[HIATUS] L I F E

She's not late - she would never forgive herself for being late; upbringing always taught her the one acceptable time to be late is to someone's party. A study session? She's punctual, right on time as she comes entering into the small college diner, thankful it seems to be a more slower time versus when it's been more crowded.

It takes him by surprise, startles him a little when they place their books onto the table more strongly than needed; playfully getting his attention? Maybe. He scoffs it off with a smile on his features. They are right to the point: the exam.

❝ Not ready. ❞ He chuckles nervously; he never feels ready enough even if he had read the text a million times, engraved it into his memory for life. ❝ You seem prepared. ❞ A glimpse at their notes is taken before opening his tablet, his own notes neatly organized, highlighting what he predicts to be used for the exam’s questions. His hunches have almost always been accurate, based on previous repetitions and logical reasons.

she takes the man’s word for what his claim is. not to mention, she didn’t show up here at random. he’s a known contact for some of the street level clowns playing hero in the dark alleys, then ‘thinking’ their identities disperse when the sun comes up. like they don’t leave clues behind. fucking idiots. though, in this case, given the blood loss she is currently suffering, she feels like the biggest idiot for not keeping her identity secret. sure, it’s cool to be able to say she’s not hiding, but shit comes at her, hard    &    fast sometimes.    ❝   doubt i’ll get any better offers in the next few minutes.   ❞    Jessica says, arms folded on her side. it’s wet    &    she’s pretty damn sure that’s not sweat. being at someone else’s mercy is the worst thing that can happen to her.    &    if the man truly helps her… then she will make sure to relax her shotgun mouth    &    make an attempt not to be an asshole. key word ‘attempt'.    ❝   where’s the goddamn alcohol   ?      ❞    

There is urgency in the situation that they seem to deflect with their attitude, nothing he hasn’t faced before, some worse by comparison, but his goal is one: save their lives. Nothing will change that.

The crimson creeping through the layers of clothing they wear is alarming, he needs to act fast. One arm wraps around their back, hand pushing against the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, or slow it at least, all while he supports their weight as he stands up, guiding them onto the bed nearby, sheets clean and ready, equipments right next to it as if he has been anticipating their arrival. A scissor cuts through the fabric for better field of work, consent is a given the moment they have stepped in asking for his help. His eyes scan the wound quickly, analyzing: sharp edges > sharp object, tailing > single edge knife?, more depth than width > a stab, probably. His gloved, sterile fingers dig deep, giving them a warning beforehand: no objects felt, by palpation, but they will need imaging later for confirmation. Further inspection doesn’t reveal any major vessel injuries. Assuring. Without wasting any time, he starts injecting the edges of the wound with an anesthetic, numbing the pain locally so his next procedure is more tolerable. Now, the needle and thread do their work, a specific type of thread and technique for it is a deep wound, it will need layers of suturing: dissolvable, dissolvable, non-absorbable on the surface, he can remove them in two weeks if they wish for him to be the one to do it. His hands are not called MIRACULOUS for nothing; swift and light, barely noticeable as he finishes his work, his attention not forgetting to check the vitals constantly. Finally, he disinfects and cleans the wound and its surrounding skin again before applying the appropriate bandaging, gloves discarded before stating his instructions. ❝ You can stay here for the rest of the night, I will reassess your wound and give you the instructions in the morning. Rest well. ❞ The area around them is cleaned already as he instructs, the blanket tucked a little higher for their comfort.

Her momentum now has nowhere to go, and it's like she's hit with the recoil of all her tension, stumbling backward from him. ❝ What ? ❞ Her voice now sounds shockingly small, all authority lost, as she struggles to put together a puzzle that has no pieces. She had misread the situation and now there are more questions, than answers ⸻ but there is only one question she really cares about.

Where is her father ?

❝ Shit. Shit. Fuck ! ❞ Turning quickly, she kicks whatever is closest, and it sails across the room, hitting the wall. Hands run anxiously through her hair as she turns starts looking wildly around the room, as if she'll somehow find him.

