#Saline Spray for Nose

[anangelcalledinquisitor]

New three-word horror story. "Menthol-flavored nasal spray."

(I have now recovered. I had nothing but regrets.)

[presidentalpaca]

strongly debating if i should explain to my ENT why i brought up that im a singer. it's bc when you sing, you want for air to travel unobstructed out of both your nose and mouth. when you use your upper range, or brighter tones, or softer notes, or belting, you'll frequently need your nose to be clear.

ive put a lot of stress on my vocal chords in the past bc i was putting too much effort into getting the sound out. bc it was literally being muffled.

when my nose is blocked, all the freaking time, the air cant pass through, and i can't relax those muscles as i should. and i can't just live like that for the rest of my life.

like, i know he clearly knows how all the cavities and muscles work. but idk if he knows the mechanics that go into singing, and how that translates to my physical health. i dont want to talk down to him, but i also want to make it so SO clear how vital fixing my congestion issues is.

[flatoatchi]

why did i decide to get a piercing in the most skincare-needing spot of my face

[likeawolfatthemoon]

i bought this tea this morning

bc i was getting bored of just green tea and i am compulsively making tea to put the warm mug on my sinuses to soothe them

ive had four cups of it today it's so good

[wylansworkshop]

I'm so congested right now I don't know if I'll be able to fall asleep

[possibly-in-wonderland]

i cant breathe

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

Pounding

Summary: Reader has a migraine, and Spencer wants to help.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Hurt/comfort

Content warnings: none

Word count: 1.2k

The transition of seasons is something that has to be endured. It’s the time when you wake up to frost on your windshield in the morning but must remove your coat by the time you leave work. It is a painful time of inconsistency, especially for your sinuses. Not only with the pollen in the air (as well as on your car at all times) but the dryness as well. It causes your headaches to go from sometimes once a month to now twice a week.

And the first one happens this week, today. The migraine descended on you like a storm, brewing from your nasal cavities, its relentless waves of pain crashing against the shores of your temples. With each throb, the world around you seemed to blur and spin.

You shut the door to your apartment and let your bag fall from your shoulder, with no care with where it lands. Light, food, the smell of home is all too much to bear. With a sigh, you shuffle to the sanctuary of your room and bask in the silence while you can still control it. You unleash yourself from your business casual attire and fall into bed, nestling yourself under the covers.

The darkness relieves pressure, only slightly. It will probably be hours before it has settled, so you think it is best to call it a night now at 5:56 in the evening. There was no point in doing anything else as streetlights alone from the windows have proven to be enough to make the back of your eyes ache. You remained still, motionless, unmoved. Minutes could stretch well into hours without your knowledge.

Until the sound of the front door opened, cutting through the quiet. Spencer was home, which means it’s 6:06 now. The creaking floors from his aged apartment tell you he goes to the kitchen first, the sink runs, then his steps only grow closer to you until you can feel his presence at your back. “Migraine?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

It drains all energy and motivation out of you, so you merely nod in response. He’s more than familiar with severe head pain; chronic migraines that were resolved with a vitamin regimen. Fortunately, he has yet to complain about them bothering you in the year you’ve been together. And he never leaves home without them.

Unfortunately, this makes him eager to figure out your head pains. Last spring, he left out an array of vitamins in a pill organizer. They didn’t. It wasn’t an issue at first. It was clear he was trying to help. The downside of your boyfriend being a child prodigy and objective genius is that he will never back down from a challenge, even when you have asked him to. He can’t do it. Later in the month, he came home one day with an array of tea brands, mostly ginger and peppermint. He’s bought humidifiers, massaged the cartilage of your nose, and even consulted Reddit. It’s certainly worn down your patience, especially when you require complete silence.

“I can get you some hot compresses from the pharmacy if you want.” He jumps in completely. The last three words are merely to cushion the obvious; reiterating the point rather than saying something like, “I’ve had headaches before. I know how awful they are, so you should let me help you.” Which he’s also said.

You continue the annoying pattern by shaking your head with an audible moan. Opening your eyes hurts.

“What about nasal spray or decongestant? I can get those at the pharmacy as well.”

“I don’t need anything from the pharmacy. I took ibuprofen. Just need to keep my eyes closed.”

“Well, that can only help so much today. Saline will help encourage drainage and expansion in the vessels. Ibuprofen solves the head pain, not the root problem.”

“Unless the BAU can order planting fruit trees, it’s the best we can do.”

“What I’m trying to say is—”

You groan louder. “This isn’t a time for solutions, Spencer.”

Another unfortunate aspect of your relationship is that you can feel the way Spencer’s face softens from your tone. He then mutters out an apology, a brief sorry, but he doesn’t leave. He touches your shoulder and keeps his hand there until you turn to face him. And because you love him very much, you strain to open your eyes. You can make out a blur of his silhouette in the growing darkness, but still see clearly his glossy eyes and the quirk of his lips. “Can you do something for me first, though? Real quick?”

Before you answer, his hand slides toward your upper back, meaning you have to sit up for this. You were ready to say something along the line that he’s lucky you love him right now and leave it at that because thinking further made the pressure in your temples increase. 

You didn’t have to speak at all, though. Because Spencer is also holding a glass of water in front of you. You look up at Spencer’s puppy-eyed silhouette. “Not a solution,” he says softly. “It’s something you always need.”

Well, if that didn’t make you feel like an asshole. You accepted the glass without a word, feeling the coolness against your palm as you brought it to your lips. Each sip, at the very least, a distraction from the throbbing. Spencer watches you closely. You had no choice but to finish the whole glass. And you did, leaving Spencer satisfied enough as he took the glass and walked out.

You didn’t say a word. The sink ran again, and Spencer returned with another full glass. He doesn’t hand it to you, instead puts it on the nightstand before turning precariously on his heels. It takes you a second through half-closed eyes to realize he’s walking back out. You’re afraid to ask, wondering if you’ve made him too upset to talk. You push yourself and do so anyway, keeping your tone in mind. “Where are you going?”

Spencer turns on his heels once more, looking around momentarily like there were others in the room. He then looks at you. “I figured you wanted to be alone.”

You reach out, moving through the pain quite literally, and you catch the polyester of his cardigan just between your fingers and pull him closer until you can wrap your arms around him. You hold your breath, knowing the intense smell of his laundry detergent would be enough to collapse down to your pillow in further pain. His cardigan is soft against your face. “Do you have other stuff to do?”

He chuckles, his abdomen bounces. So, he’s not too mad. “I do not.”

Encouraged by his response, you tug him gently (and not so gracefully) into bed. He’s delightfully warm. Spencer kicks off his shoes in response before pulling you close. Then you bury your face into his chest, hesitant to breathe in the scent of cedar that clings to the cardigan. You try best to ignore it as you cocoon yourselves beneath the blankets, finding refuge in each other’s company amidst the inner turmoil that comes with spring. You listen to the steady rhythm of Spencer’s heartbeat, and find a fleeting sense of peace in the storm.

[navillee]

Zayne's subtle sub behavior pt. III

Let's bring some specific scenarios, shall we? What if Zayne is a secret sucker for your scent?

Back to the first appointment you had with Zayne after long years no see, even though he called out his own bluntness towards you out after you had left the doctor's chambers, there's another detail that kept taunting him other than his own behavior: your perfume. You see, Zayne isn't the type that has the best sense of smell, not when his nose got so habituated with the permanent smell of hand sanitizer, saline solution, and literally organs. He didn't even use a cologne, not after he watched a nauseous patient throwing up at Greyson's white coat in his internal days, at least. However, when you open the door, the vicious aroma filled up the entire chamber, imbuing Zayne's brain into an obsessed state that led him to act, as he would say, outside his own expectations.

As he headed home that day, all he could think was you. How you're even more beautiful then he could remember, how he could listen to your heart beat through the stethoscope – the reason because he became what he is now – his stupid nervousness that made it difficult to break the ice – quite literally – and that even more stupid cologne of yours. He wasn't able to focus properly for the rest of the day, and some voice at the back of his mind told him that the feeling would get worse when he got home.

One hour after diligent obsession, he made up an entire list with perfumes that presented in the description, the same aroma he felt emanating out of your skin. But it was nothing but innocent curiosity, it shouldn't cross any silly behavior out of him beyond that, right?

Two days after, before getting to the hospital, he saw himself at a perfumary. The excuse was that he needed to buy a cologne to himself, but ops! Why is Zayne standing on the feminine section, asking for the employee about some really specific perfumes? "Is that for your girlfriend?" His ears blushed, looking around while trying to find your scent, between every sample brought by the seller. "Just an old friend." He answers when he finally finds the one that matches exactly with the aroma that had him crazy two days prior.

He ended up buying it together with a masculine one that matches yours perfectly. At least, it was what the seller said so.

When he gets home that same day, he finds himself staring at the perfume bottle, unsure of what to do with that. He sprayed a little in his wrists, closing his eyes automatically as he inhaled the aroma. A long and heavy sigh left his throat, his muscles tensing up as he finds himself in such a pathetic situation as this one. What was in his mind now? He was acting like an obsessed perv!

