentle and liquid- his body slips into it like a warm bath and he feels his brain give way.

The youngest Bates breathes in deep- filling his chest with a sort of air heā€™s never felt before. Alive and exhilaration- oxygen that filled him with a pure wave of good. The drugs putting out any fire that had burned within him and seeps into every cell- leaving behind nothing but euphoria.

ā€œFuckā€ He wants to say more- heā€™s got a lot of thoughts about what he wants to say- but his voice sounds like its underwater and all his shaking hands can do is grip the body in front of him. Simon keeps Jasper at arms length and just stares, his large form looking much smaller crammed into the space between the brick and dumpster. Heā€™s running his Brioni suit but he doesnā€™t give a shit anymore. He smiles; a shivering sort of uncontrolled smile cause his face feels like itā€™s facing the sun. His demon looks like the opposite, how had he ever thought otherwise? Why had he denied this? Why had Jasper let him say no when this could make him feel like this?

He wants to say more, more heā€™s pretty sure Jasper gets it.

The itching part of his brain that usually argues with his every thought has gone quiet; his mind finally feels at ease.



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Morning rolls around like a thirty-eight to the temple; stray light slipping in from between ratty blinds just to assault his eyelids. My god, he needs to get those replaced. Or move his mattress someplace else. Props himself up on bony elbows while his pupils adjust to the vanishing dark, pauses for a moment when he feels a sleeping Simon on the other side of him then brushes the acknowledgement to some distant corner of his brain, someplace reserved for all the other bad ideas thatā€™ll come back to bite him at some point. Then again, thoughts of his impending harm didnā€™t do much to phase him nowadays; the kid all but grew up on bleach baptisms behind park benches, transfixed and renewed by way of narcotic.

He settles into skin that feels like itā€™d rather be elsewhere, peel away and slink off underneath the couch someplace. Thereā€™s a splitting kind of silence at this hour. As if the linchpin to disorder found something else to occupy itā€™s time with. Couldnā€™t be bothered with errant car alarms and wily dogs and every other entropic manifestation of Brooklyn coming to life. Hm. He kinda misses the ferocious city. Every noise a numbing departure from the contagion of sobriety. Thick. How his tongue feels in his mouth. Thoughts bleeding into each other, blank as the expression across Simonā€™s face when sun settles across his temples and fixates itself on the dip in his hip bones.

Jasperā€™s resolve lays limp across his shoulders like a skinned animal. Palms pressed to closed eyes like maybe he could rub the static away and will himself to feel some semblance of alright. But the monsterā€™s a persistent type. An affair way beyond whisky flirtations and midnight escapades.

Simon wakes up when the sun finally reaches his face, burning light turning the world red below his eyelids. He keeps them closed tight, because his skin feels like itā€™s crawling with maggots and death. Pulling at him, whispering disgust into his veins and begging for that euphoric sun. You arenā€™t good without it, more, more, more. He makes a wrenching moan, something between a gag and a cough, abruptly silencing that monster inside for only a moment. A shaking hands reaches helplessly for the nearby sheets to hide his face from the sunlight.

A mumbling whimper escapes him and he feels the mattress shift, a body coming closer and blocking out the light. He tries to ask for help, but his lips are quivering and dry and his mouth feels like sandpaper. He gets the resolve to shift a little, joints aching, and uncovers his head to open bloodshot eyes up at Jasper.

Jasper is framed by the sun coming through the shades behind him, holy glow of light darkening his sickly thin frame to a skeleton. His eyes are too dark, a stark comparison to the Godly figure Simon remembers from their drug addled night. Its not right, not what he wants- he wants the good back, wants this sour, sticky itch gone. That fire is burning in his head and he desperately wants that warm engulfing liquid to put it out.

Thereā€™d pleading in his eyes when looses a breath through his nose, reaching for Jasper.

ā€œMore.ā€



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Sometimes the simplicity of life goes right over Jasperā€™s head.
Like the ocean canā€™t hug the shore without a hurricane following suit.
As if the truth canā€™t spill minus a .22 to the temple.
Heā€™s half naked in a Bateā€™s house, waiting for a sign that itā€™s time to leave.
It never comes.





