making grown men cry for fun

18+ • Ruben [he/they] 30yo • please be nice to me i'll cry • main blog is @entrance-in-rear

[the-whumpening]

Intro Post (v2.1, Bigger and Better!)

About Me

I’m Ruben, but you can also call me Ruby or any variation of those. I’m a 30 year old bi/pan transmasc guy from the US. I’m also disabled (chronic pain, autism, other stuff) so I have both plenty of time to be online and plenty of barriers to keeping a regular schedule, so your patience is appreciated.

Askbox is open and anon is on! Feel free to send in prompts, asks, and general conversation!

My Ao3 account

Schedule

Veeeery seat-of-the-pants at the moment. If I am able to keep any type of schedule, I'll be sure to add it here.

If you'd like to be added to a taglist, send me a message or drop a comment with the blog you want tagged!

Asks are open for suggestions, comments, questions, and requests

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Writing Masterposts

Tigerverse (fantasy/dnd universe whump, multiple arcs/AUs)

Son of Bat (modern setting, bandmates, injury/sickfic)

Weekly Themed Posts [On Hiatus]

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Things you’ll likely find here:

General whump and hurt/comfort

Violence/gore/blood

Apparently pretty frequent emeto triggers! Dunno why that keeps happening.

Non/dubcon and intimate whump

Recovery/injury whump and sickfics

Emotional whump

Some pet whump

Male whumpees, whumpers, and caretakers

LGBTQ+ and disabled characters

Not currently here but maybe in the future:

More pet whump/BBU

Carewhumpers

Vampire and/or werewolf fics

More NSFWhump

Lady whumper

Royal setting

Robot whump

Non-whump fics (angst, fluff, smut, etc)

Big maybe: fanworks, probably Fallout or DC Comics

You likely won’t see:

Lady whumpee (no hate, it’s just not my thing)

Military settings and political intrigue

Fanfic (I greatly prefer writing for OCs, but I could be persuaded)

Child characters, outside of flashbacks (no judgment, just not my thing)

Religious whump

Superhero/Villian/Team whump (don’t mind reading it, just not interested in writing it)

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Some whump blogs I'm loving rn (off the top of my head, I'm sure there's more I'm forgetting!):

@kabie-whump @echo-goes-mmm @secretwhumplair @whumpzone @whumpcereal

@sowhumpshaped @whumpurr @doomeddestination

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My Tags:

#rublewriting (All my writing and masterposts, does not include weekly posts)

#not whump (Any post that's not writing, like memes or personal posts)

#rublogging (reblogs of others' posts)

#self rb (self explanatory)

#ruby replies (replying to asks)

#Tigerverse (any of the fics set in that universe, each has their own tag as well)

#Son of Bat (any of the fics set in that universe, each series has its own tag as well)

#Meet the Characters Monday

#Worldbuilding Wednesday

#Fuck It Friday

[the-whumpening]

I spent way too damn long on this. It was not meant to be this detailed, holy shit. Links to relevant stories for context.

So, there's a lot of backstory here. I'll put it under a read more since it got lengthy.

I've (obviously) been pretty obsessed with My Chemical Romance lately, and it makes me think of James and Vince in the biggest way. Whenever I think of the story behind Famous Last Words (explained below*), all I can think of is the complex love between siblings and how James/Vince parallel Gerard/Mikey so much. Since I've been doing so much work on the story with them, I just have so many Feelings about this all.

Your sibling being the one person you trusted, the person you went to for everything growing up. They were the only safe space you've ever known. They were there whenever you needed them, and then suddenly not. You want them to be there, but you dont want them to see you like this. You love them, but you resent them. They're your best friend, your most ardent supporter--but you're scared to let them in, to burden them with your failure. You have seen each other at their very worst and dragged each other kicking and screaming to the other side. Why did you leave? Why did you stay? It was always you two against it all, but now you barely know each other. (Am I projecting my relationship with my own brother? Yeah definitely.)

Idk man, I'm just insane about this dynamic, especially when it's paired with James/Eddie's found family brotherhood and the inevitable jealousy he and Eddie feel for one another: you (Vince) got more time with him, but you (Eddie) got to see him actually grow up and grow into himself. You mean the world to the person who means the world to me, and I'm terrified that he might prefer you, but I also feel guilty for that fear.

