But in your dreams whatever they be

[dowhatisays]

Who: Charlie "Sassface" Luciano and EVERYONE (yes and you)
What: Dreamtiems. All the dreamtiems.
When: Day 83-88
Warnings: Gangster language. Underage drinking/drug use. Sex. More R-rated things involving Chawlee's mouth.



[ooc: Different dream scenarios in the comments. Can take place on any night, just let me know. Multiple people can totally take the same dream, most of them are small snippets which may be reoccurring. If you have a specific dream idea you want from Charlie PM or plurk me. Totally open.]

Comments

Masseria;

[dowhatisays]

He's at the age when he just started growing, really growing. He remembers the way his bones used to ache, and he feels it now, both at the same time, the memory and the sensation. He's got an accent he's still trying to lose, scraped knuckles from when Marty called him a greasy Dego fuck two days go, and a name he hates. Sal's a broad's name, he keeps telling it to his Pa every time he uses it at him, even if it earns him a smack across the back of his tousled head.

But he'd take his Pa any old day, even his Pa after a bender, coming home looking for a fight when no one but his second eldest kid still awake. He'd take that three times over instead of standing here in front of Joe The Boss.

Because he's here, now, even though he was home seconds ago. There's blood under his nose where it wasn't before, and a goony leaving new bruises in his arm, and Joe Masseria staring him down like he's worth less than what he scraped off his boot heels coming in. It ain't fucking fair, he's fourteen years old and Masseria is laying onto him like he's some big fucking deal trying to take over his territory. Fuck him, maybe one day he will be. That'd show him.

He can't hear what Masseria is saying to him. It's the same conversation anyway, the same lecture. The had it for years, ever since he was a scrawny ten year old with eyebrows bigger than his face.

Which is now. He barely comes up his elbow, and Masseria has him by an ear, shaking him. Pa had taken him. He was supposed to pay respects to the man running their neighbourhood. It hasn't worked well.

But now he's fourteen again, and Joe's still touching him, gripping the side of his face, breathing cigar smoke and liquor fumes into his face and he's trying to break away but the goony only holds him harder. He calls him 'Toto' when they stand like this and fucking Christ he'd take Sal over that any day. He has chills going down his spine and all he can think of is he hopes they just fucking kill him already.

But they didn't kill him, because he's sitting in a restaurant window now, age twenty-five. It could have been ten, though, could have been fourteen. Because when Masseria reaches over and touches his hand that same ice runs down his spine, like it always had before and like it will keep doing again.

"We're far apart, Joe."

"We're very close, Salvatore. We're two feet from each other."

Sexy Sex (this one happens a lot);

[dowhatisays]

He's seventeen this time. Or maybe he's older. It doesn't really matter, because he's been in this position a million times. Elena Rosellini is older than him, and fucking gorgeous. Her hips are round and soft under his hand as he buys them another drink, her cheeks red as she laughs at him.

"You're a real cutie, doll. I could teach you a thing or two." He wants to respond that he doesn't need teaching, but then she's kissing him, and they're in her bed. Every inch of her is as soft as he thought it'd be as he slides her out of her slip.

But the dream shifts, and morphs, and he's not in bed any more. He's on his knees, a wall covered in peeling wallpaper behind him. "Fuck I so fucking want you right now." Charlie's own voice surprises him, because he doesn't even know who he's saying it to. Only that his hands are going to the fly in from of him, undoing it slowly. The lust rushing through him is incredible - heady and uncontrollable, and like waiting a moment longer is going to kill him.

Night 84

[happytobleed]

"What do you want me for?" Castiel's voice is a low growl and he's curious for an answer, though for some reason he's not questioning why this man's hand is on his fly or how they arrived her, even if this is far from a common position for him to be in.

His face is almost flat with just a hint of curiosity and confusion. He's honestly not sure what this is, but there are parts of it the dream fills in enough for him that it's only Charlie's words he's left to question.

Prison;

[dowhatisays]

He's sixteen. It's week one of six months. Six long fucking months is this hellhole. He has a black eye, and a sore spot in his head where they tore a chunk of his hair out on the first day. This is what he fucking gets for not ratting anyone out, huh? Guess that doesn't mean much to boys on the inside.

His roommate he's never seen before, but he knows them, inexplicably, slinking down on the floor next to their bunkbed and fishing out a smoke.