... But it's just her and Felix. And the corpses, of course.

Amelia bites on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. What is she going to do ? She is no closer to her goal, and this man is the last person to have anything to do with her father... but she'd finished his men before they could get what they needed. Her foot taps, thoughtful for a moment, before throwing a glance to him over her shoulder.

Her father probably isn't done with him; so she can't be either. She sighs, and turns to face him. ❝ My name is Amelia, ❞ she finally says, sounding calmer now, and she hopes the introduction offers him some comfort. The assassin also hopes he doesn't realize that now she's given her name, she can't just let him go.

The play unfolds before him, not blinded by the folds anymore. Their body language is of contradiction and loss. This is the worst type of danger: the unpredictable one. One minute they are spitting fire, promises of ending life, the next they are introducing themself like nothing happened prior. He shall be more careful, more obedient, less argumentative. It shows the minute they demand an answer. Their warning is fair and appreciated so he doesn’t flinch at the touch unnecessarily. ❝ Yes. ❞ He announces, a promise not to try anything stupid, but never not to try to save himself; a human’s first instinct in danger.

His hands are finally free, it feels like a thousand pounds have been lifted off them, wrists burning and bruised with how tight the restrains have embraced his skin, along with his failed attempts to free them, his struggle. He has to flinch a little at his own touch, and so he decides to rest them onto his lap, resisting the urge to stand, staying seated, waiting for instructions; unannounced movements could get him killed, punched in best scenarios.

The smile widens slightly, warm just for him. Too often he forgets to be charmed by the beauty of it all, of him. How he carries himself. How the smile just sits comfortably on his lips. Like it was all that simple. All too easy. So unlike the performance of BRUCE WAYNE.

And he carries the same smile as his eyes merely followed him around in the mundanity of a familiar task ; the same familiar ingredients prepared and mixed in the same tools and utensils he must have done a million times before him. He doesn't even think about the smell or the taste ; all too focused on him .

It's crescendo culminates into an offer paired with a smile. And Bruce pulls himself out of his chair to walk over then , hands finding his hips first and pulling him in to brush his lips lightly against his cheek. " Absolutely. "

Two different sides of the same coin, opposites that attract as they say, but in reality, they are not that far from one another, deep at the core, they are merely men who try to make the world a better place for those who don’t have the strength to do it themselves. Both with their own darkness dancing around such benevolence, trying to reach for their hearts to rip and corrupt. They have got each other, nothing shall reach them—- right?

Their arm finds his body, brining it closer to theirs, warm in their embrace, their lips brush against his cheek, and maybe at a different time it would have elicited a flush of them, but this time it doesn’t, it brings a soft smile to his features, content, his own hand rests onto theirs, gently squeezing in affirmation and affection. ❝ Don’t let it go cold, hm? ❞ If he doesn’t remind them, they would both forget about the meal and melt into the embrace of one another.

Ten for Five, who could beat it?

It does sting a little when he touches even just the unbroken skin around it. It's reflexive when she reaches up to touch it herself and that's when she realizes it's actually growing into a bit of a knot.

It'll go away eventually, quicker than it should even, but for know it smarts and throbs a little.

Like a good patient Darcy rattles the signs back off to him, but at the tail end adds, "I'm Darcy! I mean.. well, that's not a sign. I mean, I'm not saying this like because I'm worried I'll forget. I'm saying like, hi, I'm Darcy."

