#I should’ve overdosed that one time I was planning to I should’ve went through with it

[kavehater]

People for some reason always like to tell me that it’s nobody’s responsibility to “save me” which is so fucking stupid to tell me because where have I ever implied that ?! It’s so unfair to hear that because clearly you don’t know shit abt me if you say that. But why am I the only one who gets to hear that ?! Maybe for once I’d like to be saved maybe it’s not a sin to want that, and I think that it is peoples responsibilities to do better but no. The reason it doesn’t happen is because I’m simply not worth it.

[teenmomcentral]

Teen Mom star Ryan Edwards will reportedly remain on probation after pleading guilty to driving under the influence (DUI) and drug possession charges stemming from the father of three’s April overdose and subsequent arrest. 

According to The Sun, Ryan appeared in court Monday, where it was proposed by a lawyer for the District Attorney’s Office that Ryan’s probation be reinstated with “11 months and 29 days time served.” Ryan is also required to continue undergoing drug tests (administered in Chattanooga, Tennessee). 

As The Ashley previously told you, Ryan was sentenced to one year in jail after leaving his first rehab stay early, and in April, he was found unconscious in his truck after allegedly snorting a substance and passing out. (Emergency responders had to administer Narcan, a medicine that rapidly reverses an opioid overdose, and were luckily able to revive him before rushing him to the hospital.) 

After he successfully completed a 28-day treatment program in Tennessee, Ryan was ordered to go to the rehab’s halfway house. The judge allowed Ryan to take furlough from his year-long jail sentence to go to the rehab and halfway house; he currently resides at the latter.  

The Ashley exclusively revealed last week that Ryan was busted October 7– while on furlough– for reckless driving and two other charges after he was allegedly caught driving 145 mph in a 65 mph zone near his parents’ Tennessee home. Ryan was also charged with “Failure to Exercise Due Care,” which is a Class C misdemeanor in Tennessee. (Reckless Driving is a Class B misdemeanor.) 

While Ryan only received a citation for his recent actions, a lawyer for the state argued that the incident showed that Ryan was not taking his probation seriously. 

“Why was he not taken to jail? It should’ve been reckless endangerment,” the DA said. “I don’t think [Ryan is] ready to succeed on any probation. I expressed concern to CADAS (Council for Alcohol and Drug Abuse Services) that he is not ready to take probation or bond conditions seriously.”

Ryan’s new relationship with girlfriend Amanda Connor, whom he met at the halfway house, was also cited as an example of how Ryan is not taking  the situation very seriously. (According to The Sun, Ryan’s mom Jen Edwards, who was present in the courtroom on Monday along with Ryan’s father Larry, rolled her eyes when Ryan’s girlfriend was mentioned.)

Despite the expressed concerns, the DA went on to say that because facts and a report from Ryan’s halfway house “indicate Mr. Edwards is doing well, the state has made this agreement.” 

Judge Gary Starnes ultimately ruled that on his original probation, Ryan be reinstated for 11 months and 29 days suspended, with level two random drug screens. Regarding his DUI charge, Ryan was also fined $465 (plus court costs), is required to attend DUI school and has lost his license for one year. Judge Starnes went on to dismiss the possession of a controlled substance case, admitting he was “very hesitant” to approve the plea agreement due to Ryan’s recent actions. 

“I’m very hesitant to approve it. You going 145 in a 65 doesn’t show me remorse and the ignorance of doing something like that is beyond me,” he said Monday in court. “I don’t know how you didn’t kill somebody.

“I don’t want to approve this,” Judge Starnes continued. “You have to give the court a comprehensive follow-up plan. There have been hiccups the entire world knows about.” 

The Judge noted that Ryan has done “well” (sobriety-wise) through the help of Vivitrol injections (which curb addiction cravings) and counseling, though the judge warned him to make better choices going forward. 

“You haven’t been good in your personal life,” he said. “You’re looking at three years in custody. If you get on your motorcycle and decide you want to do it again, three years is a long time.” 

Ryan’s next hearing is set for December 5. 

[hcrgrove]

HEADCANON - tws: death, alcohol abuse, drug abuse, attempted suicide, throwing up. mentioned: @sentinel007 @hellfire010 @hargrxve @sugarfm

All I want is nothing more to hear you knocking at my door.

The ambulance came for Max, and he couldn’t believe that this had happened to another person he cared about. She had been dead. She was dead. He’d checked, there was no pulse. Mikey had no idea what brought her back, but suddenly she was at least breathing again. Paramedics said it was a miracle, and took her to the hospital. After Susan was called, and visiting hours were over, he went home ready to crawl into his boyfriends arms and be thankful for him, and reassured that they’d find a way to get Max through it. 

If I could see your face once more, I’d die a happy man I’m sure.

He knew the moment he saw Eddie, the moment he saw Billy trying to get near him. He wouldn’t believe it though, not until he saw him. It was like time slowed to a stop as he ran from the car, heartbeat thundering in his chest as he barrelled through the door towards Robbie’s room. He tried to get close, but Eddie snapped, yelled at him to not touch him. “Please…” He had begged, eyes filling with tears as one hand went to his chest and the other gripped his stomach. Physical pain reverberated through him, until he moved back outside and threw up. He was sick until his body physically couldn’t bring anything else up, yet still hyperventilating. Mikey knew he had to calm down, or Eddie wouldn’t let him anywhere near Robbie. He couldn’t stop the tears, but he managed to get control of his breathing and went back inside. “Eddie… please. I just want to hold him. Please.” He begged again, sniffling as the tears started to fall harder. Robbie looked so pale, so peaceful… it was like he was asleep; yet Robbie’s sleep had never been that peaceful. Part of him was waiting for him to sit up in bed suddenly, scare the shit out of him and say it was a fucking cruel joke they were playing. It didn’t happen. Not whilst he was in Eddie’s arms, not whilst he carefully climbed onto the bed next to him, and not when Mikey pulled Robbie into his arms and sobbed. He was still warm, how could he still be warm? He did everything he could to commit the others scent to memory, the way his hair felt tickling Mikey’s face, the way his hands felt whilst he was holding it. 

When you said your last goodbye, I died a little bit inside.

Sniffling, and wiping the tears from his eyes, Mikey reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring he was going to give Robbie once they’d defeated Vecna. Sure, he’d had a whole other plan in place, and it had been a romantic one, but after all the shit they’d been through Mikey had just wanted to get Vecna out of the way and then propose, start their life together. He took the ring that already sat on Robbie’s ring finger, putting it on his own before sliding on the engagement ring he had bought for his boyfriend. Mikey knew that had he asked, the other would’ve said yes. They’d talked about it so many times, Mikey was kicking himself for not doing it sooner. He should’ve done it the moment Robbie had said he’d say yes if Mikey asked. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.” He murmured, kissing his dead boyfriends forehead. “I love you, forever and always. I’ll always be yours, and you’ll always be mine.” He placed a shaky, barely there kiss on his lips before climbing back off the bed. Eddie had made his presence known again, it was clear Mikey’s time was over but he’d done what he wanted to do. 

I lay in tears in bed all night, alone without you by my side. 

The days and weeks after Robbie’s death, Mikey had drank more and done more drugs than he’d ever done in his life. It was a repeat of when he had thought Billy had been dead, but worse. A couple of times, he landed himself in the hospital with alcohol poisoning or an accidental overdose, when he wasn’t there he could be found in his bed, avoiding Eddie which meant not seeing Billy, and laying in tears all day and night. The week after the funeral, on a night where he was extremely drunk, he had decided that enough was enough. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t live in a world that didn’t have Robbie in it and fuck, he couldn’t catch glimpses of Eddie almost daily and have his heart get that flutter of hope that it was Robbie. It hurt too much. He got in his car, and drove away to the lake. Sitting on the hood of his car, he took a fuck load of pills with a whisky chaser and waited for death to take him, and reunite him with Robbie. 

But if you loved me, why’d you leave me?

A couple had come to Lovers Lake that night and found him passed out, called the ambulance. The paramedics found a note in his jacket pocket that had been addressed to Billy, and declared it a suicide attempt instead of another accident. He was in hospital on suicide watch, whilst getting a psych evaluation for 10 days until he was released. They gave him meds, and instructed him to undergo therapy. When he was about to leave, he heard the nurses talking about a patient who had to have been blessed by god himself to survive. He scoffed, and carried on walking until he heard the name that came from their mouth. Jason Carver. He had to tell Jason about Robbie, no one else had and being in hospital he hadn’t heard the news. It was horrible, but they both knew how much the other had loved Robbie, and Mikey finally found someone that could understand. 

You brought out the best of me, a part of me I’ve never seen.

He should’ve burned the suicide note, but he never did. It’s hidden in his room, among his things. Whilst he likes to pretend it never happened, for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out or burn it. Mikey struggles every single day, his trauma and grief is too much for him to deal with still most days, but he tries his best so that he can help care for Jason, and because he knows that Robbie wouldn’t want him almost killing himself every time he consumed alcohol or drugs. He tries to go to Billy, but his twin has made it quite clear that he can only pick up the pieces of one person whilst looking after himself, and of course that person is Eddie. Eddie, who Mikey can’t even look at because it hurts; it’s not his fault, though. And he doesn’t even blame Billy for not being able to help Mikey too… he just misses his brother and longs for him to just say something as stupidly simple as ‘it’s gonna be okay’ or ‘you’re gonna get through this’… but instead mainly harsh, thoughtless words are spoken because Billy physically doesn’t have the capacity to help Mikey too. Not even in the smallest way. But he has Jason… and that’s enough. That’s enough for him to stay, right? 

You took my soul and wiped it clean… Our love was made for movie screens. 

[bluegarners]

“Dick has an overdose at a gala, hurt/comfort” ~ anon

~oOo~

He forgot to take his meds this morning.

Dick blows out a frustrated breath because that means he’s going to have to rearrange his entire cycle in order to not double dose. He always takes Zoloft in the morning with his breakfast and protein shake, and then the rest of the day goes smoothly and he can go to bed without the lingering worry of whether or not he remembered to do something. It’s an ingrained part of his routine and Dick is kicking himself for having forgotten to do it today.

The little yellow-tinted pill in his hand mocks him of his absent mindedness. The entire day had thrown him off of his usual planning, the not so gentle reminder of tonight’s charity gala for leukemia causing him to flit about in an attempt at getting his very much not used suit dry cleaned for the evening. Alfred would probably feel the need to strangle his first grandchild if Dick showed up with a wrinkled suit smelling of dust and disuse. 

That wrench thrown into his day leads him to where he is now, staring down the pill in his hand and holding a glass of water in the other. He could always take his meds tomorrow so his routine wouldn’t be thrown off so drastically, but even the thought of doing so makes his hands feel clammy for skipping an entire day. He promised his psychiatrist he was going to take these things more seriously and he wanted to at least start that off by regularly taking his prescription. It had been working, so far, and Dick really didn’t want to fall into the bad habit of “skip-days”, so with one fluid motion, he was swallowing the pill and gulping down water.

Tonight was going to be fun at least. Even with his flighty day and the hassle it was doing things he should’ve done the previous week, Dick was excited to go to a gala for once. It was one of the rare occasions where Bruce had managed to convince all of his wayward children to go, and it had been far too long since Dick had spent some time with all of his siblings. He saw Damian at least once a week, Tim as well, but Jason had been a struggle to get a hold of and Cass and Duke were always busy with their own responsibilities. Not that Dick wasn’t busy as well, but in his book, there was always time for family. 

Dick walks out of the bathroom, feeling slightly more pleased with himself for following through with his promise, and quickly walks to the garage where most of the family had already gathered. Had it not been for the fact that Cass and Duke happened to be staying at the Manor that week, Dick would have driven by himself to the banquet hall, but as it were, he was going to make every effort possible to squeeze in as much time as he could to be with his brothers and sister.

A slight problem arose though, as fitting eight total people into one car, driver included, was a tight fit. However, living with a billionaire had numerous perks, one of which being that they could choose from a variety of overly expensive cars and limousines and tonight, Alfred had chosen a classy black limo with leather seats and a cooler filled with bite-size cucumber sandwiches and bottled waters because, “In all of the many years of hosting galas, the Bestout family has yet to figure out how to properly serve a banquet.” 

Slipping into the passenger seats, Dick was slightly giddy at the sight of both Damian and Duke already munching on a few of the snacks Alfred had prepared, Tim typing away on his phone and Cass curiously peering over his shoulder. They all looked dashing in their respective suits, and Dick reached out to lightly pat the head of the youngest, careful as to not disturb the neatly gelled locks of hair. 

“Richard,” Damian acknowledges, a stray piece of bread clinging firmly to the side of his mouth. Adorable. “Where is Todd and Father?”

Before Dick has a chance to reply, Bruce and Jason step into the garage, Bruce’s hand latched firmly onto the third oldest’s shoulder. Dick can hardly hide his grin as Jason huffily plops down into the seat next to him, obviously still miffed at being forced to go to the gala. Bruce follows shortly after, taking his place besides Cass and in front of Dick, reaching into the cooler as well to retrieve a sandwich.

“Shall we proceed, sir?” Alfred calls from the front, the small window dividing the driver from the passengers a perfect view of the butler’s unimpressed eyebrows. “Or should we wait until the gala has ended to arrive?”

“Yes please. Sorry, Alfred.”

With that, they roll out of the Wayne Manor grounds and begin the short drive to the Bestout Charity Auction. Dick, personally, had no money to bid with and no intention to do so at all, but Bruce’s pockets went deep and they had already planned on what pieces to bid on and who to out-bid. Tim had made the bet that their “rivals” would attempt to out-bid the Waynes this year, and Tim was nothing but prideful on keeping the Wayne name free of that sort of blasphemy. He had done the math, was probably reviewing it on his phone at the moment, and had estimated that they could easily bid away about seven million dollars on a singular piece tonight if things went according to plan. 

Money. Old money at that. 

He feels a small tap on his shin then, and looks over to where Cass is gazing at him. She quirks her eyebrow, holding out her right palm and twisting her left middle finger against it. He nods, giving her two thumbs up and saying, “I remembered, don’t worry.”

She smiles, satisfied, before going back over to whatever Tim was doing on his phone. The rest of the ride is mostly silent, Dick basking in the presence of his family, until they finally pull up to the entrance. They are precisely thirty minutes late, fashionably so, and Jason is the first one to exit, followed then by Bruce, Cass, Tim, Duke, Damian, and lastly Dick. 

Immediately, they are met with the flashing of numerous cameras, a couple shouting out questions or beckoning them to look their way for a good shot. Bruce indulges in a few of the requests, stopping for a few seconds, before hurrying up the steps, his many children following just as quickly behind. Entering, they are greeted with a high vaulted ceiling with a singular ornate chandelier hanging down as the centerpiece and a few other light fixtures to highlight the entrance. 

Despite the initial grandeur, the charity gala is relaxed. Formal casual wear was allowed and encouraged upon, which basically meant one didn’t need to come dressed like they were meeting the Queen of England and could come in simple slacks and dress shirt, and for this reason and this reason alone is how Bruce managed to convince six of his children to attend. No one liked galas. Well, no one except Duke who was highly fascinated with how the rich and prim lived compared to the grittiness of Wayne Manor. 

As Alfred had lamented about, the Wayne family was late, perhaps an hour or so from the initial invitation arrival time, and all eyes were on them as they entered the banquet hall. Cocktail hour had just begun, and it was a matter of moments before a chorus of simpering, “Brucie! Over here!” began and Jason and Duke disappeared to look for the bar. Tim meandered off to find a few familiar faces, and Dick, Damian, and Cass were left standing near the entrance.

For a second, Dick regrets his decision not to force himself to eat one of the cucumber sandwiches Alfred had prepared as his stomach rolled around unpleasantly. His medication didn’t require a meal to be eaten with it, but again, he had been thrown off his normal routine and that usually included some food. 

He feels a nudge into his side and glances over to where Cass is smirking at him.

“I know, I know,” Dick groans, slumping slightly. “Alfred warned us, but you know I don’t like cucumbers. I’m just- yeah, I’m just going to go find something that doesn’t look like old cheese. Either of you coming with me?”

He extends a hand pleasantly, bowing over and winking at both of his youngest brother and sister.

“Unlike you,” Damian drawls, absently checking his fingernails, “I took sound advice when it was given.” He glances upwards, eyes narrowing as he finds his target. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it would appear that Father is in need of assistance.”

Dick watches the youngest Wayne march astutely towards a struggling Bruce Wayne, broadcasting a small amount of distress as yet another slightly drunk (already?) woman leers at him through false lashes. 

“Cass?” Dick asks hopefully, turning back towards her. “My most wonderful and elegant sister, will you come with me?” In truth, Dick was the tiniest bit hesitant to go over to the buffet style table by himself, no doubt going to be swarmed by the Gotham elite youth once he was alone and miserable once he took in the shallow presentation of foods.

But his dear sister is nothing but sweet and ruthless, smiling prettily at him before walking off in the other direction, most likely to find Jason and Duke at the bar. Cass didn’t like alcohol, but she knew how to order a Shirley Temple all the same.

With a sigh, Dick begins the trudge over to the long horderves table, snagging a flute of strong smelling champagne on the way. He didn’t really like champagne truthfully, more of a white wine kind of guy himself, but it gave off the impression that he was relaxed and confident even if he was mentally preparing himself for food disappointment. He’s right, well, Alfred is right, as his gaze travels mournfully over the plain and overly dressed finger foods. Was it really just that impossible to serve a nice plate of cheese and crackers with some fruit? What in the world was foie gras entier anyway?

A hand slides smoothly over his shoulder as Dick contemplates if the horderve is an organ or not, and he steadily turns his head to meet artfully decorated brown eyes.

“Well if it isn’t the elusive Richard Grayson,” the woman says, letting her hand fall from his shoulder to his elbow. “It’s been a while since I saw you at one of these.”

Another hand brushes against his shoulder, and he turns his head the other way to meet the eyes of the exact same woman on his other arm.

“Tristy is right,” the other, same?, woman coos. “It’s been too long, Richard. Tell me, where have you been? You haven’t been avoiding us, right?”

It finally clicks into place as Dick looks back and forth between the identical women. The Thoreau sisters. Identical twins. Heiresses to the Thoreau Parts manufacturing company. Their entire net worth was close to five hundred million and the sisters were notorious, perhaps even more so than “Brucie Wanye”, for bringing home exploits and one night stands.

“Good evening ladies,” Dick says simply, dialing back the charm he usually reserved for the elderly elite of Gotham. “It’s been awhile since I last came to one of these auctions, but tonight is for a good cause. Of course I would come.”

The two sisters titter lightly, hands flying up to cover their arched grins. “Oh yes,” maybe Tristy says. “The auction is surely going to be a smashing success. At least with a man like your father bidding tonight, and that man is nothing but generous.”

The sudden innuendos leave Dick feeling slightly off footed. It truly has been too long since he attended one of these galas, and he’s out of practice at maneuvering around seduction attempts such as these.

“Oh hush,” the other sister snaps, tapping Dick’s bicep twice to get his attention back to her. “Do you plan on bidding at all?” she asks charmingly. “My sister and I have our eyes on a sculpture by Vasconcelos and it would break our hearts if your father also had plans to bid for it.”

Dick shakes his head, bringing his flute of champagne upwards to take a sip. He decides he does not like the taste of carbonation. “No, I can’t say I have plans to bid on any one particular item tonight. However, I can promise you that Bruce has no plans to bid on any sculptures, so you will find no grievances with him I hope.”

“How gracious,” possibly Tristy practically moans, leaning into Dick’s side. “You know,” she whispers, eyes flicking back and forth in mirth, “If you’re not planning on bidding at all, there’s a private study somewhere. Once the bidding begins, we can just,” she leans in closer, practically licking Dick’s ear, “get out of here.”

A cold feeling begins to settle in Dick’s gut, his composure quickly melting away as he struggles to keep on a pleasant smile. Has it always been like this? When was the last time he actually attended a gala? He can’t remember being harassed like this, much less so soon. They just arrived and already someone’s trying to take him to bed. Is that all he looks good for? Why is it so hard to just have a normal conversation? This is supposed to be a family day, and yet here he is, separating himself from them all because he can’t control his cravings and really this harassment should’ve been expected because Gotham didn’t call Richard Grayson Bruce’s imprint because he had to get the “playboy” tendencies from somewhere if not genetics, so really he’s fine and just making a big deal out of nothing.

This was normal. Right.

Lost in his head, Dick realizes too late that it’s been far too long since he’s said something aloud. Tristy, or whoever it is that’s to his right, is frowning at him, a mean looking sneer adorning red lips. The other sister, he just doesn’t know her, is looking at him with something akin to disgust as well though slightly better hidden.

He clears his throat. Clears it again. His throat feels funny. “Look, ladies,” Dick says, “I’m flattered, I really am, but I’m not looking for anything right now. I’m sure you’re both lovely, but I think I’m going to… yeah, I’m just going to go find Bruce. You know how he gets when he’s had more than a couple glasses,” he tries to chuckle, tapering off when neither of the women join in. “Have a good evening.”

Extracting himself from their manicured hands is more difficult than he thought it would be, their insistence at keeping him cornered to the table making him more nervous. The ice in his stomach pinches unpleasantly, and Dick finishes off the champagne to place the little flute on a passing waiter’s stand. 

The lingering stench of overpriced perfume has him feeling nauseous, and Dick looks around for one of his family members. He spots Jason and Duke still at the bar, seemingly content at just sipping and observing, and Dick makes the move to walk towards them when the room tilts slightly. He stumbles, hardly even that, and rights himself in less than a second. He looks down, frowning when he sees nothing that might’ve tripped him up. 

“Richard,” a voice calls out, and Dick turns to see Damian making his way towards him, Bruce trailing slightly behind. 

“Hey, Dami!” Dick gushes, his unease melting away at the familiar faces. “Meet anyone interesting yet?”

The boy huffs, crossing his arms. “If by interesting you mean intelligent, then no. Not a single person here is capable of holding a conversation before spouting some nonsense. It should be considered cruel.”

“I hear you there,” Dick sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. Is it just him, or is the banquet hall extremely bright? The Bestout’s should consider investing less in chandeliers and more in good food. “Did any of the art pieces catch your interest?”

Another huff. “No,” Damian replies. “Modern art holds no value. I find nothing special about three dots in the center of a large canvas. If anything, it is a waste of material.”

“Bruce?” Dick asks. “What about you? I just ran into the Thoreau sisters; they said they were going to bid on that, uh, what was their name again… the Vasconcelos sculpture.”

Bruce grimaces at the company name, looking more closely at Dick. “No, nothing was to my taste. Alfred has asked me to bid on a tea set supposedly owned by Queen Anne. It is… vintage?”

