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#and it’s like maybe the pain in your back this time is your kidneys having more issues

certifiedcodbabygirl · 2 months

Text

Simon Riley crying and praying for the first time in years bc you're hospitalized

(self indulgent as fuck, based off of personal medical history bc it'll be more accurate)

You hadn't ate or drank for 5 days, unable to keep anything down. You thought it was the flu at first. Fevers, puking, extreme fatigue. It didn't seem like anything out of the norm. Except for when your fevers started casing full body convulsions that made you look possessed. Chills and cold sweat turned to groaning and crying, muscles all over cramping and clenching, breathing becoming difficult. You figured it was because you hadn't had the flu in years. How wrong you had been.

Once your puke turned green, which was later found out to be bile from your kidneys, Simon rushed you to the hospital. Unable to stand, he pulled a wheelchair from the entrance and pushed you everywhere. Within 2 hours, the nurses had you admitted and on IV meds. Pain meds, IV Tylenol, and bags of fluid were hooked up to you, rehydrating you being high priority. Your body is in shock, resting heartrate being 140. He sat by your side the entire time, holding your puke bag in one hand, and your hair back in the other. The doctors drew blood, running blood cultures, searching for a more accurate answer.

The night you were admitted, they informed you that your kidneys were so infected that one got injured. The bile that was thrown up was caused but how hard you were puking, pulling it up from your kidneys.

He stayed the night, sleeping in the rocking chair, right next to your bed. He woke up when your fevers came back, holding your hand and telling you how good you're doing, calling in a nurse. The morning that followed, he had to go back to the house to make a bag of your immediate needs, clothes, deodorant, hairbrush, and anything else he could think of. When he came back, a doctor and a couple med students came in with important news.

"We ran blood cultures to see if there was possible an infection in your blood due to your symptoms leaning towards that. They came back positive. We are going to give you antibiotics and run cultures every 12 hours to track if the antibiotics are working" The doctor says as gently as possible.

The room begins to feel like it's spinning. Sepsis has a 68% mortality rate, and knowing how deadly it is, it feels like you're already being buried. Simon looks to you with a confused look, not knowing exactly what that it, but knowing it isn't good.

"I have sepsis?" You ask in a quiet voice, throat constricting.

"Yes" The doctor says softly.

"Oh fuck I'm gonna die" you whisper under your breath, tears forming.

Simon looks to you, eyes widening. 'Not again'

"Wait, the hell is Sepsis?" He demands, but not sounding confident, more scared than anything.

The doctor explains it to him, how it when your blood is infected, how the infection can latch onto your other organs and slowly kill you from the inside out. Once it reaches your brain, it's too late. His grip on your hand tightens. The doctor tries to give hope, but she can only do so much without lying. She leaves to give you privacy.

It's silent, neither of you speaking out of shock. The only noise in the room is the quiet hum of the IV machine and Simon's shaky breathing. Your thumb softly glides back and forth over the back of his hands, trying to ground him.

"Si" you softly call.

It takes hour to get him to loosen up a little. It's only when you manage to keep down a popsicle that he feels like he can breath a little easier. Like maybe you'll be part of the 32% that pull through.

That sliver of hope is crushed that night, being woken up by his arm being slapped repeated by you in a panic. His eyes meet yours, concern instantly written on his face. Your hand is on your chest as short, sharp breaths are the only thing you can manage.

"I,, can't,, breath,," you whisper between breaths, unable to say a sentence in one go.

"Baby it's alright, jus' try to breath wit' me, hm?" he tries to demonstrate slow breathing, mistaking it for a panic attack.

"not a,, panic,, attack,, please,, nurse,," you try to tell him.

He nods in a panic, running out to the nurse station and explaining. They rush in and take your pulse-ox just to see your oxygen percentage is at 86% when it should be above 95%. They try to do the deep breathing again before Simon interrupts them.

"It's not a bloody panic attack, she literally can't breath. Get her oxygen or somethin' before she fuckin' suffocates!"

They put you on oxygen until they can get you an X-ray. The nurses try to chalk it up to a panic attack until in the morning they see you still can't breath. They give you an X-ray and when the results come back, they send the doctor in. She informs you that the nurses gave you too much IV fluid and that caused your organs to swell so much that they pushed up on your lungs, collapsing them by 3/4ths. 1/4th of your lungs are still open and they're going to take you off fluid, start you on exercises to open them back up, and keep you on oxygen.

That's the last straw for Simon. Once you fall asleep for a nap, he heads outside to the bench area and punches a wall. His knuckles split but he barely feels it, ringing in his ears drowning out the surrounding noise. With no one around, he sits on a bend, elbows on knees and face in his hands. His breath picks up as his throat tightens and tears threaten to rip out of him.

"Why would ya let this happen to 'er? Aren't you supposed to be lovin'?" He whispers into the wind, looking up at the sky, "That girl in't like me. She's the fuckin' sunshine in human form and she's on death's bloody doorstep."

Tears cloud his vision, unable to keep it in any longer. He blinks them away, falling onto his clenched fists. Years of praying, to a god he later grew to resent, for him to fix his family. A child kneeling at his bed, begging him to get his family out of his father's grasp. Once he got to his teenage years, his desperation became resentment and anger. His jaw began to clench when his drunken father would spew bible verses at him to condemn him. He realized God wouldn't save him, nor would he when Simon's family was ripped from him.

Yet here he was, back to that same god, desperate that maybe, just maybe, he'd have mercy on him this time. He believed himself a rotten man, even if it was subconscious, unworthy of the angel sent to him. His light, reparations for the mistreatment The Father had destined for him.

"You sent 'er to me, it's gotta be for a reason. You've never listened to my prayers before but just this fuckin' once, please don't ignore me." His voice breaks, openly sobbing with no sound, "You sent 'er to me and now I can't live without 'er. She's fuckin' everythin' to me. Don't take back your gift, please" The end of his sentence slips into a whisper.

He wipes his tears on his sleeve and sniffles hard, trying to erase the evidence of his vulnerability. He stands and walks to the door, looking back at the bench before turning back to the door and walking in. 'Amen'

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hellyeahsickaf · 7 months

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The way addicts and chronically ill people are dehumanized is so exhausting

The normalization of this shit in medical and casual settings is genuinely mind boggling. Addicts and disabled people go through so much bullshit. I've dealt with many fucked up doctors when I just needed help

I had a kidney infection, some months back. This is always extremely medically urgent, and I was likely only hours from sepsis. I went to the hospital reporting my pain to be a 9/10. 9 because my 10 was gallstones. I experienced severe malpractice at the hospital and the doctor reported exams that never occured and false information while making me wait with nothing more than tylenol to hold me over (didn't touch the pain) and bring my fever down but that's a whole other story

They did however, deny me the pain medication I needed until it was time to go home. I'm deathly allergic to NSAIDS, but that's something an addict might say so they witheld pain relief because they'd rather me suffer just in case I'm a different kind of sick. An entire night, maybe 6 hours in the ER and they couldn't give me anything, not a small dose of morphine or one norco even a few hours prior to take the edge off of the pain while I was curled up shaking and crying. Just in case I was an addict looking for my fix, and my suffering was just withdrawals and good acting. In that case maybe I deserved it and should be denied my humanity. God forbid in that case I'm so desperate to alleviate unbearable withdrawals that I spend all night in the ER crying. Not the first time I've experienced red tape just to get relief from excruciating pain

But whatever. As per protocol I was asked to follow up with my pcp. So a few days later I called to set an appointment, but I'd also run out of norco and desperate to relieve the pain I asked if I could be filled even enough for a few days, until the pain was bearable. I had difficulty walking, laying down, and I again, can't take most pain relievers. The receptionist was nice and understanding, actually got me in touch with the doctor because she wanted me to be able to get my refill. Probably heard the pain in my voice even. She believed me

She transfers me over to the doctor and I tell him I'd like a follow up and ask if he could fill my painkillers. I would've acceped a no from him, I just needed my follow up. He asked about my condition, I told him my diagnosis and how much pain I was in

And he laughed.

Got a real hoot out of it, like he had me all figured out. Like he caught me trying to cheat the system. I must be trying to get high or make some money with a few days worth of norco as i'm nearly in tears from the pain even while calling

He tells me through his laughter "I don't prescribe painkillers for 'kidney infections'" saying it with a mocking emphasis on those words, as if I'd said "stubbed toe". Follows with "Yeah haha, bye." and hangs up on me. No follow up like I called for. Needless to say I no longer have a pcp but truly if he thought I was an addict trying to take advantage of him he should have still treated me professionally. Maybe not cackled when I said my pain was excruciating for a start

I just don't understand why the hell so many doctors can be so apathetic to people's suffering. Addicts deserve better and so do disabled people- whether you think they're addicts or not. The assumption that we're lying, trying to trick them and are feigning pain to do it is disgusting, listening to your patients is so important. And if that were the case they could have some sympathy and ask themselves what it would take for someone to go those lengths, take such drastic measures and go through that trouble to obtain those substances.

Addiction is not a moral failing. Many disabled and chronically ill people unfortunately rely on medications that have addictive properties. About 80% of heroin addicts first misused prescription drugs. However only about 4-6% of those addicted to prescription drugs switch to things like heroin. And instead of help or compassion for people who just need help (addicts or not), they just figure we're one in the same and treat us like subhuman degenerates, leeches on society. And I think people need to change how they view addiction. Doctors need to change how they view addiction

#cfs #chronic pain #chronic fаtiguе ѕуndrоmе #chronic illness #fibromyalgia #disability #actually disabled #spoonie #me/cfs #cfs/me #ableism #ableism tw #medical ableism #addiction #ok to reblog #medical stuff #tw drugs

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moonstruckme · 9 months

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can i request poly!marauders x female reader where she’s on her period and gets horrible cramps/back pain so the guys do what they can to help? With maybe the reader taking advantage of how hot Remus runs and using him as a heating pad? Thank you so much!!!!

The amount of times I've wished for almost exactly this is embarrassing. Thanks for requesting lovely, hope you enjoy it :)

cw: period pain, marauders are unbearably sweet and caring

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 943 words

“Feeling any better?” James murmurs, setting a cup of cinnamon tea down in front of you.

Blankets rustle as your hands emerge from inside them, taking the mug. You blow gently before taking a tentative sip. “A bit,” you say, but grimace as another cramp comes to defy you, pain twisting through your abdomen and lower back.

James frowns in sympathy, and Sirius makes a terribly soft soothing sound, petting your head where it rests on his lap. You set your tea back down to cool, curling in on yourself. It’s a feeble protection against the pains that have plagued you since the early hours of the morning, when you’d woken and found yourself unable to go back to sleep, lying curled up in your bed as you throbbed with waves of dull agony.

You’re all supposed to be watching a movie, but try as you might, you can’t focus on anything but the pain. Your tits are sore, your back hurts, and your emotions keep ricocheting from grouchy to teary and back again. Your boyfriends don’t seem able to concentrate on the TV either, taking turns shooting you concerned glances and asking if you need anything. You appreciate their desire to help, you really do, but having to say “no, there’s nothing you can do” over and over again is beginning to grate on your oversensitive nerves.

“Want another pain reliever?” Sirius asks.

You look up at him hopefully. Truly, nothing would make you happier.

“No,” Remus says sternly, his gaze turning sympathetic when it falls on you. “Sorry dove, you’re maxed out. You can’t have more for a couple hours.”

Sirius pouts on your behalf, but you’re not so ready to capitulate. “It’s not going to kill me to have a couple more.”

“Not immediately, but it’s not good for you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care right now,” Remus reasons, “but you will if your kidneys fail someday because you had half a dozen pills over the course of an hour. Drink your tea, it might help.”

You huff. “None of you know what it’s like.”

Remus softens. “No, we don’t, darling, I’m sorry.”

You don’t want him to be sorry, though maybe you do just a little bit. You wouldn’t wish this torment on your boyfriends, but you can’t help but harbor a tiny bit of resentment for the fact that they’ll go their entire lives without ever understanding what you’re put through for an entire week every month.

Another cramp seizes you, and you press a hand to your stomach to hold your heating pad closer against you, only to find it barely warm. You press the button, waiting a minute for it to start up again. Nothing happens.

You let out a quiet whine, tucking your head under your blanket and bringing your knees further into your chest.

“You alright, sweetheart?” James asks tentatively, and you can practically feel the attention of all three boys as someone lowers the volume on the TV.

“My heating pad broke.”

James makes a pained sound, and then a hand lands on your shoulder, rubbing soothingly through the soft fabric of the blanket. “I’m sorry. Want me to warm you up a water bottle or something? Or maybe one of us can run and get you a new one.”

“Or,” Sirius says pensively, “Remus is always burning. You could try using him, see if that helps.”

You poke your head out from within your nest of blankets in time to see Remus cock an eyebrow at the word use, but when his eyes slide to you they’re contemplative.

“What do you think?” he asks you. “Worth a try?”

You hesitate a moment, unsure if you really want to be touched in your bloated, uncomfortable state. But your cramps are growing noticeably worse without your heating pad, and Remus does run awfully hot… “If you think it’ll help,” you say quietly, a note of pleading in your voice.

Sirius eases your head off of his lap, moving to give Remus room to slip underneath you. You move around a bit, not quite sure of how to position yourself, but it’s no matter, because then Remus is worming his hands between your legs and stomach, wrapping his arms around you. You relax into him, giving James a small smile as he adjusts the blankets over you both.

“Merlin, you’re a furnace,” you breathe appreciatively.

Remus smiles slightly, seeming relieved and a bit proud that he’s able to help. “Is your back hurting you too?”

“Mhm.”

He moves one of his hands from where it’s resting on your side, flattening it over your lower back and pressing down lightly. You sigh as his warmth seeps into you and relaxes your tensed muscles, your eyes closing in bliss.

“Thank you,” you murmur, feeling like you could cry from relief and the exhaustion that’s catching up to you now that your pain is abating. “Sorry for being mean.”

You feel Remus’ chuckle rumble through his chest. “You weren’t mean, love. You’re just grumpy, and I understand. Don’t worry about it.”

“You make it very hard to despise all of mankind when you guys are this sweet to me, you know.”

“Ah, well then, our work here is done,” Sirius says, poking teasingly at the blankets covering your feet. “You can leave ‘er be now, Remus, our nefarious scheme has been a success.”

You exhale amusedly, but latch on a bit tighter to Remus, just in case he decides to go along with Sirius’ bit.

He chuckles again, resting a hand on the back of your head with reassuring weight. “Don’t worry, dove, I’m not going anywhere.”

#poly!marauders #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x y/n #poly!marauders x you #poly!marauders fanfiction #poly!marauders fanfic #poly!marauders fic #poly!marauders fluff #poly!marauders imagine #poly!marauders scenario #poly!marauders drabble #poly!marauders oneshot #james potter #james potter x reader #sirius black #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader

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da-shrimping-station · 12 days

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Andrealphus with a human!SO who's curious about his scars

gender-neutral reader | slightly suggestive | mentions of sex and nudity | he calls his SO darling as an endearment | nonsexual intimacy (for the most part ig?)

MINORS DNI

i will take your kidneys 🧡

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

He can feel them staring intensely. It doesn't bother him the slightest, given that he's received far more hostile glares, but that doesn't mean he's not curious. It's rare for his darling to look at him like that.

"Is there something wrong?"

Andrealphus turned to where they are, senses acute enough to locate them despite their quiet. There was a rustle of cloth and soon enough a body pressed against his.

"You have a lot of scars..."

"Do they bother you?"

He was never one for vanity, before or after being blind. What only mattered was that he was, at the very least, clothed. Even when he became one of Niflheim's nobles. Black did well with bloodstains and a simple suit was all he needed. A tie was out of the question because no matter how much he practiced, he somehow could never get it right. And the only reason that he bothered to braid his hair was because it could be a liability in battle, what with getting tangled or grabbed if he let it be.

So, appearances were the least of his concerns. So long as his body functioned well enough to fight, that's all that mattered.

"They don't bother me," they reassured. "It's just that, seeing them makes me realise what you went through."

Their fingers gently tapped at his wrist before holding his hand.

"I never really cared for the scars." For the majority of his existence, all Andrealphus did was fight. "The doctors from Paradise Lost can't say no to me when I ask for their assistance."

He's a model patient to them, following orders and recommendations to hasten his recovery. Rushing things would be a detriment in battle.