"You got a light?"

day 85

[nedofpies]

Ned doesn't have to recognize the cell to know that it's a prison; the bars on the door kind of give that away pretty easily. There's a tall teenager who sounds oddly familiar talking to him, asking him for a light. Automatically, as he tries to get his bearings, Ned fishes around for his pockets. There are no pockets in this getup they've got him wearing. The clothes seem strange to him. They are huge on his small frame, too long in the sleeves, and old-fashioned. Very old-fashioned, actually.

"Sorry, no luck," he says, peering down from the top bunk at the top of a head of scraggly hair. Tentatively he climbs down, giving Charlie plenty of space. He goes to the other side of the cell and crouches down, back to the wall, to get a look at the guy. He looks like someone roughed him up.

There's something wrong about this entire place. Ned doesn't recognize any of it. This isn't his cell. "I'm not supposed to be here," he says.

/switches to teenager icons and gives zero fucks

[dowhatisays]

"Yeah? You are half this fucking place. Ain't exactly where I were planning on spending my time."

He must have matches. Hes sure he would have had them. What's the point in having cigarettes without them? But he finds them under his mattress, where he knew they were all along somehow.

"What's your name, kid?"

[nedofpies]

Ned is close to awareness, but then it slips away from him, and he gives his head a little shake, letting that feeling of wrongness go for the time being. He watches the older boy strike the match and light his cigarette, wonders who it was that beat him him. It would be useful to know. He likes knowing these things because it helps him hide.

"Ned," he says, sitting down and wrapping his arms around his legs, propping his chin on one knee. "You?"

[dowhatisays]

"S- Charlie." Because this is when it changed, didn't it? He'd been tired of the jokes ('Sal? You a fucking broad or something?'). A name like that was just asking for it in a place like this. He'd liked Charlie, too. Charlie Luciano sounded like an American, not a fucking immigrant like Salvatore. This kid was lucky. No one would give you crap about a name like Ned.

"You just got in, didn't yous?"

[nedofpies]

Ned notices the hesitation, the change, but he doesn't question it. Some part of his mind knows what it's like to need to leave a name behind and never hear it again.

At Charlie's question, he nods. Of course, how could he forget. That was how he had gotten here. The man in the woods, who had shot himself. Waking him up, asking who'd killed him. Only just having the time to kill him again before the police arrived, and they hadn't seen anything, thank God. Nothing that would land him somewhere significantly less pleasant than this place. They just thought he'd killed the man like a normal person. So they'd locked him up. Had there been a trial? He can't remember, it's all fuzzy and distant. Maybe they didn't need trials if you were a minor and an orphan. Maybe the school and the warden had just worked out some kind of arrangement.

[dowhatisays]

"Good fucking luck with it, kid." After all, Charlie's only been here a week, and he's already had his fair share of lessons about who's boss around here. Not an easy lesson to learn for a kid with a big mouth and a hair trigger temper. He sucks hard on his cigarette, reveling in the taste. Fuck, it took him a while to get these again. "You want one?"

Re: Day... 85? 86? Sometime

[recognize_an_opportunity]

It doesn't make a whole lot of sense that they're both sixteen -- Charlie should be four and a half years older than him, after all, always has been, always will be, but that's the logic of dreams for you -- and it doesn't make sense that he's in prison at all, whether or not Charlie's there.

Then again, when you're dreaming, you don't usually think about that kind of thing, and he's not thinking about it now as he's sitting on the top bunk, fishing out some matches and tossing them down to Charlie when he asks. His aim is pretty good; he might even succeed at dropping them right on Charlie's head. "Here."

[dowhatisays]

They do land on his head, and it makes him squawk indignantly. His face is still mostly bruise right now. "You did that on purpose, fucker." But he lights up his smoke thankfully.

[recognize_an_opportunity]

"Yeah? Maybe I did."

Either way, Charlie gets his matches, so he can't be too annoyed. All the same, he's dangling an arm off the top bunk, reaching for a cigarette. "Give me one of those," he says. It's only fair, after all.

[dowhatisays]

"Yeah?" Charlie yanks his arm back, holding the cigarettes just out of Meyer's reach. "What's in it for me?"

[recognize_an_opportunity]

He has to think about that for a second, but finally he speaks up. "You give me one, you don't have to hear me complaining about how I don't have a cigarette for the next twenty four hours."

That sounds like a pretty good deal to him. However, he's still reaching for the cigarette just the same, although it's out of his reach and to get it would be risking falling off the bunk bed.