Content and reassured he is as they repeat the instructions back in almost perfect precision; they are not in danger now. Then they introduce themself abruptly, it almost sounds as if their name belongs amongst the instructions and red flags. A soft chuckle at their attitude is his first response before doing the predicted, introducing himself. ❝ Felix Malvado. ❞ He states, a name that carries so much weight but not to him, he has always been HUMBLE, never less no matter how successful his career grows. ❝ It’s been a pleasure, but I’m afraid I have to catch up with work. ❞ He is already standing in preparation to leave, making sure one last time they are fine on their own. ❝ Take care, Ms. Darcy. ❞

This   morbid   fugue   they   have   all   attributed   to   it   ,   to   their   own   down-fall   in   the   privacy   of   this   room   two   men   rest   their   head   on   a   monstrous   felony   .   The   only   way   such   hefty   guilt   could   allow   for   slumber   was   suffocation   .   When   everything   had   finally   began   to   slowly   compress   at   their   united   minds   ,   migraines   into   exhaustion   .

It   had   been   sometime   before   the   next   breath   minute   consciousness   begins   to   set   in   he   feels   the   anchor   at   his   chest   .   There's   a   lingering   presence   in   the   room   on   his   semi-cohesive   state   torments   him   with   .   Hand   reaches   out   thoroughly   expecting   to   feel   the   silk   of   HER   ruby   nightrobe   again   only   to   find   something   more   coarse   .   Someone   else   .   That's   the   mass   at   his   ribs   tightens   .   RANI   .   She's   still   lost   to   that   ,   that   THING   .   The   very   reason   Hell   is   lapping   at   his   form   ,   their   form   .   God   ,   Felix   .   Had   Abe   not   asked   for   his   assistance   personally   on   the   project   ?

⸺      ♔.      ❝    Felix   ,   you   should   go   home   .   ❞    His   voice   barely   audible   from   wear   as   he   sits   himself   up   &&   reaches   for   a   cigarette   &&   lighter   .   ❝       Home   where   it's   safe   .   ❞    Away   from   me   .   ཐིཋྀ   ₊

In the midst of the night’s quiet, there is a scream that lingers in his ears- is it his own? His mother’s? Abel’s? Oh no, Abel! He is snatched from his own nightmare by the sounds of struggle coming from their room. He hurries to their side, hands reaching hesitantly; he dares not wake them up, dares not save them from their own nightmares for then he has to sacrifice their sleep, no matter how little quality there is in it. Only a hand rests faintly on their head as if to reassure, to anchor. Until they fall back into silent slumber.

The night passes by and his eyes betray him, draping down into a light sleep, the hand on their head slides off to their shoulder as he loses control over it. It is only when they call his name that he regains it, snatches his arm quickly in fear of causing them discomfort. It takes a moment for his brain to digest and decipher their uttered words: home where it’s safe. He could swear they are accusing themself of being a source of DANGER, the one they want him to be running away from. No, he would not turn his back on them in their time of need, and he would certainly disagree with the whole idea: they are the light that has lit their partner’s life, the friend that has always been there for him, a man who has always thrived to do his best, a man nonetheless, not free of mistakes, no one is. ❝ No. ❞ It is firm, not cruel. His hand reaches for the destructive tools they are about to consume. At an earlier age, he might have joined in, let them light it for him or did it for them, but not anymore. ❝ I’m not leaving. ❞ He knows they are aware of his stubbornness when he needs to display it, enough for them to give up on the whole idea, hopefully. ❝ You should get freshened up and ready, I’ll make breakfast. ❞ As if to deny any futile argument, he starts to stand up.

he heard it. he heard the lie not as sound but as an ache, and correlated to how a harmless fiction would have landed softer. his lie? it landed with sharp edges. he was quick to catalogue the situation: spheres trained and traitorous kept collecting, tagging, and filing. tiny betrayals of posture, breath, of colour. felix's smile arrived way too late and left too early, a commuter missing his stop inside his own lineaments. then the blue at his mouth that he was quick to classify not as a bruise, but a response to cold. the problem was... winter was not yet that cruel.

alarm was a bell inside ryker that knew only one note ⸻ tolled without hurry, without panic, a metronome for the things that must be done. he had learned to let it ring and not mistake its steadiness for calm. his calloused hands did not shake, his throat tightened once and then forgot. he met the smile with a faint and careful mirroring, concession given to ritual, not to deceit. the frustration and preoccupation only grew.

the domestic promise of a dinner braided a bridge over the ravine opening betwixt them, but ryker prevailed in silence, following instead, ignoring the commentary of a drink he was quick to forget. he counted the beats of the shower's percussion, sorted possibilities by temperature: hypothermia close to cyanosis; exposure mixed with adrenaline dump. outside of the bathroom, but still waiting, he reported what could be reported. he put the crimes into the mouths of forms and the teeth of case numbers and he would staple evidence to the day until it bled the correct colour.