There had been times when he'd been too zealous with fighting and outright disregarding his physical state in order to fulfill his bloodlust. It cost him and his comrades dearly.

Gusion's rant and Bathin's disapproving comments still ring in his ears to this day. Yet they still helped him, dragging him back to where Marbas was in order to receive proper treatment. He made sure to express his thanks by staying put and actually listening to the doctor.

"Still," his darling insisted, snuggling closer to him. "It makes me sad, I guess? That you had to go experience such pain. I know you can handle it and that you've gone through worse but..."

The pair sat in silence, the mid afternoon sun filtering through the window and the sheets rumpled over their bare lap.

Andrealphus thinks he understands. Humans are delicate after all and Niflheim demons are the hardiest of devils in Hell, followed by those of Tartaros. Not to mention he is a noble to boot. Suffice to say, his body can take a lot before he's down for the count. Yet he also understands their concern, he thinks. They've never interacted with devils before they got to Hell and what knowledge they have of its residents are only surface level.

Maybe he should accept Gusion's offer of tutoring his darling about the norms and cultures in Hell. There was also a suggestion from Bathin to give them basic training for self defense.

Maybe.

Are his scars that unsightly that his darling would go so far as to point it out? It's not that he's unaware of them. They're just a fact of life, given that the entirety of Hell was at war for a century now and he was constantly on the frontline.

"Are they that unsightly?" Enough for them to point it out?

"No. Not the slightest. In fact," they trailed off, sounding a little hesitant. "I find them attractive."

"Oh, I have no doubt towards that," Andrealphus said with a chuckle. "If I remember correctly, you jumped on me the first time you saw me shirtless—oof!"

His darling punched him lightly (to him at least), as they grumbled in embarrassment. He wrapped his arms around them, pulling them in for a kiss. They still haven't cleaned up from earlier activities, thought that's the least of his concerns right now. Not when his darling kisses him back with equal fervor and adoration.

"Andrea–" They gasped, moaning as Andrealphus set his eager mouth to their chest. Such music to his ears. "C-can I touch your– Ah! Your scars–"

Their nails dug into his shoulders, trying to steady themself as he set them on his lap properly. He growled as they yanked at his hair, halting his onslaught so they can catch their breath.

"Can I?" They asked, breath ragged and a face flushed.

"You can touch wherever," he said, giving them one last kiss as reassurance. He let them settle on his lap properly and patiently waited.

Hesitant fingers traced along his right bicep. He knew there was a scar there having touched it when he bathes.

"Where is this from?"

"Sparring with Bathin."

"Oh?"

"He is skilled with his sword. If I were any slower, it would've gone through my arm."

His darling let out a concerned hum but kept quiet nonetheless.

The rest of their afternoon went like that. Tentative touches on scar tissues and hushed voices asking questions as they explored the visible scars on his body. They used to be inconsequential to him. Just another notch on his body as proof of another hard won battle and further proof of him reaching his goals. But with how his darling touches them, even going so far as to give the bigger ones a kiss made him feel proud to have them.

Andrealphus thinks he'd found a slice of paradise, here in his humble home, with his darling in his lap, and the rest of the world so far away.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

A/N:

hiiii i've had a bit of a drink and when im drunk, i write (because i need me some of that dutch courage to stop being conscious about my writing)

gonna add this to my collection of "drinking drabbles"

this was all done in one sitting and definitely not proofread so,,,,,,,

also typed this all up on mobile so idk what's the word count or if the formatting is okay

eheheheheh 🦐

#what in hell is bad #whb #prettybusy what in “hell” is bad?#what in “hell” is bad?#whb andrealphus #whb andrealphus x reader #how do i tag this #anyway i was itching for some Andrealphus content #gotta #make my own damn food ig #and here we are #pls im gonna be embarrassed about this when i sober up #🦐:drabble

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heartfullofleeches · 9 months

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Do it!! We love your ideas chief, that’s why we’re here!

Also ghoul reader is hot as fuck

[Light body horror. Angst]

Well- two important factors about ghoul reader are both their body and mind deteriorate over time, but can be rebuilt to full structure by eating human meat/brain healthy meals.

This led me to think of a "healer" ghoul reader who can sorta transfer/reconstruct the healthy cells to others and heal people that way. Lose a kidney? Ghoul Reader can create a new one and negate most side effects by eating some ground beef left in the freezer. A personal sacrifice of their flesh for another being.

Given the nature of their healing properties, Ghoul Reader is extremely caring and always puts others before themself. They make friends with the wrong person- someone who hardly cares about their well-being and uses Reader for their personal gain. They had been scarred horribly by mistakes they'd already made and without them even asking Reader starts to slowly heal them. Their body needs more work than reader's can take, but they just write the ghoul off as lazy and trying to keep them around. Reader's body mass continues to shrink no matter how much they eat. It hurts them to put so much strain on their body... it hurts so much... but they still try. They still keep that "friend" in their heart and notebooks so they'll never forget them when their memory blanks. They care about their friend. They love them. They want them to be okay and love themself for who they are-

But they never knew how truly rotten that person was - inside and out.

"Finally... All those horrid scars were a damper on my social life. I'm even more beautiful than I was then. That being said, I can't be seen around something like you. It was fun."

That isn't what friends are supposed to say.. After all they did for them... Gone without even saying goodbye. That was the ghouls first time being betrayed to such caliber- and it crushed them. They wouldn't feel this pain if they were just another mindless creature, but they were proud of the person they'd become. The "normal" human being who walked around same as everyone else. They were just like them... only rotting... maybe that person wasn't so wrong to leave them behind...

Ghoul Reader shuts off from the outside world after that. They stick to their routine as it's all they've ever known, but they've lost that rosy view of the world. Is it worth making friends anymore? What's the point of trying if they'll just be abandoned again? They were more human than the people around them. Unlike them - they felt pain. They wanted to forget it all - so they did. Most of it at least.

While out one night reader notices a musky scent in the air. So faint only their nose would catch it. They follow the trail to a body lying behind some dumpsters - stab wounds having torn deep holes through their vital organs. Their pulse was weak - fading. Despite all the pain they've been dealt, Ghoul couldn't let someone die for another's mistake. They fixed up the near corpse and waited for them to wake up so they couldn't get home safety.

"Ugh....I'm still alive....lame...who the fuck are you?.."

Ghoul Reader explains everything that lead up to the encounter and their healing capabilities.

"Eh....with how my nights gone - I'll believe anything at this point. Thanks for the help, bud."

It was nothing. Ghoul Reader gets up to leave.

"Aye! Where ya going? You save people's lives on the regular and expect nothing back? Lemme treat you to dinner. Know a good spot close by and I still have the wallet I was gutted over. Let's get going already!"

Reader learns more about their new acquaintance. A petty thief trying to get on the right track in life. They spun some wild story about seeing a guy dropping his wallet and them trying to return it with the guy flying off the rails and accusing them of stealing it. The details were spotty, but Reader nodded along to every word. They needed a place to stay for the night as their home was too far to trek back too at that hour. They give Reader the rest of the cash in the wallet in exchange for their couch and they become the first real friend Reader makes.

Everything Reader gave they always tried to give back double. The near death experience gave them a new outlook on life. It was something to be cherished and not thrown away so easily as they had in the past. They wanted to share that new view with their only friend. Reader was a better companion than people they'd know their entire life. A little bitey when they got hungry, but everyone gets a little cranky when they're starving.

The friend gets a call over. Reader had skipped breakfast and wasn't sticking to their usual diet. They sat alone, unable to move and succumbing to the painful cramps of hunger. They begged their friend to bring them meat from the store, but their friend wanted to end their suffering as quickly as they could. They pulled out their trusty switchblade, embedding its teeth in their pinky finger. Ghoul Reader tries to stop them.

"Y/n, you saved my life. It's as much yours as it is mine. I'd give anything to properly replay you, but I'll never be able to and I don't mind living with that debt on my shoulders if it means we're together. This is the least I can do for you- so shut up and eat my damn finger."

A week after Reader tries them their finger back there's a knock on the door. Their friend refused treatment seeing it as a marker of their loyality to reader. They make sure reader is well fed at all times. A face reader has seen before stands behind the door. Some model they've seen on billboards and flyers. What could someone like that with them?

"Y/n. I know you probably don't want to see me after what I've done, but I need your help. I got into an accident after a few drinks last week. Nothing serious before you ask, but I've got these bruises and I have an important party to attend this Saturday. I'll allow you to be my plus one if that fixes things."

....

"I'll be out with a friend Saturday, but thank you. I can still fix you, but if you don't mind me asking - how do you know my name?"

Reader leads them to their couch and heals their spotty face all while the stranger is left bewildered. They're acting like nothing happened. Why are they acting like nothing happened? Who was this new friend and who the hell was that standing by their bedroom door?

"Are you seriously going to play this game?"

"What do you mean?"

"Pretending like you don't know who I am. That's harsh even with everything that's happened."

Ghoul Reader backs away from them.

"I've seen you in pictures, but that's it. I don't know who you are."

"It was cute at first, but I'm not playing whatever game you're trying to start. You know who I am."

Ghoul Reader racks their brain for answers, but there's no result. They begin to hyperventilate. "I don't....I don't know who you are....Stop it, please!"

"Not til you say my name. I'll own up to my part when do that simple thing."

They grip at their face, talons catching on their softened skin. "I don't know who you are...Don't make me remember..... Get out.... GET OUT!"

As the stranger leaves and heads towards their car a notebook flies out reader's window - aiming for their skull had they not stepped out of the way in time. Inside are pages of filled with scratched out ink held on a weakened spine. It was a miracle they held together. The pages stick togethered, water damgaged by crusted specks of blood and smaller dots of a clearer fluid. The words written were near illegible, but there's a few key points they could make out. A birthday, the begining and ending characters to a person's name, a repeated phrase pieced together over the various pages. Don't forget. Never forget.

They'd been erased completely from reader's conscious mind. This notebook had been kept to prevent that very thing from happening. All those precious memories thrown away. The stranger was happy with the life they'd been robbed of - but no one had ever been their for them like Reader had. A new stain falls to the page.

Flipping to the final page, a note slides off the back cover.

"Come here again - and I'll erase you permanently."

It wasn't reader's hand writing. The person in the window holds up a new journal - comforting a sobbing ghoul on their shoulder.

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere insert #yandere scenarios #yandere #yandere blurb #yandere oc #tw yandere #yandere angst #zombie reader #yandere drabble

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redyarns · 3 months

Text

resist much, obey little (ch 1)

Alastor had a noose around his neck.

There was only one person who could loosen it.

--------

Temptation had never strung Lucifer along. He was an angel of Heaven no matter what anyone else said, and he had never fallen whim to any of the sins that humans were so eager to do.

And Alastor, a demon and a sinner who had fallen even further after death, was the most forbidden fruit of all.

He was the very embodiment of blasphemy.

But by God, did Lucifer want him.

--------

Knock-knock.

Lucifer let out a weak groan as he slowly let his arm slide off his eyes and off the side of the couch. Red starlight drifted through the torn curtains of a nearby window and nearly blinded him even with his eyes closed, and he had to squint and blink half a dozen times before he raised a hand and scrubbed at his face.

Knock-knock.

“Give me a second,” he called to the idiot who kept banging on his door.

He felt like, well. He felt like someone had take a grinder, stuffed him inside, made him into a sausage, and then shoved said sausage into all their orifices.

He hadn't felt this tired, this pained, in a very long time, and he liked to think he had a high pain tolerance. Nothing had hurt him quite as much as the Fall, or when Lilith left, or when he had to acknowledge his subjects, but he still couldn't quite shake the bone-aching exhaustion as there was a small rustle beside him along with a coo.

Knock-knock-knock.

“I said in a minute!” Lucifer barked again, the infuriating sound pacified at least for now as his tone shifted into something far more gentle while he curled around the small bundle of warmth that he had fallen asleep with. “My little princess, did you sleep well?”

Charlotte Morningstar was the apple of his eye and she was all the more beautiful because of it. She was tucked carefully in between the solid back of the couch and his own body. There was no one in Hell or even the Heavens that would try to defy him and dare to harm her, but it quelled at least some of the constant anxiety in him to know she was near him.

She waved her chubby fists in the air, her eyes already crinkled at the edges with her delighted smile, and he couldn't help it as he gathered her even closer and buried his nose into her soft, beautiful hair and inhale the smell of baby powder.

“Well, starshine, I guess it's time to see who wants to bother our peace so early in the morning,” Lucifer sighed.

Honestly, what kind of fool knocked on anyone's door this early, much less the devil's himself? He dreamed of strangling the idiot who was standing outside his house; maybe it was a stupid imp who wandered somewhere they shouldn't have, or Asmodeus coming to whine to him again, or even worse, Lili -

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.

“How dare you disturb your king's slumber?” Lucifer roared, now fully enraged as he ripped open the door so forcefully that it was torn off the hinges completely.

Bits of wood and debris rained around him as his tail lashed in anger, his horns spontaneously grown out of the crown of his head, and he was only a second away from turning this worthless demon into a husk, only for a piece of paper to suddenly be shoved into his face.

“What the - “ Lucifer said, and he squinted to read the blurry text, a result of staying up far too many nights in a row and refusing to do anything about it.

Hey, Idiot!

Want a job no other can fulfill? Do you want some light shed in your otherwise pitifully empty life?

Are you capable of destroying the very atoms who dare to disturb my own?

Then this is the job for you!

Your King of Hell is in need of assistance!

(Fail and I will rip out your intestines, stuff them with your liver and kidneys, and make you eat your meat sausages while gouging out your eyes to prepare you jelly on toast.)

Details include:

-Changing and checking diapers

-Feeding and napping at appropriate times

-Obliterating anyone who dares to harm Charlie or make her cry

-Entertaining her and keeping her away from that blasted thing called a television

-Keeping me, your boss (and overlord and King of Hell) updated on every activity she does

-Schedule appointments and calls accordingly

-And anything else I ask you because I said so

Contact the number below to get in touch with me, Lucifer Morningstar, to schedule an interview today!

666-666-6666

Lucifer had to read it once, twice, before he managed to dig up some fuzzy memory from about at least four months ago.

He remembered it in pieces; how exhausted he was as he tried to cope with the loss of his wife and the sudden gain of a child; his madness as he tried his best to coax Charlie into sleep, even as she refused and wailed; his internal grief as he tried to understand what to do or how to do it.

He had summoned a succubus and demanded that they put up all of his haphazardly made fliers all around hell. In complete honesty, he had forgotten all about it as soon as the papers disappeared from his desk, as Charlie had proceeded to vomit over his button-up and was wailing again. She'd developed a fever and the night had dissolved into a frenzy to better her as quickly as possible.

He hadn't expected anyone to read the flier, much less even give it a second thought, and his horns and tail slowly disappeared as he pushed aside the paper and glared at the demon who dared to show up right at his doorstep.

The demon was a sinner. He had a soul unlike the hellborne, and seemed to enjoy it, too. He grinned too widely and seemed way too into the dress-red-for-Hell theme, and when he spoke, his voice crackled with the poor frequency of an old timey radio as he said, “well hello to you, my liege! I suppose I might have troubled you this morning, but I’m here about your curious job offer!”

“Why are you here at all?” Lucifer snapped, balancing Charlie on his hip and bouncing her when she began to fuss. She drooled on the lapel of his jacket, but as long as she wasn't crying, that was fine by him, so he allowed her to continue as he snarled, “the flier says to call me at the number on the bottom! Are you as blind as you are disobedient?”

The demon's grin widened just by a fraction of an inch, and he bent down into a deep, sarcastic bow. “My apologies, Your Majesty. That was not an oversight on my part; I just don't have a fondness for those… things.”

“Things?”

“Cellphones,” the demon said slowly, like the word was clunky and ill-fitting in his mouth. He rubbed his chin with clawed fingers in thought and said, “I'm rather old fashioned, you could say, and those little devices with their tiny buttons are beyond my time.”

“Huh,” Lucifer grunted, less than a little interested in whatever the demon was saying. He had most of his attention on Charlie, who was now gnawing on his finger with her gums, and he said, “yeah, whatever you say, grandpa. If you want an interview then come in. But touch anything and I'll kill you.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, sire!” The demon trilled happily as he stepped over the threshold and, bizarrely enough, summoned a microphone staff and used it like a cane.