Fight;

[dowhatisays]

He's not sure what age he is here. Because he's been here a thousand times. Someone is holding him back, arms firm around his chest and shoulders, using every ounce of strength to make sure he doesn't budge an inch. Which takes some doing because Charlie is flailing, kicking, punching, using everything he has in him to fight back. The rage is white-hot in his mind, consuming everything else. There's no reason, no logic, no talking him out of this. Just the need, the deep, hot fucking desire to sink in nails and teeth and rip and tear and make someone fucking pay. He lashes out with a leg, hands desperately scrapping at the arms holding him back as he screams, spewing spit and hatred.

"I'LL KILL YOU! YOU FUCKING HEAR THAT?! I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"

idk if this is okay or not lemme know.

[mentis]

"Calm your mind."

Charles isn't even sure what started it, only one of the men in the bar had flown into some sort of rage and he'd acted instinctively. He'd grabbed for him as quickly as he could and only the element of surprise had really stopped him from either being elbowed in the face or thrown to the floor.

He has to raise his voice to be heard over his shouting though, "Whatever it is, it's not worth it."

yes excellent use your mind skillz

[dowhatisays]

"Don't fucking tell me what's fucking worth it!" Charlie is still pulling, pushing and scrambling at the arms holding him back. Oddly, he can't even see who's he's angry at, only that it's clawing at him and flooding his mind with the need to rend and tear and rip. He gives Charles a particularly strong shove, enough at least to stagger him.

[mentis]

He trips, catches himself from falling by wrapping an arm around the bar. Well then, he's going to have to change tactics. A good, hard shock might do the trick. So his next statement comes not aloud but within Charlie's mind.

I'd advise a little decorum. I'm fairly certain the man who just entered is a police man.

[dowhatisays]

If he was going for a shock, he's certainly achieved it. As suddenly as he kicked off, Charlie is still again. Everything feels slow as he turns to meet Charles' eyes, staring at him hard with furrowed eyebrows. "What the fuck did you just do?"

[mentis]

"Saved you from inevitable arrest?"

His expression is innocent. Now he has a good look at Charlie's face the understanding kicks in. Everyone is so plagued by dreams that it's almost difficult to remember from one to the next. He hadn't known when his own were on display.

"I know I enjoy a good bar brawl, but unfortunately the law do not."

[magnets]

Jesse stands a few feet away, hands reflexively clenching and unclenching by his sides; the grin when he watches Charlie thrash in the guy's arms, it's bordering on psychotic, gleeful. He really doesn't remember why they're fighting, what he even said to get Charlie so riled like this. All he knows is that he's livid right in return, and he's high - he's very high. His eyes spark with artificial excitement and he keeps rolling his shoulders around like he can't stay still.

"Yeah? Yeah? That a promise?" He leans in a step, just out of reach, voice lowering as the antithesis to Charlie's shouting. "Cuz all I see is you whining like a little bitch. All talk, no action, huh?" He waves a hand, angrily, takes the step back again. "Come on, tough guy, quit bein' such a pussy."

And he spits at the ground by Charlie's feet, for good measure.

Jesse's always had a weird sense of self preservation.

[dowhatisays]

The arms holding him back are gone as soon as they appeared, and he's lunging, reaching, hand going straight to Jesse's neck as he slams him into the bar behind them. Neither of them are particularly big men, but Charlie has just enough of a height advantage on him, and just enough momentum from his lunge forward. He'd be surprised if there are bruises tomorrow.

"You got a fucking death wish, pal? That's something I can fucking help yous with." He practically spits in the other man's face as he speaks, close enough to count his fucking nose hairs. The arm not gripped on Jesse's neck is digging into his arm, nails biting and leaving marks.

[magnets]

There's a gasp that's immediately chased out of Jesse when Charlie jumps for him, cut off short by the hand around his neck. A choked sound leaves him, Charlie's fingers squeeze, and he's stuck between the guy and this stupid fucking bar. It's not his first time being strangled, sure. But it does seem to be happening a lot this week.

But he's not dying just yet, by this guy or otherwise. His other arm's pinned but his free one's scrabbling - first, in a panic, trying to pry Charlie's wrist from his throat to really no avail. Then he draws back and punches him across the face, hard.

[dowhatisays]

Charlie lets out an impressive slew of swear words, staggering backwards. He can taste blood in his mouth and knows scrawny as he is, this guy has good aim. He only takes a moment to recover and then he returns the blow, slamming Jesse hard on his nose.

"You fucking piece of shit!"