Even though the perfume was objectively the same, something was missing. Even better putting: someone's missing. The scent of the perfume was good, he isn't denying that. But it wasn't divine as it felt on you.

Maybe your skin components bring out the scent differently from how it does on his wrist. Or even can be the fact that what droves him crazy two days prior was more to do with the concentration of your natural body sweat mixed with a small concentration of cologne.

Oh, poor doctor Zayne, even though he felt that sharp feeling of frustration on his guts, that didn't stop him from spraying your perfume on his bedsheets, letting him be enveloped by the closest he could get from your scent now.

He felt so relaxed that it didn't take long for him to fall asleep. So serene, damped in dreams about being closer to your, smelling that tempting aroma straight from the font.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, he couldn't feel more pathetic as he noticed how hard he was. That happened before, of course, when he was a teenager/young adult dealing with hormones. It was something mechanic that could be solved by taking a cold shower. But this time is substantially different. The images of the dream he had with you still cristal clear on his mind, and it would be such a waste not take advantage of them to solve his throbbing problem.

His closes his eyes again, guiding his hands inside his sweatpants, letting out a suffered sigh as he touched the sensitive skin of his hard cock.

It started just on the tip, but the movements migrated to fast, desperate ones in no time.

His leg muscles spreading them apart from each other and making his toes curl on top of his back arching was a clear indicator that he had never done that. Not outise the mechanical approach, where Zayne just was solving a biological reaction caused by muscle relaxation. No, that time he has you in his mind. To drunk on his own thoughts, gritting his teeth as the needy moans and raspy grunts insisted to scape, proving to himself how piteous the whole thing was.

He called your name until the entire time like it was some sort of pray. Begging you to bring your sweat, to finally make his bedsheets smell perfectly, just as you did with his on his hospital room that day. To make it divine, something only you can do.

Divine like in his dream, where you both fucked in his office, where he was reduced to his knees to adore you, like the servant he always knew he is. Where you praised and degraded him like he secretly desired you to.

"Oh...p-please! Have mercy on m-me~" Was the last coo he vocalized before relapsing all his dirty lust in ropes of thick warm cum all over himself.

His frenzy passed by, and after he cleaned himself and changed the bedsheets, he got back to sleep, ashamed by his own actions, hoping you somehow could be merciful enough to forgive his sin, after all, you're his goddess and he was just being your loyal devoted, right?

[vinylfoxbooks]

July 7 - Neutral | @jegulus-microfic | wc: 466

Regulus groans as he hears the door to the flat open, accompanied by the sound of Sirius and James talking and laughing loudly. He closes his book, deciding that he’s no longer going to be able to read so long as those two are here together. 

“Hey Reggie.” James smiles, launching themself onto the couch next to him and wrapping their arm around his shoulders, “How have you been?”

“Hello James.” Regulus sighs, “I’ve been alright, less so now that you’re here.”

“Oh don’t be like that, Reg.” Sirius hums, perching onto the couch chair they have, “Be nice to James, don’t you love them?”

“Not when they interrupt my reading.” 

“So you admit that you love me.” James smiles, shoving a bit at Regulus with their body.

“Considering you’re alway interrupting my reading,” Regulus hums, “I wouldn’t say that it’s very common.” He finally turns to look at James and his breath hitches.

James has a new piercing.

A shiny silver septum ring.

“You got a new piercing.” Regulus says dumbly.

James hums, “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” They shrug, “Sirius is lending me his saline spray since I ran out. It’s also just an excuse to see you, dear Reggie.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Regulus rolls his eyes, trying to distract himself from James’ new piercing. Their piercing that Regulus is totally neutral about.

“Ugh, you guys are gross.” Sirius whines, “I’m going to my room.”

“Like you’re not looking for an excuse to call Remus!” James calls after him, laughing. Sirius shouts a fuck you before his door closes, making James laugh even louder. They turn to Regulus, “So what do you think about my septum? I think it looks good, feels a bit weird to have, though.”

“It’s…” Regulus clears his throat, “It’s nice.”

“Just nice.” James smiles, drawing Regulus’ attention to their lips and where they’ve got a ring running over the center of their lower lip. They’ve had it for years and it’s driven Regulus crazy for just as long, now even more so than ever because of their new piercing. 

“Yeah, if that.” The younger rolls his eyes, trying to dodge James’ knowing gaze, “Does it hurt?”

“Not really.” James hums, “If I move my nose wrong or hit it too hard, it hurts a bit but nothing unbearable.”

“So it’d hurt if I punched you?”

Jame rolls their eyes, “Obviously, but you wouldn’t want to do that, now would you, my love?”

Regulus rolls his eyes but moves forward to pull James into a kiss, “No, I wouldn’t. I do, unfortunately, love you too much.” James smiles into the next kiss that he presses to their lips. When he pulls back again, he smiles, wrapping his arm around James’ waist, “It looks good on you.”

“Thank you, darling.”

[kairismess]

imagining kenma having allergic rhinitis like me ...

he sniffles back the residue of his sneeze, it sucks being sensitive to the pollen of the flowers. as the blonde feels his eyes water up a little in reaction to the allergen, you hand him a pack of tissues. "here," you offered him, with him nodding. "thank you," he murmurs, wiping his eyes dry and blowing his nose clean.

it wasn't just pollen that triggered his allergies, so did the dust that accumulated from the classroom floors whenever you two were cleaning monitors. he kept sneezing and coughing, hoping that you wouldn't stop all because of him. "stupid allergies..." he muttered in frustration as he felt another tickling sensation up his nose.

"do you need your saline spray, kenma?" you asked him, looking your shoulder to see his response. he was hunched over a little after coughing and sneezing a bit, and he nodded. "y-yeah, please..."

you came back with his saline spray, and, thanking you once more, took a few shots of it and blew his nose yet again. "...sorry you always have to deal with my allergies, i hate being sick, but i hate it even more when you feel obliged to take care of me," kenma admits as he runs the pad of his thumb over the label of his saline spray, his eyebrows furrowed.

you placed a gentle hand over his head. "don't worry about that... i love taking care of you," you confessed, looking into his semi-watery, golden eyes. his eyebrows raise a little, and his cheeks turn slightly crimson. "if you don't want me to, i'll stop, as long as you're comfortable," "...if you like it, then... i wouldn't want you to stop. thank you, again," kenma repeats, smiling slightly at you.

then, he sneezes once more as he feels the room get colder.

"ah, bless you!" you exclaimed, handing kenma another tissue. he sniffles, taking it from you, then blowing his nose. "thanks..." he murmurs in a muffled voice from behind the tissue.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐒. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟖.𝟏𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

It’s familiar--achingly, strangely familiar. Packing the wounds on his wrists, watching the blood ooze through the cotton rapidly, applying pressure with your gloved palms and feeling the life cascade out of him like liquid silk. You’ve done this a few times before in the hospital, usually under the guidance of a doctor or two or three and with a horde of other nurses. 

But despite the familiarity, there are parts that feel strange. Like when you reach for the suture kit and it has a layer of dust over it from sitting in the nurse’s cabin for three summers--where you didn’t even so much as glance at it. Like when you go to spray saline over the wounds and come up empty handed. Or when you glance up to check on the patient and see Bradley there with his eyes shut, mouth ajar, and cheeks pasty. 

Doing these things that you do nearly every single day at the hospital, but on Bradley in the stuffy nurse’s cabin by yourself covered in your friends blood--strange is really the only way you know how to categorize it. If you had more time to process what was happening, maybe you’d use something stronger. Disturbing. Traumatizing. But no--even those words don’t pull enough weight to describe the deep, nausea you’re feeling.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” you mutter to yourself, working as quickly as you can. 

You’re on the clock now--every single moment of every single second is imperative to Bradley’s survival. You only have a few minutes to sew the seam of his wrists--the ones you put there--and then you need to start the transfusion. You’ll only have a few minutes to transfuse--then you must start compressions and mouth-to-mouth and inject the epinephrine, because you know that by then he will be gone. Totally and completely gone. And if you leave him like that for even a moment too long, he will be the kind of gone that you cannot bring back.

But your hands are shaking and your vision is blurring and you’re growing weaker with every passing moment. Still, you persist. You’re running on fumes. You’ve been running on fumes. You’ll continue to run on fumes until this is over and Bradley is back and you get the fuck away from Camp Arcadia forever. 

“Sit tight. I’m right here with you, okay? Don’t worry,” you mutter to him, just like you would mutter to a patient from behind a paper mask. 

If you had a free hand, you’d hold his.

Your face is hot, just like it always is in the hospital under the bright lamps and the fluorescents above you--but this heat is more intimate. It’s closer to you, made up of skin and dust and stale wood. 

Glancing up at Bradley again--his face so still and his chest so flat--you swallow thickly. 

You need to work faster. 