This demon was an unusual one, even among Lucifer's bunch of vile and annoying little shits he called his subjects, and he wondered if he made a mistake letting him in as he pointed at the now broken pieces of the door and said, “that's your first question. If you really aren't illiterate and you read that flier, then you know I don't want some useless little wimp. Show me how powerful you are and then I'll - “

Magic swelled in the air like a sudden puff of air, and Lucifer blinked as the door was suddenly fixed and placed back on its hinges. Why, the smug asshole even decorated the damn thing with little carvings of microphones all around the edges.

“You didn't let me finish,” Lucifer snarled.

“No need to, Your Majesty,” the demon said, looking rather pleased with his handiwork as he observed the wood. “What kind of assistant would I be if I couldn't at least predict your basic wants or needs?”

Lucifer stared, tilting his head slightly.

The demon didn’t say the words in contempt. In fact, he seemed excited about it, which further solidified the idea that he was a weirdo.

Lucifer was the leader of the Pride Ring, after all, so he was excellent at evoking hilarious reactions by poking at people's sensitive prides, but this demon didn't seem at all offended over the demeaning job of being an assistant.

And to think a powerful demon like this existed at all… his magic from just now was similarly no joke. It was the kind of stuff that tingled across Lucifer's skin and nearly down his back and to his wings, which rustled restlessly when he thought too hard about it.

He always had them tucked away for several reasons, but to think a sinner had the ability to create enough power to have him move even a single feather was… impressive.

It was impressive and he was annoyed about it, which probably showed on his face as he clicked his tongue and said, “show off. Fine. Charlie has to have breakfast now, so come on.”

Lucifer ignored the way the demon's smile crinkled at the edges as he turned on his heel and marched to the kitchen.

It pinched the edge of his mind to see just how destroyed the place was. Various toys, baby contraptions, clothes, and uneaten food littered the place.

It also smelled vaguely like baby powder and oil, and Lucifer himself probably looked like an actual disaster with how his hair was unkempt and he hadn't changed his clothes in three days, but he was too tired to care as he stepped over a mountain of stuffed animals.

The kitchen was no less of a messy tornado than the living room, but at least the high-top was clean.

Lucifer cooed to his daughter as she kicked her legs and squealed in delight when he lifted her into the air and kissed her bare belly, distracting her from destroying yet another piece of furniture.

“She doesn't like sitting,” Lucifer sing-songed, keeping his voice as high-pitched and sweet as possible while slowly starting to lower her into the cushion of the chair. “But as long as you keep her distracted, she can do it with minimum fuss! Right, Charlie? Right, starshine? My wonderful wittie bittie girl, look how good you are!”

Lucifer let out a huge, admittedly rather relieved sigh when she let her chubby legs stick through the opening of the high-too while she bashed her tiny fists onto the table. She only made small, little displeased noises when he tied a bib around her neck and she blew a raspberry, but that was it.

This was turning out to be a great morning, then.

“Go on,” Lucifer said, turning around and crossing his arms as he tried to look as intimidating as possible. It was then that he realized the demon was at least a foot taller than him; the audacity! “Feed her. That's your second question; if you really want this job, you should know how to take care of a baby.”

“Hmm,” the demon hummed. He didn't seem at all perturbed by the hostility nor the near harassment of demands, and he merely waltzed over to the fridge, opening it and bending at the waist to observe what was inside.

After only a moment of looking, he reached in and grabbed several apples, all bright red and crisp. He took care to avoid any of the ones with spots on them, Lucifer realized, and the demon whistled a cheery tune as he juggled four apples easily and then threw them all up at once.

He snapped his fingers and a blender popped into existence, taking the fruits with ease and floating in the air as it blended them into a sauce.

“There,” he said, smug and satisfied as the blender poured out several mini jars of perfectly liquified apples. “Nutritious and well-processed to avoid any chunks.”

“Anyone can blend apples, smarta - smarty-pants,” Lucifer snapped. “I mean feed her. I don't give a shi - crud if you’re powerful and if you've read every single parenting book in the realm. If she doesn't like you, I’ll crush you here and now.”

That was the barest truth of all of this. Lucifer was the most powerful of them all, could destroy any single one of them into dust if he truly wanted, so what did it matter if this single demon was slightly stronger than average?

All demons had the potential to grow just as much as he had, but Lucifer didn’t give a flying rat's ass about that. It simply boiled down to if Charlie liked them.

He refused to have someone be her caretaker if she hated them. She needed love, warmth, compassion - all the things no regular demon could give. She deserved those things, and Lucifer had already given his whole heart to her, but he knew it wasn't enough.

For the first time since he got there, the demon hesitated. His smile waned only by a centimeter, but it was noticeable enough, and he eyed Charlie apprehensively.

After another second of contemplation, he approached her slowly, and Lucifer watched from only a few feet away, his wings threatening to burst out of his back from how tense he was.

He didn't know this demon, couldn't trust him as far as he could throw him, and if there was even the slightest chance that he would hurt Charlie, Lucifer had to intervene and make him eat his own intestines.

Luckily, the demon didn't do such a thing.

He set aside his microphone, leaning it against the counter, and he bent slightly so that he was eye-level with the baby.

Charlie gurgled, a noise of curiosity more than apprehension or fear, and she drooled a little as she stared at him and blinked in question when he curled a finger and a jar of applesauce floated towards him.

“Your Highness, although I know it must be very early in the morning for you, it's imperative to a young demon's health to eat well in order to grow and ascend to their rightful place,” the demon said. “In your case, it's your throne. It would be a tremendous help if you didn't make a fuss.”

Lucifer watched in bewilderment.

This man talked to his Charlie like she could understand a word that he just said. On good days, she could comprehend basic commands of no or stop , but that was the absolute limit.

She didn't even know what her hands were, or had any sort of object permanence! How could this stupid demon expect her to understand any of that?

But instead of flinging applesauce into his face like Lucifer expected, Charlie merely popped her lips, grumbled for a few seconds, and then opened her mouth obediently.

Lucifer's jaw dropped as the demon laughed from his throat.

“Well done, Princess,” the demon said, his eyes crescent-shaped from how pleased he was. He even spoon-fed her with his hand, not his magic, and he continued to speak like she was a grown woman instead of a baby who dribbled most of the applesauce down her chin and to her bib. “You are exceeding my expectations already. I have no doubt you will continue to do so.”

He hummed as she continued to eat, slowly making her way through the jar of fruit. Anytime some of the sauce spilled out of the corner of her lips, he patiently wiped it away with a summoned handkerchief, and he even allowed her to grip onto one of his fingers as he fed her.

Charlie loved grabbing things. It was her way of seeking comfort or validation when she was doing something new, and she had never eaten apples before this. She always loved to tug on Lucifer's hair or his clothes with an iron grip, but she seemed completely at ease as she licked at the spoon and smiled gummily at the demon when he tutted.

“Your Highness, etiquette is important to proper young ladies like yourself,” he said, but his voice was gentle and not admonishing as he rubbed at her cheek again with his napkin. She beamed at the touch and giggled. “Yes, yes. You are forgiven. Now, let's make sure you don't regret your breakfast, shall we?”

Before Lucifer even had a chance to say anything, the demon scooped Charlie up and out of her chair. Her legs kicked like she always did whenever she realized she was about to be carried, and she snuggled against his shoulder as he properly secured her to his chest and began patting her back.

He was burping her.

He had managed to feed her, soothe her, indulge her habit of grabbing things, and he was now burping her.

Lucifer felt like a puppet whose strings were just cut as he sagged suddenly against the counter and had to grip it tightly to make sure he didn't crumble to the ground.

For the first time ever since Charlie's birth, he had a moment of freedom, a moment to breathe, and he inhaled deeply as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair and hysterically thought to himself that he now had a chance to shower.

“Demon,” he commanded as best as he could, but it really sounded like he was on the brink of toppling over as he continued to watch the pair.

“Hmm?” The demon replied, never stopping as he continued to pat Charlie's back while walking in a circle, bouncing slightly with each step so she wouldn't grow bored.

“Your name,” Lucifer said.

The demon grinned at him. It was a disturbing smile, really, and Lucifer had half the mind to wipe it off his smug little face for daring to look so triumphant, but he refrained.

After all, the demon seemed to understand the hidden meaning of his question, and when he spoke, his voice crackled at the edges of his pleasure as he bowed slightly and said, “Alastor.”

“Well, Alastor,” Lucifer said, hauling himself up to his feet and trying to blink away the spots in his eyes. “I hope you know what you're getting yourself into.”

Alastor purred.

“I look forward to working with you, Your Majesty.”

#radioapple #appleradio #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar #alastor #charlie morningstar #resist much obey little

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spooky-luvur · 4 months

Text

Eyeless Jack x m!Reader Pt. 2

(A/N i didn’t reread this at all so sorry if something doesn’t make sense. that’s usually the case ha)

Shivering even under the thick blanket, you run your fingers over the sore scar tissue. Part of you is scared if you move wrong or press too hard the skin will split open and stain your sheets. Maybe he smells blood. Like a shark.

Freak, you think to yourself.

A sudden knock at your door makes you jolt and freeze up in pain. You yell at whoever’s at the door to wait a moment as you pretty much fall off the couch to tug some clothes on.

Your hand pauses over the doorknob for a stiff moment. What if you open it and he’s there? Will he take your other kidney? Or maybe your liver this time. Forget shark, is this guy a zombie? You force yourself to open the door.

“Hello, dear. How are you?”

You relax against the frame and smile tiredly at the woman.

“Hey Miss Zhao. I should be asking you that.”

She shuffles past you to set a casserole dish on the table next to the door.

“Oh, I’m alright. Jack is good company, you know.”

“Jack?” You echo, folding your arms against your chest- subtly wincing in pain as the movement pulls on the raw skin. “Is that the new neighbor? I saw them in the lobby the other day, I think.”

Miss Zhao laughs and waves her hand.

“No, not them.”

Your brow burrows but the smile doesn’t drop from your face until a figure steps into view behind the stout woman. Your side aches at the sight.

He has the nerve to casually wave at you.

You stutter as Miss Zhao says something about feeding time and goes back to her room, leaving you with the very thing that’s been haunting you like a ghost.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Wha-“ Is all you allow yourself to say before promptly slamming the door shut. You stand there for a few moments, half expecting the man to open it and thrust a knife at you. But he never does, and the door stays firmly shut. You find yourself glaring at the poor wood before stomping away.

A nice shower, you think. Thats exactly what I need.

You strip yourself of what little clothes you were wearing. Grumbling, you pivot to the bathroom hallway and come to an abrupt halt. There he stands, hands in his pockets. How is that even fucking possible?

You stare at each other in silence before his head tilts down not-so-subtly.

“Nice,” is all he says.

It takes you a moment to realize this masked murderer that literally took one of your organs the other week is currently scrutinizing you.

“FUCK you!” You cross your arms over your chest which is about all you can do at the moment. “What the hell do you want? My other one?”

“Not today.” He frees one of his hands to point at you. “How is it? The scar.”

You subconsciously reach down to mess with the puckered skin.

“Fine, no thanks to you.”

“It is thanks to me, actually.”

“What?” You hiss.

“Well, it was me that fixed you up instead of leaving you to bleed out on the floor like a hog.” He shrugs his broad shoulders.

“Ugh, right,” you rub a hand down your face, exasperated, “the tub. The damn ice. What the hell even was that? Who does that?”

“Do you really want to know why I took it?”

“You’re a psychopath that won’t even show his face. My guess? You’ll be caught as soon as next week.”

The man does that stupid quiet laugh again and lowers himself onto your plush sofa.

“Kick up your feet why don’t you! Make yourself comfortable. Actually, get the fuck out.”

He folds his hands in his lap like he’s about to have a very nice conversation with your mother “I think I’ll stay.”

You’re about to snap at him again, start yelling, maybe throwing things, but you choke on the words as you remember exactly who you’re about to lash out at. This man who is obviously stronger, faster, and smarter than you (and has no problem proving it) is giving you little to no options. Part of you doubts he would hurt you again, but what’s stopping him? Nothing.

So you bite your tongue and simply glare. After hesitating a few moments longer you turn away to go take your well needed shower.

Jack pulls out his (untraceable, courtesy of a ffffffffriend) phone once you round the corner. His mouth twitches in annoyance at the messages on the cracked screen.

wya?

wyd

you ar not supplied to be out today

supposed

Jack:

ben

ohhhh i get it

its that guy

Jack:

ben

dont worry ill keep your secret

Jack feels the need to have eyes to roll as he slips the device back into his pocket. God forbid that kid keep his thoughts to himself.

“So, I should call the cops. Right? That’s what I should do.” Is what you tell the man relaxing on your couch once you face him again. He looks over at you and you almost shiver at the sight of the goo slowly sliding down the blue face.

“Sure.”

“You’re really confusing, you know?”

“Ha.”

Your eye twitches in annoyance before you give up, heaving a heavy sign and taking a seat in the recliner beside the couch. Your hand absentmindedly wanders to caress the puckered skin of the healing wound.

“Let me see.”

“Huh?”

“The stitches. I can take them out now.”

You eye the man on your couch warily. What is this guy, some kind of doctor?

“You want to…take the stitches out.” You parrot. He nods and stands from his seat and push yourself further into the chair the closer he gets, like a picky child that’s being fed peas.

“You want them out. They’re itching.”

“Are you a doctor or something?” You snap out your previous thought causing him to stop in his tracks. You spot his hands twitch before he stretches his fingers out.

“I know what to do,” Is his reply.

Really, what other choice did you have? Going to the hospital to get undocumented stitches out would raise a few questions…not to mention you’d never be able to pay for it.

“…Fine. But I’ll catch you in the nuts the second you do something funny.”

“Noted.”

You gasp as he grabs you and pulls you up and then a second later you’re laying on your stomach on the couch. You can’t even spit out a retort when he tugs your shirt up to get better access. The cold leather against your bare skin causes you to squirm for a moment before a hand is holding itself against your back.

“Stay still.”

“You-“

He must sense your coming fit and slips his hand to lay gentle but firm across the back of your neck. Words die on your tongue as you go lax like a kitten that’s just been picked up by its mum.

“Whatever…”

You feel his hands poking and prodding before the tug of stitches being cut.

“Is it even ready?” You ask the man who is currently leaning over you on his knees like you’re on an actual operating table.

“It is.”

“But are you sure? If it isn’t healed-“

“It’s healed.”

“You love cutting me off!”

“Hush.”

You resist the urge to kick him in the face.

After a few minutes of silence he leans away, running his fingers across your skin.

“Done?” You crane your neck.

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t very sanitary. I should-“

You sit up and turn to look at him but pause at the sight of his hands retracting. The color makes you gasp and almost fall off the couch to grab him.

“What the fuck?” You hold his arm and push up his sleeve to see more of the man’s skin as he simply watches you basically feel him up.

“I don’t get a lot of sun.”

You glare at him for the joke.

“This is…so weird.” You release him and scrub a hand down your face as you relax into the couch. He takes a seat next to you like you’re two friends catching up. “What’s wrong with you?”

You close your eyes and wish your mouth had been sewn shut instead of your side but he huffs out a laugh and you look at him almost timidly.

“Shit, I didn’t mean- I mean I did but like- okay, I’m done.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Oh yeah? An interesting one?” You lightly pry. Whatever happened for him to look the way he does- for him to be some kind of kidney-stealing grey skinned freak has to be more than ‘oh yeah I got the flu real bad once.’

“Hm…maybe.”

“Are you…gonna tell me? I feel like I’m entitled at this point.”

Jack folds his arms and you hear him hum in (probably fake) contemplation.

“I’ll tell you…once you trust me.”

“Trust you?” You gape at him in disbelief. “Why would I- you tried to kill me!”

“No I didn’t.”

“Then what the hell was this?!” You gesture toward your scarring angrily.

“Not enough to kill you. I could have, though.”

Your mouth clicks shut at the new tone in his voice. Dangerously territory, this conversation. So you drop it.

“Okay. Fine. So…what’s with the goo?”

#x male reader #eyeless jack x m!reader #eyeless jack x male reader #eyeless jack #creepypasta x m!reader #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x male reader #creepypasta

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scientia-rex · 7 months

Note

Hello, I appreciate your medical posts very much and having seen a post the other day where you said migraine was in your areas of special interest, I'd love to ask a related question. You talk about bodies and medicine and patient experience etc in a way that makes a lot of sense to me and I'd trust your take.