*The story is that the band was staying in a haunted hotel when writing The Black Parade. Mikey was in a bad place mentally (he and Gerard were dealing with high stress and substance abuse iirc) and was falling apart. After resorting to sleeping in Gerard's room, Mikey eventually had to leave to get help and almost quit the band. When he came back, G had written Famous Last Words for him.

[the-whumpening]

Hate Me, Part 3 [Son of Bat]

Prev | Masterpost | Next

-

"While I was busy waging wars on myself / you were trying to stop the fight"

CW: alcoholism, alcohol poisoning, emetophobia, medical setting, questionable medical accuracy, dysphoria

-

Now

Vince doesn’t remember much of the ride to the hospital—though he’s pretty sure James had to practically carry him out to the car. He was only awake for short blips, only long enough to spit up more bile and squint at the rapidly rising sun. The light stabbed into his brain like long, sharp needles. His hearing fades in and out with the pulsing in his ears—his icy blood thuds behind his eardrums with each strained pump of his heart.

“—don’t know,” James’ voice rumbles into his phone. Vince must have missed most of the conversation; he doesn’t even remember James grabbing his phone. “I’m taking him there now. Yeah. It just doesn’t make sense—”

The rest of the conversation gets lost as Vince’s attention wavers. Dark spots pool in his vision, warping along with his impaired hearing. As sweat erupts from his skin, he fights to cling to consciousness. But with each nauseating breath he forces from his chest, the darkness pulls him deeper and deeper, until everything is taken over by the black void.

By the time James has sped through several yellow lights and reached the emergency room’s triage desk, Vince is completely out. James easily hefts him into his arms, where his unconscious body hangs limp and useless. It takes some convincing by the triage nurse, but James eventually sets Vince carefully into a wheelchair, keeping a hand behind Vince’s head to support it when it droops. Under the fluorescent lights, Vince’s skin takes on a waxy, yellowish sheen, the bruise-like bags under his eyes even puffier than usual. With the unnatural stillness of his shallow breaths and the off-putting color of his skin, he already looks like a corpse.

-

This was a bad idea.

Vince knew better than to go to a party without someone he trusted as much as Molly, but . . . things had been going so well. He’d been sober for over a year now—and Fep said he could rely on her—so he didn’t think too much of it when she invited him after the show. He thought he could handle it. But still . . .

Where was she?

He’d been roaming the party for a while, and he still didn’t have a bead on her. It didn’t help that Tyler and a dozen of her friends all dress alike—everywhere he turned, there was another skinny girl in a short skirt and a ski mask. With the strobing lights and neon colors, he could hardly keep track of who was wearing which color, much less who was underneath. As he shouted over the music to ask for help, everyone seemed to point him in a different direction.

Worse yet, each direction seemed to lead him to another person offering him a shot. Though he kept declining, it never seemed to stick. As his anxiety built, his protests grew weaker and weaker. Maybe if he could calm down, he could think clearly and get back on track. With the tightness of the crowd around him, he couldn’t even get outside to catch his breath or have a smoke—his heart started pounding hard in his chest at the realization.

This was a bad idea.

-

When Vince finally wakes up again, his hand burns and his head feels split in half. He blinks against the light from the hall—someone had dimmed the overhead ones, thankfully—and pulls away from the pain in his hand. But it comes along with him, and his hand feels tethered to something.

Oh. An IV.

He doesn’t remember that happening; he guesses he must have passed out again before he even made it to the waiting room. Why are there so many bandages, though? Did they miss his veins so badly they had to use the back of his hand? That’s happened once before, he thinks. The memory is kind of fuzzy now; maybe that was just something he saw on one of those medical dramas one time. He’s not sure.

James is there, wedged into a too-small chair beside his bed. His arms are folded tightly to his chest, partly out of necessity in the snug space and partly to match the hard clenching of his jaw. Vince is pretty sure James isn’t angry—the scowl isn’t nearly deep enough for that. If he had to put a name to it, he’d almost say James seems . . . anxious.

Vince reaches over to him with his non-IV hand, the pulse reader on his finger dragging along awkwardly with him. His knuckles just barely brush James’ arm; James gently redirects his hand back to the bed. For a moment, the softening in James’ expression seems painfully familiar—in Vince’s blurry, confused mind, the James sitting beside him is that nervous little boy that lingers in his memory.

“Hey, bud,” Vince croaks, his throat still raw and dry. “What’re you doing here?”