Dick nods, willing himself not to laugh at Bruce’s idea of something vintage. “Nice. I’m sure Alfred will be excited to add it to his collection. Have, uh, any of you guys seen Tim or Cass at all?”

“Cain left,” Damian says simply. “Brown invaded the gala about ten minutes ago and coerced her into ditching. Drake is most likely stuffing himself into a corner.”

“Oh.”

A waiter walks by just then and Dick snags another champagne glass. He takes two sips, feeling some of his anxiety from earlier rise up again. Tonight was supposed to be a family night, or at least one as close to it as it could get, and already Cass had left? He doesn’t blame her for wanting to be with Steph, he remembers how infatuated he was in his first relationship, but he already felt the tell-tale tug in his heart that told him he was lonely. 

“I’m going to go find Tim,” he announces, patting the top of Damian’s head and giving a squeeze to Bruce’s left shoulder. “Have fun you two.”

They wave him off with little else, and Dick looks around the hall for the middle child. As his gaze travels from table to table, he can’t help but feel as if all eyes are on him, catching his gaze with each flicker. Taking deep breaths, Dick takes another sip, meandering slowly around the perimeters of the already established social groups. He catches bits and pieces of conversations, most if not all having nothing to do with tonight’s auction, and Dick begins to tap his fingers restlessly against his outer thigh. Why does he feel so anxious?

Someone bumps into him rather rudely, causing Dick to stumble again, but when he turns around to semi-glare, there is no one around him. The lights in the hall are blinding and Dick can feel a headache begin to form at the front of his skull. His breaths are suddenly very loud and Dick becomes all too aware of just how many people there are. At least two hundred and all of them seemed to be staring at Dick.

Someone else brushes up behind him, and Dick quickly turns around to confront them, because come on, that’s not a nice thing to do. There is no one there though. No one was even near enough to touch him and Dick feels sweat begin to trickle down the back of his suit.

What was he doing again? Right, right, searching for Tim. Tim was always calm, he’s sure he’s got to be around here somewhere.

“Richard,” a voice sing-songs to him. “Oh, Kathy, he’s right over here. My, my, thought you could give us the slip, hm?”

His grip on the glass of champagne tightens slightly as one of the Thoreau sisters slithers her way in front of him. He didn’t want to talk to them. He wasn’t feeling well. They didn’t make him feel comfortable and Dick really needed to find Tim. 

“You don’t look so good, Richy,” Tristy, Kathy, whoever, whispered. “Are you feeling alright? Had one too many to drink it looks like.”

The other sister laughs. “We only left you for twenty minutes. Missed us that terribly? How sweet.”

One of them grips his bicep again. Turns his chin so he’s facing her head on. The other one falls out of his line of sight. He thinks he’s seeing triple though because the twin in front of him is slowly separating into two, faces flickering back and forth and failing to align with the center.

“Maybe he’s tired,” she says, voice distorted and far away. “Finish that off and we’ll all go find somewhere to lay down, hm? Somewhere… private.”

The flute of alcohol is pressed gently into his lips and Dick automatically begins to drink from it, the liquid sliding down easily. It leaves a sour taste on his tongue, and huh, that’s weird. It didn’t taste like that before. He really does hate the taste of carbonation. 

Hands on either side of him push him forward, his feet dragging and shoes all of a sudden much too big for his feet. The glass is taken from his trembling grip, a whisper of “Wouldn’t want you to drop that,” letting his decisions elude him. The smell of sharp chemicals assault his nose and Dick feels his stomach roll. He thinks he might vomit.

Even though he keeps his face to the floor, the bodies beside him guiding the way, Dick can feel the stares, the eyes, that bore into him. The pressure leaves his chest heavy, feeling as though he’s slowly sinking into the red carpet below. The red shifts and melts like wax beneath his polished shoes, pooling and coiling around his shoelaces and reaching towards his ankles.

It smells like blood.

The red turns into a dark gray suddenly, fuzz turning into slick tile and the hands that gripped onto his biceps earlier now trail towards the hemline of his pants. He jerks, neck craning upwards and hands fumbling to push the invasion away. He’s simply shushed though, hands restraining his own and Dick feels like he’s been shot when he realizes he can’t get his legs to move properly.

He’s shoved towards an open door way, tripping and falling over himself as any semblance of coordination leaves him. It’s brighter in this room but everything keeps swirling together. Vertigo slowly weaves its way around his head and soon, there is no difference from up and down, left and right, sister and sister.

Nails dig into the sides of his cheeks in a harsh and fervent grip, and Dick feels like throwing up when he sees nothing but the swirling vortex of a flesh colored void. It spins faster and faster and Dick has to look away, but the sight of himself in a mirror is no better because that has to be him that’s standing there pressed into a stone counter but at the same time it can’t because he left that all behind.

He left Spyral behind. He escaped. He was home. They couldn’t control him anymore and yet- and yet.

Another blank flesh void stares back at his turned head. No visible features to recognize himself by. A smooth canvas that twists and churns and leaves him faceless. He is nothing once more. 

Something breaks inside of him and Dick feels a sob erupt from out of his chest. He’s just so confused and scared and lost and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to go back to Spyral. His mission was completed, he had done everything Bruce asked of him and even after enduring throughout all of that, Dick feels that desperate yearning for his father.

He wants Bruce. He’s so scared. His head hurts. He can’t feel his legs anymore. Everything keeps colliding into everything and he can’t even recognize his own cries because even that sounds like it’s a lifetime away, all the way back in Gotham, but instead he’s stuck here and he doesn’t even know where here is anymore because Agent 37 isn’t allowed to ask questions, that’s not his place, that’s not his place, he’s not allowed-

“Wow,” a voice breathes into his ear, “you’re even pretty when you cry.”

And Dick doesn’t really know when it started raining, but his face is wet and the person is right, he is crying and it’s raining so hard and he doesn’t completely understand why or how but he does know he doesn’t like the hands that keep fumbling with his belt. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want her. He should say something. He should say something, but his mouth won’t move and he just lays there and takes it because that’s all he’s good for right? That’s why Barbara didn’t want to see him anymore because he’s just an awful person that just takes it and please, please, please stop. 

“Are you afraid of spiders, Richard?”

Of course he’s afraid. He’s terrified. He’s even more afraid of the dark and the dark contains many, many scary things. Things like a calloused hand reaching out to smother him, to choke him, to kill him. Things like a bright red pill shoved into his mouth, things like a bomb attached to his heart, things like the heat of the metal on his back as the chaos consumed him, destined to watch, destined to die, destined to be smothered over and over again. Bright red pill. Rough hands. Bright red lips. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

Dick vomits.

~oOo~

“Mister Wayne?”

Bruce looks up from his phone, a smartly dressed waitress staring at him. “Yes?”

She holds out a folded napkin to him and Bruce takes it from her hesitantly. He stares at it before glancing back up. “I don’t understand.”

The woman gives him a half-hearted shrug. “I was only told to give it to you, sir. I don’t know what it is. Excuse me.”

With that, the waitress turns back around into the throng of people that wave her over for drinks. Bruce looks down at the napkin, putting away his phone quickly as he unfolds it. It’s a note, hastily written in smudged black, similar to a crayon. Perhaps some sort of makeup applicator. Bruce doesn’t give it much thought though as he reads,

Find your son.

And isn’t that a great way to get his heart to stop? His first instinct is to look wildly about and start dashing around in search of his, holy shit, five sons he brought along to the gala. Bruce stops though, forces himself to take three deep breaths and count to five, before calmly beginning to make his way to the entrance of the banquet hall. It was easier to see everyone from that position and it was crowded enough so that he wouldn’t immediately be singled out once again.

As he walks, he stares at the napkin note, trying to decipher who exactly sent it. It was a woman’s hand writing, he’s sure of it, but the intentions behind it could be anything. Ransom? A threat? A simple warning that one of his sons was much too drunk to care about public decency? Either way, being passed an anonymous note wasn’t good and Bruce felt his gut clench in apprehension. He tries to think of everything that’s happened throughout the night so far.

Damian had remained mostly by his side, a good defense to have on hand whenever one of the socialites got a bit too grabby. Jason and Duke had remained a pair by the bar from what he'd heard, challenging other young adults into dart games and shot pyramids. Tim had steadily been making his way through old friends, chatting with a few and periodically texting Bruce to ask what the bidding was at. 

(Alfred will be happy to know that he now had one more tea set to add to his collection)

And Dick… well, Bruce honestly hadn’t been keeping secure tabs on him. He’s trying to be a better father to adult Dick Grayson. Privacy and space had been something Dick had last emphasized on, the “mother-henning” as Dick liked to call it, overbearing and un-welcomed. When his eldest had mentioned his run in with the Thoreau sisters, Bruce had been concerned and looked for signs that his son was uncomfortable or something worse. As usual though, Dick had merely grinned and carried on like it was nothing and perhaps that was all it had been at the time but now with this note, this damn napkin note in his hands, Bruce could feel the suspicion slide into him like water.

“Father?”

A hand tugs on his right sleeve and Bruce finds himself sighing in relief as his youngest appears in front of him. Scrutinizing his son, Bruce finds nothing obviously wrong with him, hair still perfectly in place and a permanent frown etched upon his brow. His suit is still stain, spill, and wrinkle free and Bruce clasps a heavy hand onto Damian’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asks, keeping eye contact.

“Of course,” is Damian’s curt reply. “What happened?”

Wordlessly, Bruce hands over the napkin to him, watching as his son’s frown deepens. “I shall gather Todd and Thomas. I will return shortly.”

Damian’s small figure disappears into the crowd easily, leaving Bruce standing by himself at the front of the hall. Pulling out his phone again, he quickly types out, Come to the front of the hall. Urgent, and sends it to Tim. He types out the same message and sends it to Dick as well and contends himself for the wait by tapping his foot against the red carpet.

A minute barely passes before he spots Jason’s broad figure moving through the crowd, and the tension in his gut only increases as he counts the heads moving towards him. One, two, three, four…

“What’s going on?” Duke asks as the four boys gather closely. “Are we, uh, needed?”

Bruce shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. Damian showed you the note?”

“What note?” Tim demands. “Bruce, what’s going on? Is something- oh,” he trails off, hand coming up to rub at his mouth as he reads the scribbled napkin. Tim turns his gaze to begin counting, and the same realization dawns upon him as he finally looks at Bruce’s grim face. “Where’s Dick?”

“I’ll call him,” Jason is quick to offer, pulling out his cellphone. He dials and holds it to his ear as the rest of the family watches. “Voicemail,” he grimaces, staring down at the device as if it had personally offended him. 

“We’ll split up. Jason, you’re with me. Duke, Tim, Damian, you three will go towards the east end, Jason and I will take west. Keep your phones on,” Bruce orders, checking his own ringer as he does so. “Ask around to see if anyone has seen Dick. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, so remain cautious. Understood?”

A chorus of “yes” is the motivator for the split and like liquid, they flow back into the crowd seamlessly.

~oOo~

He’s alone. 

Or, Dick thinks he is. Well, now that he’s thought about it, Agent 37 is never alone. There’s always someone there, watching him, waiting for him to fail. But Nightwing works alone in Bludhaven. He’s discovered that he doesn’t like team ups much. Partnerships always end in the rain and he doesn’t like the rain. He doesn’t mind it so much when Batman’s cape is shielding his face but the rain is still pelting his cheeks and it smells like acid.

It smells like acid and metal. It sounds like endless whirring too, constant noise when all he wants right now is quiet. He wants to reach out and smother whatever it is that’s making the noise but his limbs are gone, he can’t move, he’s been restrained once again and that damn red pill, or maybe it’s tinted yellow this time, he can’t be sure, there are just so many pills, so many pills, it’s all keeping him down and dead.

He feels his stomach convulsing again and he gags, unsure if anything actually comes out. There’s red on the floor, it always comes back to red, why red, and it gathers around in his vision, slick along the white void below him. A part of Dick is glad he can’t move because he fears that if he were to even breathe, the void below would capture him and turn him white and twist his nothingness into something even less than all of it. 

His lungs stutter and his eyes roll back into his head for a moment. For a brief second, he is gone in the bliss of blackness. It’s not for long though because the need to cough erupts out of him and he has to open his eyes and see what plague is clawing its way from his mouth. His jerking disturbs the void and Dick can feel the blood in his veins freeze because he’s not supposed to move. He’s not supposed to make a single sound or else it would get him but he’s just so dumb, he’s just so incompetent, and now the void knows he’s here, now the void is going to get him and he’s so scared.

He blinks four times. He counts in his head. Two, five, one, two. Dick doesn’t think that’s right. He isn’t sure.

The void is angry though. He can tell in the way the ground shakes and the colors scream at him. He wants to move away and cover his ears but his arms don’t exist anymore, how could he forget, how could he forget, and he feels his eyes burning like he’s on fire and his brain is also screaming at him now and there are hands on his shoulders and no, no, stop, please stop, he doesn’t want this, he never wanted any of this. He’s sorry. He’s sorry. 

The void grasps him and pulls at him and Dick’s eyes are wide open and he wants to scream at the void’s face because he doesn’t know who they are, he doesn’t know where he is, and there’s no comfort in the cold, there’s no love or warmth in it’s embrace and he’s so tired and his chest hurts and he’s having trouble actually seeing anything now because he’s just scared of the dark and everything is getting quieter and doesn’t anyone have a nightlight he can use so he can fall asleep a little less scared?

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Bruce doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting when that waitress handed him a napkin. He doesn’t really know what he wanted to happen when he asked his children to split up and search for the lost one. Of course, the goal was to find the eldest, find Dick Grayson safe and sound and just doing something silly like back flips off a stairwell so Bruce could come and save him from embarrassing himself further. Okay, yes, Bruce knows exactly what he wanted to happen.

But this wasn’t it. 

It wasn’t Mister Dower slyly implying that Bruce’s eldest son was a clone of “Brucie Wayne’s” habits. It wasn’t the news that the Thoreau sisters had left in a hurry. It wasn’t a bellboy directing him to a private room that had been left ajar. And it wasn’t walking into a pitch black study only to hear wet retching and rattling from the adjoining bathroom.

He’s bursting through the door before he’s had the time to process it all and he feels as if all the wind in his lungs have been knocked out because there he is. Here is Dick Grayson, his son, his eldest, convulsing, bleeding, vomiting, shaking, dying, alone.

It’s second nature, done without a thought, and Bruce is kneeling down, stripping himself of his jacket and folding it, taking Dick by the shoulders and turning him on his side and placing the folded jacket beneath his head. Dick’s eyes are rolling, unseeing, and his face twitches and jerks and it’s terrifying, and Bruce looks away to stare at his watch and counts and counts and counts.

It’s scarcely thirty seconds before the jerking stops and Dick goes stiff, like every single muscle in his body is clenched in anticipation. 

“Bruce,” Jason begins, and he sounds unsure and out of place and Bruce curses at himself for having momentarily forgotten about him, “Holy shit.”

Bruce says nothing and continues to stare at his watch because he knows the seizure isn’t over, he prays it is but he knows it’s not, and Dick begins to convulse again and Bruce’s heart is beating so fast he isn’t sure if he can feel it anymore.

“The others are on their way,” Jason speaks up again. “I’m calling 911. What should I tell them?”

And usually Bruce is faster than this, better at processing, but it’s all so sudden and this is his son that’s laying in front of him, shaking and heaving in front of him, that it takes him a few seconds to come up with an answer. “Tell them,” he tries, mouth dry and god how much longer is this going to last? “Tell them that we need police and an ambulance for,” Bruce clears his throat; two minutes now, five becomes dangerous, “A possible assault and drug overdose.”

There’s lipstick smeared on Dick’s collar, his tie is undone, his belt buckle unclasped, pink indents on the sides of his jaw, lips tinted blue, and a mess of vomit splattered down his shirt. It smells sour and pungent and it’s the color of old brandy. Blood weeps from Dick’s hairline and Bruce startles himself with the thought that, had it not been for the note, Dick could’ve died and no one would have known. 

No one would have known.

Finally the seizure stops and Bruce can feel his fingers trembling as he cradles his son’s head to fully rest against the tile flooring. Three minutes and fifteen seconds. Too close. Too close.

“Move! I demand to see Richard!”

“You can’t, not right now. Bruce is helping him but you have to stay out here.”

“Jason, what the hell happened to Dick?”

“Bruce thinks he got roofied. Whatever was given to him was too much.”

“Did… did anything happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Todd, I swear to you, if you do not move this instant-”

Bruce can’t focus on their conversation anymore, too entranced by the way his son breathes. They’re short, shallow gasps, like he’s panting through a straw, and Bruce reaches out a hand to rub his eldest’s upper back. He doesn’t move from his position, kneeled firmly as if in prayer, and maybe it is like a prayer because he needs a miracle right now. Bruce needs some guidance, some reassurance, and he hasn’t prayed since his parents died, but a little part of him is sighing and repeating those long forgotten words over and over again.

Abraham, Issac, and Jacob; Sarah, Rebekkah, Leah, and Rachel.

Dick does not stir from where he lays, eyes flickering behind closed lids. Bruce thinks he’s conscious, the flighty rhythm of his heart giving his blankness away, but the stillness in which his son lays allows a vine of terror to eclipse around his heart.

Grant him a r’fu-ah sh’lei-mah, a complete recovery.

His mother used to whisper prayers into his ear when he was younger and sick, fever-ridden constantly and just so tired. She would sit by his bedside, hold his hand, and pray for him in the silence of his room. Bruce was too young to understand what it meant. Too young to really grasp the concept of salvation, of hope found in religion. Now that he’s gone so long without it, Bruce thinks he still doesn’t grasp its weight, but the familiar words roll around in his head and leave the tightness in his chest with company. 

But the comfort is like a blanket draped over your head when you were a child, on some level convinced it could protect you from the monsters in your closet and the kidnappers that surely tap on your window. The monsters are real though, the kidnappers are grabbing at your feet, and Bruce can feel his heart pounding away with the realization that he truly could have lost Dick. That Bruce had been in the exact same room, in the same vicinity as his eldest when he was drugged. When he was… assaulted. Possibly. Maybe. Bruce clings to those uncertainties. 

And he’s got ideas. Theories. Conclusions. A list of suspects. 

With those, Bruce also has punishments in mind. Vengeance. Retribution. But the situation at hand is more pressing than the thoughts that bang against his skull.

Dick’s eyes fly open, a cough that sounds more like a gag jerking his body. His arms stagger against his sides, feet kicking out with the force of his hacking, and Bruce merely lets his hands hover. He wants to touch him, to ground Dick, but the hesitation in his actions leave him barren of any sort of presence. Dick keeps coughing, getting louder and more forceful with each measly breath he manages to suck in, and his lips are beginning to turn blue and his face a bright red and Bruce doesn’t know what to do right now, doesn’t know how to help because he’s so afraid to touch him, to help him, when all he’s done tonight is ignore him and let this whole thing happen because he’s a horrible father-

“Richard, stop it!”

And then Damian is falling to his knees beside Dick’s heaving body, also fumbling for an answer and scared and all the things Bruce feels right now.

“Stop it, Richard! Stop it right now!” Damian demands, but his orders fall on deaf ears because Dick won’t stop coughing and gasping and shaking and he’s not having another seizure but that’s what it looks like and then finally, Bruce reaches out a hand and holds his eldest still, willing for something, anything, to happen to get Dick to stop.

“Son,” he implores, practically begging, “Dick, you need to calm down, okay? I know you’re scared and confused right now, but everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. Take a deep breath, Dick. Breathe.”

Finally, something seems to register for Dick because he’s craning his neck around, eyes wide and searching even as he continues to retch out his lungs. Bright blue eyes, beautiful and robin egg blue, catch Damian’s and Bruce can see recognition light up onto his face. The relief that Bruce had felt blossoming in his chest at the sight is quickly smothered when tears gather in Dick’s eyes, a weak sob wrenching its way in between coughs.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dick moans, delirious and broken. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Richard, breathe,” is all Damian says, reaching out to grab at one of Dick’s flailing hands. “Please.”

Bruce doesn’t know if Dick actually understood what Damian was saying, or if he even recognized any one of his brothers that stood around him, but one moment, Dick is retching up a lung, and the next, he’s silent and holding his breath. The coughing stops but Dick is going slightly purple in the face and before Bruce, Damian, anyone can do anything to get him to open his mouth again, Dick’s eyes roll up into the back of his head and he drifts.

His head thuds softly onto the white tile just as the paramedics arrive and Bruce thinks he might need an ambulance too with how quickly his heart beats and how hot the blood in his veins feel.

The rest is a blur.

~oOo~

Many things happen in the few hours that follow. 

Dick is promptly swept away on a stretcher, paramedics checking pulse count, setting up an IV, and other things that anyone hardly has the mind to pay attention to. By then, the entire banquet knew something was wrong, along with a few reporters that whipped out their cameras and began snapping pictures in earnest. 

In a move that is sure to get him on the front pages, Bruce snarls at a few of the reporters, threatening them in mannerisms that suggested he might just break their obnoxious cameras. Jason follows a similar pattern, actually reaching over and knocking away one of the invasive reporters when they got too close to the ambulance, and the youngest is not far off in doing the same before he is ushered away and into a waiting private car that would escort them to the hospital Dick was being taken to.

Only Bruce had been allowed to ride in the ambulance on the way over, and the four brothers had sat in tense silence during the ten minute drive. Tim had been almost absurdly quiet during the entire ordeal, typing away at his phone and absently chewing on one of his fingernails. No one comments on the bad habit, all of them guilty of doing something in a similar fashion, and when they arrive at the entrance, Bruce meets them there where he tells them that, for now, Dick appears to be mostly fine.

His vomit and blood were being tested at the moment for a tox-screening, a toxicologist named Dr.Ruth informing them that Dick wasn’t in life-threatening danger anymore. The “anymore” bit startles them all and it is explained to them that, because Dick appeared to have eaten nothing that night and drank nothing but champagne, there was little else in his system to digest whatever drug was given to him. It all went straight into his nervous system, which is what caused the seizure.

Bruce manages to secure a larger medical room for all five of them to squeeze into and forty minutes later, Dr.Ruth returns with a clipboard in tow. Results are in.

“Mister Wayne,” she begins, making sure to keep an even gaze with the older man, “You said you believed that Richard may have been purposely drugged tonight?”

Bruce nods. 

“Is Richard taking any drugs right now? Recreational or otherwise?”

The implication sends a strange stab of anger through Bruce, rising up from his seat to challenge the doctor about her accusations. “Richard has never-”

“Actually,” Tim interrupts, finally speaking, “he does.”

Bruce looks over, shock peppering his face through the way his mouth twitches and his jaw clenches. 