I have chronic migraine. I'm currently at 100% pain days, with varying severity. Very hard to pin down what is prodrome, the main event, and postdrome as it's all blurred into one. My migraine team want me to reduce painkiller usage (currently dihydrocodeine and paracetamol daily, and ibuprofen maybe every other day on top) due to rebound headache. I want to cut down because they're fucking expensive and I'm scared for my liver and kidneys. But I literally can't cope with life without them. I went off them for four months a few years ago and the pain was so severe and so debilitating I was the most suicidal I've been in my life. Without painkillers I can't get to the toilet unaided, rarely leave bed, even more rare to leave the house. It's hell. And that's not even considering the effects on everyone around me who has to pick up to care for me.

So what do I do? The way I see things, I need something to help the pain improve before I can use less painkillers, but the longer I go on trying to find something that works and not getting there, the more I think maybe I'm wrong in that. I know a bit about how codeine based painkillers can reduce your pain tolerance / pain baseline. I don't think it's an addiction issue because I've been at the same (over the counter) dosages for 4 years now. I just want to do all that I can to be better, but I also need to be alive to be better. I am stuck.

TL;DR - If you have any thoughts on the relationship between chronic migraine, painkiller use, preserving quality of life while finding a treatment, and increasing the chances of a treatment working, and where on earth the balance between all that lies, I'd really like to hear them.

Again, I absolutely appreciate if you can't answer this, don't want to etc. Giving advice online is notoriously tricky and all that. But a big thank you for your time in reading, and all your weight and exercise posts especially which make me feel so much better about my body. Wishing you all good things! 💖

I won't speak to your case directly, since I'm not your doctor, but here is my personal algorithm for escalating treatments for migraine (note that "abortives" in this case means something you take after a migraine starts to try to end it, while "prophylactic" means a daily treatment you take to reduce likelihood of developing a migraine):

-OTC combination of magnesium, feverfew, and butterbur, taken daily

-Triptans (insurance will usually demand patients fail at least 3 to cover a more expensive treatment)

-High-dose NSAIDs (as abortive treatment given risk of rebound headaches if used daily)

-Daily topiramate (insurance will always demand this is either failed or there's a clear contraindication)

-Daily calcium channel blockers

-Daily beta blockers (higher dose than used for anxiety or low-grade arrhythmias)

-Daily anti-epileptic medications (such as Lamictal)

-Monthly anti-CGRP monoclonal antibody injections (Aimovig or Ajovy; expensive so insurance will demand you've failed some or all of the previous meds)

-Abortive anti-CGRP orals (Nurtec or Ubrelvy)

-Abortive ergotamine, usually Migranal, a nasal spray (very expensive and must be repeated 15 minutes after initial dose regardless of whether symptoms are improving or not)

-Prophylactic Botox (I believe this is every 3 months, must be done in the office of a trained and licensed professional, usually but not always a Neurology provider)

-Sphenopalatine ganglion blocks (done by dripping lidocaine far back into the sinuses to reach the sphenopalatine ganglion, again in the office of a trained and licensed professional)

-Cephaly (transcranial magnetic stimulation at-home device), expensive so insurance hates covering it

Now, one of my newer tools, and my current personal favorite, is a greater occipital nerve block--easy and fast, low risk, and I've had about 90% success with my patients in aborting current headaches. Effects seem to last 3-4 weeks in most cases and since it's straight lidocaine (you don't have to include steroids, though you can) you can do it as often as needed. I generally do this in my office, but I did train one patient's spouse to do it at home given how frequent their headaches. The pharmacy lost their fucking mind about letting an outpatient have lidocaine. I don't know why.

I currently manage my pretty awful chronic migraines with a combination of monthly Aimovig, as-needed Excedrin (the combination of caffeine, Tylenol aka paracetamol, and aspirin is effective for many people but is a real risk for causing medication overuse headaches, the more official term for bounce-back), as-needed Ubrelvy (I can sleep after taking Ubrelvy but not Excedrin so it's a good option), and roughly monthly greater occipital nerve blocks (I teach my trainees to do it using myself as a subject). I wouldn't mind trying the Botox but it's a PITA to get in to see our only local Neurology provider and since my migraines are relatively well-controlled (probably 1-2 headache days a week right now) I don't think it's worth the effort.

I also really got a lot out of this lecture, so give it a try.

#the attending dr. kristophine #migraines

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ghouljams · 4 months

Note

*stares at the ‘but I think you freaks want them to eat you’ tag and simply pretends I do not see it*

you've all worn me down. tw for cannibalism that isn't a metaphor for sex, body horror, gore, dead dove do not eat

Nobody look at me, I was in the hannibal fandom a long ass time...

Threat hums tipping your head to one side then the other, their smile is wicked and unkind, but their eyes sparkle with something almost pleased as they consider your request.

"If you don't-" You start and they cut you off, their hand dropping to your neck and squeezing a silent warning.

"No I do. I just don't have many people that actually want to be eaten," They explain, "I'm deciding what to start with." You feel excitement starting to shake in your bones, shivery with some strange delirium as they look you over. "Do you want it to hurt?" They ask finally.

"Please." You respond, instead of getting on your knees and begging. They hum again. There's something sharper about their teeth when they smile, something that makes you let out a breath as shaky as your limbs feel. They let go of your neck and twirl their finger.

"Turn around pup," They tell you, and you hurry to comply. Though the way they slip their fingers into their mouth, their tongue stroking over the long elegant digits, makes you want to stop and watch. You swallow down your nerves and feel their slick fingers pushing your shirt up, running down your spine. There's a sharp pain that settles into a dull throbbing pressure, alien, so very alien.

You tip your head to the side as Threat presses close, runs their tongue along your neck. It's the sharp sting of their teeth that distracts you from the twist of their fingers, the razor edge of their nails as they slice the blood vessels around your kidney. It hurts and some terrible instinct forces you to try twisting away. There's a sickly squelch, blood dripping down the front of your shirt, and warming the back. Threat growls against your skin, warning you away from moving too much.

Their hand pulls back, drags through whatever incision they made in your skin, and you shiver at the feeling. It doesn't hurt, but maybe that's not the right word for it. It does hurt, there's a vacuous spot in your body that seems only held together with the strange venomous magic they pump into you, but the warm pulse of the ache drips wetly between your legs. It's only when they pull their hand free that the pain seems to swell, consuming you like fire as they hold one of your kidneys in front of you. The organ throbs weakly as they extract their teeth from your neck, lick the blood that flows like a faucet, and press a placating bloody kiss against your jaw.

"You don't need this," They tease, laughter clear on their tongue as it drags against your earlobe, "do you baby?"

#tw cannibalism #this is based on one of my puppygirl friends #who has been going insane on twitter recently #honestly I respect it #this is for all the folks that want scary women to put their cigarette out on them #I see you #oc x reader #oc: threat #reader x oc #x reader #x oc #tw gore #tw body horror #*neopets voice* I literally don't respect any of us #is this good for you

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archetypal-archivist · 7 months

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Notes for Outer Wilds World-Building

-head canon heavy, but grounded in reason I think-

Healthcare: Lots of treating symptoms but not a ton of fixing the thing that caused the initial problem as the Hearthian body is remarkably sturdy and when self-healing can't take care of it, it would take some advanced healthcare to fix it (ex. punctured lung, strong infection). And that's not always something the Hearthians have, as why would they put a ton of effort into advanced pharmaceuticals like penicillin and invasive internal surgeries when it's so rare that someone gets hurt to that point and doesn't immediately die from it in a matter of days? I picture most medicine is herbal in nature, plant-derived and highly concentrated if necessary, such as opioids/morphine for pain that can be taken by injection until you get home and can patch yourself up. Bandages and bed rest and going off of what's taught to you (with a dose of improvising) are key to Hearthian healthcare. For the Hearthians, it's less unwillingness to help in cases of disability and more not being sure how, as the tech to do so would need to be jury-rigged or made from scratch. How well this helps varies as some things like missing limbs and damaged hearing can be accounted for but things like malfunctioning kidneys can't. Ironically, diabetes would spell bad news for a Hearthian.

Food: They don't have birds on Timber Hearth or else we'd see a lot more primitive wings for flying, so that means the animal life differs from earth. Lots of bugs and amphibians and fish, but very few mammals if any as fur is weird to the Hearthians. Hearthians are likely omnivores, given their history, but no trapping of land animals beyond insects. I imagine mostly teams of gatherers picking food from known locations and being careful about how much they take, and maybe some "controlled burnings" to clear out unwanted brush and give room to grow for the plants they actually want. The burnings may be more of an accident but the effect is the same regardless. Berries, nuts (especially pine nuts), cattail tubers and pith, water reed shoots, edible wild greens, and bread made from the flour of ground up tubers/acorns/pine nuts is common. This is supplemented by fish, the fat of which (Google candle fish) and the gelatin formed by boiling their bones are also used in many things. Marshmallows are made the old way, from mallow roots and sugar cane. Snow covered in sap or molasses is a treat, made more common with the invention of rockets that let you grab snow and fly it back to the village before it melts. Chera (borrowed from the fandom) is a tough, fibrous fruit that is sort of bready and is used much like apples are as a thickener in bread and eaten as mash on its own. Pickling, smoking, and canning are very common in Hearthian culture and are key ways of preserving food for when certain key gathered plants are out of season. During the insect mating season when the flies are out in full force, people will smack the clouds of bugs with sap-covered sheets of metal, scrape the bugs off, and grill them up into patties like burgers. This time of year is all hands on deck and not everyone likes eating fly patties but as food, it's incredibly nutritious and ground up flies are sometimes added to food that is lacking. Cooking is communal for the bulk of it, with a town cook pot and storehouse being open to the public to pull from, but if you want to eat beyond standard hours or mass-produced fare, you're on your own and you best hope you know how to cook over a wood fire stove. Filling the communal food pot is often a job foisted on hatchlings and the elders supervise. Specialty foods like sap wine are a trade item or are saved for celebrations and traditions.

Travel: Hearthians don't have wheeled carts as getting things into their crater via wheeled cart would be difficult at best. Instead they'll drag chopped down trees where they need to go via sleds or float them on the rivers or lower them into the crater with elevators. Anything else they'll carry down personally. To get around the planet, Hearthians just walk and if it takes more than a day, they camp along the way. Now that ships are a thing however, travel has shrunk the world by a lot- not that it does the average Hearthian much good. The ships are dangerous, prone to causing fires if one tries to land on Timber Hearth proper as rockets plus grass equals bad. A skilled pilot can pick a decent landing spot that's damp or barren enough to not be a problem, but it's usually so far from where you want to go that it's better to walk anyway. Said average Hearthians also do not like dealing with g-forces or potential death. Those are the only reasons why it's not normal for astronauts to ferry average Hearthians around like a taxi service or to take materials from point A to point B across the planet. None of this matters on the Attlerock however, as there's nothing to catch fire there, so ships will haul stuff up there all the time at Esker and Hornfels' behest. Rocket fuel is made from flammable gases pumped up from underground by the mining equipment as waste. It used to be released into the atmosphere to keep the miners from suffocating or exploding (a problem, sometimes those spouts would catch alight) but Slate had the bright idea of storing it in tanks under pressure. They already had pressurized air for the miners at the deepest depths to breathe where air was hard to come by, why couldn't they bottle up the waste gases to dispose of more safely? Like burning it elsewhere?

Clothing: Fabric is made from the fibers of a linen-like plant called flush, names for the purplish hue at the base of the reed's stem. The weavers' house is filled with Hearthians whose job it is to separate the fibers out and spin them into thread. From there, the weaver in charge of the loom will dye the thread with plant-based dyes and use a flying loom to quickly weave bolts of fabric. It takes a LOT of thread to make fabric but thanks to the weavers' bugging Slate into making them into a machine running off water power, the thread-making time has been cut down significantly. However, the whole process still takes a while so most Hearthians only own a few pieces of clothing and they're expected to patch it, hand-me-down it, and wash it until it is literally in rags before they get more. Hatchlings get the worst of it, they get pretty much nothing but hand-me-down clothes as they outgrow things too fast for unique outfits for each of them. Scarves, hats, and handkerchiefs are an exception and are often the only piece of clothing a hatchling has that survives to adulthood, which makes them all the more precious. Dresses- which take more fabric- and anything patterned or multicolored is a sign of indulgence/finery or a very nice gift and is such relegated to fancy clothes for fine events. Shoes are made of fish leather or treated fabric strips wrapped around a wood sole and structure and then sewn in place.

Economy: Hearthians run on a trade economy, with every person expected to contribute in some way. You are always guaranteed food from the communal cook pot and shelter in either a house of your own or on someone else's couch/floor, but beyond that you get side-eyed if you ask for things too often without offering something in return. Fortunately, Hearthians have a strong oral tradition and a very relaxed (boring) lifestyle so most are happy to trade gossip and stories for basic amenities. Building houses, weaving fabric, gathering food, working in the mines, and watching the hatchlings and tasks like those are ones that are never required for people to do, you can walk off and take a break whenever. However, it's seen as poor taste to do that for more than a few days at a time without cause because if you aren't working, you're letting your fellow Hearthians down. If you can't do big work for health reasons or lack of skill, you're expected to pick up small work like knitting, patching things up, cooking at the communal food pot, etc. What most hatchlings end up doing is they either find a passion and just continue with it into a proper "job" that helps the village in some way, they get an apprenticeship, or they get picked up by an adult and pretty much conscripted in order to "keep them out of trouble." Fire watch and astronaut and jobs like it are jobs of high prestige and are very demanding in the body, and as such run as apprenticeships with Gossan and Tektite selecting who they want to teach from those that come up to them and ask to learn. Such jobs don't do much to physically help the village (beyond bringing back space relics but those aren't always useful to the village at large) but they do bring in a ton of interesting stories and those are prime currency for the Hearthians.

Life Cycle: Hearthians are hermaphrodites that breed like fish do- during certain times of year, Hearthians may feel the urge to slip down to the river and release sperm and eggs into the water. Couples can go together, but most don't make much of it, seeing them as temporary dalliances or choosing to put up with being a little hot and itchy for a few days, refusing to go, and then the season is done for them for the year. The sperm and eggs mingle in warm underground pools and incubate there until they get hard and heavy enough to be picked up by the current. Due to how the waters of Timber Hearth run, the eggs more or less end up being carried to the same place every year where Hearthians in charge of raising hatchlings go to pick them up. The eggs are candled to check for life, then swaddled and placed into cribs to hatch. Hatchlings are raised in batches together in the Hatchling House, with sick ones quarantined in a back room to keep the rest from getting ill (so things like measles don't wipe out a whole generation). Hatchlings are fed mash until their baby teeth fall out, then they are fed real food like fish with bones in it. They only are named when the caretaker is sure that they will survive their first month or three of life, then they are introduced to the village by that name. They are allowed to go outside for the first time once they can walk and talk a little bit, an occasion marked by giving them shoes. After that, a hatchling may leave the Hatchling House to live on their own once they have a place to stay lined up, work, and they either can drink sap wine (which hatchlings don't have the enzymes to digest) or meet a certain height. As Hearthians age, the ears droop more, the skin pales, and the body starts failing. Past a certain age a Hearthian just kinda stops healing, as if all their sturdiness is limited to their younger years, and if they survive past even that, then their mind begins to go. Deaths are grieved and the dead buried with song and music being played with a space being left in the song for the deceased to "play a solo" and the rest of the band picking up after as a reminder that life goes on. In a few rare cases, hatchlings can imprint on an adult and vice versa, which gives rise to more "standard" parent child bonds and frequently, apprenticeships.

Calendar: The Hearthian planet does have seasons, sort of, but mostly a "hot and dry" vs "cool and wet" divide. No snow, their winters are just slightly more rain than usual and their summers are slightly warmer and with a chance for thunderstorms. However, there are still holidays involved with the changing of the seasons, mostly tied to when food is more or less available and when the solstices are. The alignment of the planets is also celebrated but that's a more recent celebration that popped up and it intensified into a major holiday only when the observatory got built with its ability to lock down alignments to exact dates. Breeding season is an informal holiday, being a few days in Spring and Autumn where sap wine is plentiful and people are expected to take some time off from work to relax. Hearthian formal holidays involve getting everyone in the village to sing, dance, and play music together around a bonfire. Stories and sap wine flow thick and fast and the best storytellers and musicians are treated to the best food and treats. Musicians will sometimes "duel" for funsies to see who is better at improvising and technical skills, to the joy of the crowd. Informal celebrations, like when an astronaut launches for the first time or one comes home or a batch of hatchlings are given a name on their name day lead to similar events, just scaled down some with only non-busy people attending. However, Hearthians love a good party so many will make time for such gatherings if they can.