James’ little face scrunches in confusion. His voice sounds weird when he speaks—is he sick, too? “What do you mean? I brought you here.” His hand seems to multiply in size as it reaches towards Vince’s forehead, laying hot on his sticky, cold skin. When did he get so big? “You’re still freezing. I’m gonna grab another blanket.”

When he stands, it’s as if he just keeps shooting up towards the ceiling; Vince’s eyelids struggle to stay open, each slow blink fading his baby brother out of existence. James returns—full sized, fully grown—and tucks a fresh, warm blanket around Vince. He hadn’t realized how cold he was till then. A deep sigh escapes his chest as he settles into the warmth, his chest heavy and threatening to pull him back under.

“You still with me?” James asks, keeping a hand on Vince’s arm as he sits back beside him. He squeezes a couple times—a reassurance.

Vince wants to reply, to tell James that he’s fine, but all that comes out is a half-choked eruption of bile.

“Shit!”

Immediately, James leaps back to his feet and pulls Vince onto his side, positioning his head so the sick spilling from him doesn’t suffocate him. He pats Vince’s cheek—only hard enough to attempt to rouse him, but even that doesn’t seem to quite work.

“C’mon,” James begs. “Stay with me. You gotta stay awake, man.” He pounds on Vince’s back with the heel of his hand—if it doesn’t keep him conscious, it’ll at least help knock anything from his throat loose.

Vince’s eyes roll in their sockets, glassy and unfocused. Another flood of fluid pools out of his mouth, but he doesn’t even cough to help it along. He’s too far gone; his awareness already slipping away.

-

Vince wove his way through the tight crowd of people, his head spinning in a new direction every time he’s jostled or shoved by some equally-drunk party girl. It was like a maze had formed around him—a shifting, changing labyrinth of bodies between himself and the exit. Worse than the claustrophobia of it all, he hated the thought that someone might notice his shape as he squeezes through; he’d taken his binder off after the show to give his ribs a break, leaving him hyperaware of the extra curves beneath his shirt.

His stomach dropped at the thought. He had to get out of here. The feeling of a dozen people colliding with him—touching him—made his sweat-sticky skin crawl.

When he finally pushed his way out of the door and onto the porch, he gulped down the thick, humid air like a suffocating fish. He stumbled to the stairs, tripping over scattered cans crumpled lazily across the steps. Could he get home like this? He hadn’t even driven here—not that he was in any state to drive—so he’d have to bum a ride from someone. Who the fuck here would be sober enough for that? And where the fuck was Tyler?

Vince’s knees collided with the grass, his hands following shortly behind. He tried to breathe through the growing nausea, but the heat wasn’t helping. Even this late, the heat of the day still lingered in the air, in the vapor that clung to his skin and clothes. His sweat beaded up and dripped off his nose; it didn’t cool him at all. Maybe if he just let it out and stopped fighting, he’d feel better—

“Hey!”

He barely picked up his head; his arms shook with the effort to hold himself up. Some girl he didn’t recognize was uncomfortably close to him. She smelled just as saccharine and biting as everyone else inside—the same mix of sweat, weed, and alcohol. Even so, some pathetic part of Vince was grateful for her presence. At least one single person seemed to care if he lived or died tonight.

“You got any cigarettes?” she slurred, a bit too loud over the grasshopper chirping.

Never mind.

Vince shook his head and turned to ignore her as she wandered off. He really was alone, then.

His shoulders slumped into themselves, his head resting on his trembling forearms. He caught his breath for a moment. When the wave of nausea started to pass, he leaned back onto his heels and dug his phone out of his pocket. Who could he call to help him? Molly clearly wasn’t available for whatever reason, otherwise she would have been there. Eddie didn’t drive. James . . .

He couldn’t bring himself to make that call. James had seen enough of Vince’s messy failure. He couldn’t drag him back into this—not again. James deserved better than to see his fuck-up of a brother falling apart again. After all he’d done for Vince the first time . . . Vince couldn’t bear the thought of letting him down. He’d just have to find someone else. Anyone else.

He taps the screen to wake up the lock screen, but nothing happens. He tries again. He presses the power button, then holds it down for good measure. Nothing.

Of fucking course. It’s dead.

Hot, stinging tears well up in his eyes; he roughly rubs them away with the heel of his hand. Stupid. This is so stupid. I’m a fucking loser. He glances back to the porch, to the flashing lights and thumping music inside. That’s where he belongs, isn’t it? With all the other burnouts? Drowning himself every night just to be able to sleep?