Tim rushes to defend himself. “No, wait, what I mean is that Richard takes a prescription. He’s not doing, like, hard crack or something like that.” He holds up his phone as if it contains every single answer to life. “Cass- our sister- told me that Richard didn’t take his anxiety medication this morning. He took it before going to the banquet tonight.”

“Do you know what he was prescribed?” Dr.Ruth asks, scanning through something on one of the papers. 

Tim checks his phone again. “Uh, Zoloft. 40 milligrams once a day.”

“Okay,” she hums to herself, satisfied with the answer. “That explains it then.”

She clicks her pen, setting down her clipboard and turning to face all five of them in the room. “Richard’s screening came back just a few minutes ago, but there were a few discrepancies that didn’t match up exactly. From what the labs tested, Richard was given a dosage of about 250 milligrams of ketamine, on which he overdosed, but an additional drug was also found in his blood and from what you said, young man, it would appear to be Zoloft. That medication, in addition to not eating anything and consuming some alcohol, was what caused such a bad reaction.”

She glances behind her again, checking her clipboard. “Now, Mister Wayne,” she addresses Bruce, “In your witness statement, you said that Richard appeared to be having hallucinations?”

“I don’t believe he knew we were there with him.”

Dr.Ruth nods. “Victims of large overdoses on ketamine typically experience hallucinations, similar to a bad LSD trip or otherwise. Sight and sound become warped and the person under the influence often doesn’t understand what’s going on around them.”

“What about,” Duke begins, nervous and quiet, “What about the, um, the other test? Did- Is Dick okay?”

The doctor smiles, happy to give fortunate news. “Yes, the test results came back negative. Other than a few scratch marks on his face which have been cleaned, Richard is fine.”

A collective breath releases over the room. Dick was going to be okay.

“Once the nurses have finished checking your son over, you’re free to take him home,” Dr.Ruth finishes, collecting her things. “Someone will be with you shortly to escort you to him.”

“Wait,” Jason calls out, “That’s it? You’re just going to send him away?”

The doctor looks back at him, sympathy lining her sad smile. “Well, there’s not much else we can do. Keep an eye on him, make sure he drinks plenty of fluids and try to give Richard some dry foods. If anything happens or Richard’s condition worsens at all, please bring him back and we’ll do what we can.”

And with that, Dr.Ruth opens the door and leaves.

~oOo~

The nurses tell them that Dick needs to stay for an additional hour or so, just until he’s coherent enough to answer some well-being questions and to finish the IV bags they’ve given him. All five of them have managed to cram themselves into Dick’s small room, the man in question awake but quiet. He’s coherent enough that he seems to recognize them all individually, and no longer seems to be hallucinating, but he wears a grimace that tells of discomfort. Dick has yet to say anything since waking up.

His eyes are distant, staring listlessly towards the ceiling and trailing from light to light. Bruce is sure the action is somewhat painful, but he doesn’t make a move to distract his son from whatever he’s thinking. 

It’s been a long night, for all of them really, but none as long as the night Dick Grayson has had. Bruce is told that Dick spoke in private with one of the nurses and an assisting officer about some of the things that happened during the banquet. Bruce doesn’t pry though. He knows better than to go sticking his nose into something so fresh, something so invasive. He trusts that Dick will speak when he’s ready. 

Whenever that is.

There’s a knock at the door before Dr.Ruth walks in again, hands folded neatly in front of her as she enters. There’s no clipboard with her and a lightness in her posture is telling of good news.

“You’re all clear,” she says warmly, stepping up closely to Dick’s cot. “I just need you to sign some release forms and you’ll be on your way. Do you have any questions for me?”

She directs the question towards Dick, whose gaze travels slowly over to the doctor. He licks his lips twice before asking, “What do I need to do after I leave?”

“Hydrate,” she answers, mentally going through a checklist. “Lots of fluids. The charcoal is going to absorb a fair amount of liquid in your system, so keep an eye out for water consumption and bowel movements.”

“What… what about medication?”

She frowns at that, lips pulling down slightly. “Well,” she starts, “I would suggest keeping away from them for the next twenty-four hours. Are you in pain? Do you feel like you need something for it?”

Dick is quick to shake his head. It jostles him and he closes his eyes briefly, be it from pain or disorientation is something indiscernible. “No, no. Not hurt or anything. I take some, uh, prescriptions though. From my psychiatrist. Everyday.”

“I see.” Dr.Ruth is quiet for a moment before, “Try to wait as long as possible. If you absolutely need to, go ahead and take them but be careful. You won’t be in any serious danger but it’s always better to be cautious after an overdose.” She turns to Bruce then. “He’ll need to be somewhat monitored over the next few days. It’s not very common, but symptoms can linger.”

After another pause in which no one speaks up, Dr.Ruth smiles and bows her head slightly. “I’ll have someone bring those papers by soon. Tell one of the nurses if you’re having trouble walking, Richard, and we can get a wheelchair brought to you. Have a good evening, gentlemen.”

No one continues to make a sound as Bruce fills out the paperwork, insisting that a wheelchair be brought when Dick only manages to take a few steps before his legs begin to shake. Dick makes no comment on it, only half-heartedly glaring at Bruce as he sat down heavily into the plastic seat. The walk out of the hospital is quiet too, Duke along the way muttering that he was going back to his cousin’s place for the night. Alfred meets the remaining boys at the front, leaning forwards to bring Dick into a small hug before releasing him and helping Dick get into the car he brought.

When Damian hands Dick a water bottle, Dick accepts it silently, lightly patting his little brother’s hand before taking a singular sip from the bottle. He doesn’t drink from it again.

When they arrive at the Manor, Jason is the first one moving and is quick to pull out the ramp they have for when Barbara visits. Dick is tense as they roll him into the Manor, finally putting his foot down when Bruce suggests that one of them carry him up to his bedroom. It’s a slow process and it twists Bruce’s heart in a way he can’t quite describe as he watches his eldest struggle up the flight of stairs, using both the railing and Damian as meager supports. 

Dick pushes open the door to his dark room and makes no comment when everyone follows him in. He all but collapses onto his bed, exhausted. They all just simply breathe for a minute, taking the time to truly process everything that’s happened that night. Somewhere in the Manor, a bell tolls and the electric clock on Dick’s nightstand reads two in the morning. They’re all still in their suits, still in their tight dress shoes, and nothing seems quite real yet. The black out curtains are clasped together tightly, as if their belief in maintaining the illusion and reality of darkness is all that’s keeping the peace.

Damian is the first one to move this time, peeling off his jacket and kicking off his shoes to sit beside Dick’s sprawled form. They don’t exchange words, but Dick shifts and allows Damian to get closer, a hand reaching up to finally destroy the carefully combed locks of hair, stiff with gel and pomade. Dick sighs and this release is what prompts the others to move as well, Jason plopping himself at the foot of the bed to lean against one of the banisters, Tim choosing to sit on the floor and rest his head against the side of the bed frame, and Bruce pulling a chair closer to be within reaching distance of Dick.

It’s quiet, calm, and the proximity is just enough to be reassuring. Comforting in a way that doesn’t demand physical touch but soothing enough to provide warmth. It’s nice. 

Dick speaks first. It’s an apology. 

“I wanted this to be a family night, you know?” he confesses into the stillness. “I didn’t mean for… any of this to happen.”

“We know, Dick,” Tim says, equally as quiet. “It wasn’t your fault.”

There is no response to that.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jason asks, voice gruff but kind. Gentle in a way that betrays his outward appearance. 

“I don’t know,” Dick says. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” is all Jason responds, easy and light. The dark hides many secrets. He will not be the one to unearth them.

It goes back to silence after that and soon enough, Dick’s breaths are even and his eyes are closed. Slowly, the boys disappear one by one back to their rooms, allowing themselves to recover as well from the experience. Damian falls asleep by Dick’s side and Bruce tenderly picks him up, cradling the boy’s head onto his shoulder, and carrying him to his own room.

When Bruce returns, Dick is sitting up and staring at him. He’s nervous. Bruce takes a deep breath in for his own nerves and sits back down into the seat. They stare at each other for a long time, the eye contact neither uncomfortable nor helpful. It’s a waiting game, one that doesn’t need to happen, and Bruce breathes in again. 

“How are you, son?” he asks, gaze heavy as he takes in Dick’s haggard appearance. The hospital had given him a scrub shirt to replace the one he had thrown up on and the texture crinkles as Dick shifts in place. His eyes go back to wandering around, drifting from Bruce’s face to the comforter around his legs.

“I’m tired,” Dick whispers, hands flexing and clenching. “And a little freaked out,” he adds, eyes flickering to Bruce’s and then darting away again. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been more careful. I… I messed up.”

Bruce sighs, slowly and deliberately telegraphing his movements as he reaches out to place a hand over Dick’s fidgeting one. Dick is still tense, hand clenching into a fist as Bruce just lets the warmth of his palm linger. 

“You did nothing wrong,” Bruce begins. Pauses. Backtracks. “Everything that happened tonight wasn’t your fault. Whoever did this… that’s their fault. That’s their doing. Not yours. Never yours.”

“How did you find me?” Dick asks, deflecting. He’s always been good at that.

“I was given a note.” The napkin had been taken away as evidence earlier. The phantom hot weight of it still burns a hole in Bruce’s coat pocket. “It told me to find you.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Pause. “I’m glad they did though. I was… worried. Worried of what had happened to you. Dick, look at me please.”

Instantly, Dick’s eyes snap to his and again, Bruce’s heart twists in a way he can’t describe. Sadness? Resentment? Melancholy? Regret? He doesn’t know.

“I’m sorry I let that happen to you,” he says firmly, reaching out with both hands to grasp at Dick’s. He grips them tightly, holding them together like they’re praying. This is now twice in over a decade. “I am so sorry, Dick. I wasn’t there when you needed me, but I’m trying to be better. I want to be a better father to you, son. You mean more to me than you will ever know and the thought of losing you scares me.”

Dick nods sharply, once, twice, and his face falls into apathy as he processes what Bruce has said. He doesn’t reach out to hold Bruce’s hands as well, but the fact that he hasn’t removed them is enough to reassure Bruce that he’s doing at least one thing right.

“It,” Dick says, voice barely a whisper, “It scares me too. Losing you. Losing anyone. Dying.”

He swallows audibly and sweat trickles down his brow. Bruce wants to insist that Dick go back to sleep or at least drink some more water, but he refrains from doing so, too afraid to remove his hands lest he lose Dick all over again.

“When I was...” Dick trails off, swallowing again. “While I was hallucinating,” he restarts, “I saw, no, uh, I thought I saw a lot of things.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, buddy,” Bruce reminds him, tapping his index across Dick’s knuckles. “It can wait.”

Dick shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m okay.” His voice cracks slightly as he says that. Bruce ignores it and Dick seems grateful. 

“I thought I was dying again,” he rushes out, as if to force the words before he can take it back. “All these bad things, things from the past that I didn’t want to remember, were suddenly all happening again and I-I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where I was, what was happening, who I was with half the time, and I couldn’t move, Bruce. I couldn’t move and it all just happened. 

They wouldn’t stop touching me and it scared me. I was terrified and then suddenly I was alone and I really thought I had died. I thought that I had died and then Damian was there and-and I thought he had died again and I couldn’t, couldn’t handle that, Bruce.”

“Dick, breathe. Breathe. Damian is safe. You’re safe. Breathe in for me, buddy, that’s it. You’re okay. I promise.”

Dick nods again as if trying to convince himself that he’s safe now. That he’s home and everything is okay and there are no ghostly hands that cover and touch him. He tries, but he’s tired. The fear rests idle and Dick can feel it scratching at his throat. It’s been six hours hours since everything happened. Only six.

“I think the worst part,” Dick admits, strained and hushed, “was that I was alone.”

Bruce squeezes his son’s hands together, the pressure meant to be grounding. “I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it with everything he has. 

Dick only shrugs his shoulders, a shuddering breath escaping him. He looks at his father’s hands, the gnarled knuckles and thin white scars that grasp his own destroyed fingers. The contrast of the touch compared to the appearance is comforting in a way that reminds Dick of their early days as Batman and Robin. Before Nightwing. Before Agent 37. Before everything else. It is a testament to their struggles, their crooked fingers and half formed nails from broken bones and relentless pursuit. Their hands hold the weight of a thousand punishments, twice more punches, and countless conflicts and battles. 

Their hands are the evidence of their survival though. Their victories against death.

Two thin stitches that hold together the cut just below his hairline are another piece of the evidence. Another testimony to Dick’s endeavor for endurance against the odds. There will be a pink scar to commemorate tonight, and in a year or so, there will be nothing left but a faint white line. 

Tomorrow, Dick will wake up, eat breakfast, and carry on about his day. It will be normal because it has to be. There is no other way to move forward, and Dick will swallow his pills with the same grimace and remembrance of hot metal and red lips. Maybe in a week, he’ll tell his therapist about tonight and they’ll suggest another coping strategy that Dick’s already tried but he’ll try again because he has to.

For now though, in the silence of his childhood room, decorated with pictures of the circus and framed photos of his found family, with black out curtains that never move to let the light of day peer through and a noisy vent that sometimes drips from condensation; for now, Dick can indulge in his fears and his worries as Bruce holds his hands.

There will be police reports, prosecutions, scandals, interviews, testimonies, and so much more later. Right now though. Right now, Dick lets himself breathe and accept the fact that things aren’t fine and that he needs help. Dick lets himself squeeze his father’s hands and blink away tears, finding relief in their hold.

He’s not okay, but tomorrow he will be. He has to be. 

[daydweam]

Why were you confined to a bed for years ?

I suffer from several conditions. Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (EDS- I am the hypermobility type), Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), TMJ, Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS), among others. Chronic pain and health issues have plagued me since I was very young. Two things triggered my body to decline. I had a major whiplash accident on a rollercoaster when I was 9. My chin hit my sternum so hard it cracked. Months later I contracted whooping cough even though I was fully vaccinated. This left me in bed for four months. The severe coughing only caused more stress on my neck, and possibly even more whiplash events. The coughing was so severe I would be unable to breathe and often threw up. Ever since that time I never was okay. I enter middle school, and I decline. My head was literally falling off (chiari malformation.) Blah blah blah let me get to the meat. God theres no way I am gonna properly cover it all but I will try. I am cutting out searching for help and the misdiagnosis’/mistreatment I faced by many. So heres the meat. I have had several major surgeries. I had one to correct my Chiari Malformation (October 2014) and decompress my brain when I was 14. I overdosed in post op because of idiot nurses. I stopped breathing and was given narcan. I later had a surgery for Median Arcuate Ligament Syndrome (MALS) (Jan 2016 I believe). There was an ligament wrapped around an artery constricting it. Recovery from that was far worse than it should’ve been due to a clump of nerves being cut and burned away in order to get to an important area. However I do recover.

Then all hell broke loose ( I totally forgot to mention I had to leave school and enter a home and hospital program in 8th grade). September 2016 I had surgery to fix tethered cord syndrome. My spinal cord was being stretched out and needed to be released. During the surgery I contracted aseptic meningitis. This would go undiagnosed for nearly half a year. I want to clarify that aseptic meningitis is not the type that will kill you in a day before anyone tries to claim I am lying. At first my recovery was normal. Until it wasn’t. A leak of spinal fluid created a sac on and around the incision site. This caused lots of pressure in my head as well. December 2016 my surgeon planned to go and remove the fluid and figure out what was going on. He also wanted to put an ICP monitor in my head to see what the intercranial pressure was looking like. WELL while putting the monitor in a blood vessel was hit causing a brain bleed. No one noticed until i was seizing on the operating table. No oxygen was going to my brain. Two craniotomies were performed and I was placed in a medically induced coma. However, I still had aseptic meningitis that had continued to be undiagnosed. I woke up. Lots happens. Eventually spinal fluid was leaking out of me from my recent incision. It soaked my entire bed like it was thrown in a pool. I was put back in for surgery and a shunt was put in. At first it didn’t work and I was going to be put back in for more surgery. Miraculously it started working. Christmas day after almost a month in the ICU i was sent home. Hell awaited me. I foolishly decided to cold turkey stop taking any form of narcotics or opiates. I was so traumatized I wanted to take as little meds as possible. Well dilaudid or fentanyl was being given to me every two hours for nearly a month. And i went to nothing. With aseptic meningitis and recovering from a brain bleed plus major back surgeries. Time passes. I think I am getting better, until I have the worst stomach pain of my life. I cant eat or drink. I can’t even swallow my own saliva. I didnt eat for a week. I went through the stages of starvation. All the vomiting caused my shunt to puncture my dura, and then come back out. This started another leak. I started to have positional headaches. Eventually my surgeon finally realizes I have aseptic meningitis. I get on steroids. I have an agonizing drive up to see him. He is many hours away. My local hospitals turned me away. This was killing me. I go in and suffer through the worst MRI I ever had to experience. He sees that even my back muscles had torn apart. I am sent in for emergency surgery Feb 2017. The shunt was removed. They essentially made a dam with my back muscles from what I understand. Ever since that surgery I have never fully recovered. I suffer from severe hypersensitivity. I am disabled. I of course present able bodied and thats why we call this an invisible illness. Countless doctors have accused me of lying about my pain. Countless people in general. I faced discrimination and sabotage by my own school who claimed to be Christian. I am lucky to have a wonderful team of doctors after years of malpractice. I have had physical therapists literally destroy my body. I have had world renowned doctors lie to my face and withhold info that could be life or death for me. I have been on countless medications. I started looking for a diagnosis since I was 12. Its been a hard journey but I am here and I am actually going out. I still have severe pain every day. I have been managing it enough to function more than before, but its still hell. I have the most incredible friends I would die for. They are why I am sane. If you read to this point that makes me want to cry to be honest. It was really difficult to write but I think it was time I made a post laying down at least the very basic info. And yes I said BASIC. This is BARELY covering the surface of my journey, but hopefully its enough to shed light on major moments.

[felidaefighter]

Fears To Ease And Flesh To Mend

Ranboo and Tubbo find out that unzombifying a piglin is a bit different from unzombifying a villager, and they start off parenthood with quite a few complications and in a little over their heads. For the sake of their child, they may need to put awkwardness aside and ask for help.

[Sick fic, canon divergence, Phil and Techno meet Michael, lots and lots of piglin lore headcanons] ~20,000 words per chapter

Chapter Two of Four

     “Hey Phil,” Ranboo said carefully as they were coming back from trading with the local villagers, who gave good deals since they were grateful they’d been cured after being zombified, “What’s the difference between curing a zombie villager and curing a zombie piglin? Aside from the obvious.” Phil looked curiously at Ranboo while they walked. “That’s an interesting question. It is a little bit different, yeah. Technically the process itself is the same but ahhh there’s always some difficulties. Usually not worth the trouble.” Ranboo pondered this for a moment. “Huh. How do you mean?”

    “Well, because of where they’re from, piglins tend to have a bit of a resistance to magic. So the rotten flesh doesn’t really heal fully or automatically the way it does for villagers. The whole process is easier in the Nether, because the lack of moisture keeps the rot slow and less likely to spread after they’re healed.” Ranboo listened intently, opening his book and scribbling notes so he could keep track. “It’s just a rare thing to see happen, is all. Adult piglins especially, they’re such a warrior-based society that waking up hurting and confused just means they’re more likely to attack the person who healed them than be grateful. Not to mention they’re still going to have infections and rot. It’s just so uncommon because you’d never try and heal a piglin that you didn’t know beforehand. It requires so much aftercare and pre-established trust, like from before they were zombified, that without it it’s just bound to lead to the piglin dying anyways.”

    “Oooh interesting, interesting. But the dosage ratio of potions and apple and stuff is the same, right?” Phil nodded. “Yeah, between piglins and villagers and the little rascals, too.” He cackled a little. “General consensus tends to be it’s better to overdose on magic than underdose, because worst case scenario for inhaling too much of the weakness potion is you feel a bit queasy, and worst case scenario for eating too much golden apple is that you get a stomachache, but if you underdose the worst case scenario is they aren’t healed at all and can never be properly healed.” 

    They were just about at their houses now, and Phil shot Ranboo a look with raised eyebrows. “You don’t know any piglins aside from Techno though right? You aren’t worried about Techno are you mate? You don’t need to be-- he’s already gone through that process. He doesn’t need to do it again.” Ranboo stopped short. This was news to him, but also, it made for an excellent cover. For now at least-- admittedly he was still a little lacking on information for how to treat the infections properly. “Wait, really? Techno was zombified?” 

    “Ah, yep.” Ranboo nearly jumped out of his skin, spooked at Techno’s voice. The piglin must’ve come out of his own house to greet them as they arrived, and overheard the last bit of conversation. “An interestin’ way to enter a conversation, but yeah, I was.” Techno shrugged. “Just for a few seconds though. Happens with any piglin that wants to be able to traverse the overworld. Phil and I planned it ahead of time, so there weren’t really a lot of sores to deal with or anything. Definitely not where most of my scars come from,” Techno said with a bragging smirk. 

    Ranboo laughed a bit. “Of course, yeah. That’s so cool though, ‘cause I didn’t know any of that. It does make sense though, I think, yes.” Ranboo was desperately trying to sound normal and not allude to anything else at all. He really hoped it was working. “Ranboo, you good mate?” Phil asked. It was, apparently, not working. He tried to stay steady and even with his voice. “Yeah, no, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Techno kind of squinted at him, and Ranboo nervously curled in on himself just a bit, despite being slightly taller than the piglin.

    Techno looked like he was going to say something that surely would’ve made Ranboo explode with anxiety, but instead, he just shrugged. “Alright. We won’t pry. Will we, Phil?” Techno said, looking pointedly at the man, who very much looked like he did in fact want to pry, but conceded with a bit of a grumble and a small sigh. “Let us know if you’re curious about anything else though. Techno and I have gone around the bend with this one, we know the ins and outs.” Techno elbowed Phil (knowing this was his way of trying to subtly pry), who lightly smacked him back. Ranboo, in turn, nodded at them. “Mhm! I will, thank you.”

    Ranboo pretended not to notice as the two of them exchanged a knowing glance with one another, instead giving a wave and heading off to his own house for the night. He let out a long, shaky exhale once inside. “Okay, could’ve gone better, could’ve gone worse. Should’ve kept Michael in the nether while healing him, but we did it as soon as he was safe at Snowchester in a baby-proofed room so… Overall… not... as bad as it could have been? I think we did okay, I think we did okay,” Ranboo muttered to himself, trying to calm himself down. 

    Unfortunately, he didn’t learn anything about how to heal an infection, but he supposed that was typical. He didn’t ask about infections. He asked about unzombifying piglins. He did have more resources at his house than Tubbo had, though, so he went to his basement and started rummaging around in his chests to see if he could find anything of value. A little difficult with how disorganized he tended to be, but that was okay. It gave Tubbo time to respond to him after he sent him a quick message. 