Inside, he rushes to open the shower, letting hot water fill the surroundings with steam; he needs to be engulfed by the warmth, bones almost shaking. The reflection on the mirror obstructs gradually, but he wipes for a clearer image. He sees himself: pained, defeated. He hates it but dares not escape it; he has to face it, digest it. The discoloration in his abdomen is starting to see the light, a reminder of his interrogators’ CRUELTY. Under violence he doesn’t falter, merely lets out the signs of his humanity, but under violent, unwanted intimacy, he CRUMBLES, loses his composure, patience and tough exterior, the armor he built rips down to pieces, the mask behind it to shreds, nerves reminding him of their involuntary actions. The more he stares into his own distorted reflection, the harder it is to breath, his chest fails to rise, hands gripping the edge of the sink tightly it almost bruises- he doesn’t need more of these. No! He’s not allowed to panic, to lose it all now; he is not alone in this house, he cannot allow himself to fall to his knees now, not in front of someone like them, someone who would go beyond any boundaries to right what’s wrong, to AVENGE those who are wronged, and right now it happens to be him. They might be wielding the weapon, but he is the one who has sharpened it, he can’t and won’t have that blood on his hands.

Dammit, Felix.

The color of his lips must have been noticed by them, there is no way someone like them, someone who used to be a good cop, would not notice it, builds on it millions of theories before narrowing it down to the minimum possibilities, he has made it easier, hasn’t he? With how he has acted, thinking a jammed umbrella would make him escape it like a fine hair in dough. He barely mutters a curse under his breath, dragging his aching body into the tub, standing under the running water, hands against the coldness of the wall’s tiles. If only water could wash away his SHAME like it does the evidence of his misery: the blood caught in his sight, running down the drain, the dirt. He tries to be swift in cleansing his body, but the more he ventures, the more he is reminded of the lingering hands, of the pain where nothing should reach—

Blood.

It slides off the back then medial of his thigh, the sight of the maroon liquid has never been more REPULSIVE to him. It takes all the strength in him to inspect for emergencies: it will heal in time.

It feels longer than it actually takes before he emerges from the bathroom, their figure standing across almost startles him, a sigh in relief in knowing who they are is let out silently. He can see it on their face: the concern. Shit. They actually have connected the dots and came out with a sound conclusion, haven’t they? His answer comes in their words and actions. Any other circumstances and he would have slipped out of this with words, intellectual excuses, but not tonight, not with the current state of his brain, heart and body. Their gaze is SHARP despite the warm worry and concern, STABBING right into his own, their stance occupies his field of sight, not for their built, no, his eyes could have easily found the surrounding, but for their demanding presence, CAGING his own, minuting it in comparison. His lips part to utter anything, any word for god’s sake, but nothing comes out, not a single sound. Choosing a bath robe instead of a towel wrapped around the waist has been a good choice, a deliberate one; it hides the evidence, the emerging bruises, and maybe if he is lucky, no blood comes out to slide along his leg again.