Fuck it. He’s already blown his second chance. Might as well not remember this feeling tomorrow—and tonight, might as well feel nothing at all.

[the-whumpening]

New chapter coming out tomorrow!

For whatever reason, I struggled a lot to get this one worked out the way I wanted, so I went through like three or four separate drafts. Plus, I have a huge art piece I spent most of the last couple weeks on which I also just finished! That'll probably also be up this weekend. Still churning out slow progress on the comic, which has admittedly been on the back burner for the other piece.

[the-whumpening]

Finally added song links to all the Son of Bat fics! Each one now has the song that inspired the title/theme in the first part 👍 I'm also planning to share the playslists my spouse and I have made for the band as a whole at some point. They've even started organizing them into specific albums! Ideally, I want to make album art for each one and share the playlist along with it. But I'm currently in the middle of like three other things so those are on the back burner for now 😅

[h3xt0r]

We need more ships where it's romantic for one half and platonic for the other and both parties are aware and ok with this

[the-whumpening]

Saw new Gerard pics drop and was reminded of a Vince fun fact: the band likes to dress up for shows around Halloween, and Vince's favorite is a slightly-too-small devil costume 🫶 hard to find a good onesie when you're tall as fuck

[jamiemoonymarks]

Normalize leaving unhinged comments on ao3 fics you like. I'm tired of being the only one brave enough to write "I am chewing on this fic" in the comment section. Be weird. Authors will love you for it

[fieldbears]

If I didn't want readers to chew on it, I wouldn't have spent all that time on the mouthfeel

[the-whumpening]

Hate Me, Part 2 [Son of Bat]

Prev | Masterpost | Next

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“An ounce of peace is all I want for you. Will you never call again?”

CW: alcoholism, withdrawal, suicidal ideation, (sort of) bad caretaker, emetophobia, questionable medical accuracy

-

Then

Are you home?

I really need to see you

Please

Sent 12:38AM | Read

By the time Vince reached the porch of James’ trailer, he was already second guessing his decision. If James had any sense—and Vince knew he did—he’d tell him to fuck off and die. Still, he was out of options. He couldn’t go back to his parents; that bridge had burned itself already. He’d lost most of his friends, his apartment, and was on the verge of losing the shitty car he temporarily called home. All that remained was his brother, and they’d only exchanged a handful of awkward texts and calls over the last couple years.

His hand shook as he lifted it to knock on the door, but it swung open before he made contact. It wasn’t James that answered, though. Vince’s eyeline dropped until it finally landed on the short blond guy in the doorway. He kind of reminded Vince of a hobbit with his chubby build and curly hair. For a second, the little hobbit man stared at him in confusion, then his eyes shot open wide in realization.

“Oh! You must be—right! Come in!” He stepped aside to let Vince through and shut the door behind them. “Sorry, I’m not great with faces. I’m Eddie, by the way. James is just in here making coffee if you wan—“

“That’s great, Ed, thanks. Um, where’s your bathroom?” Vince asked impatiently. He didn’t mean to be so harsh, but the nausea wracking his stomach was worsening by the second. He’d barely had the strength to wobble up the three steps to the door; he wasn’t sure he could last any longer.

Eddie pointed down the hall and Vince just nodded in acknowledgment. He squeezed down the narrow hall, past the laundry machines churning away and tripping over a basket in the process, but he managed to slide to his knees at the toilet bowl before the contents of his stomach emptied.

Thank god for cold linoleum, he thought absently. The cold sweat permeating his body felt a little less awful where his skin made contact with the floor. As he caught his breath, he wiped his mouth and sat back against the thin, paneled wall.

“Are you okay?” Eddie tentatively poked his head around the door frame, the door itself wide open where Vince had been in too much of a rush to care. From behind him, a big, meaty hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“It’s fine, Eddie—I got this.” Vince recognized the voice. It was deeper now, more full than he remembered. He guessed hearing it over the phone must have cut some of the bass. Still, it was unmistakable—that was his not-so-little brother.

James emerged from behind Eddie, taking his place and swallowing the door frame with his enormous size. Vince wondered idly if James had to duck to get through his own doors in this place, considering how low the ceilings were, but kept that thought to himself. Somehow, James lowered his gigantic frame down to the floor with him; the motion gave Vince a wave of vertigo for a moment.