    Secretly, Ranboo wanted to involve Techno and Phil; he knew that they and Tubbo had a bit of a rough history, but the two really seemed to know what they were talking about. And Tubbo had changed and Phil and Techno had changed, and Ranboo didn’t think they would try to hurt Michael. If there was a chance they could help Michael, he was considering risking it. He’d do anything for his son. But he wouldn’t say anything unless Tubbo was okay with it; after hesitating, he sent Tubbo another message. 

<Ranboo> techno and phil might know how to help with michael’s infection <Ranboo> but i don’t know how to ask without telling them about him <Ranboo> and i won’t tell them if you’re worried <Tubbo> i don’t trust techno <Tubbo> but he is a piglin also <Tubbo> and i trust you <Ranboo> i just worry that it’ll get worse if we don’t do it right <Tubbo> it’s your call big man

    Ranboo stared anxiously at the messages, thinking of his next step. He was so focused on it that he almost didn’t hear the knock on his door from upstairs. Startled, he shouted up. “Coming! I’ll be there in a second!” Giving one last glance at the conversation, he tucked his communicator away and rushed up the ladder. He opened the door and stepped outside a bit, his house being a bit too cramped to have a decent conversation. “Phil!” He exclaimed, utterly confused. “What’s up? Everything okay?” Phil was standing at the door next to a very disgruntled Technoblade, who looked like he had tried everything in his power to stop whatever conversation was about to happen and, upon failing due to Phil’s Old Man Stubbornness, decided to tag along. 

    “So, hypothetically,” Phil started, and Techno groaned. Phil sent one of his typical jokingly exasperated glances at Techno in response, and started again. “Hypothetically, if you were curing a zombie piglin, you’d probably want someone around who’s done it before to make sure everything went okay.” Ranboo stared at him for a moment, processing. “That’s true! Hypothetically, if I’d already cured a zombie piglin, I’d also want help with it to make sure nothing went wrong.” Phil now wore a knowing smirk, triumphant in the fact that his suspicions were confirmed. Techno sighed. “See, Phil, what you’ve done now is you’ve made a lot more work for us. Ranboo could’ve got it all done on his own and probably would’ve been fine, but now we gotta go help.” Phil turned to him as he spoke.

    “Techno, you don’t have to help mate, I’ve done this on my own before--” Techno interrupted him. “Nahhhh nah nah, you can do it on your own sure, but you see I am a certified actual piglin, so you’re gonna want my help regardless. It’ll be easier with me there. I’m comin’ with you.” Ranboo just stood there, baffled, trying to gather his thoughts. They were both asking way more than he initially thought and also way less. Was this a good thing? Regardless, they had offered to help and apparently nothing could convince them not to. “Th-- Thank you…?” Ranboo said, then corrected himself, “Thank you. I uh. Hoo boy. It’s a bit of a story,” he admitted nervously.

    Phil placed a hand on Ranboo’s upper arm, given his shoulder was a bit too high up for comfort. “Let’s walk and talk, then. I’m assuming this piglin you know is elsewheres, at least.” Ranboo nodded. “Yeah. Let me just, uh--” he sent a quick message to Tubbo saying they were on their way as they started walking-- “Yeah. But first uh, we already healed him. Sort of. We cured him, but he’s not healed. He’s got some really bad infections and we’re worried that some of the issues are internal. It doesn’t seem like it, but we want to be safe.” Phil’s face shifted to a look of deep concern, and mentally started making note of what they would need, as Techno looked rather thoughtfully at Ranboo, having picked up more than just the medical details that Phil was so focused on. “‘We’’? Who’s ‘we’?” Techno asked. 

    Ranboo stiffened, and then took a deep breath. Well, here went nothing. “So you know Tubbo? --Please don’t get mad at me,” Ranboo started, and Techno held his tongue. “When I first joined and Tubbo was giving me a tour of New L’Manberg, we found a. Uh. We found a baby piglin who had been zombified.” Something seemed to click for both Techno and Phil as a look of realization passed over their faces, and Ranboo prayed that it didn’t turn to anger or aggression. They had no reason to feel that way, he tried to reassure himself, but he knew their history with Tubbo.

    “We… made him a little shelter in the Nether to protect him from ghasts and wandering off. Until we’d made a baby-proofed room for him at least in Tubbo’s house. And last night we brought him to the overworld, to Tubbo’s house, and cured him.” Ranboo waited for the backlash, and while Techno looked like he had something he wanted to say, Phil spoke first. “Keeping him in the Nether in a shelter was one of the best things you could’ve done. Most of the area around the main portal, which is what I’m assuming you used, is wasteland, so it’s really dry and that would’ve protected him as well as anything can from decaying. Techno?”

    Techno, after having been given the go-ahead, was finally free to speak his mind. “Ranboo-- Ranboo I’m not really so sure about Tubbo, I mean he is one of the big government guys that hunted me down-- are you doin’ this as like, a favor to him? What’s the relationship there?” Ah. Ranboo had been prepared to talk about Michael, but this, now this was a little awkward. Instead, he decided to first pipe up to correct Techno and defend Tubbo. “Actually, that was Quackity’s idea. He kind of talked everyone else into that. I’m pretty sure at least. I think I wrote it down. He was definitely the one who organized it though. I think he was gonna do it whether we agreed or not?” Techno was very clearly making mental notes. “Interesting,” he said. Ranboo continued in his answer. “And relationship, well uh, it’s not a favor per se, it’s more like… we adopted him? Together. We adopted him together, like, as our son? And we’re married.”

    “What?” Phil squawked. Techno just blinked at Ranboo, and chose his words carefully, trying to hide his shock. Actually, if it wasn’t so nerve-wracking, it would’ve been hilarious. “Well. I won’t say anything as to your choice in spouse, but this is definitely new information.” Phil, despite his ruffled feathers in both a physical and metaphorical sense, gathered himself and decided to push the other two to do the same. Quite literally-- he put a firm hand on Techno and Ranboo both and started urging them towards the portal. Ranboo let out a startled noise that was intermingled with a confused, small laugh. “Right, well, infection’s not gonna get better on its own, we can deal with this situation later. I will talk to you and Tubbo about this,” Phil nearly scolded, and Ranboo could only nod under Phil’s determination. Techno, of course, deferred his judgement to Phil.

[soobrat]

*･༓☾ kryptonite // Bang Chan ☽༓･*

chapter iii // masterlist

*chapter rating* mature

*warnings* gore, forced vomiting

*word count* 1.1k

*disclaimer(s)* this chapter is kinda disgusting 

♥　♡　♥　♡　♥　♡　♥

( C H A R A C T E R S  U P D A T E D)

Smoke grunted as he and Taz lugged the rigid body to the deep hole dug in the ground. Smoke tried as hard as he could to dodge the smell of the rotting human being, but it followed his nose.

"Jesus we should've done this a long time ago." Smoke grumbled under his breath before dropping the top half of the human. He couldn't tell if the wetness of the thud was from the damp woodland floor or... the body's head. Taz dragged the other half of the body a bit more before dropping it as well. Smoke peered over at Taz who seemed to fixate on the body longer than usual

"We definitely would've, but no one knew he was dead until today."

They weren't sure of his name, all they knew was that he was a snitch and scapegoat for Papa. Apparently he overdosed on drugs and was dead on their grounds for almost a week.

"Alright, on three kick him in." Smoke peered over at Taz who was still focused on the body.

"It was his skull..." Smoke quirked his brow up.

"What?" Taz snapped his head towards smoke before looking back at the body. There was a puddle of deep red seeping from the back of his head. The skin of the body grew paler, it was nearly blue now. His eyes wide open, eyeballs a ghastly grey. His lips were purple, spread apart so that the insects could crawl and fly in & out as they pleased.

"1..." Smoke started, breaking Taz out of his daze.

"2... Shouldn't you be used to shit like this by now?" Smoke questioned, making Taz look at him again.

"What are-"

"3!" The two men shove the limp body into the grave with one foot. After hearing the brutal impact, they begin concealing the hole.

-

"What did you do to her?"

Yunho and Chan stare in horror as you foam at the mouth and convulse, tied to a sturdy wooden chair.

"I just shot her with the dart she was gonna shoot me with. Did she poison it maybe?"

"Maybe, but my bets are on her and her group of idiots didn't know that tranq darts have to be stored a specific temperature and used ASAP. I'm pretty sure you shot her with an expired dart."

The convulsing pauses, your head flopping forward.

"Jesus, is she gonna die?" Chan finally found the strength to tear his eyes away.

"There's a possibility..." Yunho went pale at the idea of a dead woman being found in Chan's house. He shifted uncomfortably, eyes flickering over at Chan.

"We have to tell him."

"Who? Park? No, the last thing we need is to alert ANYONE of this. I'm pretty sure someone on her side has already reported back about this. We've entered into something dangerous." Yunho was growing more and more weary with each word Chan spoke.

"Wow, this is really bad." They both stood there in silent agreement.

"The best to do now is just wait I guess."

-

Scraping of a chair, grunts and whines woke Chan up that morning. He was rushing down to the basement when he saw the look on your face. You looked up at him with horror in your eyes. The tone in your voice was desperate.

"P-please!"

"Well well well! Look who's done seizing!" He chuckles, settling his hands on his waist. He barely got the sleep out of his eyes, but the strong smell of urine and feces woke him right up.

"Please, I can't die! Please don't kill me." Usually someone begging for their life in a horrifying situation like this would be very understandable, but somehow with you, it didn't add up. Just when Chan was ready to ask questions, his mother's ringtone sounded.

Chan's eyes flicked up towards you after pulling out his phone.

"You can't die, huh?" Chan hurried up the stairs, rustling feverishly through the hallway dresser. He returns with a gun in hand. His phone had stopped ringing by then. He untied you with one hand, keeping the gun pointed at you. The ringtone went off again.

"Use your hands to make yourself gag. Now." He hits the green button, waiting for his mother's sweet voice to grace his ears.

"Chan, you've been ignoring my calls! I was worried sick- what the hell is that?"

All Chan asked was to make yourself gag, but you've begun shoving your fingers deep down your throat, drawing bile up.

"Mom I'm so sorry, sorry about lying about my girlfriend. Also I'm sorry I ignored your calls but she's really sick. She's been throwing up so much since yesterday. Must be food poisoning." Chan desperately wanted to look away, but he couldn't let you get away with anything.

"Oh my goodness, she must be in so much pain!" Chan looked at your eyes. They were watering, and struggling to use the arm bound by your side to force yourself to vomit. You grimaced when you got vomit on your hand. You shook it off, sniffling. You looked so weak and pathetic.

"Yeah... she is. Anyways I'll call you as soon as I can and we can properly talk, okay?" Chan hung up before his mother could answer. Your head flopped over again, but this time she began sobbing. Chan saw this as an opportunity to get information.

"Who's coming. I know someone is but who, and what's the plan?" Chan nudged you with his foot.

"U-um... I'm pretty sure it's..." You swallowed and sniffled, struggling slightly against the rope tied around your torso. You looked like you was debating whether or not to say it. You sighed before speaking.

"Taz... it's gonna be Taz or Yeou."

Chan kicked at the chair, only just missing your shin. You flinched.

"Why the fuck don't you know?"

Your sobbing increased in volume, shaking in your confines. You could feel your right arm throbbing from the rope digging into it while you gagged yourself. Your throat burned, stomach still lurching from purging the tiny amount of food from it. This was creeping on the level of things you experienced at the grounds. Either way, you had nothing to lose.

"They're gonna kill me anyways on suspicion of talking, so if I knew anything I would've told you."

"Then tell me everything you know now. Starting with what the two people you mentioned look like in detail."

"Yeou... she's medium-ish height, curvy..." You find it hard to focus suddenly. Your vision became blurry, head spinning. You looked up at Chan, there were multiple of him. He was saying something to you, but it was illegible.

"It's starting again, fuck." He watched in horror as you began foaming at the mouth and convulsing again. He felt his blood pressure rise, realizing he now had no idea who might be after him.

[ecccentrick]

Jaskier Should Really Listen To Geralt pt. 2

Pt.1 || Pt. 3 || Ao3

This is my last writing post here, since I now have a writing blog @eccentrick-ramblings. Prompts and requests are open.  

--

Jaskier had many talents. He could sing, write, dance, play multiple instruments, and was something of a scholar, if did say so himself. But one talent that was known but was hardly spoken of in polite company was the one that was going to get him out of this situation alive. 

He was going to slut it up.

Making himself relax back into the bed, he slid one of his hands through the monster’s thick hair, humming as though content with the current state of things. The creature’s hand of steel relaxed minutely against Jaskier’s stomach and he forced himself not to take a shuddering breath, instead breathing from his diaphragm. 

“So you’re one of those, huh?” Jaskier asked, letting his voice go slightly rough. 

The monster stiffened. 

“Of what?”

Jaskier widened his legs. The beast nestled deeper between them, his whole upper body splaying across Jaskier’s. He tried not to take that as the threat it surely was. 

Turning his head so that his lips brushed against the monster’s ear at every syllable, he said, “Hm, one of those men who enjoys roleplay of the, uh, should I say, unconventional sort? Can’t say I’ve come across too many, but I’m always willing to give things a try.”

The beast pulled back from Jaskier’s neck to stare into his eyes, like he was going to ask if Jaskier was truly that dumb and horny. And Jaskier could hear Geralt’s reply in his mind, yes. 

Wait. Geralt.

Shit.

Okay, so Jaskier had a new idea. He wouldn’t just deescalate the situation like previously planned, stall until Geralt came back empty handed and frustrated. Jaskier would actually have to save himself this time. And, now that he thought about it, the rest of the residents of the inn. 

He was beginning to realize why Geralt was so crotchety all the damn time.

Something in the monster’s eyes changed, a dawning understanding and anticipation. It was feral and raw and Jaskier met it with one of his own, shifting his hips up. He almost had it. 

With one hand still in its hair, he trailed the other up its torso, gently touching its sides, before getting to its shoulder blades, fingertips clenching the muscle and bone there, digging his fingernails in hard enough that if it were a human, there would surely be marks left behind. 

“What is it you have in mind?” The beast slurred his words, despite having only one watered down ale that evening. 

The hand holding Jaskier down raised up, higher and higher, until it came around his neck, a soft shackle. His heart beat double time, and he sucked in a breath that he could still blessedly take, for now. 

His mind blanked for a few seconds, because, to be completely honest, this beast was hitting all of Jaskier’s buttons. If this man were a human, they would surely get up to some great fun. Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Geralt. Geralt leaning over him, Geralt holding him down, Geralt’s calloused and scarred hand around his neck, holding him in place, stealing his breath. 

Without having the feign a moan, Jaskier said, “Well, why don’t you chase me?” he dug his nails in deeper. “Capture me. Hunt me down.”

The beast sucked in a harsh breath and Jaskier knew he had him, once and for all. Better or for worse. 

“Perhaps I should give you a head start?” the monster asked. “But you’d have to be quiet, not wake anyone up. Wouldn’t want anyone to be in the crosshairs of a hunt, now would you?”

--

The creaking of the stairs almost did him in. 

The innkeeper had muted the lights in the dining area, leaving them only bright enough to cast shadows and create a sense of unease. Or perhaps that was because he had a beast after him, coming for his blood. Literally. 

He tried to move quietly. The steps creaked. That small sound, so inconsequential, made him realize all that was at stake. The innkeeper, who now most likely slept in the kitchen so her guests could have the rooms, the father and child that were staying in the room next to his, and the orange cat that liked to slink around guests' ankles...their lives were all in jeopardy, and only Jaskier being a good little lamb to slaughter might save them.

What the beast didn’t know was that the lamb intended to lead it to its end. 

He opened the door slowly, silently. Fresh air filled his lungs, crisp and cool. The moon was high in the sky, lighting the way for Jaskier, his socked feet kicking up dust as he went from a slow creep to a desperate sprint in a span of seconds. 

The village was close to a forest, and knowing it was the best place for cover, Jaskier ran for it. Once treetops came overhead, he stopped for a quick breather and to orient himself. 

Geralt always told Jaskier what direction he’d be going in on any hunt. It wasn’t always that way; the bard searching and finding an overdosed witcher next to a dead leshen after he failed to arrive back at the tavern set that to rights. Luckily Jaskier had memorized Geralt’s potions long ago, or he’d be dead and buried. 

Geralt had told him he was heading southwest, which was. . .which way was it? He was fucked, wasn’t he? And not even by a deathless death like all scandalous bards want to go out. 

“Okay, let’s see. Eeny, meene, miny. . .moe! This way then.” 

He dashed in that direction, heading deeper into the woods. He ran until his legs burned, until the wagon roads gave way to deer tracks, until there was nothing but trees, brush and silence. Not even an owl dared to hoot. The monster was here coming for him. 

Jaskier took a deep breath, filling his lungs to their capacity. And then, in that creepy quiet, he screamed. 

“GERALT! GERALT! GERALLLT IT’S AFTER MEEEE!” 

Waiting only a beat, Jaskier continued his flight. There was no sign of the grumpy witcher, and he just gave away his ruse. Perhaps the fear had addled his mind. He should’ve been sneakier, hid in a hollow tree stump, or something. Taken his perfume bottle with him and doused a trail of potent fragrance behind each step. But, then, the monster could follow that too. Hell, even a particularly observant human would’ve been able to trace him; he always bought the strong stuff. 

“DAMMIT!”

He was soon lost, hopelessly and completely. The lights from the village had long since dimmed and he didn’t know which way was the way back. At least if the monster got to him, the others might be spared until Geralt could find it and kill it. His death wouldn’t be in vain. Perhaps he’d even become a local hero. 

A branch to his left cracked. A rustling, then a growl. Footsteps, and then the monster revealed himself, moving from shadows and into the moonlight. It was a great entrance, the bard had to give him that. Points for the dramatics. At the very least, Jaskier wouldn’t die a boring death. 

“It’s as I thought. You were running to your witcher. I’d be angry, but that’ll make this more interesting.”

Jaskier grit his teeth. “You’re awfully arrogant for a monster in the sights of a witcher. The White Wolf. You’ll be dead by morning and Geralt and I will be walking the Path again.”

The beast came closer, his steps measured and sure. Suddenly, he was at Jaskier’s side, a hand at his delicate neck and another on his right shoulder. Back, back, back the monster pushed him, until he hit the nearest tree, bark digging into his exposed neck. He squeezed Jaskier’s neck, bringing a wheeze from the bard’s lips.

“Why. . .” the hand tightened and the longing to cough almost made him gag, “Why me?” 

“Because of your blood, it smells so rare, so fine. None of these backwater hicks taste of anything but the dirt under my boots. But you. . .such fresh nectar.”

“Th-That’s a little insulting,” he took a harsh gulp of air, and it whistled in his throat. “That you- only - wanted me - my blood - not my - da-dashing good-”

“Enough, Jaskier. Save your breath.”

 “G-Ger-”

His back, once against rough bark, was now against a hard chest. And there was that band of steel around his neck. Air fought to get into his lungs, and his voice demanded to be heard but he couldn’t talk, couldn’t make the words form on his lips. Eyes bulged and the skin of his face heated. He was being strangled, and instead of a thoughtless tumor it was at the will of someone who chose to steal his breath until he had none left. 

Soft hands tore against steel. Feet dug into earth, kicked and scrambled, never meeting anything solid besides the ground. Reason fled his mind, and he was just a vessel. A vessel that wanted free. 

“Jaskier, stay calm!” Geralt’s voice reached his ears, echoing. Oh, there was still some hope. He might survive. 

“So I see that you’re a coward,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier was about to be offended until the beast spoke. 

“You’re trying to appeal to my ego. You do care for this bard, then?” 

Geralt was all wobbly and misty, like he was made of liquid bones. His eyes were black, veins a dark gray. Jaskier tried to squint, rapidly blink, but he wouldn’t stay put, wouldn’t go back to normal. 

His throat ached. 

“Let the bard go. He played his part of the bait, now let him go and we can end this. You...you hunt and kill the weak and expect not to be confronted? Take a hostage, a meat shield. Pathetic and cowardly.” 

“I don’t think I’m going to do that. I’m probably all of those things, now that I think about it, and I don’t rightly care. Now, can’t you see I’m celebrating a holiday? The moon is full.”

“Higher vampire. Shit.”

The vampire laughed and that’s when things got fuzzy for Jaskier. He wanted to come out of his skin, wanted to be able to see clearly. His heart felt like it wanted to gallop out of his chest and race Roach. 

“You know what? I’ll just save this for later.”

A prickling sensation started at his side and spread, tendrils of numbness. It quickly became a burning feeling and with it came air, blessed air. The ground met his body. The steel band was gone.

He took a few moments to catch his breath. Each gulp of air felt like swallowing hot coals, his lungs screaming. Once clarity disrupted the fog over Jaskier’s mind he trailed a shaking hand to his side. It came back sticky with blood. He glanced up and saw the vampire lick long, protruding claw-like nails.

In the wise words of Geralt of Rivia, fuck. 

[sea-side-scribbles]

Fanfiction: Sympathy For A Downer

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22737214/chapters/80557750

Chapter 70:

The next day, Nick felt as calm and save he hadn't felt for a long time. Lying in his bed, he was happy to experience that he didn't have a blackout, and that he knew where he had spent the night. It had been right here, among friends. He also remembered fondly that James had brought him to bed, after keeping a clear head hadn't been necessary anymore and Nick had just let all worries go. For the first time, it felt alright to wake up as the only person in his bed, because he knew he wasn't alone. And even if his friends were a bit out of it, they remembered what was most necessary, that they were a team. Nick left the bed and prettied himself up, putting on one of Hackney's new creations. It was just the right time to wear something completely new. And the designer had been right, yellow was his colour.

Strutting down the stairs, he noticed a delicate smell coming out of the kitchen. “Oh, dear”, he whispered in awe. “Is that...pancakes?” He wondered who in the band suddenly cared enough to cook. Hurrying through the door, he found a pile of freshly made, steaming hot pancakes on the table, and James at the stove, pouring more dough in a pan. “James”, Nick gasped. “You're cooking!” He sounded as if the other man didn't notice what he was doing. “Apposite observation, my friend”, James answered happily, pointing at the already filled plate. “You think this is too much? It's supposed to be enough for four hungry mouths but I'm not sure if you even eat that much for your usually late breakfasts. Coffee is on the way, too.” Nick looked around the kitchen, gaping. “It's alright...It's just...alright...”, Nick muttered and sank into a chair. “Are you okay, Nicky?” James asked worrying. “Yeah...I'm so happy...” Nick wiped his eyes. The other man was quickly by his side to hold him. “You're looking good in that”, he commented his rags. “New collection?” “Yeah, Davy picked them for me...I mean Davy Hackney.” James nodded and Nick leaned his head against him, smiling.