A single step to the back is taken; there is no escape behind, one more try and he might stumble and fall to the floor of the bathroom behind, and so he stands his ground. Something about this triggers something in him- Is it…fear? For a moment, he does look like a lamb knowing it is brought in for slaughter. The helplessness of it all, the lack of solutions and opportunities, the THREAT of being exposed. It all weighs heavy on his chest it stops momentarily- Does it, actually? Or is it just the illusion feeding on him? If his body doesn’t give him up, his eyes might; pupils dilating on their own accord, dancing between theirs as if to find an escape, a hideout. Left to right, right to left- until they manage to escape the other’s capture, gaze falling to the ground, closing shut; anything, anywhere but their demanding stare. ❝ Nothing! ❞ It comes quicker than intended, like a bullet they could easily deflect. ❝ Nothing happened, Elias.. ❞ As if they haven’t heard it the first time, he affirms, more in an attempt to calm than to actually voice his words. A mistake, furthering anyone’s suspicions. ❝ It’s cold. ❞ The first honest word, yet he merely says it for an escape route, eyes refusing to meet theirs yet. ❝ I need to get dry and dressed. ❞ He knows trying for a path is not an option with them.

          ❝   Hardships often prepare ordinary people for an extraordinary destiny.   ❞

there was something about the way he tried to keep up the performance, the sarcasm being naught but the armour he had learned to wear before anything could bruise him properly. ❝ did you know that such therapy is also prescribed for insomnia? ❞ the sound of his own vocals ricocheted off the tiles ⸻ it sounded smaller than he had intended, but the thought landed the way it always did: as a joke before the truth. he acted accordingly to what was instructed, however: a hand pressed to the wound, obeying the words of someone he cared not to know. he braced his teeth on the gauze the doctor offered ( an absurd and serviceable theatre prop ) and bit hard enough to remember he had a mouth.

pain pressed its thumb against his lung and demanded attention whilst booze smeared his senses into velvet. he could not tell if the ache that laced each movement was wound or whiskey, whether the fog was chemical or merely the city deciding tonight it could keep him half-dreaming. and in reality, it really did not matter. he tried, and he would always try to make himself stand again... and again, and again. it was thus, with all the little strength he had, that he managed to remove the fabric of his torso, fabricating naught but growls in the process, and curses that were not directed to anyone in particular.

❝ you're mean with that bottle.... you put tears in metal with that stuff. ❞ his smirk was automatic: protected with humour, deflected with mockery, but the bottle was held with a grip that would have been once wrapped around a neck, stopping air from flowing, making life a fleeting thing. he cared not. he always tried. when the needle came, he did not flinch. when the thread tugged his complexion together in precise stitches, his breath kept pace with the movement, breath metered, trained, knowing exactly how to keep his heartbeat stable.

he watched the other's hands ( they were neat compared to his ), and for a sliver of a second, gratitude uncoiled in him. it was a small and so very private thing: it showed in the tilt of his head, in the way his spheres softened, not with childish relief but with the blunt live-wire of thankfulness that he rarely let himself register. when his gaze met other's, it carried a record: he did the thing, and ryker noticed. ❝ you're good at this. ❞ he kept his teeth from baring what his jaw and gaze were about to say... or the sound that would escape. ❝ it's hard to find people who keep their hands steady when the situation seems severe. ❞ the outlined aftercare was listened to with a calm cadence, half in habit and half because he trusted the man's vox more than the promises he had heard so many times. the following query, however, left his chest suddenly wrapped in thorns. someone to call? he mulled it, but dared not to reply. thankfully, he did not have to.

what caught his attention was the sudden vocals that were both unfamiliar and utterly familiar. a smirk was accentuated, the desire to unleash the wrath of his heart making his structure suddenly capable of moving. the other's vocals made him halt, however, with half-eyed at the command intended. he was silent again, watching the transaction, and with all the thoughts nestled in his mind, he followed the guidance with a half-guilty sentiment, but gratitude enveloped around. he felt absurd and oddly human. he looked ridiculous, being tended, not tending. being guarded, not guarding. and the thought made a laughter build in his throat. ❝ fucking surreal... ❞ he muttered, feeling the jacket around offering a comfort that he had not felt in a very long time. his grin lingered ( it was thin and feral and grateful ) and his spheres were locked in the one that had offered him some respite.