#outer wilds #world building #my writing

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an0ma1y-th3d0ma1y · 4 months

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Stress Relief

A/N: spent the afternoon on this !! :D it’s been quite awhile since I’ve written something so sorry if it’s shitty 😭 Warning there is some heavy angst at the start but it slowly gets better, no worries ^^ as always Grayson belongs to the great, the almighty, @parker-fluff go ahead and follow them if you like having a left kidney. Just felt the need to write some comfort fluff with my favorite 2 boys, hope you enjoy !! :’]

Grayson slammed his things on his desk, locking his dorm door as he threw himself onto the bed. He’d been having by far the worst week of his life, which he wouldn’t exactly call an accomplishment. College constantly buried him up to his eyeballs in graded assignments, and he wish he could just drown in them. Plus, Elijah had said he was gonna be busy all week rehearsing with his band in their studio, he wished he could just forget all his problems by strumming the strings of a guitar like Elijah could.

Grayson felt frustrated, upset, confused, all of the above. He just wanted to curl up in his bed and never come out.. but, he knew that wouldn’t be possible. He was taken off guard by the vibration of his phone in his pocket, when he took it out he was pleasantly surprised by a text from Elijah.

*“Hey Gray! Sorry I haven’t been able to catch up, it’s been a pain in my ass trying to memorize this entire sheet. Anything new going on? :)”*

His eyes lit up slightly, but he didn’t know how he could just *ask* Elijah to come over. He sighed, tapping the letters on the keyboard with his thumbs.

“Nothin much, just tired”

He hit send and put his phone on the nightstand, pulling the pile of fluffy blankets onto him as he got snuggled in, planning how he was gonna survive tomorrow with all these new assignments.

Barely even 2 minutes into his slumber, he was awoken by a multicolored portal in his dorm which he immediately recognized. His things floated around the room and out came from the portal a rather familiar face, Elijah. “Alright, listen I KNOW something is up when you don’t add a period at the end of your sente- woah.. Hey, you alright bud?” Elijah cut himself off, taken aback by the teary eyed Grayson in front of him. Grayson struggled a bit out of his nest, Elijah immediately walking over and wrapping his arms around him, Grayson returning it but a lot tighter as tears rolled down the college student’s cheeks.

“Hey, hey.. it’s alright, it’s okay I’m here.. let it all out…” Elijah reassured, rubbing his back as he let him cry into his shoulder, not even thinking about his jacket being ruined. “I-I missed you.. *sniff”* Grayson choked out as Elijah sighed. “I know.. I missed you too, man.. I missed you too..” After Grayson got all the tears out of his system, Elijah lightly pulled him back so he could see his face, moving some of his messy hair from it. “Rough week?” He asked, in which Grayson replied with a nod. “Yeah, I get what you mean.. You’re not alone, the bands been fighting all week over what key the song is in and who’s gonna do the solo and stuff.” He explained, sitting on Grayson’s bed as the short Spider-Man quickly accompanied him. “..Do you want me to make you tea? That usually calms your nerves.” Grayson responded with a head shake.

“..Maybe a board game?”

Another shake.

“A song?”

Yet another.

“A old shitty movie?”

Every single time he was met with that same small no. Man, kid was really in the gutter.. Elijah sighed, wrapping his arm around his waist and pulling him close. “..Alright, no worries. I’ll just stay here with you..” He reassured him. While they sat in insufferable silence, the sound of a small squeak suddenly pierced the white noise, Elijah slightly lifting his hand up. “Woah, you alright? I-I didn't hurt you, right?” Elijah looked at him with a worried face, his fear melting off a bit when Grayson replied with a small ‘no’. “I-It’s just-“ He looked down at his mismatched socks. “…I-I was wondering if you could like-..” Grayson stammered a bit while Elijah looked over at him, patient but curious as Grayson tripped over his words. It wasn’t until he motioned for Elijah to come closer, in which he whispered into his ear. “..C-can you… can you ticklememaybe?-“ Grayson muttered quickly, immediately turning away afterwards as a warm smile melted onto Elijah’s face. Normally, he would tease Grayson to death over this, but it seemed this wasn’t a good scenario.

“Alright, snugglebug. C’mere.” He patted his lap, already getting some nervous giggles from Grayson as he let Elijah gently carry him in it. “Theeerree we goo, all nice and snuggly. Now then, where were we? Oh yeah, almost forgot!” He lightly dug his fingers into Grayson’s sides, causing a near shriek from him which dissolved into happy giggles as he curled his legs in. “Eehehehe!- I-Ihihit tihihicklehehes..” He whined, squealing as Elijah lightly pinched up his ribs. “I can imagine it does seeing how much you’re giggling.” He smiled while Grayson tries hiding his face, his arms coming crashing back down when Elijah pinched his upper rib. “Oi, keep your hands off your face, mister!? Weren’t you taught in school that it’ll make your hands dirty?” He teases lightheartedly, spidering his fingers over his tummy.

“Sh-shuhuhush!-“ Grayson managed to giggle out, snorting between his laughs. “Excuse me? How dare you tell me to shush! I’m an American citizen with rights, thank you very much!” He chirped, leaning over and blowing a raspberry on Grayson’s neck, earning a screech from the poor kid. “NAAHAHHAHAA!!- YOHOHOU FUHUHUCKEHEHERR!!” He laughed, giggling even harder when Elijah gasped dramatically. “Well, it seems you’re not gonna learn your lesson with that language! So I’ll teach it for ya!” He buried his face into his neck, blowing another raspberry while Grayson squirmed and snorted about, making no effort to get away. After a few more smaller raspberries scattered around he let Grayson take a breather.

“You alright there, bud?” He felt his heart warm up when he saw Grayson smiling like a happy kid. “..Y-yeahehehe..” He giggled out, squeaking and scrunching his shoulders when Elijah gave his ears a few kisses. “Stahap!-“ Grayson giggled, his blush traveling to his ears while he swatted at Elijah weakly as they both laughed. “You wanna cuddle, bug?” He asked, grinning when Grayson nodded. “Alright, blanket fort time!” He exclaimed, making Grayson giggle a bit as they immediately began retrieving blankets and pillows.

Maybe next week won’t be so bad, after all.

#sfw tickle community #sfw tickles #sfw tickling community #tickle fic #tickle fluff #elijah parker #grayson parker #lee!grayson #ler!elijah #atsv tickle #atsv tickles #SOBS INTO PILLOW

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lightblueminecraftorchid · 2 years

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“Why do you get meltdowns over X? Why do you need to stim?”

Think back to a time when you really had to use the bathroom. Maybe you were on an airplane; aisles are small, bathrooms are all the way in the back, and you’re in a window seat. Maybe you were at work; boss breathing down your neck with no time to take a break. Maybe you just forgot until it was really bad; you were reading the best book you’ve ever read, and in the hours it took you to finish those chapters, you didn’t tend to your bladder.

How did you feel, in that time between you noticing the need to pee and you getting to the bathroom?

Sucks, right? You’re constantly thinking about the bathroom. Sure, you can kinda hold it, but you really can’t hold it that long, because your kidneys don’t exactly have off buttons. The pressure is building. You might even be in pain. The physical stress is constant, intrusive, and unable to be dispelled until you take care of that need.

Telling someone to stop stimming (and then being surprised when they have a meltdown) is like telling someone to “just hold it, it’s not that hard” when they’re dying to use the bathroom. If you desperately had to go and someone informed you that you couldn’t, because using the bathroom would be impolite or look strange, you would not last very long. Either you’d break and yell/cry/scream/run until that need gets met, or your body would meet it for you, and you’d have to face the consequences of that.

Stimming is a need. Autistic people stim to self regulate, to express emotion, and to expend excess energy. It is a coping skill, it is healthy, and it is not something you can just stop needing. “Stop stimming.” “Just hold it.”

And when your needs aren’t met, sometimes your body will meet them for you, and you need to face the consequences of that. Meltdowns are not just tantrums or being misbehaved. Meltdowns are an autistic person’s last resort when they cannot regulate the stress that’s been stacking up. That stress isn’t just from academics or work; for someone with sensory issues, unpleasant sensory input is a stressor. For someone who finds social activities draining, social interaction is a stressor. For someone who relies on routine, an interruption is a stressor. This is not always a controllable thing; stressors happen when your needs are not met. Stress stacks up, the necessary coping mechanisms are stymied, and the body cracks under the strain because there is nothing else to do.

So next time you see someone frown and hum when they wash dishes, or flap their hands when they’re excited, or express “Sorry, I can’t eat that food” in a singsong tone, check yourself before you start making comments. Don’t be the person that says “Just hold it. It’s not that hard.” It is that hard.

This also goes for ADHD ppl btw. Don’t come at me w the whole “oh but if u fidget that means ur not paying attention” that’s not how ADHD works. Let the person stim. It’s a need (a distinct need, but still a need).

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thelastspeecher · 5 months

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Stanuary '24 - Week One: Lost & Home

I'm too tired from recovering from COVID to provide any sort of introduction, but to be honest, I don't think this needs one. Except, uh, aliens.

Alien stuff is involved here.

Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————–

Alien words breached the haze of pain surrounding Stan. A few, he could recognize.

“…poison…human…poach…” Shame uncurled in the fiery pit that was Stan’s stomach. He hated being identified as a pathetic poaching victim.

“I’m sure you have a good reason for paging me when I’m not on call,” a voice snapped in English. His eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but Stan forced himself to open them. It didn’t help. Both the figure speaking an alien language and the one speaking English were too blurry to make out. His eyes slid shut again.

“…human…death…”

“What caused him to reach this state?”

“…poison…”

“Do we know what kind of poison?” A stethoscope, ice-cold against Stan’s burning skin, rested on his chest, accompanied by a similarly cold hand. A similarly cold six-fingered hand. Stan couldn’t understand the response to the English speaker’s question, but whatever it was clearly wasn’t good. “Shit.” The blessedly cold hand and stethoscope left. “We need to act fast if we want to save his liver and kidneys.” The cold hand was back, this time resting on Stan’s shoulder. Stan cracked open his eyes weakly.

The English speaker’s face was mere inches from his. And familiar.

“Stanley,” the familiar face said, “I need you to fight.”

Blackness filled Stan’s vision. The voice faded away.

-----

“For now, we will keep the saline ratio the same. I may switch him to a high-nutrient high-caloric solution once he tells me more information about his diet.”

“…weak…food…”

“I have no doubts I’ll need to contact the dietician for a consult, given his state. Please send her a message for me.” Footsteps sounded. There was the soft swish of one of the spaceship doors that Stan had become used to. “I know you’re awake, Stanley.” Stan opened his eyes. He was laying on a massive hospital bed in a softly lit, mostly white hospital room. Multiple monitors were hooked up to him, keeping track of his vitals. There was even what looked like an IV bag filled with a light pink fluid. Stan turned on his side to see the English speaker from before. He had been right. Somehow, it was his twin.

Ford stood at a tall desk by the closed door of the hospital room, wearing a lavender doctor’s coat. He had his back to Stan, typing something on a keyboard paired to a hologram screen. His curly brown hair stretched past his shoulders, tied in a business-like ponytail.

“How’d you know I woke up?” Stan croaked. He immediately regretted speaking. Not only was his throat raw, but his voice was broken and faint.

“You stopped snoring,” Ford replied. He cleared his throat. “I realize that you likely have many questions for me.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Stan spat.

“They will have to wait. You’re going to be drifting in and out of consciousness while your body processes the poison you ingested and the antidote we gave you. I need to utilize your brief waking moments to find out how you wound up in this state.”

“Why are your questions more important than mine?” Stan snapped. The words slurred together.

“In case you haven’t realized,” Ford said in a barely controlled tone, “I’m your doctor right now. I need to be able to treat you.”

“I bet Mom’s real proud you’re an alien doctor.” Stan’s slurring was getting worse. Ford took a deep breath.

“How long have you been on this planet?” he asked.

“Uh. Dunno. Coupla weeks, maybe?”

“Then your poacher didn’t dump you after accidentally giving you something poisonous.” Stan felt his chest tighten. “I thought it was unlikely. Humans are too valuable to risk poisoning, particularly given that most poachers know our bodies are more sensitive than average.”

“You know I was- I was-”

“Yes,” Ford said softly. “My staff had to remove your poaching cuff.” Stan looked at his left wrist. Just like the rest of him, it was thin and pale, but where the cuff had been, there was a distinct ring of hairless, scarred skin.

Holy shit. I’m- I’m free. I’m actually free.

“How did you get poisoned?” Ford asked.

“I swiped some blue hot dog looking thing from a street cart,” Stan muttered. Ford glanced over at him, eyes wide behind glasses that looked identical to the ones he’d had in high school. “I got sick of living off nutrient pills, sue me!” Stan looked away. “Just my luck that the first real food I try in months poisons me.”

“…Months?” At Ford’s concerned tone, Stan looked at him again. Ford quickly went back to typing before Stan could see his expression.

“I’m guessing. It’s difficult to tell how much time goes by when you’re in the smuggler’s bay of a poaching ship.”

“What date was your last day on Earth?” Ford asked.

“Uh. May something.”

“You’ve been off-planet for roughly eight months, then,” Ford said in a tight voice. “During that time, you’ve only consumed human-rated nutrient pills?”

“Yeah,” Stan mumbled. Ford paused his typing. “What?”

“Those aren’t meant to be one’s sole diet for more than a few weeks.” Ford resumed typing, more quickly than before. “We’ll need to ease you back into regular food. Am I correct that you were unable to keep down most of the street food you consumed?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I chucked just about all of it back up pretty quick.”

“That would explain why you aren’t dead. I know of the dish that you ate. It’s high in arsenic and ricin. The fact you were no longer used to eating food saved your life.” Ford shook his head. “I’ll definitely be changing the IV solution for you…”

“No need.” Stan sat up and swung his legs over the side of the exceedingly large hospital bed. The movement made his head swim, but he ignored it. “I’m outta here. You don’t have to take care of me. I can take care of myself.” Ford sighed. He pressed a button on his keyboard. The hologram screen went away.

“No. You can’t. You’ll need to be hospitalized for at least a week.”

“Bullshit,” Stan scoffed. Ford walked over, revealing that under his doctor’s coat, he was wearing one of the plain futuristic jumpsuits that were the fashion on the planet. Seemingly without any effort at all, he pushed Stan back onto the hospital bed. “How did you-”

“You just survived a severe poisoning after living on nutrient pills for eight months,” Ford scolded. Stan scowled at him. “You’re weaker than you’ve ever been in your entire life right now.” Stan felt his eyelids growing heavy. “Get your rest. When you next wake up, I’ll have more questions for you to answer.” Stan’s eyes slid shut.

“Great,” he managed, just before darkness took over again.

-----

A small hand slid into Stan’s. Stan cracked open an eye. His right arm was dangling over the edge of the hospital bed, which a very short alien had apparently decided was an invitation to hold his hand. The alien had periwinkle blue skin, long carnation pink hair tied in a braid, and eyes that were way too human.

I’ve been on this planet for a while now. Stan stared at the wide, light blue eyes inches from his. The people that live here don’t have eyes like that. The small alien let out a soft whimper.

“Unca For?” the alien said hesitantly. A smile broke across Stan’s face.

It’s just some cute kid. Unable to help himself, Stan ruffled the alien child’s hair.

“Nah. I’m not your Unca For. He’s over there.” Stan nodded at Ford, who was standing by the door, talking to two adult aliens, one male and one female. Judging by the aliens’ appearances, the child holding Stan’s hand was theirs.

“Lee, no, you can’t bother my patients,” Ford said, finally noticing what was going on. The child, Lee, looked over at him.

“Unca For?”

“Yes, Lee, that is me.” Ford crouched down. Lee let go of Stan’s hand and ran into Ford’s arms. Ford picked the child up and stood. “I apologize that he woke you up, Stanley. He hasn’t spent time around many humans, so he must have mistaken you for me.”

“To be fair, Max thought you were the one in the bed at first,” remarked the female alien. She had the same skin tone and long narrow nose as Lee, but her hair was a bright magenta.

“They look the same,” muttered the male alien, apparently named Max. He had pink skin to match his light pink hair, the latter of which Lee appeared to have inherited from him. Stan squinted.

“Why do two of you three have regular human names?”