With an overwhelming sensation of burning covering your chest and neck, you feel that sick sense of defeat. You’re not doing enough. You’re not going fast enough. You have to work harder. 

“Stay with me,” you whisper to Bradley, brow furrowed in concentration. “Don’t fucking--don’t go anywhere, alright? You stay here with me.”

Outside, the air is cooler and less stuffy. The lake is lapping at the shore and the great oak trees are bending in the breeze as a wispy cloud drifts across the sky overhead. Despite this picturesque scene, Coyote and Phoenix stand with their backs pressed to another’s and their eyes wide open. Even their blinks are measured and fleeting.

The children are all tentatively stretching their legs as they stand in line for the restroom. They’re all tired eyes and snotty noses and knotted hair, very quiet and very sullen. The reality of this situation--of this horror and the dwindling number of camp counselors--has completely dawned on them. It sits on their cheeks hotter than the sun, brighter than the bitterly blue sky above them. 

Phoenix is watching them carefully, obsessively counting them. She knows, realistically, that you have Bradley contained. That he won’t get away from you. That this should almost be over. But there is still a piece of her, maybe a piece that was born when Bob died, that imagines another monster jumping out from behind a tree and making a grab for the kids.

“Two at a time,” Phoenix reminds them, her voice thin and her eyes dry. A few of the campers glance at her with red-rimmed eyes and ruddy cheeks. She clears her throat. “Stay with your buddies, alright?” 

Coyote hasn’t looked away from the nurse’s cabin yet. He can’t. Not only because he is expecting to bust the doors down at the first sign of trouble, but because he doesn’t know where else to look. 

He could look to his left and he would see the bloody puddle that had started this whole thing, sinking into the gravel beneath Bob’s arm. Just his arm. The arm that was severed from his body so brutally--the wound that got infected, the infection that killed him.

He could look to his right and he’d see the trailhead. The last place that Reuben and Mickey were seen. The mouth that will open up to the trails where their bodies lay. He doesn’t know how far they’ll be down the path, but he knows that they’re there.

He could look just to the left of the nurse’s cabin and see the mess hall. Yes, the mess hall with the buckshot doors and the bloodshed and his best friend’s body. He doesn’t have it in him to so much as glance in that direction. Not when he knows that Jake is there. 

He could look to the bus barn. He could look at your puke staining the gravel from when you dropped down and spilled after Bob died. Bob’s body. The blood. The slashed tires. The heat. The darkness. 

So, instead, he just watches the dark and quiet nurse’s cabin where he knows you are. 

“Anything?” Phoenix asks. 

She doesn’t uncross her arms or look away from the children.

“No,” Coyote answers. 

“Think she’s got it?” Phoenix asks, toeing the gravel, still counting the little heads internally. 

“Yeah,” Coyote answers. He sniffs, selfishly blinks a few times. “I think so.” 

It’s quiet for a few moments between them. 

“What are we gonna do?” Phoenix whispers. 

“We’re already doing what we can--!” 

“--No,” she whispers. Her eyes water. “What are we gonna do when this is all over?” 

Coyote shifts uncomfortably, his stomach unsettled. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The cops are gonna ask questions,” she mutters. “There’s gonna be--there’s gonna be bodies, Coyote. Bodies mean like…God, like…a murder investigation. If Bradshaw wakes up--I mean…what are we gonna tell the cops? Who are we gonna tell ‘em did it?” 

None of this has even occurred to Coyote. He has been in survival mode for days now, thinking only in the moment and never bounding ahead of his feet. 

“We’ll tell the truth,” he answers, but even he knows the weight the truth carries. 

“Right,” Phoenix says. “He was possessed. I’m sure they’ve heard that one before.”

“But it’s true,” Coyote argues. “How can they…how can they not believe us?” 

“Would you?” Phoenix asks. She scratches her nose and covertly wipes a few tears from her cheeks. “If you were Bob’s mom and dad…if you were his baby brother…would you accept that? Or would you want to see Bradley fry?” 

His eyes squeeze shut. 

“I didn’t even think about…” he trails off, shaking his head and swallowing hard. “I didn’t…I didn’t think this would ever end.” 

“Me neither,” Phoenix agrees. She shifts uncomfortably in the heat. “But it’s ending now. One way or another, it’s ending. And we have to figure out what we’re gonna do after it all.” 

“Ain’t that a bite,” Coyote mutters. His fists clench a few times around nothing. “He’s gonna go to jail, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah,” Phoenix answers. She sniffles again at the notion, not-so-covertly wiping her face of a few more tears. “I can’t believe it. This is a real nightmare. I keep waiting to wake up.” 

“Me too,” Coyote says, voice strained. 

Blindly, he begins to bat behind him. Phoenix, brows furrowed, looks down at his hand at the precise moment that he finds hers. He holds onto her tight, lacing their fingers together. 

“We’re alive,” Coyote whispers to her. “That’s what we should be trained on, alright? We’re still standing.” 

The epinephrine is gone now--all of it injected directly into Bradley’s chest, in the rough area of his heart. And with the last bit of your strength, you’re pushing down on his chest steadily with your hands locked. 

One. Two. Three. 

Then you stop, plug Bradley’s nose, tilt his chin up, and blow harshly into his mouth until his chest rises. And you blow until your own lungs are empty. 

“C’mon,” you whisper to him, sweat dripping down your back. “C’mon, Bradley. Wake up. Wake up!” 

This continues for minutes.

The repetition lulls you almost, despite your arms being tired and your lungs being deflated. You could do this for hours--you have done it for hours before. It doesn’t matter if your arms are tired--it doesn’t matter that you’re feeling faint. You can turn it all off, all the pain and fatigue, and operate on autopilot forever if you need to.

His body is still. The color is evading his cheeks. He is not waking up. 

“Don’t fucking die,” you beg him, shaking your head. Your cheeks are hot with tears. “Please don’t fucking die on me, Bradley. Please, please, please!”

The thought of Bradley being gone forever makes your knees feel deflated. The thought of losing another person, another friend, another lover makes you want to sink to your knees and decompose into the earth. You will rot if Bradley and Jake and Bob and Paul and Reuben and Mickey are dead. There will be no way for you to move forward past all this death--you just know it. 

You think about this summer in terms of Bradley’s life. All the stolen glances, the secret kisses. His hands on the curve of your waist. The rough parts of his hands against your cheeks as he tucked hair behind your ears. Him taking your Stephen King novel so you’d stop torturing yourself with nightmares--and how wrong you both were about the origin of them. When he pressed inside you for the first time, he was so gentle. He had his forehead pressed against yours and his eyes were looking into yours and his breaths were long and warm on your cheek.

He was so alive. So alive when all the campers huddled around him during the thunderstorm. When he cut the lakewater with his bare arms, grinning, gaining on you rapidly on your way to retrieve the canoe. When he sat around the bonfire and played his guitar, a little bit drunk and a little bit in love with you. When he nursed you through your nosebleed, holding you against his chest. When he sat in the nurse’s cabin and bled--even that was life in its purest form. 

You know that the color of life is blood-red. 

“Bradley,” you mutter again, pushing down on his chest. You want this life back so bad that you can almost taste it. “Bradley…please come back.”

There is no big change when it happens. No one is knocked over by a gust of wind and the sun doesn’t shine brighter and the clouds don’t disappear and the air doesn’t grow warmer. It is the exact same as it was when Bradley left--you don’t notice when he comes back, because he does so very quietly.   

Just as suddenly and silently as he went still, he is not still. 

You see it when you’re pushing down on his chest again--his lashes flutter. One time, barely there. Your head is spinning as you reach for his jugular to feel a pulse and yes, there it is. A weak thing, only a little bit of movement. But there it is.

“Bradley?” You whisper. 

Bringing your knuckles down over his chest, you push down. His shoulder just barely raise off the table. His lashes flutter again. 

“Hey,” you say, louder now, wiping your cheeks. You push down hard on his chest until his eyes begin to crack open. “Open your eyes…listen to my voice, alright? Can you hear me?” 

Bradley isn’t sure where he is for a moment. Blinking a few times, he tries to grow accustomed to the light glaring at him. Everything’s blurry and everything is hot. He can’t move. 

“Bradley,” you say. And you’re not sure why other than a feeling in your gut, but you know that the man blinking himself into consciousness, the man you just brought back, is Bradley. It’s him. “Hey! Rooster! Can you hear me?” 

Pain pulses through his body, thick in his wrists and his head. A groan falls from his lips as he blinks a few more times. His eyelids are heavy--so heavy that he wants to close them again. 

“Do you know where you are?” You ask, voice loud and clear. No. He doesn’t know where he is. And even though he doesn’t answer, you speak again. “Bradley, you’re in the nurse’s cabin. Do you know why?” 

It comes rushing back to him like a bullet slicing through the air and puncturing his brain. 