Almost not a single detail escapes his attention: their body language, their face expressions, the huffs and puffs in deflection for whatever truth they hide, the pain they deal with in a trained manner. Some would rather him a law enforcement agent than a healthcare soldier, but not him; this heart is not for VIOLENCE, not for tragedy and trauma(oh how his destiny laughs at it), those hands are not built for blood, for taking lives(his destiny stands right at the end of the line, mocking what he soon will be living on, enjoying). He chooses to say nothing, to act as ignorant as he can be; he has to let them feel a certain level of comfort for their own wellbeing, their wound will need them relaxed.

I—

Their attempt is met with kind, bright gaze, eyes promising safety and secrecy for whatever they decide to let slip off their tongue. They don’t. Again, he doesn’t push, a small nod of his head is all he gives along with the softening of his already unthreatening features, hands fixing the jacket against their skin, gentle.

The way home is not a long nor a short one, the time passing he spends gazing at the window, still attentive to his patient. The thoughts flow on their own accord, a one of him returning to a warm home, his mother waiting for him, dinner already made yet warm, simple yet fills the hunger(he is used to the scarcity of anything on the table, the poverty he had to suffer with a single mother, cast out of their society and looked down upon for sins not his own). A sigh escapes. It is a reality he can’t have, instead, he can take care of a man that might have been treated unfairly by life just like himself. Oh how he wishes his hands had been this magical, miracle hands as what most would call; he would have been able to save the only person he cared about, but alas his hands were tiny, inexperienced, calloused, the resources and means out of reach. Here in the presence, not a single tear is shed even at such a painful, saddening memory, but the gloominess sets on his chest heavy, forcing a sigh off it.

It feels like forever even when it’s not even an hour drive. He reaches for his wallet— Shit! He spent it all at the bar buying. ❝ Please give me a second! ❞ He politely requests of the driver, following the other man before they are too far; they should not be walking by themself with that injury. ❝ Would you please not venture and walk without aid for now? ❞ Yes, he is not very pleased with them risking the wound opening and bleeding again, and he makes it apparent, purposefully. ❝ And, my house. ❞ His answer comes quick, merely clear enough for them to hear before he returns to the cab, arguing with them another way of payment. Luckily, they agree and he pays digitally. ❝ Here. ❞ His forearm is offered, elbow flexed, for them to rest their weight on it as they walk in. His other hand fiddles with the door to open it, a successful task, his shoes are doffed onto the side of the door inside, an area clearly dedicated for the task, he waits for them until they have done the same before he helps them onto a couch. It is comfortable enough even for a sleep in, yet not screaming fancy or luxurious; he is not the one to brag with his money, merely gets what he wants or feels necessary. The house speaks for itself: modern architecture and elements yet not a mansion to match his wealth. A humble choice for someone with his worth. ❝ You must be dying to shower, or more so rest. We can’t risk the wound getting dampened, you will have to do with a towel for your torso. ❞ He doesn’t announce it out of decency and respect, but he is there to aid them in this task from start to end if they need him to. ❝ Afterwards, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take another look at it. ❞ He has better, sterile equipments. He doesn’t waste time, disappearing into the kitchen momentarily before emerging again with a glass of water, offering it to the injured man; they have drank too much alcohol, they must be thirsty, and they are out to hydrate and build strength to heal properly and swiftly. ❝ I’ll prepare the bath. ❞ Once a sign of understanding and confirmation is offered, he ventures into the bathroom, preparing the tub and all necessities for them to access, for the guests usually even when scarce, a bucket prefilled with lukewarm water with a small towel draping off it are placed in proximity too.