“These are edible, by the way”, James gestured towards the pancakes. “First come, first served.” Because Nick's mouth watered at that, he helped himself to a big portion of the rare meal. Adoring the taste of melted sugar and lemon juice on his tongue, he leaned back. “James, this is delicious!”, he swooned. “Why didn't you tell me you can cook? I would've let you move in without hesitation!” The other man laughed. “To be fair, I haven't done this in a while. Luckily, this is just like riding a bike, you can't unlearn it.” “Can you ride a bike?”, Nick wondered. “I think so.” James furrowed his brows. “You can't?” “I don't know.” They laughed and James finished the second round of pancakes, serving them on another plate. “Don't you eat too?”, Nick asked him after a while. “Or do you want me as your food taster first?” “Doesn't the cook eat last?” “Nonsense, this isn't a noble house anyway.” Nick shoved a plate into his direction. James turned away again. “Oh, I forgot to serve the coffee...” When he was finally done and they both had their hot drinks and filled plates, James tasted his own recipe. “This isn't bad, I think”, he judged himself, “For a first try in years.” “It's the cutest thing you could've done as a manager,” Nick purred. “The others will love you too.” “They'll have to bear with me for now...” “Could be worse”, Nick said with a grin and James smiled back.

Nick was proven right about his band. When they found out their new manager had made them breakfast they keenly pitched into it. “Virgil can take a leaf out of your book”, Brad said, looking at the piece of golden pancake on his fork. “I'm not sure I even want him back”, Chris approved. Nick forced a smile. He knew they didn't have as many good memories with Virgil as he had, and also they forgot many of them already, but it still hurt. On the other hand, he was glad that James won them over bit by bit. They were simple minds now. Nick sighed, looking at his once best friend Matt who enjoyed his breakfast too. He hoped they'd stop overdosing one day, so he could really make up to them. For now, he had to admit this was working, too. Matt returned his gaze promptly. He waved a hand in front of Nick's face. “Hey, Nicky, you're still with us?” Nick blinked. “Yeah...only in thoughts...” “What are you up to now?” Nick must've looked startled, because Matt put a hand on his shoulder. “No, no, no, it's fine. This is all great!” The others nodded. “Don't worry, we're at your side, whatever is your next coup.” He made Nick smile and also blink more. Someone was cutting onions all of a sudden. “Would you mind if I talk to James first?” He gave the new manager a look. “As long as you don't forget about us”, Matt urged him. “Don't worry...”

Later, he helped James with the dishes, so he could talk to the other man in private. “What's our next plan?”, he asked worriedly. “We can create a new record by ourselves, but we need gigs. And promotion.” “Well, the biggest event of the year is already coming up”, James explained and Nick searched for information in his brain. “You mean Christmas?” James smiled. “The Victory Memorial Day, Nicky. And guess who's gonna be the main act?” “M...Me?” The other man gave him a meaningful look. “I made it?” “Of course, my friend! The Make Believes are what everyone is talking about! You're more exciting than Coconut Joy! This is better than what I hoped for when I first met you.” Nick almost let a plate fall when he dashed into the other man's arms and hugged him tightly. James gasped, taken by surprise. “You made me a star again”, Nick whispered. “We made it, Nick”, James corrected him softly. “And now it's time to reap our reward.” Nick didn't see how his eyes lit up for a second.

They consensually parted from each other for the next couple of hours. Nick said he needed to go for a memorial walk because he wasn't done saying goodbye to his beloved ones. James' reaction was understanding. The manager also needed to see through Nick's documents and needed some time alone for that. Nick's first destination was a little shop where he bought flowers from the surprised keeper. Then he sought the fountain and sat down on it's brim. “Hello Morrie”, he whispered, plucking at the blue blossoms of the forget-me-not. “I kept my promise, see, I brought you flowers...” He gulped and tried to put into words what had happened in the last few days. “I'm such an imbecile”, he concluded, “...a complete idiot...and now I lost both of you...The funny thing is, or well, perhaps the thing that would bring you to the verge of a mental breakdown...I don't regret  it...I mean, I regret losing you,  I regret lying to you, but I don't regret loving Arthur...does that make sense?” He paused as if he was waiting for an answer. “I guess not...I just wish I gave you a chance...a real chance to understand me...this is what I should've done...right after I met Arthur again and figured I loved him too.” He shrugged helplessly. “Well, what use is my insight now? I'd be pushing up daisies already if I didn't have such good friends. I keep going for them...But I wish you could be with me on Memorial Day...” Once again, he imagined taking Morrie's hand, holding him close. He closed his eyes for some time, dwelling in memories. Then he knelt down before the fountain and planted the flowers. He watered them with handfuls from the basin and afterwards took his time to look at his handiwork. “There, your very own memorial”, Nick whispered proudly. He remained kneeling there for some more time, leaning against the stone brim, listening to the rippling of the water and simply relaxing, dwelling.

He got up when it was time to visit someone else. “I've got to look after Virgil now...”, he quietly said to the flowers. “I miss him too...I'll be back, my love.” Nick walked away. He began to like these strolls, they helped him to calm down. It was very helpful that he didn't have to hide since he was going out at a decent time. He didn't stop right in front of the statue this time, instead he sought a bench in the park from where he could see it without being seen. From there he viewed the scene, watched the hotel guests stroll by, or the trees in the park swaying in the wind. “I guess I'm not completely useless without you...what a surprise”, he whispered. “I wish you could see me at Memorial Day. Perhaps you wanted to leave me, but in the end, you gave me a second chance and I wonder if I made you proud. I was proud of you, my rock manager extraordinaire...” Nick smiled. Then he had to wipe a tear away, still smiling. He felt more at peace today. If that was the last chapter in his life, it wasn't too bad. Virgil had given him so many good memories. And now he was prepared to do the rest, until the end. “Rest in peace, my Virgil...I'll do my best...” Nick also dwelled in thoughts for a while, enjoying the view.

Leisurely, he went inside the hotel, seeking the lounge. He had started to like this place too. Also this time it didn't disappoint. The room was imbued with a mellowing voice, a song that felt like balm on his wounds, that told him everything would be alright. And he knew the voice, and he sensed an emotional attachment to the singer. Taking a seat at a table from where he could overlook the room, he watched Birdie, smiling. She had accompanied the piano player for a presumably spontaneous performance. The one reporter who had been lucky enough to be there eagerly took photos, but it didn't harm her show. The guests applauded her when she was finished and she bowed shortly. Nick joined in the applause. Sadly, she didn't see him when she hurried out of the lounge. She probably wasn't keen on talking to the photographer. Nick left his seat and followed her. He felt the urge to tell her something. However, it looked like the reporter had the same feeling, so Nick had to get rid of him first. He fastened his pace and approached the man who was about to follow her into the elevator.

“Where do you think you're going? I'm right here!”, he proclaimed and threw himself into a pose. “Nick Lightbearer!”, the reporter blurted out. “This is my lucky day.” Nick chuckled, enjoying the little photo session. “Don't tell me you were looking for someone else.” “How are you getting along since your manager is on holiday?”, the man unfortunately asked, unable to suppress the usual journalist's annoying habit of coming up with awkward questions. “Just peachy, actually. I have a surprise coming up for you,” Nick answered confidently. “Any hints for your longing fans?” “Well, it wouldn't be a surprise then.” Nick winked. “Ah...Why did Virgil need a break, by the way? We thought it all worked out well with the Make Believes Reunion. Are there arguments in the band?” “Not that I remember...You know, Virgil was always working very hard for me and he never took a break. He very well deserves one now and I promised to behave, so don't worry, I'll be okay.” “The fans will love to hear that”, the man said, sounding a tad bit disappointed he couldn't get a fierce reaction out of the controversial rockstar. “Still, the fans are worried. You stopped giving concerts and you don't reply to fan letters. Can you give them a message right here and now?” “I'll be back”, Nick said firmly. “I'm sorry I didn't respond to my dear fans...Tell them I'm thankful for backing me up in all those years, for ignoring all the dirty lies that go around in town and just enjoying my music. That's what I'm living for. I'm glad I can cheer them up and I'll do it again, don't worry, I'm working on a big surprise and you'll love it.” “We never see you around with the other band members. Are you sure it's alright?”

Nick would've liked to slap this prick. He was giving a tearful speech for his fans and all this guy cared about was grubbing out a scandal. “Yeah, I'm absolutely certain. Listen, I'm a bit busy actually, but I think you deserve a treat...My colleague Birdie Callagher resides in this parts, I bet she'd be happy to say a word or two to her fans as well...why don't you go into the first floor, room number 115 and pay her a visit?” The reporter lit up and forgot all his bad intentions, at least those regarding Nick Lightbearer.  “That's a splendid idea. Thank you, Mr. Lightbearer, for the brightening conversation.” With that, he hurried away, avid for the next big story. Nick wasn't sorry for fooling him, although he would probably pay for it later, when the guy would finish his article. He went into the elevator himself, when it came back, and ascended to the second floor. He made sure the coast was clear before he knocked.

“Birdie?”, he whispered. “It's me, Nick.” She opened and peeped through the crack of the door until she recognized him. She gave him a mild smile. “Hi, Nick.” “I wanted to talk to you in the lounge, but I guess you can't go back there right now without being assaulted...that guy is still around. I got him off your back but it's only a matter of time until he finds out I led him a merry dance...” “Oh dear...”, she rolled her eyes. “I guess it serves me right for not keeping my mouth shut. Thank you for saving me.” He waved her off. “No problem. Hey, you want to come over to my suite? We'd be save there, since the guy is after you.” “Is that another invitation?” “Uh...yeah...it is...if you can squeeze me into your schedule...” She smiled again and went out of her room, closing the door behind her. Nick was happy she came along, so he didn't have to wait until he randomly met her again in the lounge. Nearing his suite, he started to wonder about the state of it.  The last time he woke up in there, after his blackout, he didn't pay attention to it at all. Opening the double door, he saw that the staff had made an effort cleaning the place. After all, it had been a while since his band had used the suite for a spontaneous party. And he had slept in this bed with Morrie. “Is something wrong?”, Birdie ripped him out of his thoughts. “Er...no...it's been a while since I've been here, that's all...It's so clean, I can't believe I ever used this...”, Nick explained, looking around. Birdie let her gaze wander around the large suite and silenced. “Ah, nevermind, didn't mean to be a killjoy...”, Nick backed away. “Why don't you take a seat?” He offered the sitting area to her, the one beyond the big sparkling disco ball. “I could make you a non-alcoholic drink too if you like.” Birdie sat down and nodded. “Yes, please.” Later, they had made themselves comfortable.

“What did you want to tell me in the lounge?”, Birdie took up the thread. “You mean, except that you have an outstanding voice?”, Nick said charmingly. She giggled. “You can tell me that, too.” “Honestly, you took me by surprise...touched my very soul...”, he admitted, “There aren't enough songs like these in the world.” She leaned back, flattered but playing it cool. “Oh, I was just...getting stuff out of my mind...I'm deep in thoughts lately, very un-wellie.” Nick nodded. “I see...it made me feel better though, so it had a sense of happiness...” “I'm glad...I'll never forget the face the pianist made when I asked him to play a song for me”, she said smiling at something in her mind. “I can imagine...doesn't happen every day.” “Hell no, I have to keep that a surprise. Stupid paparazzi would swarm the place and Davis would kick me out.” “That wet blanket.” Nick made a face. “Does he ever take Joy?” She giggled. “Only the bad badges.” “Good call.” “He's okay though...” Nick gave her a surprised look. “Yeah. He seems like he has a humour bypass, at first sight, but he's only caring for his hotel.” “His business.” “It's his baby,” she pointed out. “He won't hurt you unless you hurt it.” Nick pondered it. “It's just a building.” “But a pretty one.” Birdie looked around in the suite. Nick was reminded of Arthur for a second. “That it is”, he answered, staring into his drink.

“Nick?”, she reminded him of where he was, darting a meaningful glance at him. He looked up. “You didn't invite me just to compliment me, or did you?”, she asked with a soft voice. “Don't you like compliments?” “I do, but I also like knowing what I'm getting involved in. What are you up to, Nick Lightbearer?” He began to look a little embarrassed. “It may sound crazy...”, he said and shrugged. “I only know you for a couple of days, but I think it could work...” He darted a glance at her. Birdie didn't move. “Would you like to sing along with me at the 14th Annual Memorial Day?” Birdie opened her mouth but no sound came out. “Yeah, I know, it's a little sudden, but I couldn't help thinking about it.” Nick turned to his drink again. She looked puzzled at first and later lit up more and more. “You mean...you and me...on stage...at the biggest event of the year?” “Yeah...I think we've both been quite big this year, we deserve it.” “And your band? Would they agree to this?” “Well...right now, they're not really able to say 'no' to anything...not that I want to exploit them, but...I'm sure they'll have fun.” Birdie lifted an eyebrow. “They're just very happy at the moment”, was all Nick explained. “You don't have to answer now...just consider it. Perhaps it'll be easier for you to find a really good manager after you've been the main act at the party.” “Sure...”, she said, still overwhelmed. “We can rehearse at my place. We don't need to improvise”, he said grinning. Birdie put a hand on her chest. “This day is getting better and better...”, she gasped. Then she looked at him again. “Do you really mean it?” “You can take it to the bank.” She smiled. He could see that something else came to her mind. “Do you have a new manager?” Nick leaned back, trying not to look too proud. “Yes. He's a good friend and he's taking care of things for now. I guess I'll keep him anyway.” “Of course.” He didn't know if she was jealous or amused. Perhaps both.

[nightklok]

Kloktober Prompt: Day 2-OTP & Favorite Character Whumptober Prompt: No 28: Mugged Pairing: Charles/Pickles Trigger Warnings: Character injury, blood, stabbing Summary: Set after Renovationklok. Charles asks Pickles out on a date in an attempt to pick up where they left off so many years ago. Unfortunately, the date becomes a disaster. 

A tad bit late as this turned out longer than I had expected (like all my future prompts most likely) but I had to do this for the OTP that has brought me the true comfort I needed this year- :’) Link to AO3 is in my reblogs but the story is down below as well!

Having Charles come back from the dead was...surprising. No, that didn't fit. But it was good enough of a word for Pickles to decide on without looking like a smartass. So yes, Charles coming back was in fact, a very surprising thing to happen. There was no real explanation as to why he had died but came back and there may never be one. Charles acted like his usual self and pretended such a thing never happened once he wore his usual suit after the performance. 

Though, to say that things went back to normal was a slight lie. Charles was more open to hanging out with them for once. And Charles even accepted the cheap beer Pickles offered when he found him alone. It felt like somehow that the walls that he had put up between them, personal and professional, had cracked just enough for sunlight to filter through. He even began hanging around with him a bit more often outside of work, something he only did sparingly. It was really only invitations to drink in his office but it felt nice. What was once hidden away by professionalism now turned into something else and it was actually nice to be able to hang out with him like friends again.

Pickles assumed that dying just meant he changed his mind or had a different perspective on things. Things like being professional around people he cared about must've been something he had reconsidered. His old friends that had almost overdosed once ended up turning their lives around because of 'their second chance of life.' But Charles didn't die of an overdose and had died doing something incredibly brave. Though, it did never really enter his mind that it meant their relationship actually going beyond friendship. That was something he had long since buried away with other memories that were hidden away to try to never think about.

He was wrong in that aspect, though. What was thought of as a wall with thin cracks was more of a wall slowly crumbling away to dust.

Pickles was alone in the dining room drinking black coffee when Charles found him. He was trying to figure out how the latest model of his Dethphone worked when he looked up to see Charles enter the dining room. He gave him a relaxed smile as he saw him. It felt exciting to see he was really alive every day, "Morning, chief."

Charles returned the smile, "Good morning, Pickles." He sat down next to him setting down his own cup of coffee, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out this phone. I kinda miss the flip phone; it was much easier to deal with."

"Well, technology's advancing. Pretty soon you'll find that phone much easier to handle compared to a flip phone."

"I guess. It's moving too fast if you ask me," He answered before he gave up and set his phone down. He took a sip of his coffee as he looked at him, "So what are you gonna do today?"

"The usual paperwork and meetings. But that's not exactly important right now. I wanted to ask you something." 

"About what?"

Even though he had mentally rehearsed his lines many times, it still didn't mean he really was prepared to ask something that he would've normally never asked, "What are your plans tonight?" 

"Oh. Nothing, really."

There seemed to be a slight hesitation coming from him for just a moment. Whatever hesitation he had didn't show in his voice, "Then would you like to go out for dinner with me?" 

Pickles looked at him with an expression of utter bewilderment, "Wait, like on a date?"

"I suppose it could be if you wanted it to be."

He paused for a moment. Admittedly, he had always hoped something like this would happen but as the years went by and their popularity soared, it became nothing more than a dream. That dream was something that had always haunted him when Charles died and he was forced to live in regret that he didn't push their relationship to continue. Getting the opportunity again...felt almost too good to be true, "Are you serious?"

"I am serious about this, I swear. I'd just like to take you out somewhere, it doesn't have to be dinner."

"But are you sure? You said we couldn't do something like this because it wouldn't look good to the public."

"Well, I did say that when we were starting out with the band. I think by now it wouldn't exactly matter. You are part of the world's largest economy, after all. We will still need to take some precautions, of course, but I would like to try again with this. I want to make this up to you if you'd let me."

The idea of it was so inviting. He really wasn't quite sure what to say or do about it because he was sure that the appropriate answer would be to kindly reject him. Their relationship had been 'paused' for so long that it was hard to tell at what stage in the relationship they were in. But at the same time, it felt like some reward well deserved for being patient. Maybe most people wouldn't wait for so many years for a relationship to finally continue but he was part of a death metal band that had more money than first world countries combined, "Sure, I'd like to go out with you."

The date was, to put it lightly, a disaster.

They had started off at a fancy restaurant in England and that was the first mistake.

What turned into a fancy night of drinking expensive wine and food had turned into one of the arguments.

No one even knew who started what but it was clear the wine got to their heads and ended up releasing some pent-up frustration both had, whether for their relationship or something else.

"Hey, I wasn't the one who fucking played Jesus for nine months straight." Pickles said not even bothering to hide the anger in his voice, "How could you even think things will be fine after that stunt you pulled?"

"I can't exactly reveal everything without ruining everything I had to disappear for."

"Do you even trust me?"

"Of course I do-"

"Then why aren't you telling me a single truth?!"

"I just can't. Not right now. I promise-"

"Y'know what? Fuck you, and fuck this. I'm outta here." Pickles stormed out of the restaurant before their first course even arrived.

They had lasted half an hour which had to be some sort of record.

Admittedly, he didn't know the streets of London pretty well but he wasn't going to just turn back after making such a scene. Charles was a damn hypocrite and he had no idea how he could expect going out with him without bringing up that topic. It was probably the main reason he was asked out in the first place! 

The more he walked, the more foolish he felt. How foolish it was to think that things could return like they used to. He pulled out his phone and struggled to google local cab companies thanks to his blurred vision and the fact he still hadn't figured out how to work with his phone. He should've learned more on how to use it.

He didn't notice where he was going or noticed and ended up accidentally bumping into someone. He didn't say anything as he tried to continue walking but soon felt the tug of someone trying to take his phone.

"Just give me your phone."

"Get your fucking own."

"I said, give me your phone."

There was a struggle with his phone as he tried to pull it away from his robber's grip. They both had accidentally lost their grip at the same time and the phone quickly fell out of their grasp and tumbled to the street where it was immediately crushed by a car. There were pieces of the phone everywhere scattered around but it definitely didn't look like a phone anymore.

"Dude, you fucking owe me for that phone! It was a prototype!"

The man began to attack him, most likely to try and grab his wallet. He struggled and struggled against him until the man pulled out a pocket knife and he realized what was gonna happen.

Pickles could feel the robber stab his arm just as he managed to cover his face. It wasn't deep but it was enough for it to be lodged in and for the burning pain to quickly surface. It felt like someone lit his skin on fire and it was taking him everything to not cry out. He had to think quickly, and he was well aware that he could get stabbed somewhere more fatally. He quickly kicked him as strong as he could and pulled the knife out of his arm. Blood trickled faster down his arm now that he removed the only thing sealing his wound so maybe that wasn't a very good idea. 

He would worry about that later. For now, he had to find a way to fight off the attacker just enough for Charles or someone to come back. He quickly dodged the robber's punch and attempted to stab him only to quickly stumble and miss. With a shove, he quickly hit the hard concrete floor and lost his grip on the knife. He used his foot as the only barrier between him and his attacker as he tried to reach for the knife and dodge whatever punch was thrown at him. The moment he had a hold on the knife, he suddenly felt no weight on his foot and turned to see he was quickly shoved to the side. 

Luckily, Charles had managed to find him just in time. It took just one punch to the face to render him unconscious. He quickly sent a text to a klokateer to handle him while he went to Pickles' side, "Pickles, are you alright?" His eyes quickly looked at his arm, a small pool of blood was formed in the concrete from where he was stabbed. He cursed under his breath as he helped him sit up, checking his head to make sure he didn't hit his head upon impact.

"Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just got stabbed, is all. Not a big deal." He smiled though Charles didn't and instead focused on his injury.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Probably got a few scrapes from falling but I'm fine."

Charles looked at the wound though it was hard to determine how deep it was with the blood still pouring out. He took off his tie to tie it around his wound. He heard him wince in pain at the pressure but it was the only way to stop the bleeding. They had their own medical team but they wouldn't arrive until a long while later and he was worried that the stab was deeper than he could have anticipated, "Let's just get you to a hospital. I'll call a taxi."

As it turns out, it was deep and he required six stitches by the end of it. His pain tolerance was pretty high but he was warned to not try and do anything strenuous with that arm for a few weeks. Which meant another reason for the album to be delayed though even they knew that the album would've been delayed regardless of his injury.

Charles, naturally, was incredibly guilty. He didn't say anything when he was discharged from the hospital. He simply led them to where their private jet plane was waiting for them. He instructed the pilot to take them back

"Pickles, I'm so sorry," Charles said when they had a moment alone.

"It's okay. It wasn't your fault," He answered with a shrug. If he had felt pain, he would have winced but luckily he was given the highest dose of painkillers possible so as far as he was concerned, he didn't get stabbed at all. He didn't like how he didn't even feel high but he knew he was beyond the realm of FDA-approved painkillers to feel a thing besides what it was supposed to do. He opened the mini fridge the airplane had and took a can of beer for himself. He offered it to Charles who politely declined.