Oh, God. Everything he did…his friends…the ax…the woods…you…

Bile dribbles out from between his lips. You’re quick to wipe it away with your fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” he utters--and it’s the first thing he’s said now that he’s back in his body. He doesn’t know where he was before--that dark and damp and quiet place--but he knows he’s back now. And he knows what his hands have done. “Oh…I’m sorry…” 

Relieved and grieved, you sob. He’s just staring up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed and his face bruised and cut and red from the heat. You make quick work of untying him, unbounding his arms and legs. 

“Bradley,” you cry. Your body is shaking. “It wasn’t--Jesus, it wasn’t you, alright? We all know that. We all--he told us all. He fucked up. I…I ended it. It’s over, Roo. It’s finally fucking over.” 

Yes, he remembers it. He watched it all happen, voiceless and unable to move. He remembers his eyes on you when his voice echoed in the woods. 

Your side is so cold. Come to bed. 

He tries to swallow all his grief, but he chokes on it, coughing

“It’s okay,” you utter, turning his head to the side. He spews out some blood and bile. “Let it out.” 

And that’s the first time he sees you back in his own skin. 

His vision is still blurred and the pain is still ever-present and radiating across his skin and in his organs and God, he’s so tired. But you’re here now, a trembling frame dressed in blood and looking at him as if you’re truly happy to see him. 

“Bird,” he whispers with much effort. He wants to tell you how sorry he is, even if he knows it wasn’t him, even if you know it wasn’t him. But he can’t muster much strength. “Bird…”

“Shhh,” you whisper. “Don’t talk, baby.”

And then you’re falling onto your knees and finally, your body is at rest. Everything vibrates and your blood simmers. You stroke Bradley’s hair, tears pouring down your face at a rushed pace. 

Bradley’s still staring at you, unable to do much else. Tears fall down his cheeks and bile dribbles from his lips and his cuts ooze blood and his face is beginning to lose its color again. 

But right now, it’s you and it’s him. And the horror is over for now. You can finally rest. Bradley can finally see.

“I knew it wasn’t you,” you tell him, stroking carefully. He blinks at you again. His eyes are awash with grief. “We all…we all knew it wasn’t you. No one’s mad at you, Roo. I promise it. Cross my heart, hope to die. You weren’t the one who did it.” 

“They’re gone,” Rooster says, his voice soft and weak. “I did it…my hands…I couldn’t stop it.” 

“I know,” you whisper, nodding to him. “I know. We know.”

He hears you loud and clear. He knows what you’re saying. But it doesn’t lessen the burden on his shoulders--the burden of murdering these innocent people. The burden of traumatizing these children. The burden of making you hunt him. 

“I can’t…” he whispers. And if he was strong enough, he’d sob. But instead, he’s just choking on his tears. His fists clench. “I can’t live with what…with what I did.” 

“Stop,” you order. Your head is spinning. Scrambling, you reach for his hands and hold on as tightly as you can, sobbing and looking into his eyes. “It’s gonna be alright now. I…I brought you back. It doesn’t matter what happened when you weren’t--when you weren’t inside.”

“Yes,” he argues. His lips tremble. “Can’t…I can’t take it.”

It’s when Rooster takes a deep and strangled breath that you see the blood beginning to pool around Rooster’s wrists. Your stitches, the ones you did in haste so you could bring him back, aren’t holding. And Rooster is a bleeder. 

“Shit,” you utter, pressing down on his wrists, eyes wide. “Shit, I’m--I didn’t get these tight enough. God, hold on, alright? Just hold on.” 

“No,” he whispers. He hisses when you push down harder. His heart is hammering. “Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” You ask, brows furrowed as you reach for more gauze. You sniffle hard, packing his wound again, trying to decide if you have enough time to grab another donation bag from the fridge across the room. “Don’t save you?” 

“Yes,” he whispers. Bradley swallows. “I’m dying.” 

He knows just like he knows when it’s gonna storm. It could be a clear blue day and he could smell that smell--metal, pepper--and know it was coming. Death smells like flowers, he thinks. 

“Shut the Hell up,” you demand suddenly. He’s looking at you, watching you try and save him. How panicked you look. How much grief he’s caused. How much he’s changed everything. “Don’t fucking say that!” 

“I can’t…” he starts, his eyes growing watery. “I can’t live with what…with what I did…” 

“You didn't do it,” you argue. “Gwyar did! We all…we all know it!” 

Gathering more gauze haphazardly, you continue packing his wound. Your heart is racing. Fuck. Of course you didn’t do the sutures tightly enough. Of course he’s going to keep bleeding. 

You aren’t doing enough. You’re losing. 

“I saw it,” Rooster whispers. “I saw it all.” 

And he doesn’t have the strength to tell you everything he saw. Bob cowering and scrambling, but not being quick enough. Finding Paul hiding under the bed and chasing him through the woods. Slamming the rock against Coyote’s skull. Quietly bringing the ax down on Reuben’s skull, one swift motion that ended it all. Hovering over Mickey as he cried your name of all names. Burying the ax in Jake’s back when he tried to save your life. Looking into your eyes and watching the light beginning to recede. 

Before this summer, before this week, he’s considered himself a pacifist. He’s not down with the war, he’s never cared about wrestling or boxing, he didn’t even like West Side Story. But now there is real actual blood on his hands. People have died beneath his palms. 

He can’t live with it. 

“I did too, alright?” You say, suddenly defensive. You keep packing gauze, but he’s bleeding through it all in mere moments. “C’mon, Bradley don’t--don’t fucking do this. Please!” 

“I’m dying,” Rooster repeats. 

“I get it,” you say loudly. “I can’t--I can’t--I couldn’t fucking save you. I can’t fucking save anyone! I know! I’m trying so…I’m trying so hard. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what I need you?” 

Rooster’s eyes are growing heavier. 

“I…” 

“What was all of this for then?” You scream, eyes wide. Spit coats the corners of your mouth as you stare at him, head pounding. “Why…why did I work so hard to bring you back if you’re just gonna--if you’re just gonna go again? Why are you…why are you leaving me?”

You stare at him, eyes wide and hair frazzled. You’re like a wild animal. 

“Gale,” he whispers. He swallows hard--it’s all blood and bile. “I love you.” 

“Don’t,” you tell him. Trembling, you press harder on his wrists. “Don’t say that to me.”

“Stop,” Rooster whispers weakly. “Hold me.” 

It disarms you. A simple request. Something that is as easy as putting your arms around him and letting the blood soak the table. It would be easier than what you’re doing now, which is fruitless. You're beginning to understand that. 

“I can’t,” you whimper, bottom lip trembling. What you mean is: you can’t watch him die. “I can fix this, I can just get another bag of blood and--!” 

“Don’t,” he whispers. He’s trembling now. “Hold me.” 

And what he means is: you have to stop.

So, very limply, you pull your hands away from his wrists. Blood pours out fast and slick. Every fiber in your being screams for you to apply pressure, to pack the wounds. But you don’t. You just watch it for a moment. 

Then you pull yourself up and climb onto the table--your limbs are quivering and your movements are jerky and clumsy. You know that it’s the exhaustion. You haven’t slept or ate or drank anything in too long--far, far too long. 

You’re going into shock. 

Bradley’s body is shivering. That’s what happens to someone when they lose an extreme amount of blood--you know this. And you know that he must be cold. So, for what will be the last time, you pull his warm body against yours and hold onto him tight. 

“I’m cold,” he whispers to you. 

Holding him tighter, tighter than you’ve ever held him before, you nod. 

“You’re going into shock,” you whisper to him, blinking a few times. “You might get confused, too. You’re going to get tired. It’s…normal.” 

He nods, teeth chattering. Even covered in blood, even having done what you’ve done, you’re the softest and warmest thing Bradley has ever touched in his life.

You don’t say anything for a moment, just trying not to cry as you hold Bradley. The reality of the situation is dawning on you with every passing moment: Bradley is going to die. He is going to die right here in your arms and you lost and you couldn’t save him and it’s all ending right here where it started.  

It feels like a loss because it is. You lost. Simple as that. 

“I’m really cold,” he whispers to you, teeth chattering. 

Nickels gather beneath your tongue. 

It rubs its nose against yours. 

The perfume of an old friend floods your nostrils. 

Yes, it’s coming now. It’s here. 

“I know,” you tell him quietly, holding him closer. His body is warm for now. You hold him as tightly as you can--the way you should’ve held onto him all summer. If you could go back, knowing what you know now, you would’ve gripped him with every nail embedded in his skin. You would’ve held on so tight that you merged into one being. You would’ve never let go. “It’s gonna pass, okay?” 

He nods, coughing a few more times. 

He looks up at you and suddenly, you don’t look angry anymore. Your face is soft and wet with sweat and tears and old blood that he knows is not yours. He thinks this must be what you look like at the hospital--when you’re composed and busy and deeply empathetic.  

“Will you stay?” He mutters to you. 

The fear of going alone is beginning to gnaw on his toes.

“Yes,” you answer, two fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Of course I will.” 

Usually, when someone is dying at the hospital, you’ll talk to them. Calm them. Tell them it’s okay. Let them know that what’s happening is normal and natural. Let them go under your steady hands and watchful eyes. 

