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I was never one for pretenders

The way this man looked at him almost made his skin crawl. Some Johns did that. It was part of the game. Tentatively, he slipped the lighter from the other man's fingers and lit his own cigarette, pocketing the bic as he inhaled a drag and exhaled from his nostrils, eyeing Kaine and trying to size him up. Not for a fight, but to know if there was a reason for flight. His gut clenched, but he decided money was money. But how much money?

"Depends on what you want, honestly," he started, "If you want basic shit, that's only $25. The rougher it gets the higher the price." He chewed on his inner cheek, trying to discretely release his tension. He puffed on the cigarette more, killing it rather quickly. There was no hope for his body anyway, might as well smoke some nicotine, too.

"$500 is anything except the obvious. Stabbing, breaking shit, or putting me out of work, essentially," he explained, his disclaimers lacking, but oh well. He found other things to look at while talking. He only stole glances before he felt his gut scream at him in a panic. Instincts felt something was terribly off, but he chalked it up to not having dosed himself in several hours, waiting for a reply while nonchalantly moseying toward the alley.

1234 w.

notes.

I was never one for pretenders

Five days had passed since that last encounter with Bishop and it was, quite frankly, still on his mind. It was intense for a lot of reasons. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed it so much, who knew. He didn't have a crush, he was just... clingy to everyone. He hated it, but wasn't sure how to move passed it, so he simply accepted it for what it was.

Speaking of acceptance, he was prowling the streets, waiting for a John to call for him. It wasn't a particularly busy night, so the pickings were extra slim, the majority of Johns wanting women, not scrawny, masochistic men. He sighed and gripped the $800 that still sat in his pocket from Bishop. It just added to how weird he felt about it all.

A hand ran through his hair, lungs pushing out a sigh of exhaustion and exasperation. He was about ready to say fuck it and call it a night, but he also wasn't sure where he'd even sleep. Some cop had started patrolling the bark near the Tiger's Den, so squatting there for a nap wasn't much of an option, right now.

193 w.

Kaine Yu

notes.

I was never one for pretenders

There was silence. So much silence. The room felt hollow, his own presence invasive. Then Bishop stood and began to adjust clothing. Spencer swallowed hard, knowing what this indicated. Of course, he'd signed himself up for this, so it only made sense to follow through. He kicked his jeans off the remainder of the way, considering crawling onto the bed, but was too nerve-struck to really do so. Hesitantly, he removed his shirt and tossed it, watching it crinkle into a pile of cloth on the floor.

What did I get myself into, now? Who knew. Would it be gentle? Rough? He assumed rough. Bishop looked as pissed off as ever, his eyes boring holes into Spencer as he went back into don't-make-eye-contact mode. His skin crawled with the fearful anticipation. Should he remain or get onto the bed? He chose the bed, tentatively, and lifted himself to it before settling onto it, sitting on the edge. He tried hard to not stare, but it was honestly hard not to.

171 w.

notes.

I was never one for pretenders

There was a choking down as his shirt collar was jerked against his throat. He flailed as he fell to the ground, head thudding against the carpeted floor. A headache sent colors through his brain, making him see spots. Then, there he was again. This fucker just didn't quit, did he? The slapping of his arm caught him off guard, but not as much as having his pants pulled down. He struggled, suddenly realizing what Bishop was doing.

"No... wait, wait NO!" he yelped. The needle dug into his skin, a familiar sting. As the plunger emptied the rest of the contents into his veins, he started to melt into the floor. His eyes rolled, just before his eyes squeezed shut. Heat filled him up from head to toe, breathing and heart rate slowing dramatically. He couldn't help but give a small moan; one he swallowed back as quickly as it started. Fuuuck this guy...

"Do..." he stopped talking as his head started to spin, the rush overwhelming even as it faded. "...you ever make up your mind?"

Don't do drugs, do do drugs. I tried to not do any of it at all and here he fucking is, forcing it into my goddamn system. Kill me or leave me alone!

At this point, if Bishop wanted to investigate any bare skin, he'd find a slew of various scars on Spencer's thighs, practically covering every inch of them. Deep and shallow cuts, cigarette burns, brands; you name it, it was there. Most of it was obviously from clients, but some of it could arguably self-harm.

265 w.

notes.

I was never one for pretenders

There he was. Bishop. Spencer was so obvious, up until he felt the ropes loosen. He adjusted himself so he could forward again, neck now cramping, but so was everything else, anyway. He gnawed on his lower lip as Bishop returned to his seat, big arms crossed and that stern look ever unrelenting. Spencer looked at the mess he'd made on the floor, heroin scattered and needle laying on the floor waiting for someone to step on it. He bit into his inner cheek, tasting blood almost instantly before looking away to a spot on the floor where it was to remain unseen. His body screamed for it, but he didn't want it. If he wasn't going to allowed to overdose, he'd just have to die from the withdrawal. Even worse than the drug itself, it seemed.