"But it is. I shouldn't have asked you out. This was a mistake for me to think that things would work out." 

That changed Pickles' mood completely enough to set his unopened can down, "What? You think a lil' stab wound is gonna break our relationship?"

"But I was with you-"

"And I was the one that left and made myself be alone. If anything, it's my fault."

"It isn't. It's my fault. I was stupid to think things could remain the same. Clearly, they haven't and I'm sorry for thinking they could and roping you into my foolishness."

"Hey, I said yes, didn't I? Don't you think there is a reason why I said yes to this date? Do I really need to spell it out for you?"

Charles fell silent. Of course. It didn't matter if it was foolish or not but the fact of it remained that they clearly had unresolved feelings for each other. Feelings that they were well aware of but afraid to act upon. Going on the date was only the tip of the iceberg of years of pent up feelings that only escalated.

And he fucking died for Christ's sake. And disappeared for nine months too. How could he think that things would be okay even if he planned everything by the book? He was with Pickles and he was as unpredictable as predictable could be.

He sighed as he leaned back against the seat, "This was a disaster of a date, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, no kidding."

"I know what you said at the restaurant was true and I admit you're right. I haven't been truthful and I'm sorry. But, please know that the reason is nothing but because I deeply care about you. I just want you safe and I couldn't even do that."

"I'm still mad," Pickles admitted as he looked at him. It was easy to see he was still a bit angry at him but there was another look to him, "But I know you wouldn't lie to me for no reason. I'll still be mad but I'll be over it. I just wish you would tell me something, is all."

"I know," he said softly, "I promise when I can, I will. But I promise I'll be honest about everything else."

"Okay. Then why did you ask me on this date?"

"I can't talk about what I did while I was gone. I can say, though, that I have thought of you and us and what could've been. I really missed you and I missed what we had. I guess I was just hoping too much that things could be back to normal but even I don't think that can be possible. It's been too long and we've been through so much. We can't go back to where we used to be."

"I know what you mean. I've been thinking a lot about you too when you died. I really missed you and just wished a lot of times that I could go back and at least tell you how I felt...but are you saying we should break up officially?" He couldn't hide the disappointment in his face and voice.

"No," He said quickly but quickly added on, "I mean unless you want to. I'm saying we should start over from the beginning. Try not to rush things, go on our own pace and see what happens."

"Do you wanna give this another shot?"

"Of course. Do you?"

"In a heartbeat. Then would you like to go out on a date with me? Forgetting the entirety of the last few hours, if you will."

Pickles laughed and nodded, "Yeah, I'd really like that. When do you wanna try again?"

"Whenever you'd like is fine with me, though a two-week notice would be appreciated."

He thought for a moment, "Well, are you doing anything tonight?"

"Not at all."

He knew at least one thing that could at least make their night end off on a high night, "We can try our date again tonight. Meet me at the library in half an hour when we get home."

Charles arrived at the library in exactly twenty-eight minutes. At Pickles' suggestion, he found a long sleeved shirt and his jacket to put on for warm clothing. It didn't take long for him to reach the empty library where the lights were completely off and it had created an almost eerie feeling. He had to hope that he wasn't just pulling some prank on him and decided to ditch him.

The door to the library eventually opened, Pickles arrived about five minutes later, also dressed in warm clothing and had a basket that contained snacks and wine, "Ready to go?"

"Go where?"

"I'll show you. Just follow me." He answered as he led him further down the library.

He admittedly never explored much of the library. He simply didn't have the time to explore everything Mordhaus had to offer. Now that he did, he could see how extensive the library was. Shelves upon shelves of books that nearly reached the ceiling were everywhere. They must surely have more books than what the Library of Alexandria had.

They reached the end of the library where there was a door off in a corner. It was a white door that contrasted the color scheme of the library but there was a nameplate beside it.

Observatory.

Pickles opened the door with one arm and had to use his body weight to push the incredibly heavy door further open. Charles helped him go in first before entering himself and realized that he never did visit the observatory in years. He must've gone with him once when Mordhaus was completely built and then never again. He found no reason to go back to a place that would constantly remind him of what could've been if he had chosen to stay in the relationship with him.

And maybe he still would think those things for a long time. Regret that they didn't continue and now have to start over from the beginning. First dates, kisses, and everything that they had gone through already. He wondered if things for them and the band would've been different had they stayed. Maybe they would've gotten married or maybe they would've waited or seen it as a waste of time. Maybe they would've been a power couple that would get widely accepted considering how unpredictable the audience. At least those answers would be answered now and in a way, it was exciting to get to start over and make things right.

He walked the long flight of spiral stairs with him, the sound of metal against shoes and their breaths was heard in the quiet observatory. The only source of light they had was a red light that only grew brighter until they finally reached the top. A large refractor telescope similar to any other observatory stood in the middle and looked rather well kept. He figured the reasoning being that he had to call upon astronomers to study the stars for any signs of the prophecy. He could read the stars, of course, but knew it wasn't his place.

Pickles seemed to know what to do as he warned him to not lean against the walls and pressed a button. The sound of metal clanking and rotating filled the air until the light from the night sky finally began filtering through. A breeze of cool air and the sound of cicadas and nature-filled the atmosphere now.

"Think we're too late to see if we can find a planet but we can just look at the stars." He spoke up as he looked up.

There was an endless amount of stars scattered across the sky. Even though he had looked at them various amounts of times, it never ceased to amaze him when he got a chance to just stop and look.

Pickles set a blanket down from the basket and sat down. Charles joined him and helped set out the snacks and wine that he had brought.

This time, it was different. There were no drunken arguments at a high scale restaurant or unresolved tension between them. It was as light and free as the stars scattered across aimlessly enough to create a clear image that things might turn out for the better for them. It turned from drinking and eating under the stars to lying down on the blanket, looking at the endless stars as they tried to make out each constellation. Charles wrapped an arm around and Pickles placed his head on his chest as they relaxed completely into the night. It almost felt like they had done stargazing for decades, never stop, and it was only another night for them. Maybe they really can work this out in the end with just a little work.

Things will be alright. One day it won't be and they'll have to analyze their relationship once again but that wouldn't happen for a while or as the stars had told Charles.

They can't focus on what was lost or what will be lost. They can only focus on what's going on at the moment. And at the moment, things are going to be okay.

[hamletandthegang]

Texts from the Dead

Ophelia was the first to wake up the next morning. She slipped quietly around the couch and sat down on one of the kitchen stools. Maggie was still asleep on the other side of the couch. Ophelia searched around in the cabinets and found some cereal and milk and sat down to eat a small breakfast. As she did so, the phone Jackie had given her buzzed. She picked it up and sighed- Horatio had finally texted back.

Horatio was sitting in the circular restaurant seat in the kitchen and sipping a cup of coffee when it occurred to him that he’d never answered the supposed not-dead ‘Ophelia’ back. It had been a few days since he’d hurt his head, and at the time he didn’t have any energy to deal with it and had just left it alone. He hadn’t told any of the others, they’d been busy with their own things and he didn’t want to upset them any more than they already were. He didn’t want to bother them if it was just some prank or something like that. He flipped to the short conversation and typed in, “This is a prank, right? Ophelia is dead. Who are you?”

After a short while, the read symbol popped up under the message. The bubbles appeared, signifying that the other person was typing. Then they disappeared. They appeared again, and this time a message sent: “It’s me Horatio. I don’t know what else to say.”

Horatio tried to keep himself calm and not jump to any conclusions. “Stop trying to get in my head. My friend is dead, how dare you try to impersonate her.”

The bubbles appeared again, and this time stayed much longer before disappearing. Rosencrantz walked into the kitchen and sat down across from Horatio with a cup of coffee. “Good morning,” He said groggily.

Horatio nodded at him, still focused on the phone. A message finally rang through, saying, “Horatio, I don’t know how to prove this to you, but I’m real. At least I think I am. If you even care to know, I’m in a safe place right now. Don’t tell Hamlet about this, I’m not ready to think about him yet.” A second message arrived. “I’m going to stay off the map for a little while longer, just to collect myself. I’m not trying to trick you or anything, I just missed you and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Horatio sighed and put his head in his hands. “What the fuck?” Rosencrantz whispered, reading the texts upside-down. Horatio looked up. “Who is that?” His face was still bruised, with a large purple mark under and around his eye. He and Guildenstern had been rear-ended on the way to the pharmacy the day before, and while they both came out generally alright, the car had been totaled. Guildenstern wasn’t up yet, but he’d been loading up on painkillers and ice packs, because his ribs had gotten pretty bruised by the seat-belt.

“I don’t know,” Horatio answered. “They’re claiming to be Ophelia.”

“Well, they’re obviously not. What kind of sick fuck would do that?” Rosencrantz said spitefully.

Horatio thought for a moment. “There’s no way it could actually be…” but he stopped when he saw Rosencrantz's expression.

“No. She overdosed on some shit Laertes gave her and drowned herself in the lake outside, right? There’s no way she just crawled out, found a random phone, and started texting you. Horatio, think about it. It’s probably some dumb kid trying to cause problems and make you worried.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Horatio answered, nodding. He turned off his phone and put it in his pocket, but the messages didn’t leave his mind. “Where are the others?”

“Hamlet’s taking a walk somewhere, Annalise and Guildenstern are still in bed. I think Marc’s up, but I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Okay,” Horatio answered absentmindedly, watching the brown bubbles in his coffee spin around.

Rosencrantz stared at him, knowing exactly what he was thinking about. He didn’t want to bring it back up, and he didn’t have to, because Hamlet walked in right as he opened his mouth.

“Gooooood morning,” he said, swinging around to the fridge. He shuffled around, and settled on a piece of toast and coffee, and sat next to Rosencrantz. “How are you guys?”

“Fine,” Rosencrantz said. “You?”

“I have officially made it four whole days successfully avoiding both my mother and uncle, so I’d count that as a win.”

Horatio smiled. This side of Hamlet didn’t come out very often anymore, and he missed it.

“Jesus, dude,” Hamlet said, seeing Rosencrantz’ eye for the first time. “I heard it was bad but holy shit you look like you got punched.”

“Yeah well,” Rosencrantz laughed. “You should’ve seen the other guy- completely totaled.”

“Oh great,” Hamlet yawned. “Another thing for my uncle to bitch about. How’s Guildenstern?”

“Eh, so far so good, he said the shower and Advil helped a lot before he went to bed. Nothing’s broken, just bruised. We got the implants though, so it wasn’t all for nothing.”

“Okay,” Hamlet said, biting into his toast, and the room fell silent for a few moments. After finishing his toast, Hamlet looked up and said, “I miss her.”

“Me too,” Rosencrantz said quietly.

Horatio couldn’t open his mouth.

“I don’t really know what to do now,” Hamlet went on. “I’m supposed to be avenging my father, but without her I don’t even know where to start. All my other plans haven’t worked out, and she or you, Horatio, were the ones who made those in the first place.” He rubbed his face and groaned.

Horatio took his phone out of his pocket as he felt it buzz. A new text from ‘Ophelia’ had rung through.

“I can just text him if you want.” Ophelia said with a smile. Maggie looked up at her.

They were sitting at the kitchen table of Marilyn’s home, and Maggie had been recounting what Monica had just told her. Apparently Igor and Sebastian had reported that the castle didn’t have many entrances from the outside that they could find, and that it seemed as though any point of entry that would go unnoticed would have to have inside help. Maggie was weighing her options, she could send one of her group in as a servant or guard, or she could try to convince one of the castle guards to turn and help her instead, but all of her options seemed far too risky, until Ophelia spoke up.

“What do you mean?” Maggie asked.

“Well, I could just text him!” She repeated, motioning to her phone. “I have Horatio’s number, I could ask him to ask Hamlet if he’d help us, and then go from there.”

Maggie thought for a moment, and then lit up. “Why didn’t I think about that before, Ophelia, you’re a goddamn genius.”

Ophelia laughed and picked up her phone. “Hey Horatio, sorry to keep bothering you, but I need a quick favor. Can you please ask Hamlet (without telling him I sent this) if Claudius is leaving the castle sometime in the next few days?” Ophelia sent the message off, hoping Horatio would do it and not get too freaked out. She understood his hesitation, but it still stung.

Horatio opened the message. Hamlet didn’t notice, but Rosencrantz kept his eyes on him, and frowned when Horatio said, “Hey, Hamlet. Is Claudius leaving the castle at any point in the next few days?

Hamlet thought for a moment. “Umm, I think he’s going to a delegates meeting on Friday, why?”

“You wanna plan another attempt?” Horatio asked, and Rosencrantz started.

Hamlet’s eyes lit up, “Anytime dude, what’s the plan?”

[malecacidd]

My Breathing Gets Faster (and so does my Heartbeat)

Summary:

Why couldn't his useless brain remember that he was dead? Dead as in not coming back. Dead as in being a ghost. Dead as in basically not existing. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

~^~

Ben's not doing very well being alone with his thoughts at night.

Pairing/Characters: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves

Word Count: 3k

Square Filled: Panic Attacks

Warnings: Panic attacks, mention of drugs, slight gore, dissociation

A/N: I actually just posted this on ao3 two days ago or so!! That's better than the,,,, months apart that the last fic was posted at jdjsjsjsksk This is the second fic I've written for the @tuacreatorsbingo and I can't wait to write more!!

Ao3

--

Klaus was passed out in an alley. Again.

This wasn't an unusual occurrence, of course, but that didn't mean Ben had to be any happier about it. The ground was uncomfortable.

He couldn't actually feel it, but Klaus sure would when he eventually woke up. Ben wasn't looking forward to hearing him bitch about his back all day, that was for sure.

The nights were always so slow for Ben. He had no one to talk to, and he couldn't go anywhere.

Well, he could. He just wouldn't. In the past five years of being a ghost and following Klaus around, there had been one too many encounters where Ben had left Klaus in an alley for the night to roam around and entertain himself, and had come back to see all of Klaus' things gone.

It wasn't much fun, anyways. Roaming the city at night was a lot more boring without someone talking your ear off by your side.

Normally if they were in a hotel or a friends house for the night, Klaus would make sure to leave a radio or TV on for Ben. Ben always thought that he did it so that he wouldn't have to hear Ben complain for the rest of the day, but maybe he was just being nice.

This night, though, they were once again in an alley. And Ben was bored. Very, very, bored. If Klaus was going to complain about his back tomorrow, he would sure have some retaliation complaints to fire back.

A raccoon decided to knock over a close by trash can in that moment, causing the trash to pour out and phase through Ben. He shuddered at the feeling before standing with a groan and moving to sit against the wall across from Klaus.

He knew that the trash didn't affect him, knew that it couldn't even touch him, but he couldn't help the way he felt gross at the thought. Stupid alive subconscious that should've went away the first month after he died. At this point it was just starting to get tedious.

He leaned his back against the brick wall as much as he could, moving his head to hit it lightly, not that he could feel it.

Klaus gave a loud snore then, and Ben rolled his eyes, glancing at Klaus before squeezing his eyes shut. If there was one thing he missed about being alive, it was definitely sleeping.

Sleeping meant being able to escape your thoughts for hours at a time. Sleeping was a break from the world. Sleeping was something that could ground you, could make you feel better after a bad night, could recharge and revive you. Ben didn't get to have that.

It was okay, though. It was okay. At least Ben didn't look like your normal average everyday ghost that was most of what Klaus could see when he wasn't high off his ass. At least he was sane. At least he wasn't lost, looking the way he did when he died. A giant gaping hole in his stomach gushing with blood, eldritch horrors hanging limply from it. Pain, so, so much pain.

He pressed his head even harder against the wall, attempting to ignore the way it phased through slightly at the extra pressure. Ben hated the way he had to focus if he just wanted to lean against something or sit in a chair. He hated the way that if his focus faltered for just a moment he would phase through it. All it was was just another reminder that he wasn't actually there, that he wasn't actually a part of the world.

Just because he wished he was alive didn't mean he wanted to go back to his first seventeen years of life, though. Ben would take all his years of being a ghost, being numb to the world with Klaus over the seventeen years of abuse he and his siblings experienced from their asshole of a father.

He didn't know where he would be right now if he hadn't died. He never really had a 'life plan.' Maybe he would've been a journalist. Maybe he would've had a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a partner, a dog, a best friend. Maybe he would've worked at a bookstore. Maybe he would've stayed at the academy all these years like Luther had…

One thing he knew for sure, though, was that he probably wouldn't have ended up being with Klaus for the past five years. He didn't know how that thought made him feel.

This is why Ben hated nights, he decided. There was too much time to think about his past without Klaus awake to distract his mind. Too much time to dig deep into his inner feelings. Too much time for his throat to feel as if it was starting to close up and too much time for his chest to shrink in on itself.

Ben would never say that he was good at feelings. But he didn't cry, didn't even know if he could as a ghost. Most of the time he just pushed his shit as far away as he could until it came rushing back and overtaking him. Coincidentally, that always happened at night, even when he was still breathing out of need rather than just habit.

When he was alive, Ben's pull to reality would always be people or touch. Though because of the way their family was, he almost always had to turn to touch as a way to draw himself from a state of panic. But now that he was dead…

Now that he was dead, there was no touch. There was no texture, no feeling, no temperature. The only thing there was was a light pressure if he focused hard enough, and if he was ever panicking he definitely would not have been focusing. Good thing that he had only gotten better at pushing shit away since he died, right?

It had been… a while. Since his last 'freak out' or 'panic attack' or whatever you wanted to call it. It was always at night, always when Klaus was asleep. Which was probably for the best, anyways. He didn't need Klaus to see him like that, curled up in a ball on the floor, eyes wide just looking for something to ground himself. Klaus did not need to see him like that, couldn't see him like that.

Sure there had been times when Klaus has seen him break down. When they were kids there were more than a few incidents where Ben had come back from training, covered in blood and frightened dog barks ringing in his ears, to find comfort in Klaus. Out of everyone in their dysfunctional family, Klaus understood best what it was like to have a power you despised.

That was so long ago, though. They were just kids. Just little kids. But then Ben was dying and watching Klaus fall apart due to the drugs that were due to the ghosts. And god, does Ben understand. If drugs had numbed the constant aching pain of the horror then he was sure he would've gone down the same path Klaus did. That didn't make it any easier, though. He had a front row seat to Klaus' shitstorm of a life and he didn't even get any popcorn.

Memories were coming in quick, now. Memories of killing innocent dogs and cats that his father placed in front of him. Memories of watching his brother overdose over and over again, not able to do anything to help. Memories of crying himself to sleep from ages four to seventeen. Memories of being torn apart by the one thing he was supposed to have control over. Memories of panic. Memories of voices calling out to him, telling him to walk into the light that he was so, so afraid of. So many memories of panic and fear and terror and-

If he could've he would have groaned at the way the breath he didn't need started to pick up. This was how it always started, the spiraling thoughts and then the heavy, quick breathing and the seemingly inescapable panic that he just had to wait out.

He bit his lip, huffing at the way the pain he didn't really expect didn't register. He needed something. Something to ground himself, something to get him out of this state that only seemed to get worse as time went on.

He attempted to lean even more heavily against the wall, but when his back phased completely through the brick his breathing just picked up even more.

Ben moved out of the wall quickly, going to sit in the middle of the alley, only a few feet away from a still snoring Klaus. He took his hands from where they were crossed over his chest and pushed them against the ground. The pressure was there, but it was numb. Always numb.

He rubbed his hands against the scratchy concrete harshly. There wasn't a sting, like he would've felt when he was alive, but there was something. Something other than a light pressure that he got from pushing against the ground or himself.

He rubbed at the ground quicker than before as he began to hyperventilate even more. When he lifted his hands, palms turned towards his eyes to view them, he shuddered at the way there was not a single mark left behind. He had no effect on the world, and the world would never leave an effect on him ever again.

Another racoon knocked another trash can over, causing it to fall against the concrete with a loud crashing noise that rang loudly in Ben's ears. He slammed his hands over them, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his elbows on top.

His shallow breaths only led to him feeling light-headed, which was weird. Could ghosts even feel light headed? Could ghosts even panic? It sure felt like they could in that moment.

Ben bit at his lips, the inside of his cheek in an attempt to feel something, but all that registered was a tiny bit of pressure that did nothing to calm the swirling storm inside his mind.

His hands shook as he curled them into fists, his nails that never grew digging into his palms. It did absolutely nothing to calm him, he didn't even feel the bit of pressure that he normally would have in that moment.

He didn't even know how he ended up spiraling this far. All he was thinking about was how lonely his nights were, then he started thinking about lonely nights before that, then he started thinking about being alive, then he started thinking about his past, his childhood and Reginald and the horror and-

He couldn't. He couldn't deal with it. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think clearly. He couldn't touch, couldn't feel and he couldn't breathe.

His thoughts were scrambling around in his brain and his foot was phasing through the trash can that the first racoon from before had knocked over and his head hurt so much. He wanted to feel. Wanted to feel the wall, the ground, just anything to ground himself. He needed someone, needed someone but no one would be able to hear him but Klaus and Klaus was passed out in the alley.

It wasn't like he needed to see Ben like this anyways. It wasn't like could see Ben like this.

The only thing he could do was curl up and wait for it to be over, he decided. Well, he didn't really decide that for himself. His body really did its own thing, pulling his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and falling onto his side.

Ben's eyes were wide as he attempted to slow down his breathing. He didn't understand why his body was reacting like this. He hadn't needed to breathe for years, he was already dead, and yet here he was, his mind telling him that he was going to die because he couldn't breathe.

Why couldn't his useless brain remember that he was dead? Dead as in not coming back. Dead as in being a ghost. Dead as in basically not existing. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

All he had to do was wait it out. It should've been easy enough but it felt impossible as every attempt to slow his unneeded breathing failed. He couldn't deal with this. Why couldn't he deal with this?

What felt like a million minutes later, Ben heard the sounds of Klaus waking up, and he slammed his hands over his ears at even the smallest bit of noise. He heard a seemingly miles away groan through his useless hands and then trash being pushed around as Klaus scrambled to stand up. Then he heard the pounding footsteps rushing to his side.

"Shit, Ben." He distantly heard Klaus say as he looked for some way to help. "Shit."

It was almost as if he was watching it happen in slow motion from outside of his body. The only thing he could feel was his shivers as Klaus' hands went through his shoulders when he attempted to touch him.

"Ben. It's okay, uh…" Klaus said and continued mumbling while Ben layed there, unresponsive.

Klaus clearly knew what this was, he had had enough panic attacks to know the symptoms, but that didn't mean he knew what to do to help his brother. All he could do was sit back against the wall and talk quietly in hopes that Ben was taking anything he said in.

"Just… just try to breathe. Try to breathe." He said quietly. He didn't know if Ben could hear him or not, and he didn't know if what he was saying was made to comfort Ben or himself. He didn't want to know.