Simon wakes up on Jaspers dirty mattress, head pounding and skin crawling but mind clear. Jaspers pale naked body is drapped over the side of the bed, half on the floor like he was crawling towards a semblance of comfort in his crack house apartment.
His phone is dead so he smokes and stares at the semi-lifeless body next to him.
No texts, no calls. But thatā€™s nothing new either. His brothers are ā€˜Dealingā€™ and he knows that meant to leave them alone.
He unlocks his phone and dials one of the only four numbers in his favorites.
ā€œHelloā€
Domā€™s voice is unusually stressed, tone rough and frustrated. He didnā€™t mean to answer, or he was expecting a different call.
ā€œHey, brother, what are you-ā€œ
Thereā€™s a sigh and some yelling from somewhere distant. Heā€™s probably on the job, Simon shouldnā€™t have called.
ā€œIā€™ll call you backā€
The line goes dead and Simon lets the phone drop. He takes a drag, attention back on Jasper, and brings him back to life with a kick.





Jasper thinks he could kill Simon. Run every red light just to find him in a cloud of marijuana smoke. Five knuckles against polished flesh. Unfailing hands around his neck. Heā€™s halfway out the door when the monster runs ghostly fingers down his spine, but a text back reminds him heā€™d just as soon lick the blood and champagne from Simonā€™s jaw line than murder the kid.
He stumbles over an empty bottle and lets out every curse he can think of on his way to the bathroom. Jumps in the shower in an attempt to scrub the massacre from his fingers. Doesnā€™t stop until skin cracks beneath his hands.
Guess we all get a little trashy sometimes.





[to: simon]
You up???

[to:Jasper]
Fuck you

[to:Jasper]
yes

[to:Jasper]
your place or mine





ā€œDo you even wear half the shit you buy?ā€ A joke lined with something accusatory. Heā€™s rifling through Simonā€™s closet like he wasnā€™t well aware of the kidā€™s affinity for anything designer. Thereā€™s little shame in his game when he pulls a random shirt off the hanger and slips it over his head.
ā€œWell, shit,ā€ he mumbles between breaths. Heā€™s more impressed than he really should be, cause anythingā€™s an upgrade against the dusty leviā€™s he came in, but damn. He might have to steal this one.
ā€œLooks goodā€ They donā€™t do niceties, but this sweaty, naked, strung out version of Simon doesnā€™t really care what they do and donā€™t do. Heā€™d fuck Jasper in anything he wore, but there is no denying that his clothes look good on him. Evidently, his shit looks good on any one, but that ability to make even a demon look clean-cut showed the power of a $250 white button up.
It bothers him though, how fast Jasper masked himself in designer and seemed to be normal. He could pass off as handsome- Simonā€™s pin prick pupils follow movements as he pulled out a blazer.
ā€œDonā€™tā€ Heā€™s irrationally angry suddenly, but far too gone to get up to do something about it. Limbs loose, body heavy- all he can do was throw a pillow across the room. ā€œFuck me again while Iā€™m still cooked, assholeā€





His mom asked him if he was alright again.
Yeah, heā€™s alright- he knows she doesnā€™t believe him, but heā€™s high when he lies and feels none of that regret that usually follows.
He moves out two days later while sheā€™s at tennis.





Heā€™s hard to reach these days. Translucent skin against tile when a come down loomed over the horizon. Nikes leaving skid marks in a crowded bar. Perched under the arm of whoever would have him.
Course heā€™d always make time for his favorite. Five letters flash across the screen in an attempt to find out where he is, if heā€™s free.
Historyā€™s a bit hazy, but he knows this; when he first saw Simon, his mind already had a place for him. Wedged between black tar nights and marlboro mornings. Lodged in his throat like the taste of cough syrup; peaked teeth in his neck.
His thoughts screamed massacre when he saw Simon.
So he did.

[To simon;]
meet me at the club?





Domā€™s voice mailbox is full- but Simon knew that.
It didnā€™t stop him from calling yet again and listening to the automated womanā€™s voice on speaker.
Jasper isnā€™t answering his texts and his skin hurts. Burns, itches, heā€™s shaking.

Dom can't come to the phone right now, his fingers are too slippery with bloodā€¦ the 'slide to answer' wont work.



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By Ivisbo and ShudderFox-
Dominic Bates by Char

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