“I provided them with human nicknames because human vocal cords cannot pronounce their proper names,” Ford replied.

“All three of them have human names?”

“Nicknames,” Ford corrected. “But yes.” He nodded at the female alien. “This is my sister-in-law, Angie, and her husband, Max. Lee is their son.”

“You’ve got in-laws on this planet?” Stan asked. Ford was silent. “Fine. Clam up. Like I give a shit.” Ford sighed. He turned to Max and Angie.

“Please let Fiddleford know I’ll be along shortly. I need to talk to Stan before he falls unconscious again.”

“Of course,” Angie said politely. Max took Lee from Ford. The aliens left the room.

“You’ve got more questions for me?” Stan grumbled.

“No, not really. But I need to let you know your treatment plan.”

“So you’re not gonna tell me how you wound up being a fucking alien doctor?”

“Not right now, no. Fulfilling my responsibilities as a physician is more important,” Ford said firmly. Stan rolled his eyes. Ford pulled up the hologram screen from before. Stan squinted at the writing on it. While he’d been able to pick up some words here and there in various alien languages over the last eight months, he had no idea how to read any of them.

Ford better not be planning on giving me a piece of paper with instructions in Alienese or whatever.

“I’ll be providing you with a printed copy in English,” Ford said, as though reading Stan’s mind. “For now, I’ll just read it off to you.” Ford cleared his throat. “You’re going to undergo a course of antidotes to properly flush the poisons from your system. Simultaneously, you’ll be given an intravenous source of nutrients and calories, as you’ve clearly lost a significant amount of both weight and muscle.” Stan felt himself flush in embarrassment. He hated what the nutrient pill diet had done to his strong arms and cushioned belly. “Tomorrow, we will begin the process of easing you back into eating actual food. We’ll do it slowly and gradually so that you can eat normally by the time you are discharged.”

“Great,” Stan muttered. “And the second I leave, I’m just gonna eat a new poisonous thing and wind up right back here.”

“No, you won’t.” Ford closed his eyes. “Once you’re discharged, you’ll be staying with me.”

“Like hell I will!” Stan snapped. He sat up straight. The motion made his stomach churn. Ford opened his eyes.

“I’m not happy about it either,” Ford said, sounding frustrated. “But you are my patient. As your doctor, I need to make sure you become healthy again. You will not be properly healthy until quite some time after you are discharged from your hospital stay.”

“I’m not gonna-”

“Look,” Ford interrupted. He took a steadying breath. “Neither of us want this. However, I must follow my duties as a physician. And you are too physically weak to resist.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“A temporary truce,” Ford said. “Once you are back to normal, we can part ways. But until then, you unfortunately remain with me, under my care.”

“The second your big doctor brain thinks I’m good to go, I’m leaving,” Stan snarled. Ford held up his hands.

“I’m perfectly fine with that.”

“Good!” Stan laid back in bed, rubbing his eyes. A sudden wave of exhaustion had just washed over him. The circular door slid down with a gentle swishing sound. Stan and Ford looked over. A tall pink alien with blood orange hair and the same nose as Angie and Lee stuck his head into the room.

“Oh, good!” the alien said cheerfully. “He’s still awake!”

“Not for long,” Stan mumbled. He frowned at the alien. “Who are you?”

“Just a feller what wanted to meet his brother-in-law,” the alien drawled. Stan’s eyes widened. He stared at Ford. Ford turned red.

“Yes, Stanley, this- this is-” Ford stammered. He swallowed. “This is my husband, Fiddleford.”

“Huh.” The jolt of adrenaline had faded, and Stan was weary again. He yawned. “I shoulda known…you would marry an alien or Bigfoot or…or whatever…” Stan’s eyes drifted shut. The last thing he heard before he fell asleep was from his newfound brother-in-law.

“I s’ppose I’ll have to bring the children to meet him later then.”

-----

“I can walk,” Stan snapped at the alien nurse trying to help him into a hover chair. After over a week in the hospital, he was finally free to go. And not a moment too soon for his cabin fever. Ford, who was watching nearby, crossed his arms with a scowl.

“Don’t take that tone with my staff. You need to be discharged in a hover chair. You won’t be able to make it to the car on your own.”

“The physical therapist gave me a cane-”

“For short distances,” Ford interjected. “This hospital is the largest on the planet.”

“…Fine,” Stan muttered. He reluctantly sat in the hover chair.

“Don’t worry about escorting him out,” Ford said to the nurse. He glared at Stan. “He’s being rather difficult right now. I think it’s best if I handle it from here.” Stan flipped the bird at him. “How delightfully immature of you.” Ford took hold of the handles on the hover chair. “You need to be on your best behavior while at my home. Fiddleford is still recovering from the birth of Tate and Tesla.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m not gonna be difficult when there are newborns around,” Stan muttered. “I know better than that.”

“Tate and Tesla are not our only children.”

“They aren’t?”

“No. We also have an adopted son, Proteus.” Ford pushed the hover chair up to the door of the hospital room, but paused. “I should probably warn you about his species.”

“I’m not a racist.”

“He belongs to the same species as the person who poached you,” Ford said quietly. Stan’s heart began to race. “The authorities were able to identify your poacher based upon the poaching cuff. Apparently, he is a rather notorious poacher who uses his shapeshifting abilities to lure prey.”

“Yeah. I remember,” Stan said darkly.

“Given his reputation, I am not only relieved you escaped, but impressed.”

“It wasn’t that tough. I just slipped off when he wasn’t looking and stowed away on the first ship I found.”

“Not many have gotten away from him and lived to tell the tale.” The hospital room door opened. Ford began to push Stan through the halls of the hospital. They made the trip to the patient pickup/dropoff area in silence, Stan steadfastly avoiding making eye contact with any reflective surfaces. It was a moot point, however. Once they were outside, Stan couldn’t refuse to look at himself anymore. The hospital, like all buildings on the planet, was constructed of a mirror-like material on the outside. Stan cringed at the sight of his reflection.

Not a lot of people have lived after getting away from the guy that poached me. Now that Stan had been faced with his reflection, he couldn’t help but stare. His cheeks were gaunt, his body scrawny and bony, his skin pale from lack of sunlight. His hair, which had grown long enough to stretch halfway down his back, hung limp and lifeless. Stan clenched the cane the physical therapist had given him. But is this living?

“Ah,” Ford said, breaking Stan free from spiraling. Stan looked up. A hover car had come to a stop in front of them. “This is our ride, Stanley.” The back door of the hover car opened. Ford reached for Stan to help him up, but Stan slapped his hand away.

“I can handle it,” he grumbled. Ford stood back. Stan got to his feet and hobbled over to the hover car. When he got inside, there was a soft chime. A seatbelt quickly buckled itself around him. The door closed with another soft chime. The driver of the car, Fiddleford, looked over his shoulder.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Fiddleford said cheerfully. “It’s still on the child settings fer Proteus.” Stan wasn’t sure why Ford’s husband spoke English with a southern accent, when every other alien he’d met spoke English like Ford.

Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice to hear someone that doesn’t sound just like my damn twin.

“Where is Proteus?” Ford asked, getting into the passenger seat.

“I dropped the kids off with Angie and Max. I thought it best if Stanley came home to some quiet. At least fer him to settle in.”

“Home,” Stan scoffed quietly. Fiddleford looked back at him. “I haven’t had a home in ages.”

“We’re fam’ly, so our home is yours,” Fiddleford said firmly. He looked at Ford. “Right, darlin’?” A series of complicated emotions crossed Ford’s face too quickly for Stan to interpret. Ford eventually settled on something decidedly neutral.

“…Yes. Our home is your home, Stanley.” Ford and Fiddleford turned to face the front. The hover car took off. Stan looked out the window at the alien buildings passing by.

I don’t know what this is, but it isn’t home. He glanced at Ford, who seemed more comfortable than ever in his skin. At least, it isn’t mine.

#Stanuary #Gravity Falls #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #Purposeful Abduction AU #Accidental Abduction AU #ficlet #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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possibilistfanfiction · 1 year

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This seems really indulgent and I know (and love!) footy au so no pressure at all but -- more butch Bea? Would make my day anytime, whatever you might have in mind! :) Thank you for your words

[i love indulgence, here's what was supposed to be one scene & ended up being 8.4k words about how remarkable it is to be butch :) for @unicyclehippo , also on ao3]

giving your body to ava is easy; giving your body to yourself is the hard part.

you’re supposed to protect her, you’re told: keeping her safe is the only thing that matters. you understand, as you tug a scratchy blanket up over her shoulders on a train to a little town nestled in the alps, that you are in charge of keeping ava safe because she’s the halo-bearer, because she’s the key to slaying demons and defeating adriel and heaven and hell and the earth between. you’re not supposed to keep her safe because she’s ava, but her breaths are warm against your neck, tucked in safely, her chin on your shoulder — you will keep her safe. it’s a vow you take with the gravitas you have your others, perhaps even more certain, sure, clear: you will keep ava safe.

you’ve felt the same impulse — not as strong, and not as sharp, but the same — toward a few people you’ve known. mackenzie, in third grade, after keith, a fourth grader, called her a bitch at recess, and it was easy, so easy, to let the anger well up in you and to, just like you’d been trained in aikido since you were five, punch him in the throat. you’d had to go to the principal’s office after a small riot had erupted, and you’d sat, sullen, while your principal told your mother and father what had happened. they asked you to apologize, and the words — rotten and wrong — got stuck in your throat. you were suspended for a week and your parents made you go to bed without dinner the entire time; your stomach ached to the point of physical pain and it was hard to think, but when you went back to school, mackenzie had smiled big and bright and had kissed your cheek and brought extra cookies to share at lunch, and it was so worth it.

you’d felt the same impulse in eighth grade, with marin, your best friend. she would come over after archery, and she said she didn’t mind that you were sweaty, even though you knew, objectively, it was gross. marin was always wearing a ripped denim jacket you were, silently, in love with, and her parents let her put purple streaks in her dark hair, and you couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth, even during algebra II, your favorite class. you learned to walk, on impulse, between her and the road whenever you were on the sidewalk; you held hands and felt proud: you were, in ways you had no idea how to name, hers. she pressed you up against the packages of mein and liangpi and cans of kidney beans in your pantry and kissed you, quietly and softly, one day. your first kiss, in the dark in the closet, and you had frozen stock still because — homosexuals are going to hell; that’s not love, that’s a sin, every sunday, and wednesdays during lent and vespers too, all the rosaries in the world won’t take away the way marin sighing into your mouth feels so perfect you want to die in it — it’s in your core, this want. so, of course, you kiss her back. you don’t know what you’re doing, have only watched movies where boys kiss girls or maybe you’d mostly skipped those parts; maybe in bend it like beckham you had paid attention to keira knightly’s short hair and her stomach and jesminder’s smile and the curve of her nose and found it more compelling than the men’s matches your dad takes you and your brother to see. your hands are shaking but you fist them in marin’s hair, coarse and curly and perfect, and you think you might explode when she rests her palm on your hip. it feels a little like jumping off a cliff.

and even your father walking in on you hadn’t stopped you from the want; your mother’s you’re disgusting; i’d rather you take your own life than be gay and the priest at their church telling you, quite clearly, that being a lesbian would result in eternal damnation. even that hadn’t been enough to stop the awful and bright desire to help krishna fix her shelf in her dorm in switzerland when you were sixteen, to accept her thanks in the form of laughter and sweet halwa. you are wrong, you know so, because your parents had seen you kissing a girl and you hadn’t wanted to repent; you had wanted to protect marin from speeding cars and hold her hand in the rain and fall asleep curled up next to her with a movie playing in the background, one where girls kiss and they don’t die afterward. it’s a suicide mission, maybe, the way krishna’s skirt rides up to her underwear while she sits on her bed and watches you level the shelf, her brown skin and the stretch marks you think are beautiful, that you think about kissing, all the time. you learn fencing and archery and you get multiple blackbelts in kendo; one of your sensei has a bright smile and short hair and the most precise hands. she’s beautiful in a way you don’t understand, not really, not yet: her hair is cropped short, and her jaw is square and compelling, and she speaks softly and kindly. when she corrects one of your stances you feel a race of electricity down your spine, the opposite of the stress you feel as your hips get bigger, as you go through the embarrassing ordeal of learning how to put a tampon in, as you have to go up a size with your sports bra. she teaches you to use a bo, and there are many things you can’t name: the power; the ache — you see a reflection that feels so much like a home to you that you are not supposed to want that you don’t know how to face it.

most of the girls in your school had gone to university; you had opened your letters from oxford; from tsinghua; from harvard; from the eth, with steady, sure hands, reading the acceptances calmly. it wasn’t hard, not this part: you braid your hair carefully each day and feel a little like throwing up every time you had to put your skirt on, the weekends and your aikido and judo classes and the standard, starchy, thick gi the most profound reprieve — you studied and you took your exams and it was easy, to become an asset, to become a weapon. you’re brilliant, all of the adults in your life tell you so. you stare at your ceiling and on the bad nights you can’t feel your hands. on the bad nights you want to touch yourself so badly you could scream, and you let your fingers wander down your stomach into the curls that have grown dark between your legs, and you think of stupid keira knightly’s hipbones and you feel the wetness there before you pull your hand away, every time. it’s wrong, to want like you do: to think of what a tweed jacket like your professors wear would look like, how your shoulders would be square and strong; every now and then, you stare at the scissors in your bathroom, for trims in the months between semester breaks when you can leave the grounds, and wonder what it would be like to just cut your hair short, how you might get in trouble but it also might be a relief. there is so much grace you can’t give to yourself yet.

of course, you’re not brave enough for any of it. you are brave, enough, however, to want to die: the ocs is bloody and brutal and a home unlike one you’ve ever known. it’s easier to push all of the sin down and fashion yourself useful, so useful if anyone, anyone at all, ever found out what you think about in the middle of the night, they would still have to value you: you have your arrows and your knives and your sisters and the most beautiful bo you had ever seen. you have your habit and your combat boots; you eat three exacting meals a day and you want and you want and you fucking want — but you tell ava about it, as clearly as you can, and she just loves you. you’re rude, for a second, but she sits patiently and doesn’t judge you for your tears or the curling desire in your chest, and then, what feels like a literal miracle, she tells you that you’re beautiful and you want to be called that, you want to be called handsome, you want her to laugh at your jokes and stare too long at your freckles. you want to love her, and you do: you want ava, who is so pretty and kind, despite it all, to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you will be there for her. so you bandage the cut along your cheekbone in the train car and don’t think of the acceptance letters you had calmly thrown in your trashcan, or the thick watch the woman in front of you was wearing, her sleeves rolled up her forearms, or the way ava is warm and soft and you will gone on as many suicide missions as it took to protect her. to protect her, not the halo, not the church: ava.

she stirs eventually and smiles up at you, groggy and grateful and trusting, like she knows you won’t let anything bad happen to her; it’s easy to let her touch you, to let her lean on you, to let her use you for anything she needs. your heart swells as she burrows deeper into your side.

the first time you really allow yourself to think of it, this monstrous, lovely ache inside of you, is when lena, a shopkeeper in switzerland with a neat fade, a perfect quiff combed neatly on top, streaked with grey, and an impeccable linen suit, hands you a pair of pants. ava is in the dressing room trying on a pile of tiny clothes — which you do your absolute best not to think about — and the soft material and exact stitching: neat pleats that will accommodate the small flare of your hips; a straight leg that will sit at your ankle. lena smiles and offers you a few button downs, oversized and collarless, tailored perfectly, and she doesn’t know you’re a nun but you take them all and tell yourself that they’re suitable for you because they’re modest, because they won’t draw attention — not the way ava’s brightly patterned button down she ties into a crop top will, not the way ava will, just inherently, with her perfect smile and elegant brow. you’re drawn to earth tones, to subtle patterns, to thick cotton that drapes without sitting against your chest too snugly. ava loves your clothes, apparently, which is mostly expected because ava loves everything and, you’re certain of it, ava loves you. not as a sister warrior, not as a nun, but as beatrice, which is perhaps the scariest thing of them all.

one day, while ava is working and you have unadulterated and unmonitored time to yourself, you let your feet carry you to lena’s shop. ava has been reading you poems at night, and she’s been steadily collecting a few vinyl to play on the phonograph, even though it’s prone to skipping. it’s a life, gentle and slow, even with your training and the looming threat of an apocalypse of literally biblical proportions, and you have no idea how to reconcile who you have always tried to be with who you are, and what you want.

the first night you had been in switzerland, in your tiny apartment with dust and lumpy furniture and ava’s desperately excited energy, you had sat on the couch quietly as she puttered around and then finally settled in bed. you had lied back on the couch, and she had huffed and then sat up: ‘bea, what are you doing?’ she had asked.

you hadn’t been able to find the words that you really meant so instead you’d told her, ‘i’m keeping watch,’ and you hadn’t had to look away from the water stain on the ceiling to know she was rolling her eyes. you had argued, a little, but the couch was genuinely so uncomfortable and you hadn’t slept in so long, you’d gotten up and shuffled to the unoccupied side of the bed. ‘are you sure this is okay?’ you’d asked, and she’d squinted.