But you’re fighting every fiber in your being as it vibrates with panic. You want to shake Bradley and tell him not to go. You want to beg him to stay here with you. You want to pinch yourself until you wake up from this fucking nightmare. 

And it’s in this quiet, this quiet that is holding you still, that you suddenly hear the radio playing in the corner. It’s been on all this time--you never turn it off. 

Love Hurts by The Everly Brothers has just begun. 

The scent of jasmine floods Bradley’s nose--he knows it must not be yours. No way your perfume would still be thick on your skin after everything you’ve been through. No, it isn’t you, but it is a familiar scent. A scent that makes Bradley feel like he’s back in his childhood home, gripping the tire swing as his father pushes him, his mother watching on fondly from the porch with a glass of lemonade for Bradley. And yes, that’s it--his mother. His mother wore jasmine, too. He can smell it as if she’s standing just behind him, just out of his field of vision, stroking his hair. 

“I don’t want you to go,” you admit softly, tears pouring down your cheeks. 

“I can smell it,” Bradley says. “My ma…”

Delirium. He’s close. You hold him tighter. 

Love hurts, love scars

Love wounds and marks

You’re stuck in the middle of wanting to remember every bit of him and not wanting to remember his crumpled form like this at all. Those legs, once so strong, are folded on the table like a paper envelope. His arms limp. His eyes listless and glazed. His mustache matted with blood. His face bruised and swollen. 

“I wish we had more time,” you whisper to him. Your heart pounds as you stroke his hair. “I wish…I wish I’d have called you during the year. Or wrote. I was…I was scared it was only for the summer, you know? I was just…I was…” 

“If I have to go,” Bradley whispers. His vision is vignetting. Distantly, he can hear it: his father’s laughter. Louder than life, booming. His mother’s soft tutting. It’s growing louder. “I’m glad…I’m glad it’s here.”

“Bradley,” you whimper. You hold onto him tighter. And you’re sobbing now, but you know you must say something to him. You must comfort him. “Mable…Mable told me about her version of Heaven. It feels like…God, it feels like forever ago, but it was only a few days ago. She said that it’s like staying at a nice hotel. All the sheets are clean and the pillows are fluffed and there’s little chocolates. And…when you go at the right time, all your stuff is there. Like--for you, it’d be a guitar and your tapes and your cropped tops.” 

A smile cracks across Bradley’s dry lips. 

I know a thing or two

I learned from you

I really learned a lot, really learned a lot

“Do you think she’s bullshitting?” You whisper to Bradley, stroking his sweaty hair. His face is pale. He weakly nods and you smile sadly. “What is Heaven?” 

He can feel it now. His parents are just behind him, watching you hold him and stroke his hair. His father’s hand is on his shoulder. They’re waiting for him. They want him to come home.

Home. He’s missed home. The scent of cinnamon in the kitchen as his ma made that tea, which was always a bit sour and never the same color as it was the night before. All the photographs of his father lining the walls, more familiar to Bradley than his father’s real face. He remembers bits and pieces of his father--never enough to satisfy himself. 

Home has never been home without his parents. 

As his consciousness begins to fade and his ears begin to ring, he smiles. It is the last time he will ever smile. And he looks at you, his blood-covered baby, and his chest grows warm. 

“Here,” he mutters. You know he means in your arms. “You’ve got…a sweet touch, birdie.” 

His mother coos in his ear, her voice soft and excited and sweet. And his father is holding onto his arm, his grip solid and tight. With his final strength, Bradley turns his cheek. He sees them--real and solid as the oak trees lining the perimeter of Camp Arcadia. His mother’s hair is long. His father’s face is shaved. 

“This way,” his ma says. “It’s all right now.”

“This way…” Bradley mutters. 

You stroke his face. It is the last thing he feels on this earth: your fingers, sticky with gore, sinking into the stubble on his cheek. He was right all along--never bullshitted you. You do have a sweet touch. Sweet enough to make him close his eyes. 

He inhales, but never exhales. 

He is gone.

Love is just a lie

Made to make you blue

“Bradley?” You whisper. 

But you know. You don’t let go of him. You keep his body in your arms, his heaviness weighing you down to this earth. Deadweight. 

With wide, watery eyes, you gaze down at him. His mustache needs to be trimmed and his cheeks need to be shaved. His brows are slack and his eyes are shut. You wonder, for a moment, if you’ll ever find anything as brown as his eyes ever again. You’ll look for it forever, you think. His cheeks are pale and his lips are shut. Still so handsome despite it all. 

There is no urge to scream or beg or shake or weep. You just watch his face, finally at rest, and keep watching it until you know in your chest that he is gone and you are alone and life is never going to be the same.

It’s over. It’s all over now.  

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. With quivering lips, you press a kiss to his forehead. He’s still warm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

Something untethers then and there, when you choke on the final part of your sentence. Your soul and your body, your heart and your head, your consciousness and your trauma. It feels like you’re floating above yourself, watching as your body slips out from beside Bradley and lands on the wide-plank, blood-stained floors with a thud. Your hair is frazzled and your eyes are glazed as you grab the shotgun from the corner and wait at the door. 

Not a minute later, Coyote is moving the rock and ripping the door open. He’s been waiting for you--waiting for you to give any indication that you need help or that he’s alive or that you’re alive. 

And now that he’s standing here, panting, watching you, he’s not sure what he’s seeing right now. 

“Gale,” he says, voice dripping with the kind of relief he cannot afford as he pulls you into an embrace. You don’t even feel his arms around you from where you are hovering above yourself--but you see his biceps rippling from how tightly he’s got you. He looks at your face when you don’t hug him back and he’s going to ask you what happened when he looks over your shoulder and sees Bradley’s body laying in a pool of blood. He’s dead. He knows instantaneously. “Oh, Jesus…”   

Breaking past Coyote, you step into the sun. You ignore the campers all watching you, vaguely aware that your bloody form will genuinely haunt the deepest crevices of their brains and stalk their nightmares for the rest of their lives. You ignore Phoenix, who’s looking at you and Coyote with her hands over her mouth like she’s horrified--you’re sure she is. This is horrifying. 

“Gale,” Phoenix calls to you. But it falls on deaf ears. You’re stalking towards the mess hall like a zombie, like everything has finally caught up with you and has rendered you silent and comatose. “Gale!” 

And you watch your form, wilted and covered in blood, as you pull open the mess hall doors and walk inside the building. Everyone watches you from their spots on the gravel, confused. And everyone watches as Coyote holds his hands over his face and openly weeps.

It’s quiet in the mess hall. Kate Bush is still playing, but your ears are ringing like you’re shell-shocked. Maybe you are. You feel like this is the closest one can get to shell-shocked without having a bomb go off beside them. 

Jake’s where you left him. Blood has gathered around him and has seeped into the wooden floors. He’s still and quiet, just like Bradley. In the time you were gone, though, he turned onto his belly. Oh. You wonder if it was more comfortable for him.

To love someone so much that you’re ready to go as soon as they’re gone--it’s something you almost cannot fathom, something you don’t want to fathom. People die all the time, every single day, all around you. What if everyone gave up that way?

There are six bodies at Camp Arcadia and right now, you’re in the same room as the one you loved. There is one bullet left and right now, you’re holding the shotgun. 

“She was ready the moment my dad died, birdie.”

Watching still, you walk to Jake. His eyes are closed and his blonde locks are matted with blood. He’s not moving. Your knees hit the ground and then you’re laying down beside Jake, moving to be closer to his body. 

It’s all over. 

Bradley’s gone. 

No one else can be hurt. 

But you lost. You lost. It beat you. 

It’s all over now, though. 

There is still heat coming off his body--he must’ve left not too long ago. And it really rips you apart to think that he was alone when he left. He didn’t get the pleasure, the privilege of being held when his body separated from his spirit and he died. He just died by himself on the wood floors, scared and cold and with no one to warm him.

Wishing vehemently that he could hold you, that he could say something out of pocket that would make you roll your eyes and shove him, you scoot in close to him. If you don’t think about it too hard, you think he could still be alive right now. Just sleeping. For now, you’ll allow yourself to play pretend. 

The truth gnaws at your brainstem, though. This is it. He will be quiet and so will you. You’ll lay against his chest and there will be one bullet and you will close your eyes. 

Gripping the shotgun, biting your trembling lip, you rest your face against his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper and your voice sounds far away. “I’m really sorry.” 

“For what?” 

Like a rubber band snapping against your skin, you blink and suddenly you’re in your body again. Scrambling, you sit up on your hands and look down at Jake’s face. 

“Jake?” You whisper. 

Nothing for a moment. 

Delirium. You must be close, too. 

Sinking your head onto his arm again, your eyes begin to glaze over. 

You lost. You did lose. It’s over. It’s all over. He’s gone. Everyone’s gone. 

“My back,” Jake utters weakly. “It’s killin’ me.” 

Heart racing, you pop up and look at his face. And his eyes are open--most gloriously, splendidly open. Those aspen-colored eyes are rimmed with red and faded with pain, but they’re looking into yours. 