“You look like shit,” James deadpanned. “Like, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but—you look like you just crawled out of a grave.” His nostrils flared and he turned his head away with a grimace. “Kinda smell like it, too.”

It didn’t hurt Vince’s feelings; James was right. He’d been on his last “clean” shirt for a few days now, but it wasn’t any less saturated with sweat and cigarette smoke than all the rest of his stuff. Laundry—or showering, for that matter—hadn’t been at the top of his priorities for a while. Frankly, the thought of addressing his body at all made his skin crawl. His fingers scratched idly at his scalp, tugging at hairs as if to test how tightly they were attached.

James shifted to sit next to him against the wall. He appreciated it; nobody should have to look at him right now. “I’m guessing you didn’t come over just to barf and stink up my house. What’s going on? Did something happen?”

What an understatement. What didn’t happen is the better question—all the right decisions gone by the wayside, all the opportunities thrown away, all the chances he’d been given that he squandered. Everything had happened, and nothing at the same time. He was running in place, constantly tripping over his own stupid feet and landing on his face. They’d both be better off if he just—

“I mean, I’m still glad you came,” James continued in a small voice. “Just . . . thought I should say that.”

Fuck.

Vince shoved the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, fighting back the hot, stinging tears trying to escape. He wasn’t prepared for that. When did James become the mature one? He was supposed to be angry—where was the shouting, the fighting, the violence? Why doesn’t he hate me? His lip wobbled as a manic laugh spilled out; he was pathetic.

“Ah, nothing happened,” he groaned, teetering on the edge between despair and mania. “I’m just a sad fuck that can’t go two days without a drink is all.” His hands were trembling violently, and the swirling in his gut revved up speed. He whined in protest and tried to hold it back. “I’m not doing so good, man.”

The cold, clammy feeling crept back up his neck, and he hurdled to lean over the toilet bowl before he threw up in the floor. Through the fog in his overloaded brain, he heard James shuffled towards him, then his hair was swept back from his face and held out of the way. Vince’s nose burned; that tiny act made him want to break down in sobs, but all that came out through his retching was an anguished wail.

When he finally could sit back without his stomach spasming, Vince was mortified. Why couldn’t he pull it together? He shouldn’t have made James witness this. But the mask of stoicism usually separating James from him had fallen away; James’ thick, dark brows were knit together in worry.

“You were trying to quit?” James asked. “Without any help?”

Through his shivering, Vince nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. So?”

Just as soon as it had dropped, the mask settled once more over James’ expression. As much as the distance hurt Vince to witness, he couldn’t deny the twinge of comfort it brought as well—it was familiar, expected. “That’s kind of stupid, don’t you think?” James chastised. “Tell me you’ve at least talked to a doctor at some point.”

A smile twitched at the edge of Vince’s mouth. He’d missed his brother’s bluntness.

“I’m living out of my Corolla,” he half-joked. “You think I got money for doctors?”

Perhaps he wasn’t grateful enough for James’ lack of anger, as it came back full force at that new piece of information.

“You’re what?! Are you fucking serious?” James launched to his feet, barely giving Vince a second to respond before holding a hand up to stop him. “Just—hang on. Wait right here.”

James stormed out of the bathroom and down the hall. From the distance, Vince could hear the rumbling bass of his voice talking to someone—Eddie, he guessed. There were more thudding footsteps back and forth in the main room, but after a few minutes, James returned. With him, he had brought a clean set of clothes and a water bottle, both of which he set on the bathroom counter.

“You’re not living out of your fucking car,” he declared. “You can stay here, with us. Now, I’m gonna stay with you and make sure you drink some water, and then you’re gonna wash off the corpse stench. You can borrow some of our stuff while your clothes wash.” He handed Vince the water and dropped back down beside him. “Dumbass. If you needed something, you should’ve told me sooner.”

It didn’t make any sense at all. After everything they’d been through—after Vince had failed him again and again—how could he still care? It’s not right. He deserved better than a burnout pushover for a brother, or sister for that matter. Vince didn’t want to think about that. James had been the first person he’d come out to, the first to accept him no matter what. And to what end—to have Vince dump himself and his problems on James’ bathroom floor after months of radio silence?

What a joke. He was a joke. A waste of space. Waste of time. Waste of energy. All he did was fuck things up.

“I’m serious about that shower.” James interrupted his spiraling as he chewed absently on the straw of the water bottle. “I mean, our stuff might not fit you all that well, but the pants have a drawstring, so . . .”