‘why wouldn’t it be?’

you had frowned and bitten your bottom lip and stumbled through, ‘because i — i’ve told you, i —‘

ava had rolled her eyes. ‘i don’t care what your sexuality is, beatrice. what i do care about is you sleeping; you’re dead on your feet.’ she had paused and waited for you to situate yourself under the covers, stiffly on your back, and she had huffed a breath and then — slowly, and you were not the only one who understood the overstep of nonconsensual touch, the pain and fury — settled her head just under your chin, resting on your chest. ‘i trust you to keep me safe.’

looking back, maybe that was it, maybe that was the moment you understood: one day, you want to wear a suit to a nice dinner; you want loose, perfectly tailored pants and expensive, thick cotton and for women and femme people — someone like ava; ava herself, you allow yourself — to think that you are attractive, that you’re sexy, that you would do anything to make sure they’re cared for. that you delight in it.

lena is a miracle herself, you think: she understands who you are, or, at least, who you want to be, buried underneath the rubble of a thousand explosions you’d set off along your spine and within your ribcage. she hands you a beautiful suit, and she lets you try it on; some days, you have tea with her wife and practice your arabic and you blush at aleyna’s gravely voice and the way she talks about her favorite art. you are overcome, when you see yourself in the mirror; your soul, eternal longevity be damned, leaps: there you are. you do up an elegant pair of cufflinks and look at a reflection you have always wanted to know.

there you are.

ava’s freedom is enviable: she wears clothes she loves and excitedly lets you cut her hair to her chin, because she wants to and because she thinks it’s fun and it’ll look so cute, bea, and she smiles afterward, laughs at herself, delighted, in the mirror. you let her think she’s convinced you of something really exciting and serious when you agree to get highlights; mostly, it makes her happy, and it’s not exactly what you want, but it’s something. ava flirts with boys, and ava flirts with girls, and she leans forward against the bar and winks at you when you drag your eyes away from her chest. some days, you think you might strike up the nerve to ask her, late at night, after you’d heard her touching herself in the shower, stifling little moans: what does it feel like to want with abandon? what is it like?

but you don’t: you dance with her, your head hazy, and you leave a letter — too sentimental, too telling, but a breath — for lena and her wife before you flee. you fight your way through all of madrid and an awful, nightmare of a vision of her with the fog, and then you hold her in your arms, once, after she dies again, after she falls and her body explodes inside its skin — literally. you pray and pray and pray — to her, not a single thought spared for god, and you would give up everything in your life: your vows, your worth, everything, for her to be alive. and she is, eventually, and you help her out of your clothes and it’s a kind of honor in this too: she trusts you not to hurt her, never to hurt her. she trusts you, in the shower, while you’re in an undershirt and boxers and you clean the blood from her ears, to be gentle to her, and to keep her safe.

you have your habit and your robes and your weapons; with each passing day, you become more and more terrified that ava is going to die. you love her; you want, in some way, to spend your life with her, whatever that might mean. but where does it all lead for you if she does die? you clutch your rosary in your hand and feel a very particular horror: who are you, if not for ava’s love? where, now, would all that want go?

ava kisses you. it’s your second kiss; you’re the second person she’s kissed, you know as much, but it doesn’t matter: you’ve held her before. you know this, as surely as you know anything. she has been many people, in some way or another, and maybe you have to. there’s so much of your life that has never been yours but the decision to follow her lips as she draws back and bring your hand to her jaw rests in your hands, as steady as they are when you have your bo, and far gentler.

ava kisses you, as she decides to die. you hold her as her body — this beautiful, small, miracle of a body that you love, that you love — fails her, with a particular finality as it glows blue and crumples. you know, when you send her through the portal, that you are going to have to leave this life you have forced down your throat and driven into the marrow of your bones like rods in the center. i love you, you tell her. you hope she knows.

no one cares, you realize, if you try on a pair of men’s jeans at a thrift store in berlin. in fact, robbie compliments them casually; you’re not sure if they know how much it means, but they have a lump of skirts in their arms and a neatly trimmed beard and glamorous blue eyeliner today, so you think they probably do. you pull the pants on in the dressing room: they’re light washed, and loose; they fall just at the bottom of your ankles, and you cuff them twice and pull on the sturdy blundstones you’ve worn all over the world at this point. you can see yourself in them in the winter, a big, elegant peacoat and a scarf pulled around your neck, and soft and warm; you can see yourself in them in the summer, rolled up with sandals and an oversized t-shirt. it’s different, than the time you’d tried on a suit — more casual, more variable — but the recognition is there all the same.

‘did you like them?’ robbie asks, meeting you at the front with a few skirts and a crop top that pangs in your chest because robbie will look great in it; because ava would love it.

‘i loved them,’ you say, and a knot releases somewhere in your chest.

you end up in los angeles — one tattoo on the top of your wrist and a surfing lesson booked — mostly because it’s the city of angels, which feels a little inevitable, and also mostly because it’s so far from anything you’ve ever known. you keep to yourself at first, mostly, but then you make casual conversation with a few of the surfers out near your airbnb every morning, and they love your accent and give you pointers on how to pop up on your increasingly smaller board and invite you to an arooj aftab show at the broad. it aches, to live this life without ava, even though it’s what she wanted for you, what she asked of you.

you drive along the hellish freeway to make it on time, and you let your friends buy you a drink at the outdoor bar, a little paper wristband signaling you’re over 21 after you’d shown your ID at the entrance; you had agonized over what to wear and settled on your favorite pair of pants, one that you’ve had since switzerland, a wide-legged pair in a deep navy that lena had tailored to fit your waist properly, and a linen collarless button down in a seafoam so pale it’s almost white, the sleeves cuffed up to your elbows, a pair of airforce 1s which your friend had promised you are, without fail, cool. you feel nervous but then your friends seriously look through some art pieces in the museum before the show, and one of them has on a pair of leather chaps, and no one cares at all. you’ve pulled your hair up into a careful, smooth bun for as long as you can remember, and at the show you close your eyes and let your heart hurt: you miss ava. you miss the love of your life, and you miss your faith, and you miss something you’ve wanted your entire life: to be seen as who you are. to be brave enough.

there’s lilting smoke and bright lights diluted by it, everything striking in urdu; you can’t translate each word, of course not, but you do understand: there are so many ways to pray. there are so many gods to pray to.

your friend drops you off at your apartment later that night; you stand in the kitchen in your black sports bra and the simplest pair of black cotton underwear you could find, and let your hair out of its bun. your skin is clean and clear and you have more freckles now than you have your entire life. your hair has gotten long, and every few days someone decides to tell you it’s beautiful. it is, you guess, even though, sometimes, it doesn’t feel like yours. you’d watched paris is burning a few weeks ago, alone at night when it was dark and the only noise you could hear was the gentle brush of the waves outside, after you’d poured yourself one of your favorite ipas and made popcorn, after you’d liet yourself eat a piece of pizza even though you hadn’t gone on a run earlier. you don’t feel like yourself, not all the way: you don’t always want to look at your hips and your chest and when your hair tickles along the middle of your back you have to close your eyes and breathe through it; you love the muscles that have grown sharper and bigger along your arms and the ink in your skin and the way your thighs cut strong and taper down to your knees, the color of your eyes at sunset. you are becoming; it hurts.

you watch the holiness in the ballrooms and you know: people have been far, far braver than you. loving ava — loving yourself — is not a kind of death sentence; it’s a kind of life.

camila facetimes you in the mid-morning, after you’ve just finished sparring. you’re in a sports bra, the weather too hazy and hot to wear your entire gi on the full walk home. camila grins when she sees your bare shoulders.

‘picking up the ladies, bea?’

you’ve never definitively said anything, but you kissed ava and then renounced your vows and, honestly, you think everyone probably knew the entire time anyway — it’s not as scary as you thought it would be: camila’s eyes are bright and clear and she’s just calling to say hi. there’s no condemnation; there’s no judgement, only your friend, your sister.

‘no, no,’ you say, and camila pouts, which makes you laugh. ‘it’s just hot.’

‘probably because you’re shirtless on the streets of los angeles.’

‘it’s a two block walk home from my dojo, camila.’

‘you’re not a nun anymore,’ she says. ‘let me have a little fun with it, at least.’

you’re quiet, just a beat too long.

‘how are you doing?’ she asks, resolute and gentle like always.

it goes without saying: you miss ava so much it feels like you’ve broken your wrists; you are in love with the world. ‘i’m — i’m figuring it out.’

it’s a more hopeful answer than camila was expecting, clearly, because she perks up and smiles.

‘well,’ she says, ‘it looks good on you.’

one night you think of the curve of ava’s rib. the twelfth, exactly, the way it wrapped slightly in her back, near her spine, a flutter away. you think of the way her shirt rode up in the middle of the night, how she rolled over onto her stomach and you saw the dimples above the waistband of her shorts, the curve of her ass, the nape of her neck, the delicate press of her wrists. it felt wrong, to look like that, your eyes red with sleep — but she was there, and she was so, so beautiful.

one night you can’t sleep and you close your eyes and think about the way ava’s lips had felt against yours. you try not to concentrate on any of the bad, just for now, just for a breath, just for this sliver of moonlight and the quiet seep of your desire onto your fingers when you press between your legs.

you wonder, absently, if hell will open up and swallow you whole. you rub circles around your clit and try, so hard, to listen to your body, to trust it like you had only learned how to do in a fight, like you had only allowed yourself in moments of pain and danger. but you’re safe, in this big bed by the ocean, and you think of ava’s twelfth rib and heaven and you come silently, pleasure drenching down your spine as you allow it to curve into the light.

you give your body to yourself, just for a few minutes, and it feels like heaven. you lie back against your pillow and blink open your eyes and laugh.

ava has been back for less than twelve hours before she flits through your closet. you’ve picked up pieces here and there, mostly earth tones, mostly loose and comfortable fabrics; you have a few hoodies, which seem to really delight her, and a tweed jacket you haven’t fully worked up the courage to wear with some slacks yet, although they’re both there, and ready, and available.

‘this is so gay,’ she says fondly, meaning, you presume, your entire wardrobe, and it’s so, so stupid for you to feel panicked, because you are gay and you want, so badly, to love being gay, because you love ava, more than heaven and earth, and she came back for you. but still, you can’t erase so many years of hating a fundamental part of who you are; ava frowns and walks up to you slowly. ’bea.’

‘it’s fine.’

‘i’m sorry.’ she takes both of your hands in hers and runs her thumb along the back gently. ‘i don’t — this is all still kind of new to you, i guess.’

it’s gentle, and forgiving, and opens up so much space for you. you had wanted, so, so many times, to change into who you are, brimming under the surface, and you’d only started to feel brave enough when you’d seen her genuine smile at your new slacks in switzerland. you suppose, really, it’s not that much different now. ‘i, uh, i see a therapist.’

‘oh?’ she doesn’t back away, only squeezes your hands. ‘that’s awesome. do you like them?’

‘i do.’

she just stands and waits and you are thankful for her, again and again; you have missed her so, so much.

‘i started — because i was grieving,’ you say, quietly and in the direction of a row of sneakers on the floor. ‘i went because i was hurting, and i didn’t know what to do with it.’ you had started going because, one night, you had gotten roaringly drunk at a little bar in echo park and felt like you wanted to walk into fucking traffic on the 405 when a girl with ava’s lotion passed by you, but that’s a detail you can mention another time, or never.

‘i’m sorry, bea.’

‘no.’ you touch her face gently, rest your hand on her collarbone. ‘not your fault. but what i mean is that — i started going because i missed you, and i didn’t know who i was, really. i left the church, and i fell in love with you, and, like, how do i become who i really am as a lesbian ex-nun whose — uh, person, is, well, missing, for an undetermined amount of time.’

‘therapy does seem like a good start with that,’ she says sagely. ‘also, person?’

‘we hadn’t discussed what we were to each other, before the portal, so.’ you shrug. ‘i know you’re my partner. but you are also my person.’

‘love that,’ she says, and smiles, ‘and love you. and other than how incredible i am, what have you learned about yourself?’

you lead her to a drawer in your closet, and you open it and take out a chest binder, black and unassuming, one you haven’t worn yet but had bought one morning online, after you’d had a wonderful surf session and you had wondered, just enough, how it might feel. ‘i don’t know,’ you say. ‘i don’t — i’m figuring it out.’ ava is still and patient beside you; you have a holy war coming, one neither of you is sure to survive, and it all seems to matter a little less in the face of it. or, maybe, it matters more. ‘is that okay?’

‘fuck yeah,’ ava says. ‘you’re so hot, like, god, even hotter than i remember? what a fucking gift! and, yeah, i mean, you’re however you feel, regardless of me. i know i’m like really awesome, but i’m just a person. kind of. for these purposes, i’m just a girl. mostly.’ she laughs at herself. ‘anyway, try it on! if you want. i love you, and i want to see.’

for your entire life you’ll hold it in your heartspace: i love you, and i want to see. just like that, just like a commandment — true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy. ‘okay.’

‘sweet,’ ava says, ‘i’ll be waiting out here, whenever you’re ready.’

you step into the binder and pull it on like you’d watched a few tutorials of, and you don’t think it’s something you want all of the time, but your heart pounds and your palms sweat and then your entire body settles when you situate the straps on your shoulders and turn in the mirror, see your chest mostly flat. again, it’s like seeing yourself for the very first time: there you are.

you wipe a few tears from your cheeks and let out a big breath and then slip a t-shirt over your head, pad out to where ava is very obviously vibrating with excitement and not at all reading the book on her lap, opened to a random page.

she groans and leans back dramatically. ‘even hotter, wow.’

‘yeah?’

‘yes!’ she narrows her eyes. ‘but, from what i think your therapist is getting at: how does it make you feel? even if i wasn’t here to tell you how hot you are, which i always will be now, obviously. but even if i wasn’t, what are you feeling?’

unbound, you remember, unburdened. ‘happy,’ you say, and she stands and runs her hands up and down your sides, over your flat chest, and kisses you. ‘i feel so happy.’

ava is overjoyed when one of your friends in madrid invites you to a drag show. technically, you’re both supposed to be Very Seriously Working, because there really is an imminent number of battles looming over the horizon, but you rent a little flat a few blocks from headquarters and sometimes try your best to take ava on dates. obviously, she enjoys doing everything in her power to loudly woo you: she buys flowers from a vendor on the corner and dramatically gives them to you; she brings home books you might like, in all kinds of languages; she tells everyone at the ocs how your lesbian love was what was strong enough to bring her back from the other realm. it’s all a little ridiculous, but she always has been, and it’s intoxicating to be the sole focus of her joy sometimes.

ava whistles and you roll your eyes when you slip a warm oversized cream color wool sweater over your binder, careful not to mess up your meticulous bun, and let it sit loose and elegant over a pair of navy slacks and slip on a pair of brown loafers. ava is in a dress and a blazer and she’s done eyeliner and lipstick and she’s so, so fucking beautiful. you’d put a little mascara and chapstick on and a little thrill goes through you: ava wants to be on your arm tonight; she wants to sit next to you and whisper joyously in your ear and kiss you and come home with you — ava looks like that and ava is yours.

there are three queens performing that night, two songs each, ava informs you, when you meet up with your friends. it’s loud and bright and one of the queens — ava’s favorite, if her screaming next to you has any indication — does ‘pure/honey’ from renaissance, which, in ava’s words, brings the house down.

‘gender fuckery is heaven, baby,’ the queen says after, to absolutely raucous cheers from the crowd. ava looks at you with a raised brow but her grin is so big you can’t do anything but kiss her: the swell in your chest is good, you decide, like a perfect set by the pier just after sunrise, wave after wave breaking in a way your body knows exactly what to do with, exactly how to ride safely into shore. you wipe a few tears but you let ava drag you to your feet and you sing along, on your own accord, when they play whitney houston.