“Jake,” you mutter in disbelief. You drop the shotgun and it clatters against the floor. “Jake!” 

Jake is just about to say something else when suddenly, you burst. Everything that you bottled up, every single emotion you steeled, comes out of you like an atomic bomb. You’re sobbing, tears pouring out of your eyes and mouth wide open. You’re laughing, the sound strangled as it echoes in the hall. You’re screaming, reaching for his face. Everything is happening all at once, leaking out of you like blood. 

“It’s okay,” Jake says because he doesn’t know what else to say. “It’s…it’s okay.” 

And you’re just repeating his name, holding his cheeks, screaming and laughing and sobbing and Jake just watches. 

Coyote comes running at the sounds falling from your mouth. His mind races with possibilities: an animal getting to Jake and you walking in on it. Someone else sneaking into camp to finish what Damien couldn’t. You using the shotgun and missing.

But when he bursts through the doors of the mess hall, ready for a fight, he doesn’t expect to see you holding onto Jake. And he doesn’t expect to see Jake holding you right back. 

“You’re here!” You keep screaming at Jake, sobbing. 

Coyote’s knees wobble. 

“Jake?” Coyote asks. 

“That’s me,” he hears Jake slyly mutter, voice thin but there. 

He’s alive. Jake is alive. 

And then Coyote and laughing and crying, stumbling to your form on the ground and throwing his arms around you and around Jake.

You feel it coming into you slowly--a bit of hope. Just enough to keep you from holding the gun in your hands again, just enough to keep you from walking into the lake with rocks in your shoes. 

Bradley is gone. He died in your arms. 

But Jake is alive--he is here in your grip and he’s holding you and Coyote is holding the two of you close to him and you’re all laughing and crying. This is life right here. Hot breath and damp hair and rank pits and blood. 

“Lemme see you,” you utter, sniffing hard. 

You peel yourself away from his embrace and look at his back--the wound is deep and ugly. But you think if you take your time, if you disinfect and suture tightly and clearly, if you wrap it up real nice--he will be okay. 

“You absolute clown,” Coyote cries to Jake. “I thought you were dead!” 

“I did, too,” Jake assures Coyote. He smiles weakly and his throat is thick with love. “Am I…gonna die?” 

“No,” you say quickly. And even you believe it when you say it. “I’ve got you.”

♀

Now that you have all the time in the world to sleep, you cannot. 

Everything is very quiet now. 

It’s the kind of quiet it was the night of your very first nightmare. No cabin settling, all the frogs and bullfrogs have retired. There is no wind billowing in the trees. The birds are silent and there is not a twig to be snapped. 

Except this time, no peculiar feeling prickles you. Before, you felt like you were witness to something you shouldn’t have been. But now, as you gaze out across the black water, you think there is probably nothing in the world you shouldn’t be witness to. It’s a feeling that holds hands with your grief, trails after it like a forgotten friend.

The night sky is vast and endless as it stretches across this little world of yours. The air is cooler and the blood on your skin is comfortably dry. You still haven’t had time to shower yet--not while you’ve been taking care of Jake. 

He’s asleep now--you gave him a morphine tablet and he fell asleep in an instant right beside Coyote. And Coyote had looked at you, the one who sutured and cleaned and saved Jake, with a trembling lip. 

“He’s gonna be alright?” 

“Yes,” you’d told him, really meaning it. He was gonna be alright. “As long as we get him to a hospital soon.” 

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow,” Phoenix had whispered from the door, body drooping as she leaned against the doorframe. “Let’s just…rest now.” 

“Yeah,” Coyote agreed. “It’s…over.”

It’s over. You have to keep telling yourself that. It’s over. It’s done. Nothing can hurt you now--or anyone else. If everyone were still alive, if everyone had survived the massacre and you had saved Bradley, then camp could just resume now. Sloppy joes in the mess hall. A talent show during the last week of camp. Bruised elbows from knocking into each other in the canteen. 

But it’s over and it feels like everyone is dead and now this is the after.

This is the beginning of the rest of your life. You used to think that the beginning of the rest of your life could be marked by different milestones: college graduation, the first day of your real job, the day you met Jake, the day you met Bradley. But, no--this is it. Each day after this one, like a line of dominoes wobbling and ready to collapse, will be the same. You will struggle and push and make it through just barely. Just barely. You will live with all this grief until you die. 

Each time your mind swims, when you begin to think about Bradley looking away from you just before his final breath or Paul’s gurgled pleading, you have to pinch your legs hard. So hard that your eyes water. Now there is a steady line of bruises clouding your thighs. 

How are you supposed to live in this after now? 

You hadn’t asked Phoenix or Coyote that. You’d held that question beneath your tongue like a hidden pill, allowing everyone to eat their first meals, watching as everyone finally came out from their hiding spots to stretch their legs and breathe in all that relief. 

“Are you sad?” 

Turning slowly, you blink through the dark to see Susie’s stout figure standing behind you. Her hair is messy and her clothes are wrinkled as she blinks back at you with wide eyes. 

You hadn’t even heard her coming--sneaky girl. Your heart squeezes when you think about kissing Bradley in the nurse’s cabin, his hand snaking under your shirt, his lips pressed against yours, his breath staining your tongue-- 

Another bruise. Your mouth waters. 

“Yes,” you whisper because you don’t see a point in lying. “It’s been a sad couple days, hasn’t it?” 

If Susie is surprised by the sudden gravelly quality of your voice, she doesn’t show it. 

“Yeah,” she whispers. “The bus was stinky.” 

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you nod. 

“I bet,” you mutter to her. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

Susie shrugs like you’ve just asked her why she didn’t finish her dinner or what she learned today in school. She toes the gravel. 

“Just couldn’t,” she answers. “I think I miss Mister Rooster.” 

Pinching isn’t enough--you bury your fingers in one of the existing bruises. Your jaw quivers. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. You know, logically, that you should comfort her. You’re the adult. Really, what you should do, is walk her back to her cabin and tuck her back in. But you can’t muster any strength to do so. You’re still reeling. You’re always going to be. “Me too.” 

Susie moves closer to you, humming. 

“I tried to get him to dance for you during lunch,” she says, sighing. “But he wouldn’t.” 

Tongue thick with grief, you just turn back towards the water. Distantly, a cricket begins to sing. 

“Oh,” you whisper. 

The simplicity of life only a few days ago seems as far away as home feels.

Susie sits beside you. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just taking in her surroundings: the still water, the big moon, the green grass, the rustling trees. 

“Do you wanna know a secret?” Susie asks.

Turning towards you, she notices a few tears streaming down your face. Sloppily and without grace, she presses her grubby hand to your face and wipes. And just the feeling of her little hand on your face makes you sink further into this earth--the one you will walk on for the rest of your life without these people that you loved.

“What’s that?” You whisper. 

Susie is certain she is going to please you with her secret. It pleased her mom and dad so much that they cried and hugged her and bought her ice cream. They told everyone about it and pinched her cheeks and laughed. 

“I can tell when people are gonna have babies,” she says, nodding with wide eyes. 

Ears ringing, you just nod. Grief sits heavy on your back. 

“That’s special,” you whisper to her. 

Rooster would’ve gotten a real kick out of that one. You can hear his laugh now--like he’s only off in the distance a little bit, observing. 

She nods. 

“What are you gonna name yours?” She asks. 

Brows furrowed, you shake your head. 

“Name my what?” You ask, perplexed. 

She rolls her eyes like you’re being ridiculous. 

“Your baby,” she whispers. Your blood runs cold. You just stare at her. She smiles and takes your hand, brows raised with excitement. “It’s a girl, you know!”

You walk her back to her cabin after that, too stunned and confused and scared and sad to continue your conversation anymore. 

When you’re back in your cabin, you’re near the point of collapsing. 

It’s quiet in here--and very dark. But still, through the dark, you’re able to find your footing and make it to the cot in the corner. Coyote is slumbering on the floor beside Jake, unable to leave his side. You understand. Hold onto what you can. 

It’s when you lay at the foot of the bed, curled up like a cat around Jake’s calves, that you’re able to steady your breathing. Your mind is still swimming and your heart is still racing, but it’s alright. You're safe. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. 

Jake wakes up when he hears you sniffle. He’s a bit out of it because of the morphine, but he feels good. Maybe not good, but better. Better’s the right word. 

As he blinks himself awake a bit, yawning, he realizes that you’re curled around his legs. 

“Gale?” He asks. 

“Yes,” you whisper. He notes the hoarseness of your voice and wonders if it’s from your lack of sleep. His heart pulses. “Am I hurting you?” 

“No,” he answers quickly. “Can’t feel a damn thing right now.” 

“Lucky you,” you whisper. 

Neither of you say anything for a moment. 

You adjust on the bed and the springs cry beneath you. This bed used to feel so uncomfortable--a shitty mattress and wool blankets. But right now, you’d consider this heaven on earth. 

Heaven. Earth. 