“I’m fine,” Vince mumbled. “I’ll get out of your hair once I can stop throwing up. Sorry—I shouldn’t have bothered you.” He wiped at the remaining sweat on his face, pushing out a deep breath to force his diaphragm to stop hitching. He had to get it together; he’d already long overstayed his welcome the moment he pulled into the yard.

From the corner of his eye, Vince could only see a wave of red. James was on his feet once again, this time yanking Vince up with him. Vince had never considered himself a small person—he was six feet tall for Christ’s sake—but James flung him around like he weighed nothing. Before he could react, his feet were off the floor, and he was being deposited into the narrow bathtub he’d been sitting beside only a second before. James flicked the water on—ice cold at first, eliciting a yelp from Vince—and marched to the door.

“Just shut up. You’re not leaving here until you clean up.” He slammed the door on his way out, and Vince could hear his back thump against it from the other side. He was standing guard.

Well, Vince could get mad, too. Why not? Nothing made sense anymore. He stumbled to his feet, still dripping, and pounded on the door.

“James!” he shouted, his throat still uncomfortably raw from vomiting. “This is fucking stupid! You can’t just lock me in here!”

“The fuck I can,” he replied through the door. “There’s shampoo under the sink. The hibiscus stuff is mine—you can use that.” Vince can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “It’s rejuvenating.”

Angry tears pricked up in Vince’s eyes. He threw open the sink cabinet and found the stupid hibiscus bottle, then chucked it at the door.

“Fuck you!”

He slumped down to the floor to pout, a shallow puddle forming around him on the linoleum. Why was he fighting this so hard? He wanted to be clean. He hated the fact that he was filthy and stank. He’d wished a dozen times in the last few months for laundromat money and more frequent access to a shower. And now that it’s right here, being forced on him, he’s throwing a fit instead? What the fuck is wrong with him?

He tugs at his soaked shirt, pulling away from the curves of his form. Right. That.

Kind of hard to clean a body you’d rather die than touch.

For a while—long enough that the now-heated water cooled again—he sat in his filth and misery. He held the shampoo bottle tightly in both hands, forcing his fingers to stay somewhere safe, somewhere they wouldn’t tear at his skin and hair like they desperately wanted to. James said nothing, though Eddie came by once to check on them.

James had gotten out. He’d lived through the same nightmare Vince had—often worse, though Vince couldn’t ever bear to think about it—and pulled himself out, all on his own. He’d done something Vince was too much of a coward to do: be himself.

The answer was right there, he just wasn’t willing to accept it yet. If he wanted to free himself, to ever shake this parasite of a lifetime off his back, he had to start by accepting the truth. As much as it baffled him, James still wanted him around. And if his brother saw something of value in his continued existence, then maybe he could too.

Vince’s legs trembled beneath him as he stood, but he forced them forward the few steps to the shower. He peeled off the layer of shame that covered him and let it drop to the floor. It still hurt—he still could hardly stand to look at himself—but he was willing to make the effort.

It would be worth it. He hoped.

[the-whumpening]

They’re the same picture, your honor

[transjudas]

thank god frank is small look at how he fits perfectly under rays chin and he’s in perfect hold range

[transjudas]

ough

[vykodlak]

Obviously I love the bf to pieces but sleeping can truly be some trials and tribulations sometimes because he's the type of person who moves in his sleep + is difficult to wake up and this manifests in various random dangers to my person

[vykodlak]

Can't believe I forgot these two classics

[the-whumpening]

Very slowly making progress on the Son of Bat comic I've been working on 😮‍💨 lots of new tools to figure out on top of just a fuckton of steps to get from A to B. But another chapter of Hate Me is coming out at the end of the week and I'm working on more of that and I Still Burn as well. I guess this is the summer of SoB!

[the-whumpening]

No but you guys dont understand--Son of Bat is My Chemical Romance. To me. (I mean I literally used Frank and Gerard as photo refs for Eddie and Vince so this is barely even a joke) I'm not saying this is rpf or anything but it's Real To Me yknow

[entrance-in-rear]

would you guys still fw me if you knew i was bald

[entrance-in-rear]

does it make it better or worse if i tell you it was on purpose?

[the-whumpening]

Hate Me, Part 1 [Son of Bat]

Masterpost | Next

-

“In my sick way I want to thank you / for holding my head up late at night”

CW: alcohol use, alcoholism, (sort of) bad caretaker, questionable medical accuracy, emetophobia

-

Now

The cab drops Vince off at the loft just before dawn.