‘what’s one thing — especially something that you’ve maybe felt scared of, or that you’re not sure you’ll like — that you associate with queerness that you’ve always wanted to try?’

and, like, therapy is hard, okay? it’s hard when ava is so overjoyed and so fearless about her own sexuality, and about loving you without any hesitation; of course, you both have trauma, but ava has never, in her entire life, tried to deny herself want or pleasure or expression.

and it’s hard because, god, there are so many things on that list. some of them you’ve done: buying men’s pants (that fit you like a dream, thank you very much); dancing with ava and finally kissing her after a few shots; going to a lesbian bar; going to a drag show. you want to get more tattoos — some that mean important things, and maybe some that don’t, that you just like — and you want to smoke weed the way ava does with your friends sometimes, laughing slow and soft and curling up in your lap. you want to kiss ava in front of a van gogh without checking around you first; you want to pull her chair out at dinner; you want to laugh when your friends say that’s gay — with lots of love — after one of them says something sweet about their partner. you want ava to steal your clothes. you want to go to pride. you want, very badly, to find a church that doesn’t make you feel like dying.

‘it doesn’t have to be serious,’ your therapist says, coaxing you along just a little. ‘it doesn’t have to be huge or life-changing. just something you might try, whatever comes to mind.’

‘a haircut.’ it sort of comes out of your mouth without permission, but maybe that was the point; you’re still figuring out want and desire and giving in to them without anxiety.

your therapist smiles, and it feels good, warm, to know that you’ve told the truth, that she seems to understand. ‘why does that scare you?’

you look down at your hands and will yourself not to fidget; your therapist notices and hands you a stim toy, admittedly your favorite one.

‘well, first, what if i hate it?’

‘haircuts are, fortunately, relatively temporary. what would you do if you did hate it?’

‘grow it out again, i guess.’ you think of ava’s collection of hats and beanies. ‘a cap, maybe?’

‘logical. what else scares you?’

‘what if ava hates it?’

‘well, from everything i know of ava, i doubt she would hate anything you decide could bring you joy. and she seems very into you.’

it gets you to smile: ava makes that known often, and to everyone she wants, it’s true.

‘when ava tries something, like a haircut or color, or a more masculine or feminine outfit, how do you feel?’

‘i love her, obviously. in any form; she’s beautiful and she’s my partner.’

your therapist smiles. ‘exactly. and, beyond that, i know we’ve been talking about this, but your sexuality and your relationship to it, and your joy in it, lies far outside of your partner. you were a lesbian before you met ava, and you will be, no matter what your relationship with her is, unless you decide you feel something different. your queerness and place in it isn’t just about sex, or your partner. it’s about who you are, fundamentally, and how you want to be seen for it.’

you nod, take a deep breath. ‘yes. i guess, well, when i was younger, 12 or 13, maybe, i wanted to cut my hair short. i was in so many martial arts and archery classes; i ran and swam all the time, so it seemed easier. it also seemed … cool? like, i thought it might feel… that it might feel good, or right. i didn’t know why.’

‘why didn’t you cut your hair then?’

‘my mother, when i asked, she said that it would make people think i’m … that i’m a dyke.’ you pause, let the hurt well up in you and breathe it out. ‘she used that word, and it scared me.’

‘what does that word make you feel now?’

‘i… i love it? it still feels a little scary, maybe, but — i already know people look at me and don’t think i’m straight, even when i’m not with ava. that used to be terrifying, because what if someone was unkind or even dangerous? but that … it hasn’t happened, and, if it did, i could handle it. i know i could.’

‘so what would a haircut change, then?’

‘if i — ‘ you imagine it, then, you let yourself: how the collar of your favorite turtleneck sweater might look, how easy it would be to take care of after surfing, how you could put on mascara and linen and your favorite sunglasses and hold ava’s hand, just like always. ‘people would see me and know i’m a lesbian, i think. it’s… a choice, for me at least, to look queer. and a haircut is one i can’t immediately change, like clothes. and we’re going to see my old friends soon, and i don’t know what they’d think, and — ‘

‘your friends have been accepting of you, and of ava, and of you and ava together, right?’

‘yes, of course. but it would just be — i couldn’t hide. everyone would know; everyone would be able to see, all the time. ava isn’t read as queer all the time; i can pass as straight. but if i couldn’t — ‘

when you don’t continue, your therapist gently says, ‘you would be seen. which is scary, and i hear what you’re saying, absolutely. but, beatrice, you would be seen for who you are, without apology.’

‘that’s true.’

‘i have one more question.’

‘okay.’

‘what would happen if you loved it?’

‘how are you doing?’ your stylist, xavi — one of your favorite people on the planet, one of your best friends who has been offering to give you a haircut you actually want for two years now — calmly combs out your long hair after she’d washed it.

‘i think i might throw up.’

it makes her laugh, which is maybe a little mean but also why you’re so fond of her; she had been one of the students in your adult beginners aikido class and, while she hadn’t shown any talent or much interest, she had made you smile all the time and invited you and ava to dinner with her and her wife as soon as she found out you mentioned ava, and you had been friends ever since. most days, you just put your hair into a neat bun. ava likes to play with it down, especially when you’re sleeping in, but when you told her you wanted to cut it she had kissed you square on the mouth. ‘i love you, and i want to see,’ she’d told you again, and played with the engagement ring around your finger. ’even if it looks terrible — which isn’t possible, because it’s you — there’s no way i’m ever asking you to take this off. ever, ever, ever, bea. okay?’

xavi pats your shoulder; she had excitedly fit you in this morning after you’d texted her after therapy yesterday with pictures of a short, neat mid-fade to the skin, sitting in your car before you even drove home, afraid you’d lose your nerve if you didn’t. ‘we can just do a trim, or start with a little off, and you can decide how you’re feeling from there.’

it’s so patient and so kind. ‘no, no. i — i’m sure. i’m just scared.’ it’s ridiculous, really, you think: you’ve been shot and stabbed and blown up multiple times; you have killed more people than you can count; you have almost died, so, so many times. but this, this is living, true to who you are. ‘i — this is what i want. i know this is what i want.’

‘okay then,’ xavi says, and collects your hair, smooth and long, into a ponytail at the base of your skull. ‘ready?’

‘as i’ll ever be.’

it’s fast and unceremonious, just a few sips as you close your eyes, but then you feel hair tickle your cheeks and you open your eyes and xavi hands you your long ponytail with a grin.

‘oh my god.’

‘okay,’ she says, ‘we can stop here? i can definitely make this work.’

‘no, no,’ you say, ‘it’s good.’ you laugh. ‘i feel good.’

‘you want to keep going?’

‘yeah,’ you say, let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, settled in a way, already, that you never have been before in your entire life. ‘let’s do it.’

‘amazing,’ xavi says. ‘this is going to look so good.’

and, really, it does: xavi turns the clippers on and you let go of the swoop in your stomach, your clammy palms, the too-fast thud of your heart, and just let yourself become. xavi explains what she’s doing each step, and she talks about the kittens she’s fostering, and asks you about your new aikido class, and it’s easy.

she finishes; she places a hot towel on your neck and makes sure your hairline is clean in the back and then shows you how to put a little pomade in the top, an inch and a half long, textured and dark. she takes the cape off and you stand, look at yourself in the mirror: your favorite crewneck, and a pair of pants ava had surprised you with from artists and fleas, the thin chain with a tiny cross you don’t take off sitting just below your collarbone. ‘i love it, xavi,’ you say, your hands are shaking but when you bring them up to your hair there’s a clarity in your chest that’s never been there before: unbound, unburdened, you remember, and also: i felt finally myself.

you’re in and out of it after surgery; you know your injuries as ava told you and then the surgeon explained more completely. mostly, you’re just relieved you’re alive, because the moment before you hit the wall you were sure you weren’t going to be. you’d asked mary a few hours ago, while ava was in the bathroom, to convince ava to take a walk and then eat an actual meal, not just pick at food while she sits by your bedside. it works: mary bullies ava into it, but sometimes, even now, that’s just what you have to do.

you fall asleep again; you’ve been walking more the past day, up and around with a walker a few times a day. between that and the pain medicine you’re still on, and the residuals from anesthesia, it’s impossible to not nap fairly often. when you wake up, lilith is kicked back in the chair by one side of your bed, her feet, boots still on, resting by your side on the blanket. mother superion sits next to her, doing a crossword in the daily paper. the sight makes you laugh a little, and you’re pleased that you’re a little less sore.

they both notice you’re awake; mother superion puts down her crossword but lilith doesn’t move an inch. you’re thankful your surgeon had let you sit on the shower seat and let ava wash your hair earlier this morning, careful to not press hard against the bruise on the back of your skull or get any water on your incisions — you feel slightly less gross and definitely more awake than you had before.

she looks at you and you feel anxious, all of a sudden: lilith appraises you, and then slouches even further into your seat. ‘gay,’ she decides on, and then, ‘aerodynamic.’

you look to mother superion for a moment, whose mouth twitches in a smile. ‘we didn’t have much chance to talk before the battle,’ she says, ‘but what lilith means is that your hair suits you.’

your brain is still sluggish, but — ’because i’m… gay and aerodynamic?’

lilith, miraculously, laughs. ‘well, sure, but it looks good.’ she shrugs. ‘you look like yourself.’

mother superion nods. ‘it’s good to see you becoming who you are.’

you’re definitely still loopy, overly emotional, but you might tear up from that even if you weren’t. still, lilith rolls her eyes. ‘oh, come on, beatrice.’

‘sorry,’ you sniffle, then rub your eyes.

you hear ava’s, ‘you made her cry? i was only gone for like, half an hour? what the fuck?’

‘i said something nice,’ lilith defends, getting to her feet.

‘sure you did,’ ava says. ‘i can still take you in a fight. i’ll do it, swear to god.’

‘you definitely cannot take me in a fight, ava.’

ava stands, indignant, although it’s made less effective by the comfortable hoodie a little crooked on her shoulders and mary’s a whole head taller than her. the halo flares a little but quiets when you reach out a hand in her direction.

‘oh, for fuck’s sake,’ lilith says, and then in a flash she’s gone. mother superion squeezes your hand before she heads out with a nod and another soft smile, and mary follows.

ava sits on the side of your bed. ‘was lilith an asshole? i swear if she made you feel bad about anything i will kill her.’

‘she was actually, in her own way, kind. and mother superion was too. i’m just more emotional than usual because of the meds.’

‘you’re sure?’

you tug ava down a little and she messes with your hair with a soft smile, then kisses your forehead. ‘very chivalrous of you, to offer to defend my honor, though.’

she laughs. ‘i don’t want to fight lilith again, ever, in any realm, in any way.’ she presses her mouth to yours. ‘but, for you, bea, i would do anything.’

‘you look — ‘ you let your brother fumble over his words for a moment and then laugh, spare him any more worry.

‘hot is fine.’

he rolls his eyes. ‘you look incredible, bea.’ the suit lena had made you — navy, and light, a slim tuxedo pant, a single button jacket and a perfect, crisp white t-shirt tucked in neatly, sitting beneath — fits exactly how you want it. your hair has grown out, and it parts in the middle now, and flops — as ava loves to say — just above your eyes; the sides and back are still buzzed short, and it makes you smile, even now — your ‘prince charming era’ according to ava. xavi had done your makeup: tinted moisturizer and a little bit of mascara.

‘i do look incredible, huh?’

he smiles. ‘yeah. you really do.’ he lint rolls your shoulders for the final time, more out of nerves than there having ever been lint in the first place. ‘well, let’s do this then. let’s go get you married.’

he walks you down the aisle and then you wait in front of the altar you had made, barefoot on the beach, and when ava rounds the corner and then smiles at you, you know you’ve given her a gift too: i want to see. i love you, and i want to see.

‘thank god i married you,’ ava says, tracing a line down your spine and then along the linework tattoo on your ribcage.

‘mmmm,’ you say, ‘i agree. but why, specifically.’

she bends down to laugh into your shoulder before kissing down your spine. ‘it’s fucking insane that you get hotter like, literally every day.’

you laugh too. ‘thank you, my wife.’

she squeezes your hips. ‘wow. my wife.’

you turn over beneath her and pull her down slowly to kiss you. the snow is falling outside but the fireplace at your room in a resort in the alps is beautiful, and everything is warm. you feel the halo hum beneath her hands and it’s easy, it’s so easy, to let ava roll her hips against yours and press you down into the mattress; it’s easy to put on boxers — black calvins, tight against your thighs — after you shower and stand in the mirror. your hands are calm, and it’s so easy, when you really look, to see who you are in your body. to belong only to yourself: there you are.

#wn #warrior nun fic #avatrice #avatrice fic #butch!beatrice #an ode to her bc i love her & i love being butch #if this isn't ur vibe... pls just move along thank u #ava’s favorite way of affirming bea is just being horny. a queen #this entire thing exists bc i had the first line & then lilith saying ‘gay. aerodynamic’ & i had to get from one to the other lmao

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swoonbots · 1 year

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OMG I'd loooove a gore piece where the puppets dissect reader to figure out how he works, that would be so cool :0 post notifs on btw! love your writing :)

ALL: OPENED

CW: Human Gore, Puppets eating Humans

Summary: The Neighborhood can't contain their curiosity any longer.

Poppy cooed at you, shushing you as you screamed against the restraints. Howdy would pet your hair, as if he wasn't the one who held you down to be dismantled.

"It'll all be alright, hun. Everythin'll be back to normal tomorrow. We just want a little peek."

Frank had pinned you tightly down to a table, carefully like you were one of his butterfly specimens. You knew they were curious, you knew by the way they poked and prodded at you, by the way their gazes would linger when you display any sort of human nature.

Frank would collect the tears that fall in a jar. Commenting on the salty taste when he dipped his finger in it.

It was time for the main event, Sally would announce as she entered the room with Eddie in tow. He'd carry a sharpened letter opener. The ones who you thought you could call your friends surround your struggling frame.

Wally lifted your shirt, revealing your tummy. His hand gently grazed your stomach, watching as it rose and fell with each passing breath.

"Trace an 'I' here," Wally spoke as monotonous as ever, "Open it like a present."

Eddie hesitated, his eyes met your fearful ones, but then it met the ones of his friends. And he gave in.

The knife dipped past your skin, pain flushed through your body like wildfire, your voice goes hoarse against the bright red ascot that keeps you gagged. Drool pooled at your ears. Frank collected that too.

It's open. You're open. Your eyes betray you, staring at how they rest your skin to the side to have you open like some kind of gift.

Julie squeals, her hands reach it and grab at your intestines. Pulling them out of their resting place and... playing with them. She wrapped it around her thin neck.

"It's like a wet feather boa!" She would exclaim. You almost pass out, but you stay awake. Something forces you to stay awake.

The others reach in. Barnaby traces your ribs, nearly drooling. Wally seems more interested in the veins that trail your body. It's a beautiful pattern, he'd have to paint it one day.

Your body convulses, Poppy doesn't bother to comfort you this time. She's much too intrigued by the beating of your heart.

Eddie cuts a vein, letting the blood spill into your open cavity. They all reach for a taste.

Barnaby can't help himself any longer, and with a pop, rips off a kidney and takes a bite- reveling in its taste. Can you blame him? Dogs are natural carnivores after all. All that vegan food must leave him sick.

Howdy's hands grasp at your ribcage, at Sally's request to see 'the hidden ones better', and tear your ribs off your skeleton. Much too easily.

You can't breathe, maybe it's the way Eddie squeezes your lungs in his hands, engulfing them like it's nothing. Your vision goes black.

The sun's rays brush against your lashes. You gasp and shoot forward, fumbling with your pajama shirt to see your stomach.

Nothing remains of the night before. You wonder, if it was all a bad dream. Created by the paranoia of being around puppets.

Either way, your stomach hurts.

---

A/N, Again: I have a lot more ideas, regarding this. Barnaby tearing the human reader to shreds because he wants a taste of real meat. Wally and gang opening you up to make you a puppet too. Replacing your organs with stuffing and being surprised when you die lmao. Just the little things you know? If I were them, I'd be obsessed with just watching you. Watching you bleed or breathe, when I don't. Listening to your heartbeat... Anyways, that's all.

#welcome home x reader #welcome home #gore #hehe ty! <- i say b4 proceeding to write about julie joyful playing with your organs

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