It all feels so fleeting. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jake whispers. 

A sad, sad smile tugs on your lips. 

“I lost,” you whisper. You don’t have it in you to explain to Jake what happened with Susie or what happened before when he was in the mess hall. You don’t know if you ever will. “I…lost.”

Jake swallows hard. Coyote told him that Bradley died--that you did what you could with what you had and it was simply not enough. 

“We lost,” he says. “But we didn’t, really.”

He means that at least you’re still alive and so is he. 

“I was supposed to save everyone,” you mutter. You sniffle. “God, I hate that word. Save. Like I’m some really very superhero. But that--that’s what I was supposed to do. And I couldn’t.” 

Jake swallows hard. He wishes that he could lean down and take you in his arms. 

“Who says you’re supposed to do that instead of Phoenix or me or Coyote?” 

“The oath,” you whisper. “Me.” 

“Those are some rigid standards,” he whispers to you. 

You sniffle again. 

“I feel like all I do is…lose people,” you mutter to him. 

And then you wipe your face and turn into the covers and inhale the skin and dust and mint that lives in the fibers of the wool blankets. 

“You saved me,” Jake whispers. “You didn’t lose me.”  

It stuns you--again. A few tears slip down your cheeks. 

“I love you,” you mutter and it rolls off your tongue like drool. “But it’s not enough.” 

That burns his lungs. But he nods. 

“It is for me,” he whispers. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye?” 

He knows you haven’t slept yet. 

Choked up suddenly, there is an inexplicable fear eating away at your skin. Little fleabites marking your bones. You’re too afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that you’ll die, afraid that you’ll live, afraid that you’ll miss something, afraid that you’ll miss nothing. 

When you say nothing, Jake knows--even through his haze--that you’re afraid. Finally collapsed on your bed, curled up like some sort of docile creature, still covered in blood. He can look at you like this. 

“Hey,” he whispers. You don’t raise your head. “I’m not so tired. I’ll keep watch, huh?” 

“You need to sleep,” you whisper to him. A few more tears roll down your cheeks. “You’re hurt.” 

“You, too,” he whispers. “And I got all the time in the world to sleep.”

It hits you all at once--sudden and heavy. You’re exhausted. The kind of exhausted that makes keeping your eyes open impossible. 

Jake leans down, groaning and gritting his teeth, just to touch your hair. It’s hardened and matted, but it’s a part of you. So he loves it.

“Sleep,” he demands softly. 

And you do.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I AM SO SORRY, IT HAD TO BE DONE!!!! DON'T CRUCIFY ME!!!!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

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[selfmedblves]

Safe Snorting Guide

Insufflation or snorting is a common means for administering drugs. However, snorting still comes with some risks that can be avoided with the proper precautions.

How Insufflation Works

When a drug is snorted up the nostril, it enters the bloodstream through blood vessels that line the nose. This means the effects of the drug will have an earlier onset than the oral route.

The Risks of Insufflation

While insufflation at first glance has less risks than other methods of consuming drugs, it still comes with its risks. If you are snorting drugs, please keep in mind that:

Snorting a drug can still result in overdose.

Regular snorting can damage your septum and cause a hole to form.

Using bills or keys can expose you to unnecessary germs

When snorting drugs, the skin in your nose can become damaged and lead to bleeding, when snorting equipment is shared, this can spread Hepatitis C.

Preparing Drugs for Snorting

Note: If you are snorting any drug that is a press, keep in mind that the pill weight will not be the same as the amount of drug in the pill. Get a good milligram scale to weigh your pill. Divide the weight of your press with the amount of drug in the press. That'll tell you how many milligrams of pill powder you'd have to snort to feel the affects of 1 gram of drugs.

Example, if you get a press that is 30mg of adderall, but the pill weighs 90mg, you'd have to snort 3mg of adderall to get the same effects of snorting 1mg of speed. If you plan on snorting 15mg of speed, you'd need to snort 45mg of adderall to get the same effects.

If you want to snort a drug that isn't already in its powder form, there are two main ways to crush drugs into a fine powder.

The first way can be done with a lighter and a bag/piece of paper. Place the drugs in your bag or in between a folded piece of paper. Hold your bag/paper on a solid surface and hit the drugs with your lighter until it is a fine powder.

The second method is to use a pill crusher to crush your drugs into a fine powder. It is recommended that you clean your pill crusher with an alcohol wipe and to let it dry in between use. Especially if you are using it to crush a different substance.

Testing Drugs

Now that your drugs are a fine powder, you can snort them. It is recommended to do any drug testing prior to snorting. Presses can often contain more substances than they are sold as. And the content of substances in your press can be lower or higher than what it's sold as.

Drug testing kits are available at:

qtests.org (dosage)

dancesafe.org (drug checking)

bunkpolice.com (drug checking + dosage)

Snorting

After your drugs are finely crushed, measure out the amount of drugs you plan to snort. Know what constitutes a light, common, and heavy dose for the substance you are going to use.

DO NOT EYEBALL. Eyeballing is not recommended as it is highly innacurate and unreliable. Eyeballing can put you at higher risk of overdose. Measure your drugs with a milligram scale.

When your drugs are measured, pour them onto a clean surface and use a piece of cardstock, hard plastic, or a clean razor to cut your drugs into lines. Don't use banknotes or keys for snorting. Use a plastic straw, paper straw, or a glass stem.

Exhale, put the straw or glass stem in your nose (make sure it goes in above your nose hairs), and then inhale the drugs through the straw. After all the drugs are snorted, exhale out the mouth, and then put a couple drops of sterile water up your nose.

To reduce risk or irritation, use a vitamin e oil or saline spray after snorting and switch between nostrils on a regular basis.

Naloxone

It is still possible to overdose while snorting. Because of this, it is very important to carry naloxone on you. Naloxone comes in both nasal spray and IM injections.

0.4mg/mL IM and 3mg or 4mg IN naloxone are the best doses. Higher doses such as 5mg IM or 8mg IN naloxone increases the risk of withdrawal symptoms and put the person in more harm.

If you need to access naloxone but don't know where to go, I highly recommend Next Distro. I got IM naloxone from there for free and the people from there are wonderful.

For more resources on safe snorting and reponsible drug use:

[slvttyplum]

✮ cleaning time with… | suguru geto

“okay now you want to take this and lightly wipe around it, my ears are sensitive.” he says leaning back in the chair.

you smile widely grabbing the q tip and saline solution.

you’ve always wanted to clean his piercings, it was the only thing on your mind some days. he wouldn’t let you at first.

claimed it was too much of a hassle, now this is your second time happily cleaning it.

he guides you through it, not knowing you already looked up articles and videos on how to do it.

you slowly slide the q tip over his ear and he lets out a moan.

you look down at him giggling to yourself, “you’ve never moaned like that for me.” you say jokingly, grabbing another q tip coating it with saline.

he smiles with his eyes closed, his hands reaching behind his chair giving your thighs a squeeze.

“mm lying are we?”

you lean down pressing a kiss to his temple, his scent entering your nose. he takes his hands off your thigh clasping them together in his lap.

even though this may seem regular for suguru, this was special to you. doing something like this for him was so… intimate.

it made you feel closer to him, happier, like he chose you to do this specific task.

you run the q tip through his other ear and he relaxes under your touch. you put the q tip to the side sliding something out your pocket.

you hold them to his face and he opens his eyes.

“oh shit… where’d you get these.”

you smile pulling them back taking them out the packaging. it was a pair of new gauges in the color dark purple.

“i have my ways.” you say spraying them down with saline.

he takes your hand looking at both the earrings smiling.

“okay all you want to do is just slide them in, nice in easy.” he says looking at you.

you nod your head doing as he says and slides the new ones in.

“tada!” your voice high and cheerful. he stands up and walks toward the mirror moving his head from left to right.

he turns back walking to you squeezing you into a bear hug holding you up.

“thank you baby, i love it… i love you.”

you wrap your arms around his neck kissing his all over, “i love you too.”

[lieslab]

Enamored Remedy

Summary: Han turns himself into a magician to cheer you up while you struggle with the common cold.

Pairing: Han X gn reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

_ _ _

You took breathing through your nose for granted. The common cold caught you when you least expected it. Two days ago, you woke up with a stuffy nose, a pounding headache, and intense sinus pressure. No matter what you did, nothing seemed to work. 

Honey glazed cough drops quieted your cough for a few hours until it came back stronger than ever. The cold medicine you continued to take only provided comfort by causing you to get sleepy and drift off to sleep. The saline nose spray, the one you purchased out of pure desperation, cleared up your sinuses for twenty minutes, before they became plugged again. 

You were miserable and Han knew it. You pressed through the annoyance of it all and continued to go to work. You didn’t have a choice. You only received a handful of sick days throughout the year and you already used a few. Unless you wanted to use the rest, or get fired, you were forced to suck it up. 

On the third day, you came home and threw yourself on the couch. Pockets filled with snotty tissues and a red nose from where you kept blowing it, you were exhausted. Working while in this state was starting to take a heavy toll on you. 