He stumbles to the door, fishing out his keys and fumbling with the lock, but it swings open before he can even find the right one. Eddie stands in the doorway, though his short stature doesn’t block much of the light from inside. Vince squints through the headache piercing his brain.

“Finally! We’ve been trying to call you all night!” Eddie sighs, ushering Vince inside. Vince limply follows the hall into the living room, Eddie trailing just a step behind. “We were about to go looking for you, man. Where have you been?”

Where was I? Vince repeats in his head. He probes into his memory for a moment but finds only vertigo in its place. That’s a good question . . .

As he rounds the corner, he spots James at the table. He tries to be cool, to hide the obvious pain in his head and wobbling in his gait. Nobody seems overly convinced. Immediately, a darkness lowers over Jame’s brow—Vince can’t quite make out if that’s anger, disappointment, or some combination of both. They both look exhausted—Eddie’s curls are wild and out of place, and James’ dark circles look more like black eyes. They’re all usually worse for wear after a show like last night, but it’s rare for them to pull an all-nighter afterwards.

Right. Eddie asked something. Where was I again?

“Uh,” Vince rasps. His throat is sore—must’ve been from performing, he guessed. “There was . . . A party. Yeah.” He slumps onto the couch, the wobbling in his legs catching up to him. “It was, um . . . Fep. Yeah, she’s the one that invited me. I thought—Molly was supposed to be there. I think.”

Molly was more Fep’s friend than Vince, anyway. She always came along with him to parties—anywhere there would be alcohol, really. And he always did the same for her. That was their system; it helps to have her with him—she makes sure he doesn’t go too far. So Vince didn’t think twice when Tyler—or, Fep Twink, as she’s known on stage—invited him to join her and her friends after the show. But he’d been doing so well; how did he get this fucked up?

“I guess she couldn’t make it. That must be why Tyler said, ‘Oh, it’s fine Vince, you can trust me!’” Vince jokes, pitching his voice up in a half-slurred attempt to imitate Fep. He chuckles to himself and curls further into the couch cushions.

Even from across the room, Vince can hear the exasperated exhale from James’ nostrils. Some seed of worry wriggles in through the layers of mud in his brain. This isn’t good.

“He’s hungover,” James growls to Eddie; the bass in his voice painfully rumbles Vince’s sensitive eardrums. “This conversation is pointless right now.”

Vince covers his ears and mumbles, “Can’t be hungover if you’re still drunk.” A tiny window of clarity opens up within the fog, and Vince’s throat aches with the forming lump. He really blew it this time. He rubs at his temple, trying to soothe the growing headache. “Ah, fuck. I really am drunk. I—I’m sorry.”

He tries to sit up at least part of the way, supporting himself on his elbow, but his head spins violently in response. He grabs it with his other hand, as if to hold himself in place while the world rotates around him. With his eyes squeezed shut, he can only hear the scrape of James’ chair as he stands.

“Whatever. We can talk about it after we all get some sleep.” Beneath the exhaustion and apathy, Vince recognizes the seething edge in James’ voice. He’s pissed. “If anyone needs me, I’m getting a shower and going the fuck to bed.”

“G’night,” Eddie quietly replies, and there is a moment of pause before James’ boots stomp off down the hall.

While it’s not James’ most explosive angry outburst, Vince is sure it won’t be pretty in the morning when he’s had time to ruminate on it. He settles himself more horizontally on the couch as Eddie slinks back up the stairs, neither quite meeting each other’s uncomfortable glances. Sleep is probably the right call, anyway. His head is still too achy and dizzy to focus, and his stomach isn’t much better. A little rest should at least make it easier to think.

It’s late in the morning when he wakes up again.

If Vince felt bad the night before, today is miles worse. Although his thoughts are marginally clearer, his body is a wreck. He fumbles around, trying to extricate himself from the blanket now twisted around him so he can get up. If he doesn’t get to the bathroom now, he’s not sure he’ll catch his vomit in time. His hand collides with something cold and plastic—he cracks an eye open and clutches it to his chest. A small trash can had been placed in front of him at some point while he was passed out. He doesn’t remember falling asleep with a blanket on, either; someone must have draped it over him after he fell asleep.

