(no subject)
COMM: shifted_prompts - diamonds
VERSE: realityshifted
WORD COUNT: 1182
All in all, it could have gone worse. One of the band could have found him naked, cuffed to the bed, and blood smeared across his chest. He would have been trapped there until one of them let him out, but not until they had gotten all the enjoyment out of seeing him stuck in that position. Thankfully, it was Charles, coming to see what exactly went on; people falling out of Mordhaus was common, but falling out of Mordhaus while naked and with a nose bleeding like a geyser was slightly to the uncommon side of common, and apparently warranted a check in.
Charles checked unlocked him, Nathan grumbled his appreciation and rubbed his wrists. Fuck, they hurt. They were going to be bruised for a while, and like he had guessed, the metal had cut into the skin just a bit. Dried blood lined the places where his skin had broken; he had laid there long enough for it to dry. Charles may have dropped in to check on him, but it was by no means timely. Likely he was preoccupied with work and didn't figure it was worth interrupting it.
Nathan gingerly rubbed his wrists, trying to get his own blood off. It flaked away easily. Charles had inquired about the blood on his chest and was (or Nathan assumed he was) pacified with the knowledge it wasn't his own. There was still the nagging edge though, the insistence that Nathan at least stop by a doctor, make sure that it wasn't, say, diseased blood or something. But she had come up clean before, she had been given the bill of approval by the skank patrol and the STD team, so he didn't worry about that.
He just needed to clean up. Get the blood off him, maybe stick something on his wrists that wouldn't make it look like he was now taking up Murderface's hobby of self-harm, but still cover the cuts and bruises up. He wasn't much of an expert on that. When he had his legs torn to hell by the invisible water monster, he just stomped around with his jeans in shreds, open wounds untended to. But he had no choice there; he couldn't leave the Plane. So there was nothing to be done.
Eventually he managed to get Charles to go away, and he slunk off to his bathroom to shower.
The dried brown blood easily washed away. He braced his hands against the wall and hung his head; his hair, soaked, hung down in front of his face. So he had smashed Tiffany's face in, and now she was dead. He couldn't say he felt bad about it- he didn't feel anything, not really, but he was certain he should have felt something like a twinge of guilt. But nothing. Not a thing. He knew her a little, but that was about it. She was a good fuck, sort of fun... but he didn't feel a thing.
She'd be forgotten soon enough, completely gone from his life like the blood from his chest.
"Fuck," he muttered as he stood upright, then pushed his hair from out of his face. "Who the fuck was that guy?" That was a more important question. Who was that guy? That guy who may or may not have actually been there. The guy who might've been some weird hallucination brought on by sedatives, who the fuck knew what they did anyway other than make you tired. "Brown eyes. Man, I have not fucking seen anyone with brown eyes since I was like... nine."
So he knew there that it wasn't anyone he already knew, if it was something like a crazy ass hallucination. Wasn't fucking anyone he knew. Maybe someone he had seen at a concert... but no, no, he never paid that much attention to the crowd, not beyond the girls in the front row, ripping off their tops, begging for him to kill them.
Gross.
He cranked up the heat until he felt like it was scalding. Perfect. The water stung his wrists, but it was all good. It took his mind off his confusion and the fact he was completely blue balled. That was about as problematic everything else. But he'd have to tend to it later, he wasn't much in the mood to jerk off. If he was anyone else, he would have stayed in the shower until the water went cold. But he was him, he was Nathan Explosion of Dethklok and like hell they ever had that problem.
Nathan wasn't sure how long he stood in there, but eventually he stepped out, soaking wet. God, he felt better. He stepped up to the mirror and flashed himself an awkward grin; if anything he looked sort of silly, like some sort of bizarre, half drowned cat. He never did look nice after a shower. His hair was the reason, it just hung there like a mess. Whatever, he'd brush it out later.
He stepped out into his room in search of some jeans, trying to recall where they kept the gauze or whatever the fuck it was you put on things that were bigger than what a bandaid could sufficiently cover. Man. He had no clue where the fuck those things were. He almost never needed them, which caused him to wonder (as he was zipping up his jeans) if they even owned any. He did not want to go to the store, honest to god, not right now.
"Ugh, forget it. If they want to be fucking pricks and go on all 'oh hey Nathan since when were you into the whole slash your wrist scene, I didn't think you were some emo douchebag like that', fine. They can fucking choke to death for all I care."
That sounded like a plan to him. It wasn't like he got infections anyway, so what the hell did he care if he ran around like that. It didn't make a difference. It didn't make a difference. With that established, he wandered out of his room, hands in his pockets, going over things again.
The man (if he even was a man and wasn't just his imagination tweaking out on him) knew him. He said his name.
You don't know me, but I know you.
He remembered that; that crazy german bitch who attacked him a year ago when Mordhaus was burning. It wasn't quite like that with this guy, he was pretty sure, but the concept was the same. He didn't know who the fuck the guy was, but the guy knew him.
Honestly, that seemed to be happening a lot lately. Sexy subconscious dream lady knew him, but he wrote that off as dream shit, of course your dreams knew you, but-
God. He was hanging out with Irving too much, wasn't he? All that intelligence and thinking and consideration was rubbing off on him. And now here he was, wandering aimlessly through Mordhaus, thinking about shit.
He almost wanted to stop and slap some sense into himself. He wasn't sure what sort of sense, but he knew it didn't involve anything that would cause him to think about stuff too deeply.