Once he returns, he doesn’t sit, offering to aid them in their short walk. ❝ I’ll be in the living room. ❞ In respect to their privacy, he doesn’t offer to stay, letting them know he is right next to them should they need his aid, a single shout would suffice.

the night had sunk deep into his bones by the time he poured his second glass of whiskey. rain jazzed against the window, creating silver veins that would catch faint shimmers of the city. he was sitting back on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, pretending to himself that he was not waiting. the whiskey burned down his throat, missing the cigarette that he avoided smoking whenever he was at his place. he had learned quickly: to respect the space that had been candidly offered to him. he stared at the door, waiting, as if its mere presence owed him an explanation [ ... ] when in reality he was waiting for him to arrive. the clock ticked, and his thumb tapped against the rim of his glass in time with it. he told himself he was not listening for footsteps, told himself he did not care that the place had been too quiet lately. even told himself that people like him did not need the comfort of someone else's vocals echoing through an empty home.

The night is cold and CRUEL, rain pouring mercilessly, throttling, drowning. Quite literally in his case: the chair he is tied onto is hard and uncomfortable; who would care about comfort when torturing and extracting intel off their captive? A task they fail miserably at, feeding their rage and unleashing their WRATH upon him. He doesn’t enjoy the victory, never takes pride in how tough it is to crack his psyche. He would have made a perfect soldier with such endurance—- almost; they manage to break him, his composure, his soul, but never his word. He does not give up a single piece of information they are in need of.

He is definitely reporting their crimes to the authorities, except one crime, a one he finds shame in suffering, makes his skin crawl, his blood boil, his heart palpitate, body shiver. The only kind of torture that makes his nights sleepless or full of nightmares, makes his soul shake. He swallows it and keeps it another secret, another trauma to endure alone—- but is he now? Alone?

It is not unusual of him to return late; spending extra hours attending to patients when needed, discarding the benefits and perks of someone with his title and position. He has always been humble; his mother would have been proud. At his own door, he spends a few extra seconds in front of it struggling to get it open, luckily, he doesn’t set the alarms off. He is soaking wet, the umbrella uselessly unopened; he chooses to let them think he didn’t open it instead of figuring how he has been tormented under the heavy tears of the sky. ❝ Got jammed. ❞ A lie as he puts it down. He doesn’t know how he manages to pull it off, a small smile of his own in reflection to theirs is offered as he doffs his shoes, the door closes behind him, locked. ❝ busy shift. ❞ It is not a lie, yet not the truth behind his late arrival. ❝ You should cut back on it. ❞ It is clear what he is referring to: the drink they must have emptied into their stomach just prior to his arrival. ❝ Pasta? I’m making some for me anyway. ❞ He offers, feet already dragging him to the nearest bathroom; he needs to shower and chance before cleaning the dampness he has caused on the floor, dripping all the way there. The lights are less dim as he approaches his destiny, his lips might be apparent to them now: bluish in color. It is not a bruise, no; his captors usually avoid his face to lower suspicions. It is the COLD, almost reaching his bones.

this is a semi-hiatus ig? my activity has been spotty already, but it will be even spottier and more sporadic across my blogs bcuz my vacation is almost over which is spent on emergencies n struggles but we survive! if u see its worth it to stick with me through these tough times even though im barely writing, thank you! if you don’t, i totally understand you’re here to write and have fun <3

okay, everyone! i usually try to keep my struggles off of this blog because i do treat it as a safe place to draw & exist & not worry. however, my sweet little cat twix ( alternatively known as tweeb, twee bob boo bop or tweeby deeby ) does not have that luxury. i trusted my elderly cat into my sister's care two months ago because of a cross country move + a cat limit on my lease. i thought i could trust her with twix's special needs, but i was mistaken. she has gone downhill severely in those two months & i am trying to raise funds to take her to the vet & go & get her!

this is the only way i know how. so, for a limited time i am offering cheap commissions in order to do so! featured above are examples of the different kind of art i can offer. below the cut are going to be brief descriptions of what those include.

donations are greatly appreciated & encouraged. message me via tumblr im's if you're interested in a commission! venmo: ( edit: my venmo was not working so i am using my roomate's venmo now! ) amber-stockman-123