Eventually, some time later -neither of them knew how long- Ben's breathing began to slow to a normal pace, his hands loosened from where they were tight around his ears, and his body slowly relaxed from it's stiff position.

He looked exhausted. He looked like he needed a long nap and a hug, neither of which he could get ever again.

Klaus was silent as Ben started to sit up. He pulled his hood far over his head so that it shadowed his expression and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them and turning to Klaus, faking a look of surprise.

"Oh you're awake." He said quietly as he stood up. He looked up to see that the sun was just starting to rise, and stared at it for a moment. His eyes were unaffected by the brightness. "What time is it?"

"Ben-"

"What time is it." He cut him off, and Klaus sighed.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Maybe five, six in the morning? Why?"

"I don't know." He huffed. "Just wondering." Just wondering, just changing the subject as quickly as possible, all the same to Ben.

"Ben, are you-"

"You should probably find something to eat." He cut Klaus off again. "You spent everything on drugs last night, so you're probably gonna have to go dumpster diving."

Klaus sighed. "Yeah." He got up from his spot leaning against the wall of the alley and began to walk in the direction of the rich neighborhood he regularly frequented when he had nothing to eat. They always threw out the most edible stuff.

They were silent as they walked. Ben was staring straight ahead from beside Klaus, his hood still pulled tightly over his head. Klaus glanced at him every so often, but didn't try to say anything. He didn't want to be cut off again, but he also didn't want Ben to think that he didn't care.

They arrived at the neighborhood fairly quickly, and Klaus opened up the dumpster with a quiet clang, resting his hands on the sides of it and turning to Ben, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"Ben, I-"

"It was just a bad night, okay?" He cut him off for the third time that morning, and Klaus huffed. "Sorry you had to see that, or whatever. We don't have to talk about it."

He turned away from the dumpster to fully face him. "Ben. You don't have to be…" He trailed off, searching for the right words now that Ben wasn't interrupting him. "Embarrassed. Or ashamed or anything like that." Ben moved his eyes to the ground, and Klaus sighed. "I'm serious. We were never good at heart to hearts, and we never will be, but that doesn't mean you can't talk to me about shit."

Ben tilted his head to lean against the wall, face turned towards the sky, and Klaus could've sworn that his eyes shined with tears. Could ghosts even cry? Klaus didn't know. He hadn't seen Ben cry since they were kids. Maybe it was because Ben didn't want him to see it.

"You've seen me… go through a lot of shit. You've helped me with a lot of shit. And that's not… a one-way deal okay? I'm-" He paused, clearing the lump in his throat before continuing. "I'm here for you too, asshole."

Ben huffed a laugh, uncrossing his arms and dropping them by his sides. "Yeah, yeah." He turned to face him fully. "Okay." He said softly, and Klaus nodded.

"Alright." He turned and promptly jumped into the dumpster, landing on his ass inside and making Ben huff another laugh. "Help me find something, I'm starving."

Ben rolled his eyes, but jumped inside, pointing out the least moldy options and warning him about the rat preparing to bite his ankle.

And things weren't different after that, by any means. They didn't have heart to hearts, didn't cry about their trauma together, and they definitely weren't any nicer to each other.

But there was more of a mutual understanding, almost. They knew that there could be heart to hearts. They knew that they could talk about shit with each other, since neither of them had anyone else.

And they knew that they didn't have to hide anymore.

Caring about each other wasn't a one-way deal.

[shesawriter39049]

|FAMILY TIES| M| MAFIA AU| 5

SMUT/ ANGST

FT- A lil Joon, Seok, and Yoongi 

2K SNEAK PEEK….(SHIT’S A LITTLE DARK, BUT ALSO KINDA FLUFFY)

AU SUMMARY:  A powerful alliance made up of  4 families spanning over a decade, is suddenly turned on its head when one family has a new leader after an unexpected death. Well, let’s just say he’s not down to follow the somewhat civilized rules your families have enforced. Sooo now, it’s game on…

Yall are all wanna wrap Tae in a blanket after this....

WARNINGS- For the sneak peek just no it’s a little heavy, mentions of death, overdosing, hella emotions, religion is briefly mentioned for all of one sentence! OH  there’s also a hint of fluff 

AUTHORS NOTE-I've decided part 5 will be done in 2 parts because as I’ve mentioned that’s the bridge chapter before everything kinda hits the fan! There's actually another character death planned for part 6 and yes it’s one of the boys. P1...will be around 8k and P2 will be around 6...I’m separating them because there's a lot of info and I don’t want to overload you all in one and you guys get lost! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ENDING ON PART 4 -

One thing leads to another and you found yourselves talking for a good 40 minutes or so, which wasn’t too surprising…considering all you had to debrief within the past 15 hours! Ultimately deciding to bring Henry back with you on the jet, Tae would start trying to slowly detox Henry while on this 15-hour flight. He’s done it before…he can do it again…

This time all four of you walked into the house…still dark, the stench seeming even stronger now, instantly picking up on the running water in the bathroom.

“Henry!!” Taehyung called out as he walked towards the door “Cho!!” Voice a little louder this time as he banged on the door.

Nothing, the four of you glared over at each other, as Tae pressed his ear to the door. “Henry, man open the fucking door before I beak this bitch down! We don’t have time for this shit!”

Nothing, nothing but the sound of running water rattling against the porcelain tub….

 Ramming his shoulder against the door, a  low growl ripping from his chest at every blow, after the third time the flimsy piece of wood ripped from the hinges!

The steam from the shower came pouring flooding into the hallway……The handle still in Taehyung’s hand, as it swung backward, feeling jerk back into his hold. Almost as if something was hindering it from fully swinging flush against the wall…That’s when his eyes dropped to the floor…

Part 5......

“HOLY FUCK!” It seemed to be the phrase of choice as it spilled from numerous lips… as you all fanned the smoke out of the room so you could see a little better! Frantically, Yoongi dropped down to his knees first, snatching the needle from Henry's arm tossing it into the tub, not that it mattered you all knew, and the realization was nauseating! This damn sure wasn’t your first dead body, and unfortunately not your first OD either...he was gone..long before you lot even strolled in there. Hoseok's body slumped against the back of the cracked up bathtub, feet crowning the top of Henry's head as he gazed down at him. Eyes and heart heavy, a string of words whispered low under his breath, and it took you a second to realize he was speaking in Korean. Hoseok may have actually even been praying over Henry’s body, I know, I know, in this line of work it may sound comical to some that there are members within the alliance that have some sort of faith...but some do! 

Taehyung was dead silent, he didn't have a choice, feeling as though someone had cut off every artery to his heart, completely light-headed and the smoke wasn’t helping. Well aware that if he didn't leave he’d possibly pass out, his body did not understand how to process what he was currently feeling. Everything just fucking hurt...physically hurt, it literally felt like he was the one who just shot up and every vein in his body was on fire! What made it even worse, is Taehyung's eyes accidentally graced Henry’s...and for the first time in months, he looked like Henry. Like the man Tae met four years ago that swore on his life that if they didn't kill him, he would get clean, stay clean...do whatever they needed him to do to show his gratitude. Being able to look at Henry and connect on that level should’ve almost been peaceful for Taehyung. The fact that he could see the innocence in his eyes again, as opposed to all the hurt, pain, and hell just dope! But it wasn't it fucking sucked because there wans’t any “innocence” there was no emotion Henry's dead, he’s actually fucking dead! It’s somewhat haunting to think that Taehyung came here with that on his heart, he came here to do what he did not allow himself to months ago. Yet when all the anger subsided all he could feel was hurt, and even thorough Henry’s cloudy tweaked out haze, he still couldn't do that to him. Yet at the end of the day..his body is STILL laying along the tile, cold, lifeless, to be fair Taehyung, would probably sleep better at night if he was the reason Henry sat lied this floor. The Idea that Lau did this to himself just feels like a ragged blade, continuously kneading at his skin. 

The thing that trumped every other emotion, the thing that actually made Tae sick to his stomach, was the fact that he wasn’t even aware if Henry knew why this hurt so much! If he truly knew how much he meant to Taehyung, how rare it is for him to care about some enough to spare there life not only once..but twice! 

He should be angry yet all he feels is fucking guilt, yeah, he’s the one that feels guilty right now, and all he wants to do is break every single thing around him! 

Clearly, he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn't, he keeps his feelings to himself because he worries everyone's going to despair. Yet he never told one of his friends how much he meant to him and he’s gone anyway so what the fucks the point!? Why has he been working so hard to guard every centimeter of his heart if, in reality, everyone has the same ending regardless!?  Wordlessly Tae stumbled his way out of the bathroom..everything about it just felt suffocating!

Your eyes were burning to the tenth degree as you tried your damndest not to cry, yeah you’d seen a shit ton of dead bodies, caused more than you could count...But when it’s someone from within the “Family” no matter how the scenario pans out shit just hits different. Reallll different..not even realizing you’d crouched down next to Namjoon..who had his arms tightly wound around your waist, both cursing and grieving for Henry all at the same time.

“Guys he’s...” Croaked from his throat and with a slow almost disgusted shake of the head Yoongi cut himself off mid-sentence, there was no need to say it out loud at this point. Leaning down to gently brush the pads of his overs over Henry's lids so they could actually close...maybe have him look like he was peacefully sleeping!

“GODDAMMIT LAU!!” Ripped through Mazda’s chest and felt as though it echoed throughout the entire house as he slammed is fist into the glass mirror. No one even budged upon hearing it start to shatter, your entire body tensed at the impact. Almost as if you were the one who did it yourself, probably because you really fucking wanted too as you subconsciously dug your own nails into your thigh.  Mazda was relatively quiet, always smiling and cracking jokes...much like Taehyung he was never one to yell, seeing him like this was a rarity and it broke your heart. 

Chest heaving painfully hard as he plopped down on the floor, bloop dripping onto his jeans as he sat cramped in the tiny corner, the space far too small to hold all of you. His anger was communivate, that release of pain, aggression, brokenness, it wasn’t for him. It was for his boss, best friend, the man he’s protected since they were in high school …..the man he knew was hurting whether he chose to show it or not!

That’s when it hit you that he wasn’t in the room, his silence was almost stiffening at this point as you broke away from Namjoon and scrambled off the floor. “Tae!!?”  There weren't many places he could be in his box of a house, still trying to be cautious as you maneuvered through the many bags of trash, pieces of glass,and discarded needles. The lack of response had your heart pounding into your throat at this point “Tae!!?? Taehyung!!?” The sense of panic within your voice was more than evident..you hated when he went into shut down mode like this, it scared the living hell out of you! 

The minute your feet landed on the porch and the crisp air hit your nose you almost felt as though you wanted to throw up for some reason. It suddenly hit you how light-headed you were, resting your weight against the deteriorated wood beam. Every inch of your body just felt hot and sticky, it was almost like you could feel Henry on your skin right now, and you just wanted to claw it all off. Suddenly your body just felt almost foreign to you, as if it wasn’t even yours, your first instinct was shoving off your coat! Literally tossing the piece of colored fur into the nearest bush, hoping that would give you some relief, it was probably 20 degrees outside yet you were damn near sweating! Shaky legs wobbled down the steps...slowly moving to the side of the house, “Tae!?” Silence, and you really hate silence.. “Fuckkkkk '' Hastily running your fingers through your hair, tugging slightly against your scalp..wanting the tension as you tried to wreck your brain! 

I mean he could only be so many places and now you were nervous because he’s impulsive and hot-headed and he’d be the type to just take off and walk with no clue where the hell; he was going!

Suddenly you had an idea, something you actually learned from his mother back when you guys were younger and he’d go into shut down mode like this! You slowly started walking towards the back of the house “ Tae-hyung ” This time it was softer as you put emphasise on the proper pronunciation of his name. Then you asked him where he was, and if he was okay, all in the same soft tenor. Only this time you found yourself oh so thankful that you’d picked up the language over the years! 

Opting for Korean since that is technically the first language he’s ever known so sometimes even when he’s not thinking he’ll respond on autopilot! Then,just as you were about to give up, he responded. Tentatively..and slightly hushed, it was clear he was further away than you thought… randomly you started asking him stuff. Nothing intense just random little questions so you could follow the sound of his voice and this man was damn near in the alleyway! 

Sitting in a low squat, you could already see even from a couple feet away that apparently his fist had ran into someone again. His long delicate hands were currently a bouquet of blue, red and purple. As he sat there wordlessly clenching his fist as hard as he could..wanting to amplify the pain that streamed through his veins. Aimlessly gazing straight ahead, as the wind swept through his hair, he actually looked extremely peaceful, almost like you were watching a piece of art. 

You didn't say anything as you approached him, just crouching down beside him, yet to your surprise, he actually made eye contact and fuck you wish he hadn't. You couldn't even read the expression that danced with those dark brown orbs of his...everything was just black! And what wasn’t was, completely bloodshot. Cheeks clearly tear-stained, nose red..yet he just looked empty, not sad, hurt, angry..just empty! 

Reaching up to tentatively stroke his cheek, his hand reaching yours before you could even make contract, not that you were surprised, those Kim reflexes are something else! What did have you surprised was how hard his hand was shaking once it met yours. Attempting to pull away, assuming he didn't want to be touched right now, only he tightened his grip once he felt your resistance. “Tae I-”

“I love you…”

HI, HI lol I know...I know….as I said this will be in 2 parts..I wanna actually finish the full thing before I post it though so that way I can post P2 a week or 2 later! But who knows..I have P1 more than halfway done I may just post that first and have Part 2 come when it comes...if you guys enjoyed and are excited show this some love and come lemme know!  I’m Tech on hiatus until sometimes in January but we shall see....

LOVE YOU GUYS AS ALWAYS,

ROCKI

[jessiebanethedragon]

Sweet Coffee

WARNING: Content is about suicide and loss of loved ones, also swearing. 

Isn't it lovely? Being here alone, in the dark? Doesn't the fresh air make you feel alive? I used to come here with you, in the middle of the winter when the owners had left to retreat to  somewhere warmer. If you knew where to turn, you could find the property and the side of the hill that it sits on.  If you knew where to look you could find a place that looks over the whole city.

 It smells like our life together, and for a brief moment it seems so real I could look over to the driver's seat and see you. But then the wind picks up and the smell of soft sweaters, lavender and fresh herbs is taken from me. It tastes like iced coffees, the only thing worth ordering from the drive through we always hit before coming here. And the freedom it brings is so real I can reach out and touch it. 

Sitting in a small car and staring into the depths of a city that didn't care about us was so satisfying. Like we could see all the lives that were milling about unknowing we watched over the tops of their heads in our secret special place. It's not the same without you. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye. I want to say thank you.” Was what the letter said. “I want you all to know that without everyone in my life I would’ve been dead long before this moment.” it was as eloquently written as you were spoken. All the right words in the right places to tell us what we had to hear. And I can't help but think how bad a job I would have done if it had been me writing it. Like an automated response generator, repeating the same things I'd been  told over and over. 

“Call the helpline. Dial 911 if it is a life threatening emergency. Ask a trusted person to hide away your pills so you’re not tempted by them.” All the words people told  us in order to make use of someone else's problem. “Don't call me. Call the authorities.” Don’t ask the doctors to find medications that help, just hide the ones that should be working so you don’t overdose before they can adjust you to the correct dosage. Yes, I do know that my final message would've been much more angry than yours.  

I can't remember the exact words, I ripped the thing to shreds the second I was out of sight when we got back from the hospital. No one could know I had planned my own downfall just days before your own. The guilt I feel for being so self absorbed in my own demise that I didn't notice the signs is immense, even though you specifically said not to feel at fault. Our last night together is burned into my memory. But after all, everyone around us was taught to recognize destructive behavior, our families were trained to know when we went over the edge. You and I were never given that luxury. 

“Coffee.” was all the text said at 7:34 that night. I  know because I checked the time stamp, as if I could recreate every element of the last time I saw you. It wasn't a question, it never had to be. When did either of us say no to a drive around the city at night with an iced coffee and what felt like not a care in the world? If I had known what that night meant for you, maybe I would have said no. Maybe I would have taken away your ability to say goodbye to me because I wasn't extended the same courtesy. 

“If you had to do it all again, would you?” you asked when we had settled into our spot. We didn't talk while driving, looking out the window was too much fun for conversation. But after we had parked on the edge of the hill on February the tenth, at what I guess was about ten to eight in the evening, the conversation started to pour out of us. Words spurting out, as emotional and as spirodic as a bullet wound. 

“Probably not.” I admitted, sipping the iced coffee that was just sweet enough for such a cold night. 

“I would.” you said staring at the train that was passing in the distance. “I would change everything. I’d work with every intention on changing who I've turned out to be.”Then it went quiet. 

“I think i'm hardwired this way.” I whispered. “I think even if I did it all over. I’d still end up where I am.” Brown eyes met mine before turning back to the scenery. “I think whatever created me, the universe, god, whatever it was,” I paused, releasing the implication of what was saying, a breath, a beat went by before I continued. Knowing that whatever I said, you’d still be there after. “I think whatever designed my DNA chiseled in that I wasn't meant to be happy. If my life is ended ‘prematurely’.”  I added bouncing finger air quotes. “It's only that way because that's what fate wanted.” 

“Fuck fate then.” You replied. And we both shared a chuckle as I leaned my head on the rest behind me, closing my eyes with a smile. 

“Yeah, fuck fate.” 

It takes one beer to get me buzzed, it’s enough to feel calm but not enough to make me loopy, so I can keep my indulgences to myself.  I like to think  you’d approve, me having a beer before your funeral. It’s rebellious, and it tastes bitter with that little fizz. Just like you. 

As a person who only ever wears black, I can say that the colour didn't seem comforting today. My mother squeezes my shoulder, pushing me forward into the church. It angers me,  you weren't religious, you were baptized as a courtesy to your grandparents. You would not want to be buried here. If I had my way I'd take your ashes and spread them across the world. Leaving a part of you in the depths of each corner of the planet. A representation of how ingrained you were into my world. But that's selfish. And I was raised not to be selfish. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”  People say as I pass them, pulling me into their arms, touching my hair, arms, face and anywhere else they think is appropriate. When in fact every touch makes me want to scream and every time someone says “I can't imagine what you’re going through.” I can't help but agree.

Everyone else fades away when I see  your mother. The likeness so obvious now, it's like a punch to the gut. The times we spent together flash before my eyes, driving with the music too loud, her making us the special breakfast that's only allowed on sleepover days. And I can tell she feels the same because when our eyes meet she stops talking. I know I am the last living embodiment of her daughter, and the similarities between us are clearer now than ever. 

I throw myself into her arms because she's the only one who makes me feel whole again. 

“It should've been me.” I whisper to her, my head and mind buried into  her shoulder, hiding my emotions. “It should've been me, I deserved it, I should have been me.” I repeat it over and over again, my mantra breathed aloud as if it's the last thing i'll ever say. 

“Oh honey” she cries, brushing my hair soothingly.  “It shouldn't have been either of you.”

“I-I-I” I sob out, forgetting how many people can see me meltdown  “Feel, I feel, so, so, g-g-ultiy.” I feel someone's arm around me, I can tell from the smell it is my dad, he always wears the same cologne. He's gently leading me outside into the fresh air. The wind is making me chilly, enhancing the feeling of emptiness inside me. 

“I found your note.” he whispers, somehow we find a bench, one that overlooks the entire cemetery. I look at him, and his eyes give away how I look. Red eyes, mascara in streams down my face, covered by foundation. I look like a doll, ceramic perfection, save for the giveaway of black streaks and puffy eyes. 

“I ripped it up.”  I stutter out. As if that is an excuse, what I really want to say is ‘don't be mad dad, I threw it away, so that means I’m fine now, right?’

“I know, I found the pieces. I just” he pauses,  he’s always so concrete with his words. Now is no different. “I wanted to say how proud I am of you, for having the strength to do that, for sticking around.” 

“I can't promise anything.” I say, my family knows all too well how often my strength fails. 

“You don't need to.” He murmurs with soft eyes. “I can't explain how much I love you, and I can't explain what it's like seeing you in pain. I can see you burning up like a supernova before it collapses. And everytime you choose to stay you amaze me, and you just lost the person who was most important to you. People who have been through less have taken things much worse than you are.” He takes a breath, “I knew this guy at school, we were like 23 at the time. Partying, skipping classes, the usual. His dad passed away during the second semester. Heart attack.” I notice the tears in his eyes, welling up steadily as the memory becomes more and more clear. 

“That's so sad” I say to fill the silence.

“Gets worse. My buddy, he took his own life after the event. Just couldn't cope, never got his degree, never graduated. His girlfriend was a mess for so long, his mum even more so.” he wipes away the wetness with a sniff. 

“Dad, I'm so sorry.'' I say with my whole heart. 

“What I mean is, you always stay because you ignore your pain for fear of hurting others. And that makes me so damn proud of you.” I lean into him for a hug, and I wonder why he's kept that story hidden for so long. I don't question it, we all have our secrets after all. But this moment, right here on an old bench with my dad. This, I will treasure. 

The rest of the funeral was largely uneventful. Everyone had stories to share. Many tissues were used and even more hugs ensued. My best friend's life is recounted in the space of a few hours. Every memorable detail shared to the fullest extent, and then she is laid to rest in the ground, surrounded by people she didn't know. The only thing that isn't present is her letter. It’s mentioned, but not read. There are words and phrases that I recognize. “Don’t lose yourself  to my loss”  or  “ I give myself to the earth, the wind and the heavens, because there is no pain in the deepest of forests and the warmest of oceans.” But at the end of the letter, the gut-wrenching final goodbye is left out. Not that it matters, no one needed to hear those words, except maybe me. On the car ride home I close my eyes and picture the papers in my head. Page after page of apologies, memories, and everything in between. 

“To my best friend, sister and lifeline,” I could hear your voice as my eyes drifted across the paper. “You will feel the most guilty, I know this. But I need you to push those feelings away, there is not anything you should have or could have done. I know it is going to be hard, maybe impossible even. And I write this for you because I know as I jot down my farewell, you’re in your bed, underneath a pile of blankets whispering over and over, ‘Death is permanent, this feeling isn't.’ I know this may be a mistake, and I know you’re depressed, anxious and obsessive. But you need to stop apologizing to everyone for being that way. I mean, it's hardwired into you right? Or at least I know that's what you think. But even those who are made to be a certain way, it doesn't stop them from living the best they can. Don’t follow me, don't give up your life for one person. If you don't want to stick around for them, stick around for me. Because you’re going to have to live for two from now on. I know it’s shitty to put that burden on you, but I know you need it. Living wasn't your plan, living for two people was even supposed to happen. But fuck fate right?” 