You weren’t sleeping properly due to coughing so much. Your throat was sore and it hurt to swallow. You kept trying to sip tea with honey because that’s what Google recommended, but you hated tea. No matter what kind it was, you dislike the taste. 

At your wits end, you just wanted to fall asleep and reawaken when your body decided to come to its senses and work properly. Unfortunately, you couldn’t because that’s not how life worked. You were miserable and a snotty mess. Not to mention, you kept Han Jisung at an arm’s length away at all times. 

You dodged his puckered kisses and wiggled free from his hugs. He was working on a new batch of songs and the last thing you wanted to do was share your cold with him. He hated when you were sick because you were as stubborn as a mule. 

He could pout and whine and beg, but you’d never budge. You’d avoid physical touch like the plague until you were better. You let him make you tea and you’d let him pour your medicine, but that was it. No comforting hugs, no soft kisses, none of that. 

A round of mucus-filled coughs left your throat and you groaned while flopping over onto the side of the couch. At this point, you were starting to pray for a miracle. Something to take your mind off the sickly ache that clung onto you. Something to ease the throb of the headache behind your eyes. You shut your eyes and let out a sigh. 

Five minutes later, your miracle showed up in the form of your boyfriend. Han Jisung flung through your front door with a pep in his step. He glanced around the corner of the living room. His eyes glittered with excitement once he spotted you on the couch. 

“Baby?” He called out wondering if you were awake. 

“Hmm?” You responded without opening your eyes. 

This was far better than he expected. He slipped around the corner and made his way into the middle of the living room. “I have a surprise for you! Open your eyes!” 

You opened your eyes and blinked in shock. Han stood in an eggshell white button-down shirt with a black suit coat over it. Black dress pants adorned his legs and a bright ruby-red bow-tie was secured around his neck. 

A matching pair of white gloves covered his hands. A comically large top hat perched on the top of his head with a thin line of red lining the bottom. A shiny red cape fluttered behind him and followed his movements. To complete the look, there was a black wand in his hand with a white tip. 

“What the fu-” 

“Welcome, welcome to Han Jisung’s one man traveling magic show!” He waved the wand. A toothy grin sat on his face as his chipmunk cheeks puffed up from smiling. 

You couldn’t help, but laugh at how excited he looked. “The one man traveling magic show?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“And you just decided to stop in my apartment today?” 

“I had a special request put in by someone.” 

“Your secret admirer.” 

“And who might that be?” 

You chuckled and sat up on the couch. “So what kind of tricks can you do?” 

“All sorts of them. Watch this!” Han took a few steps back. He placed his wand on the fireplace mantle behind him and held up a thumb. “I can make my thumb disappear.” 

“Oh, really?” 

“Take a good hard look at it and watch it carefully.” He moved his thumb around and wiggled it. He even tugged on it to prove it was real. He held it up, cupped his other hand over the front, and looked at you with wide eyes. “Are you ready to make it disappear?” 

You nodded while watching with amusement. 

“Go ahead and say the magic words.” 

“Abracadabra.” 

His face fell as he looked back at you. “Is that all the enthusiasm you’re going to give to me? I came all the way here from the JYP Building.” 

“Abracadabra,” you tried again a little louder.

Han’s eyes narrowed.

“Abracadabra!” Your voice raised. You coughed into your elbow, but kept your eyes on Han. 

He suddenly pulled back his cupped hand to reveal his thumb gone. “Ta-dah!” He grinned again. “Look at that, it’s gone. Where did it go?” 

“Is it hidden behind your cupped hand?” 

“Pft, no.” 

“Prove it.” 

Han quickly placed his other hand back over the other and pulled it away to reveal his thumb again. “Would you look at that! I brought it back! Now onto my next trick.” 

A smile began to tug at the corners of your lips. Han pulled out a coin from his pocket. “I can make this coin disappear and reappear from behind your ear.” 

“Wow.” 

“Uh-huh. Watch this.” With a snap on one hand, he caused the coin to disappear in the other. “Isn’t that crazy, baby?” 

You suppressed a laugh. “Where did it go?” 

He bent down and dug in his pockets. “Well, it’s certainly not there.” His eyes scanned the floor as he looked around. “Do you feel anything near your ear, sweetheart?” 

“I don’t think I do.” 

Han walked closer, his dark eyes looked into yours. He bent down, so your faces were only a few inches apart. He reached out towards your ear, placed his hand behind it, and pulled it back. Your eyes never left his. 

“Would you look at that?” He moved back and pulled his hand with it. When he opened his hand, the missing coin laid in the bottom of his empty palm. “It really was behind your ear.” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t just sleight of hand?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You shook your head and continued to watch him. Your mind had been pulled away from your stuffy nose and sore throat. Your focus was completely on Han now. 

“And for my next trick,” Han said. He slipped the coin into his bottom pocket. He reached into the front pocket of his suit coat and tugged out a piece of orange fabric. He pulled on it until a yellow one appeared tied onto the end of it. 

He let out a sigh, “where is it?” He continued pulling on the handkerchiefs. You bit down on your lip to stop yourself from laughing. He continued to pull on the yellow fabric and a red one came out. 

“Did I seriously lose it?” He frowned and continued tugging at the fabric. One-by-one, different colored fabrics came out of the pocket. He pulled and pulled and pulled but the string of tied fabrics never seemed to end. 

You shoved a hand over your mouth. The pile had begun to create a small mound on the floor. The frustration plastered onto Han’s face was priceless. He tugged and tugged and tugged until he reached the end. A green handkerchief sat in his hand and he dropped it to the ground. The pile covered the tops of his black dress shoes. 

“Well that didn’t work, moving on. Let me try another one.” He reached into his pocket and a loud horn sounded. 

It caught both of you off guard. Your eyes widened and Han nearly jumped ten feet in the air. He jerked a small metal horn out of his pocket. A black rubber covering sat on the back of it. He grimaced and dropped it onto the floor where it landed on the rubber section and let out another small toot. 

You couldn’t take it anymore, you erupted into a fit of giggles. Common cold be damned, you couldn’t help it. Your body shook with laughter. Han stared at you for a moment with his lips pressed together. He tried to keep his own laughter inside, but when the two of you made eye contact, he burst. 

Falling to his knees, he leaned forward with laughter. The top hat fell off his head and rolled over the handkerchiefs. You clutched your stomach trying to properly breathe. After a few moments, tears pricked in the corners of your eyes. 

“I-I thought,” you sucked in a deep breath, “horns were for clowns.” 

“The party store only had so many objects and I was trying my best!”

You fell into another fit of laughter. Every time you remembered the look on Han’s face, it sent you spiraling. The wide eyes, raised eyebrows, and jaw dropped in shock, it was the funniest thing you had seen in a while. 

Han finally pulled himself up and dragged himself across the floor to you. He threw himself over your lap and began to silently laugh again. You ran a hand through his hair. “You’re such a goofball.” 

“I’m sorry, I really wanted to cheer you up, but I-” Laughter bubbled up inside him again. 

It took a while for the two of you to finally gain your bearings back. You wiped tears out of your eyes. “That was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I love you so much. Did you mean for it to play out like this?” 

“No! I was trying to make you laugh, but I had different tricks picked out.” Han picked himself up off your lap to look at you. “I love you too, but I do have one more trick for you.” 

“You think you can do it?” 

“I can’t mess this one up.” He flicked his wrist and within seconds, a fake bouquet of flowers appeared in his hand. He pushed the fabric flowers towards you.

“Woah,” you glanced down in shock. This trick caught you off guard completely. “How did you do this one?” 

He grinned, “a magician never reveals his secrets, baby.”

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Taglist: @fairytaleskiess

Requests are open.

[polyanarchist]

Don't put anything but water in anyone's eyes for pepper spray. Not milk. Not antacid. Pepper spray is not an acid and a base will not neutralize it. Nothing will neutralize it. You're not trying to neutralize it; you're trying to remove it. That is how an eye flush works. Just flush it out, away from the nose. It'll still hurt for a while even after it's flushed out.

Spray it from a sports bottle, like cyclists use. A nice wide stream will prevent too much concentration of force that could hurt they eye. Don't use a spray bottle. If you poke a hole in a regular bottle cap, try to make sure it's large enough for a good stream of water to push the pepper spray out of the eye.

The eyes will be squeezed shut reflexively. Don't jam your fingers into someone's eyes to open them. Instead, once you have made sure they're not wearing contacts, press your thumb against the lower edge of the browbone aka the top edge of the eye socket, above the eye, and roll your thumb to pull the eyelid up. (If they are wearing contacts, they have to take them out and throw them away. If they can't, then just guide them to safety but do not flush the eyes and do not attempt to remove the contacts yourself.)

Putting antacids, milk, etc into eyes can cause infection, trigger allergies, or scratch the cornea. Use water. It doesn't matter whether it's saline. It doesn't have to be sterile, as long as it's clean enough that it could be used as drinking water.