VERSE: realityshifted
WORD COUNT: 1182
All in all, it could have gone worse. One of the band could have found him naked, cuffed to the bed, and blood smeared across his chest. He would have been trapped there until one of them let him out, but not until they had gotten all the enjoyment out of seeing him stuck in that position. Thankfully, it was Charles, coming to see what exactly went on; people falling out of Mordhaus was common, but falling out of Mordhaus while naked and with a nose bleeding like a geyser was slightly to the uncommon side of common, and apparently warranted a check in.
Charles checked unlocked him, Nathan grumbled his appreciation and rubbed his wrists. Fuck, they hurt. They were going to be bruised for a while, and like he had guessed, the metal had cut into the skin just a bit. Dried blood lined the places where his skin had broken; he had laid there long enough for it to dry. Charles may have dropped in to check on him, but it was by no means timely. Likely he was preoccupied with work and didn't figure it was worth interrupting it.
Nathan gingerly rubbed his wrists, trying to get his own blood off. It flaked away easily. Charles had inquired about the blood on his chest and was (or Nathan assumed he was) pacified with the knowledge it wasn't his own. There was still the nagging edge though, the insistence that Nathan at least stop by a doctor, make sure that it wasn't, say, diseased blood or something. But she had come up clean before, she had been given the bill of approval by the skank patrol and the STD team, so he didn't worry about that.
He just needed to clean up. Get the blood off him, maybe stick something on his wrists that wouldn't make it look like he was now taking up Murderface's hobby of self-harm, but still cover the cuts and bruises up. He wasn't much of an expert on that. When he had his legs torn to hell by the invisible water monster, he just stomped around with his jeans in shreds, open wounds untended to. But he had no choice there; he couldn't leave the Plane. So there was nothing to be done.
Eventually he managed to get Charles to go away, and he slunk off to his bathroom to shower.
The dried brown blood easily washed away. He braced his hands against the wall and hung his head; his hair, soaked, hung down in front of his face. So he had smashed Tiffany's face in, and now she was dead. He couldn't say he felt bad about it- he didn't feel anything, not really, but he was certain he should have felt something like a twinge of guilt. But nothing. Not a thing. He knew her a little, but that was about it. She was a good fuck, sort of fun... but he didn't feel a thing.
She'd be forgotten soon enough, completely gone from his life like the blood from his chest.
"Fuck," he muttered as he stood upright, then pushed his hair from out of his face. "Who the fuck was that guy?" That was a more important question. Who was that guy? That guy who may or may not have actually been there. The guy who might've been some weird hallucination brought on by sedatives, who the fuck knew what they did anyway other than make you tired. "Brown eyes. Man, I have not fucking seen anyone with brown eyes since I was like... nine."
So he knew there that it wasn't anyone he already knew, if it was something like a crazy ass hallucination. Wasn't fucking anyone he knew. Maybe someone he had seen at a concert... but no, no, he never paid that much attention to the crowd, not beyond the girls in the front row, ripping off their tops, begging for him to kill them.
Gross.
He cranked up the heat until he felt like it was scalding. Perfect. The water stung his wrists, but it was all good. It took his mind off his confusion and the fact he was completely blue balled. That was about as problematic everything else. But he'd have to tend to it later, he wasn't much in the mood to jerk off. If he was anyone else, he would have stayed in the shower until the water went cold. But he was him, he was Nathan Explosion of Dethklok and like hell they ever had that problem.
Nathan wasn't sure how long he stood in there, but eventually he stepped out, soaking wet. God, he felt better. He stepped up to the mirror and flashed himself an awkward grin; if anything he looked sort of silly, like some sort of bizarre, half drowned cat. He never did look nice after a shower. His hair was the reason, it just hung there like a mess. Whatever, he'd brush it out later.
He stepped out into his room in search of some jeans, trying to recall where they kept the gauze or whatever the fuck it was you put on things that were bigger than what a bandaid could sufficiently cover. Man. He had no clue where the fuck those things were. He almost never needed them, which caused him to wonder (as he was zipping up his jeans) if they even owned any. He did not want to go to the store, honest to god, not right now.
"Ugh, forget it. If they want to be fucking pricks and go on all 'oh hey Nathan since when were you into the whole slash your wrist scene, I didn't think you were some emo douchebag like that', fine. They can fucking choke to death for all I care."
That sounded like a plan to him. It wasn't like he got infections anyway, so what the hell did he care if he ran around like that. It didn't make a difference. It didn't make a difference. With that established, he wandered out of his room, hands in his pockets, going over things again.
The man (if he even was a man and wasn't just his imagination tweaking out on him) knew him. He said his name.
You don't know me, but I know you.
He remembered that; that crazy german bitch who attacked him a year ago when Mordhaus was burning. It wasn't quite like that with this guy, he was pretty sure, but the concept was the same. He didn't know who the fuck the guy was, but the guy knew him.
Honestly, that seemed to be happening a lot lately. Sexy subconscious dream lady knew him, but he wrote that off as dream shit, of course your dreams knew you, but-
God. He was hanging out with Irving too much, wasn't he? All that intelligence and thinking and consideration was rubbing off on him. And now here he was, wandering aimlessly through Mordhaus, thinking about shit.
He almost wanted to stop and slap some sense into himself. He wasn't sure what sort of sense, but he knew it didn't involve anything that would cause him to think about stuff too deeply.