When he finally recovers from the bout of nausea, he brushes back the sweaty hair from his forehead and tries to get his bearings. He spots a sticky note on the trash can he hadn’t noticed when he picked it up:

“Barf here”

He grins a little and sets it down. On the coffee table, another note (“You’ll need this”) is stuck in front of a bottle of Gatorade and a few loose Tylenol. He takes it gratefully, eager to soothe the pain in his head and aching in his muscles. Swallowing threatens to trigger his gag reflex once more, but he sips slowly and manages to keep it all down for the moment.

Vince knows the handwriting of these notes—of course he does. He’s the one who helped their author learn to write in the first place. And even though James was clearly pissed about all this, he still looked out for Vince. His chest hurts a little at that thought. He did care.

Now that he’s awake, Vince tries to start piecing together the events of the previous night. A lot of it is still fuzzy, coming together in vague flashes and out of order. Lots of Fep’s friends were there, all dressed to match her. Short skirts and ski-masks—that was their gimmick. Of course, he expected booze to be there. Fep always insisted on playing venues that allowed it, and she was notorious for drinking onstage. She and James had plenty of arguments about it when they performed together—and Fep usually got her way. Drink sales help everyone make money, after all. And, frankly, sometimes the band wonders if she can even perform without it. But still, it’s been so long since Vince has had a serious problem, he was sure he could handle himself. Why did things go so sideways?

He loses track of time while he’s thinking, only coming back to the present when someone calls his name.

“Vince! Hello? You with us, buddy?” Eddie asks, clearly not for the first time. Vince nods absently, wiping the cold sweat off his face as he comes back to consciousness. “You good? What happened last night?”

Vince’s eyes focus once more, and he realizes James and Eddie both are seated around him in the living room, staring at him expectantly. He thinks for a second—does he even have an answer to give?—before his stomach lurches for a second time.

Waste of good medicine, he chides himself sarcastically as the Tylenol reappears.

A chorus of groans follow the eruption—not that Vince is any less pleased. It takes several minutes for him to be able to breathe clearly enough again to even think about Eddie’s question. The question they all want to know: Vince himself included.

“I don’t”—he spits and clears his throat—“I don’t remember.” His voice is still rough and halting; words squash and stretch themselves strangely in his clumsy mouth. This wasn’t like him. But then, nothing from last night was like how he tries to be now. One bad decision seemed to lead to a whole lot more.

“You don’t remember anything from the party at Tyler’s?” James asks.

Vince wipes his mouth, his hand shaky and his breath shallow. Somehow, he feels even worse than before he threw up; that wasn’t usual, either. He pressed into his memory, trying to piece together a coherent reply. “Just—a lot of people. They all had those”—he waves his hand in front of his face—“mask things. I l-lost track of her.” He rests the trash can on his knees and leans his face on his arms. He’s already wiped. His body feels heavy all of a sudden, his mouth too drooped to fully form his words. “Tha’s it. ‘M tired . . .”

His grip slips, and James rushes to catch the trash can and set it down, his heavy footsteps sounding strangely far away. Vince slumps onto his side on the couch, already slipping back into sleep. James presses a hand to his clammy forehead; when he speaks again, his voice also sounds far away—like it’s coming from the other end of a tunnel.

“Jesus, you’re freezing!”

No, your hand is just hot . . . He doesn’t say it out loud, though he means to. His mouth has given up for the moment.

James curses under his breath, a hint of panic slipping out beneath his stoic mask. He digs his phone out of his pocket and dials three numbers. “He’s not hungover—this is alcohol poisoning.”

[the-whumpening]

Molly took a picture of the guys on a night out, but it looks like someone spilled some coffee on the corner :/

[Image ID, posted here because it's long: A drawing of (from left to right) Vince, Eddie, and James stylized as a Polaroid picture. Vince is a tall, tan man of average build. He wears a red Hawaiian shirt with long sleeve fishnets beneath and ripped black jeans. Eddie is in the middle, held up by the other two and his arms over their shoulders. He is pale and blonde with freckles, and his build is chubby. He wears a sleeveless blue hoodie, olive green cargo pants, and brown work boots. James is a lighter tan man even taller than Vince with a bulky, muscular build. He has long black hair, a lip stud, and an eyebrow ring. He wears a tight purple t-shirt with a black spade design, black pants with a studded belt, and black boots. He’s sticking out his tongue and doing the metal horns sign with his left hand. Behind the boys is a stylized background of a dive bar. On the Polaroid frame, each man’s name is written beneath them in black marker. /End ID]