"Explain what?" he asked quietly. His face showed him straining to get his brain to function under his conditions, but it clicked. Being suicidal, you twit. "Jenna died last night." As if Bishop knew, but he figured Bishop didn't care, so he left it at that. Jenna died last night. Jenna overdosed on her drug of choice and he sat beside her as her body finally gave up, nothing more than skin, bones, and starving guts that couldn't feel much of anything, anymore. He wasn't too far off from that, at this point, although his face hadn't sunken in yet, thank god.

239 w.

notes.

I was never one for pretenders

That grip... it felt like he was breaking his shoulder with his one hand. Then, in the next moment, he was being dragged to the bathroom. His threat wasn't unheard, but wasn't taken seriously initially. Being thrown into the tub was less than pleasant. He made an "oomph" as he landed, ready to react, but unable to. In the instant, Bishop was on top of him, hand wrapped up in his hair mercilessly.

As the water rushed his face, panic ensured. Adrenaline began to pump through every inch of his body, fueling the thrashing and squirming. It was dreadful. He'd never had any experiences with drowning, but he figured this was probably just like it. Just as horrifying and painful. He could feel his lungs strain, even as the water was pulled away. As soon as he got his gasp of oxygen, it was back. His rhetoric was unregistered. The cold numbing his skin until it felt warm. It was, in every sense of the word, pure and utter torture.

Words were spoken and at first, it didn't quite register. He panted heavily with coughing and wheezing. His body trembled from all the effort it, technically, didn't have the energy to handle. He swallowed hard when he finally caught his breath, refusing to open his eyes, feeling Bishop's breath hit his chilled skin. Had he had enough? He wasn't even sure. Honestly, he'd hoped this was the end, but apparently it was only the beginning.

"I-I....I d-don't..." fucking chattering teeth, fucking cold water, fucking asshole "...don't want to l-live, anymore."

Please, please end me. Just end me, because God knows I am too pathetic to do it myself. Just drown me, slit my throat, shove my needle into my arm and force me to overdose... I deserve to overdose. I deserve all of this. I'm.. I'm so sorry, Jenna.

Spencer was a mess. He couldn't sob, he was too exhausted, but he was making some sound that hinted his body was trying to. He continued to shiver, hardly from being cold anymore. Spence would never deny being a diva or a queen with drama overflow. Especially not in this moment. It wasn't on his mind, but if he was asked, he'd certainly jump on that train.

"I'm s... sorry... I'm sorry for.. saying that... j-just..." he couldn't finish the word, throat strained, so he finished in thought, hoping it would somehow project to Bishop; just kill me.

408 w.

TW for suicidal stuff

I was never one for pretenders

The night for Spencer was long, hard, and heartbreaking. He left Tiger's Den planning to throw another 12 hour shift on the streets. First, he headed home though, which was nothing but an abandoned house he and a woman squatted in together. Her name was Jenna and he was hoping to catch her home to talk about his day with her. She was his best and only friend. He walked through the door and saw a couple candles lit, but didn't immediately spot Jenna. He called for her, but received no answer. Spencer wandered to the bathroom, which was her preferred place to shoot and snort meth.

What he found...

She was sank into the tub. At first, he thought maybe she'd passed out, but when he touched her, he found her skin to be ice-cold. "Jen? Jenna!? Oh my god, JEN!" He felt for a pulse, but wasn't finding anything. With a lot of effort, he dragged her into his arms and rushed out of the house and headed to the distant hospital. Thankfully, he got a ride.

Spencer was thankful to find she was still alive when he got to the hospital with her, but blood was drying on her face, having gushed from a busted blood vessel in her sinuses. He sat with her until she finally passed from overdose on methamphetamine. It was nearly noon the next day. He was exhausted and so depressed over his loss, he continued to not notice his desperate drive for heroin. For the moment, it was no where to be found in his mind.

The man slipped from the hospital almost as soon as it was called. He cried as he walked to work, hardly able to straighten himself out before arriving. He was thankful he didn't get much for business on Saturdays. They all wanted the women. At this point, he was mostly there for the facilities and a bed to lay on and mope on his slow day. Spencer dragged his feet to his usual room, finding the door still in disrepair. A sigh huffed out before he wandered toward the make-shift room, shutting the door, then collapsing upon the bed. It was hard to not keep crying.

Moments passed before he remembered he needed to take his drugs to Bishop. It was that moment he also realized how terribly in need he was. He chewed his cheek, looking at the door. Maybe he could sneak one before giving the rest up. So he took a little out - just a small dose - and drew it into his needle after melting it down. He pulled up his pant leg and stuck it into the back of his knee, finding one of his few remaining veins that weren't totally ruined. There was a rush, but he was in so much pain it hardly did more than satisfy the itch.

He was fed up. He couldn't do this forever. The whoring, the drugs... he'd lost too many people to overdose, but Jenna was the most important one. She was his unblood sister. The person who'd seen him through most of his shit. And she was gone, just like that.

Spencer balled every item and ounce of drug in his hands and chucked it across the room, hardly keeping back his scream of rage before falling back down to the bed, sitting up, but hunched over, damp face in hands.

568 w.