[liamtsullivan]

{ self para - 001 }

“ identity cannot be found or fabricated but emerges from within when one has the courage to let go. ” -- doug cooper

{ TW's: mentions of prostitution / mentions of violence against sex workers; mentions of child predatory behavior; mentions of teenage intimacy; general sexual identity struggle; mentions of drug use / addiction } 

ooc; i’ll be honest i went heavy on the warnings because i want everyone to take care of themselves; it’s some deep / complicated shit but it’s not extremely wild. but please do what you gotta do to take care of yourselves, babies.

AGE 6 ( Las Vegas, Nevada ) --

It’s late and Liam’s supposed to be in bed. Mommy’s not home yet, and it’s one in the morning; he knows because he looked at the numbers on the digital clock sitting on the floor beside their bed - a mattress with no bed frame, settled in the corner of their small bedroom. He’s sitting up coloring, and Miss Tiffany hasn’t come to check on him in at least three hours, probably assuming he’s asleep, only he’s not. Which is why he hears the front door swing open. Loudly.

“That mother fucker.” That’s Miss Wendy; she’s always loud, says all the bad words.

There’s sniffling that Liam hears next, soft whimpers that make the six year old’s head lift, wide blue eyes blinking toward the closed bedroom door.

“We should’ve taken her to the hospital. Damn it.” That’s Mommy, he recognizes immediately. She sounds worried; she gets that way sometimes when he hears things he’s not supposed to hear in the apartment, but this isn’t about him this time.

Shuffling off of the mattress, Liam leaves his Batman coloring book and jumbo sized crayolas behind him, slowly easing the bedroom door open. The crying is louder now, and from where he’s standing, he can see that it’s Miss Jeanie that’s crying. He can see that she’s got small, circular red marks up and down her arm; ones that weren’t there before when she was home that afternoon. They look like they hurt, Liam thinks, those little red marks. They shine in the light, and he thinks for a second ‘I don’t think that’s right’ because his skin’s never shone like that before, never been so glaringly red before, either.

As he slowly creeps closer, he notices miss Tiffany scrambling with a first aid kit, and she’s muttering under her breath about ‘calling the fucking cops on that bastard.’ Liam’s not sure what that means or what’s going on, but he knows that something’s wrong, he can read that well enough.

“Calling the cops wouldn’t have done shit, they don’t give a damn. They wouldn’t-- Give me that burn ointment. Get the gauze out of the medicine cabinet. Fucking hell.” Miss Wendy is barking angry orders, which is once again not entirely unusual, but it’s a scene to behold all the same.

Minutes go by, the three women - Miss Wendy, Miss Tiffany, and Mommy - all skittering across the floor, taking care of Miss Jeanie, comforting her, cleaning the red marks on her arms, wrapping them in bandages. He hears more swears in those ten minutes than he hears in a whole week - whatever happened, it was bad, it was scary.

He’s hugging the frame of the doorway into the living room space when Stephanie finally turns around and sees him there.

“Liam,” There’s a crack in her voice, and the little boy shuffles impossibly closer to the wooden framing he’s already clung to as she looks at him with wide eyes and drops down to his level. “You’re supposed to be in bed, what are you doing up, it’s so late, Liam. You need to go to bed.”

Her words are hurried, rushed, blending together, and there’s tears in her eyes. Liam frowns - bordering on a pout, lips pursed and brow furrowed.

“Mommy, why are you crying?” He asks; and he’s concerned - Mommy doesn’t let him see her cry very often. He’s heard it sometimes, when she’s in the living room, or talking to one of the other girls, or when she’s taking a shower. But he doesn’t see it often. 

His small hands lift to touch her cheeks and Stephanie lets out a stuttering sigh.

“It’s okay, baby bear, Mommy’s okay.” She turns and kisses his fingers. “Everything’s okay.”

Liam looks passed her at where Miss Jeanie and Miss Tiffany have moved to the couch. Miss Wendy is outside, on her fourth consecutive cigarette. Miss Jeanie is still crying softly while she lays on Miss Tiffany who’s petting her hair gently and shushing her. It’s not uncommon for them, this sort of scene, but it is uncommon for Liam to witness it.

“Is Miss Jeanie okay?” The little boy asks, hands falling from his mother’s face. “Did she get hurt?”

Stephanie hesitates but nods her head. “Yeah, someone hurt her, but she’s okay. We’re takin’ care of her, okay? Don’t worry.”

“Was it John?”

Liam’s brow creases deeply as his mother lets out something of a whimper at his question. He didn’t mean to upset her more. Stephanie’s trying as hard as she can fucking manage to keep it together; because god, if it doesn’t absolutely fucking break her heart to hear that her child hears what they talk about in this house, what they’re doing. Even if he’s got the details wrong - there’s no John, only a John, multiple John’s. He had so little understanding of what was going on, and yet he had enough understanding to know that something was.

“I don’t want you to worry, alright?” The woman’s hand lifts to push back through Liam’s dark hair. “My sweet boy. Don’t you worry.”

Liam blinks at his mother, and while he doesn’t know what’s going on - doesn’t have a clue that the little shiny red dots on Miss Jeanie’s arms are cigarette burns, doesn’t have the faintest idea that Mommy and the other girls are putting themselves in different potential dangers every night, doesn’t remotely understand yet that this isn’t a normal life experience - he still nods his little head when his mother asks him. When she asks him;

“Do you promise to stay sweet forever? Never hurt anyone? Can you promise me that, baby bear?”

AGE 10 ( Las Vegas, Nevada ) --

Staying with Jeanie isn’t strange. They don’t live with her anymore, haven’t for a handful of years now, but she and Mom still work together so it wasn’t totally unusual for Liam to see her still. Wendy and Tiff were out of the picture now. At the respective times of their leaving his life, Liam had thought that was probably for the better.

He’s more aware of the culture of what his mom is doing now. More aware of the ins and outs of the process. More aware of the fact that it isn’t just about making money on a night with a John anymore. After all, it wasn’t the sex work that had her overdosing.

There was a ‘make yourself at home, honey’ that Jeanie gave him when he had first arrived. The uncomfortable feeling hadn’t kicked in right away. He knows Jeanie, she’s been there pretty much all his life. So the change of pace is unexpected.

By change of pace, it’s the way she lays her legs across his lap while they’re sitting on the couch. It’s the casual caress of the back of his head when she walks by him while he sits there. It’s the fact that she’s standing in the doorway to the bedroom he’s sleeping in after he’s gotten out of the shower and is in his underwear, about to pull a shirt over his head.

“You’re already so grown up, you know that?” She says, leaning in the doorway.

Liam thinks it’s a little strange, because why is she there? But he nods. He’s polite. And admittedly, he’s a little bit in a daze still, because his mom fucking overdosed this afternoon, and is spending the night in the hospital getting her stomach pumped, and he has zero fucking clue what tomorrow looks like following something like that.

He also has zero fucking clue why Jeanie is coming closer to him, why her hands are finding his shoulders and kneading there and she’s murmuring something to him about ‘being there for him.’ The connection isn’t there. He understands what they do, this job of theirs, but he doesn’t understand what Jeanie is doing. Because now she’s talking about Nick, some boy two grades above her that she knew when she was Liam’s age. They used to hide in one of the lesser used girl’s bathrooms at school and learn about each other. Liam’s young, but he’s not stupid, he knows what that means, he’s also realizing that this has little to do with him. Jeanie’s had some wine - a lot, actually, by the smell of it as she breathes in his space - and she’s under stress because her friend just overdosed, among other things, and--

He watched something on TV the other day; they used the word stressor. He wonders if that’s what this is. She’s downward spiraled into something she didn’t really intend to do, didn’t really plan for.

She doesn’t touch him more - despite small effort on her part; he’s not interested. Not only is it uncomfortable, but even any physiological response isn’t there. Whatever ‘growing boy needs’ she refers to don’t ignite a familiarity in Liam’s brain, they don’t ignite any curiosity, so she gives up. And he’s fine. He is. Because after that, she’s apologizing. She’s crying and she’s calling herself an idiot, and she’s saying that there’s something wrong with her and Liam, at his core, can’t agree with that, because having bad things happen in life doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with a person.

He knows that.

She shares the bed with him, and it’s strange but it’s not at the same time. He and his mom live in a studio apartment on their own now. They’ve shared a bed all his life. This isn’t his mom, though, it’s Jeanie. And the whole circumstance is confusing, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do when her arm is laid over him and she’s sniffling gently against his shoulder, and looking for some kind of comfort from a child that doesn’t fully know how to offer it.

But he gently traces the familiar little circular scars on her arm with his fingertips until she falls asleep.

He tells Mom about what happened a couple days later.

And he never goes back to Jeanie’s house again.

AGE 15 ( Los Angeles, California ) --

There’s a gentle panting coming and going between Liam’s lips still as he’s coming back down, flopping against his twin bed. Isabelle stands from where she’s settled between his knees and flops back beside him. He should pull his pants back on and he knows it, but he’s lost in thought - as fucking weird as that might sound for a teenage boy who just got his first blowjob.

It’s one of those things, though. There’s been a number of moments where Liam can’t quite figure how he feels about something. He can’t quite figure if he likes something. This experimentation has been going on with Isabelle for about three months now, and he’s learning things. They both are. He makes her feel good, she does the same, but there’s... A disconnect. There’s something missing.

He wonders if it’s him.

He wonders if it’s because they’re only fifteen and maybe they started this all too soon. But then he thinks, no, no that isn’t it. Because sex is something he’s familiar with, something he’s become desensitized to. Maybe not from experience, but definitely from exposure.

Considering.

It’s over the course of the next handful of months that it starts to dawn on Liam that the reason it feels off is because he doesn’t actually want to be being physical. He is, though. Because that’s what teenagers do. Because girls find him attractive. Because the guys in the locker room are talking about it after football practice. Because it’s normal. It’s expected.

He’s still fifteen when he loses his virginity. And he doesn’t care. Granted, that’s always struck him as something that effects girls more than it effects guys, anyway, but he doesn’t care. He did it. He did it because he thought that was what he was supposed to do. That it was some sort of milestone. That he would get used to it.

For the span of a few days, Liam wonders if it’s specific to girls. There’s a party that someone from another school is having, and a couple of his buddies invite him along. He kisses a boy there, testing it out, seeing if maybe this is where the disconnect lies.

There’s messy, fumbling hands down the front of jeans, there’s the press of bodies back into the edge of a bathroom counter. There’s the heavy breaths and the shaky groans.

But there’s still not what Liam was looking for. There’s still not an answer.

Because he doesn’t hate the touching or the kissing or the sleeping together.

But he also doesn’t want it. Not the way he hears people talk about. Not the way his health teacher implies hormones make it all work for them. He doesn’t want it.

He’s not sure, at this point, what he’s supposed to do with that, though.

AGE 19 ( Los Angeles, California; UCLA campus ) --

“Why don’t you ever want to have sex with me?”

The question is nearly enough to startle Liam, but he manages to stay relatively composed, simply blinking blue eyes in his girlfriend’s direction. Liza’s got a stern, questioning look on her face, and he can’t really figure out why. Or figure out her question.

They had sex yesterday, is the thing.

So he says so, points it out. He can’t imagine that she somehow forgot considering it was less than twenty four hours ago. The brunette huffs in something like exasperation at the reply, however.

“You never want to have sex with me, though.” She argues.

Liam’s head tilts, he can’t quite help it. He’s not an argumentative person, not typically anyway, but there’s something in that accusation that doesn’t sit right. “If you think I don’t want to do it, but then we’re doing it anyway, I think we have bigger problems, Liza...”

“You know what I mean, Liam.” She snaps.

“Actually, I’m not totally sure that I do. Hence this conversation.” His voice is level; he’s not picking a fight, he’s stating a fact.

If he’s honest he’s not even totally sure where this is coming from. He and Liza had been dating for the last five months and things seemed to be going pretty well for them. They liked each other enough. She was loud and confident and took the reigns in their relationship a lot. That was how they ended up sleeping together after only a month of dating. Four months had gone by since then, and given her very open and vocal attraction to Liam, it was safe to say there had been plenty more since.

Which raised the current questions.

“Every time I want us to have sex, it’s me. I’m the one making that call, it’s me that has to suggest it or instigate it, or whatever.” Liza begins.

Ah. He gets it now.

And there’s no argument he can offer now, because he knows that she’s right. It had never really struck Liam as becoming a potential problem - and perhaps that was narrow-minded of him. The fact of the matter was that he didn’t desire what she did all the time, he didn’t have that drive.

Doesn’t. Still.

He likes Liza, he cares about her a lot; he wouldn’t have spent five months of his life dating her otherwise. There’s no arguing, though, that he’s different about their intimacy than he is. His attraction to her is different than her attraction to him. She tells him he’s beautiful all the time, that he’s hot, that he’s distracting to look at. Of course there’s other things in there, too, ones that don’t just have to do with what he looks like, but he correlates them now.

Because his attraction to Liza comes from the fact that she’s loud, that she’s confident, and herself. His attraction to Liza came from the fact that she made him laugh four minutes into a conversation with him. His attraction to Liza came from seeing her passion for her studies, the way she dedicated herself to the things that she wanted.

And sure, he likes that she finds him physically attractive. He can recognize that Liza is a beautiful girl - wavy brown hair, green eyes that lighten up when she’s talking about something she loves. But his feelings have never come from a place of physicality. His place in their relationship has never stemmed from physical attraction. He’s never cared much one way or the other about what they did with one another physically.

She does, though. She likes being physical with him. She likes the intimacy of their bodies together, of making one another feel good. She likes to express her feelings in a way that doesn’t require words all the time. And Liam doesn’t fault her for that - how could he? That was normal.

But he doesn’t feel those same things.

It’s not exclusive to Liza. Liam doesn’t look at other girls or guys and think that he’s missing something. He doesn’t think that maybe he might enjoy himself in that circumstance with someone else. It isn’t like that. It’s never been like that. He’s experimented, he’s gone out of comfort zones, he’s done things for people because it’s what they want, and he wants to keep them happy. It’s what he’s been doing with Liza, isn’t it?

So when she says that she’s done - that because he can’t explain it to her, that because there’s no ‘making sense of it’ - he apologizes. He says that he’s sorry, but he doesn’t fight to keep her there.

It’s not like he can give her what she’s really looking for.

AGE 21 ( Los Angeles, California; UCLA campus ) --

Liam’s been throwing a word around for about eight months now. He took a Human Sexuality class last semester - curiosity, some answers, maybe just a vague interest in what he could learn from the subject, he couldn’t figure. It was an interesting class, though. And it helped. In ways he didn’t expect. Because that was where this word came from.

He says it out loud to himself sometimes, getting a feel for it. Immediately after the subject came up in class, he’d done a deep dive on the internet. Maybe to see if it was real, if it was something people actually knew existed. Maybe to self identify. Whatever it was, that had kind of helped some, too.

He reads it in forums, talks to a couple people from them because he’s not totally sure that it’s something he wants to throw out in the open yet. It’s a big thing, throwing a label on yourself, giving people a definition of you. Liam knows that.

He’s been so focused on school and on work and on helping his mom that it hasn’t stressed him out much. 

He broke up with his third college girlfriend about a month ago, but he didn’t really feel it anymore. Things weren’t perfect there. Every time he thinks of Vivian his brain just circles back to this word he’s got now anyway.

Asexual.

He remembers it from Biology class, talking about plant cell division and shit. Which is embarrassing, because of all the things to remember when finally finding something he might identify with, it had to be fucking plants, didn’t it? There’s a lot on the internet about asexuality, and it’s all kind of on this spectrum, Liam’s come to find.

It’s the first time he’s really felt like he’s not fundamentally fucked up, though. It’s the first time that he’s realized that he’s not the only person in the world that feels - or doesn’t feel - this way. Which, deep down, he’s smart enough to figure that it’s pretty impossible with the sheer amount of people alive on the planet that he’s the only one. But seeing it made a difference. Hearing from other people who feel the same way made a difference.

He’s been really figuring this all out, this being asexual thing. He feels comfortable with it. For the first time it really is something he can put his finger on. He doesn’t have a sex drive. He doesn’t experience sexual attraction. It happens. He’s not the only one.

It’s nice. In a weird way. To feel like he knows why now.

He’s talked to this girl online; she’s nice, he calls them friends to himself. She realized when she was sixteen that she didn’t want to have sex. Liam relates to her in more ways than he thought he could. Her name is Heather, and she’s from Washington, and he thinks about going to Seattle to meet her someday. If only to thank her for giving him someone to talk through these things with. If only for being herself.

She grew up with a single dad, and Liam recognizes the mild irony in the fact that he grew up with a single mom. However, Heather’s dad is a contractor. He’s never been in close to the same positions that Liam’s mom has been - but how many people really had been, anyway? He tells Heather about his upbringing; what his mom used to do, where they used to live, the way that sexual intimacy has been like a static white noise that numbs the back of his mind. It’s there, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t do anything for him. He can talk about it, he can make himself do it.

But it’s not for him.

She apologizes to him, tells him that she can’t imagine living a life like that. She says ‘that must have been hard’ and Liam thinks that it wasn’t really. He didn’t have a hard life, his life was just different. He was still coming out on the other side alright.

Better now, with this.

AGE 26 [ current ] ( Chicago, Illinois ) --

It’s Pride Month and that’s always felt like a cool time for Liam. He’s got friends and has known a number of people of varying sexual identities and orientations, and it’s a happy time for them. He gets it. Feeling like celebrating your identity. Even if he didn’t for a long time.

He’s not wild about it. He doesn’t parade about, he doesn’t post on social media. He keeps the simple black band ring on his right middle finger. He doesn’t act any different than he normally would. If it comes up, it comes up, and he’s fine with that.

A few weeks back a girl in the bar really hinted at him that she thought they could ‘have a fun night together.’ It was bold, he’d given her that. He’d also, however, told her exactly what she was getting herself into. Or more what she wasn’t getting into, rather.

He’s not embarrassed to say it. It’s been years since he learned the word, since he found this name to a truth about himself. He’s felt freer, somehow, in that time. Having something to call it. Having knowledge of where these feelings - or lack thereof - have come from for most of his life.

It’s Pride Month and he knows that he’s got something to feel prideful for. He knows that he can stand up and shout from rooftops if he wanted to that he’s asexual and that it’s real and that it’s valid.

He doesn’t. He’s passed the point of really needing to.

Still, it’s nice that it’s there.

[back-in-wyoming]

Hey guys. Been a while. Hope you’re all doing ok. ***Trigger warnings under the keep reading line.

I want to update all of you, especially in regards to what plans I have for this blog which is that I’m deleting it and everything related to it. If any of you want some of the names I have set aside, message me and we’ll make it work. 

If you want to keep in contact, we can talk. 

This post will be taken down in 24hrs. After that, blog deleted with everything else. 

TW: Sexual assault, mental illness, abuse

I don’t use this space much anymore because around five years ago, I started having flashbacks to traumatic instances I experienced young. And once that started to unravel it was hard to function.

I distracted myself with things I thought were important because I couldn’t handle seeing anything else in focus. It wasn’t until recently that I could put some sort of timeline together. I do have flashbacks, not enough to call it a chronic issue or anything but they happen. I was almost fired from my job at the time a few times for being late as my nights and days slowly reversed and I couldn’t physically get up in the morning. Around that time, I don’t believe I really knew how to communicate kindly with others or truly consider the consequences of my actions. I distanced myself from myself, not assuming real responsibility. I was clingy. Overly sensitive. Always fearful. Angry. I couldn’t see myself in focus. I can sit here and say I never learned how to take responsibility, that I grew up with parents who had unchecked mood disorders, addictions, and unhealthy behavior and coping mechanisms and it would be true but that alone can’t unburn bridges or close a gap of five years silence.

I thought I understood myself then. I thought I knew emotions, especially my own. I didn’t. And I didn’t realize how risky I had become, throwing myself away, stacking to try and loose weight quick, drinking to the point of blacking out and doing it again as soon as I had the chance.

Four years ago, Dec. 2016, I was sexually assaulted in my home. I shut down entirely for a month or two. Went through the motions. I was taking writing prompts knowing they were never going to be written. I thought I could restart somehow, like I’d snap out of it, that I’d feel something again. My partner was instrumental in helping me survive the winter and spring.

The following year, we lost the house. 

My mother wound up in the hospital and has been in and out. Her addiction to narcotics nearly cost her her life twice since moving. We went through a long process to get all of her care localized finally after her latest stint in the hospital mom for overdose and encephalophy and dad for some kind of obstruction in his intestines (second time having that). During that time, I had one car, two jobs to get to, and all of the medical paperwork and doctor visits for both parents. 

I had a nervous breakdown a week or two before COVID-19 really kicked up which is when all of the above happened. I checked myself into a partial hospitalization program, left for being accused of lying, and found a better therapist whom I adore. 

It was after that I was diagnosed with bipolar I a.k.a. manic depression. For those of you who aren’t familiar with it, it’s a mood disorder marked by intense highs and lows with the highs potentially triggering psychosis depending on the severity of the episode (unfortunately, I do suffer from mild paranoia which does tend to be triggered by Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria). People with bipolar I are distant, very in their head, unpredictable mood wise sometimes. It’s also been discussed that I may have PMDD as well. Basically, my brain is just trying to outright off me at this point. All of that said, the second reason I’m making this post is because I wanted to apologize to anyone I hurt during that very weird, confusing, and anger filled time in my life only to be followed by years silence. 

I didn’t forget you.

You did nothing wrong.

You didn’t deserve that. No one does. I don’t expect for this to make anyone forgive me. I’ve been trying to figure out how to get a message across but never considered that I don’t know how to make that right. I don’t think I can. 

Even if I had the chance, I’m not entirely sure I’d know what to do with it. I see old friends and they’re good. Like, they’re really really good and happy and I just... didn’t quite get there. And I dragged people down and I’m terrified of responding to messages. Terrified of fucking up, terrified of writing even the smallest responses because I just can’t... handle things. The what if’s. The fear. It’s embarrassing. Shameful. For me. I feel slower than everyone else. Learning things too late, things that I personally feel I should’ve known and remember by now.

It’s just really... hard. To not apologize. To feel sorry for existing. Looking back, it is hard to not feel those things. To just want to erase it from existence because you miss it and it hurts and you put the space there, not anyone else. Because you didn’t really say anything of worth when you had the chance because right when you needed someone, they were already driven away by all the shit you put them through.

you can’t blame them. 

and i guess this blog is really one of the last remaining archives, for me, of that person who just pushed and pushed and pushed and didn’t know when to stop. 

i want to be a better person. i’m doing my best. and i apologize for all those years of silence. i hope you’re all taking care of yourselves. be safe.