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#illness cw
wowa-bublord · 4 months
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You have to stay determined! You can't give up… You are the future of humans and monsters.
w/out flowers and stuff under cut!!! vvvvv
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teaboot · 14 days
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seeing the NSFW question and answers you've got happening here
my vulva is really itchy and sore but I haven't had any kind of sex recently or even used any sex toys recently. I haven't changed my washing powder. I haven't douched ever or used soap inside my vulva or used any lotions or scents around my vulva. I last shaved 2 weeks ago with a razor and the same body wash I always use. I don't think it's BV or thrush and its driving me mad. help?
CW DISCUSSION OF REPRODUCTIVE HEALTH
Shaving public hair can increase your odds of developing bacterial infections, yeast infections, and UTIs, all of which can present as soreness or itchiness. Underwear made of synthetic fabrics can, too. High-sugar diets, hormone fluctuations, thong underwear, dehydration, bath water quality, and some lubes can, too, as well as touching without washing hands thoroughly first. Long nails especially are fantastic at holding onto and transporting bacteria and fungi. Antibiotics can cause these issues, and antibiotics can cure these issues. Medications, too.
Short and simple annoying answer: Could be anything.
I recommend drinking lots of water and cranberry juice and seeing a doctor- if it is BV then using a yeast infection treatment will burn like holy hellfire and you dont want that. Getting a urine test is your best bet.
In the meantime, again, drink lots of water and urinate frequently. Don't wash with soap, but do wash, and do so with clean water. Wear loose clothing when possible made of breathable fabrics like cotton. Change underwear daily.
I'm not a doctor or a medical professional. These are just things I've picked up through work and life. My first recommendation is always to contact a doctor, and if you start producing unusual discharge, experiencing pain during urination, developing sores, welts, or a rash, or end up with swelling or pain in your lower back, DEFINITELY seek medical assistance.
Good luck, bud 👍
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steddierthings · 1 year
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I’ve read a few fics where Steve’s parents kick him out and he’s living out of his car for a while, and there’s usually a line about his parents signing the car over to him for one reason or another. I started playing out scenarios about how he would get the car if this happened and his parents hadn’t signed it over and I like the little headcanon I came up with for it.
I like imagining Steve got the BMW from his mom’s sister, his only and favorite aunt who hated Richard Harrington, who saw him for what he was when her sister was blinded by his money and status. Sure, their family was well off and well respected too, but you only stayed that way by marrying your own kind and Elaine had no problem overlooking Richard’s anger and small-mindedness to keep living the life she was accustomed to.
Charlotte, on the other hand, she wanted out. She wanted to make her own way. Travel across the world, meeting new people and helping, always helping. She did what she could to warn her little sister but she was in the middle med school, one of only two women in her program, when Richard and Elaine married, and as Elaine continually pointed out to her, Charlotte couldn’t control her. So Charlotte got her degree, did her rotations, and then took her talents to far off regions where she could be of most use. She came home when Elaine delivered, and fell in love with her nephew.
Steve loved his Aunt Charlie as a kid. As soon as he was old enough to understand, she made sure he always had her address so he could draw her pictures and, eventually, send her letters. She made Elaine promise that she’d always help Steve postmark them. Steve saved every postcard he ever got from Aunt Charlie, all addressed to Stevie Harrington, and when she came home to visit, he would dig through her pockets to find all the little gifts she’d tucked away for him.
As the years went by, Charlotte was gone for longer and longer periods. She was never one to be tied down, and even her beloved nephew couldn’t keep her in one place for long. Steve was never angry at her absence, but god he missed her. Sometimes he’d go months without hearing a kind word or encouraging word from his parents. He never realized what a lifeline her letters were, full of funny anecdotes and questions about everything he was up to, but every time one showed up in the mail, he felt like he could breathe again.
The letters Steve sent back were full of his own stories when he was younger, silly stories about the cool dog he saw that day or the prank he played on Tommy. When he was 13, she was the only one he told about the cute girl who kissed him behind the gym after school, and about the new boy at school with the buzzed haircut who was so cool—and maybe he was cute too—playing guitar at the talent show.
His letters got further apart as he got older too. Whenever he tried to write, all he wanted to do was beg Aunt Charlie to come home, or to let him go with her. He couldn’t be in this big house anymore, by himself or with parents who clearly didn’t give a shit about him. He didn’t have any silly stories, or sweet ones, anymore. He didn’t want her to know about the kind of guy he was now. He was afraid she’d start to hate him just as much as his parents did.
Charlotte could read between the lines though. She could sense his sadness, his isolation. Eventually she decided it was time she come back to Hawkins to stay.
Then she found out she was sick.
Being sick didn’t change her plans, it solidified them. She wanted to spend the time she had left making sure her Stevie was taken care of. She had a lot of money saved up, leftover trust fund money she never really had use for. She knew Richard and Elaine planned to get him a car for his birthday—it was the done thing. So she begged them to let her do it instead. Her final gift to her nephew, though she didn’t want him to realize that’s what it was. Elaine didn’t care, was happy not to have to spend the money, but Richard didn’t like it, which just made Charlotte more determined to do it.
When he finally gave in, she didn’t waste any time surprising Steve at school. She took him out of second period and drove him to the dealership. In the midst of his glee, she gently teased him about the boring color until he said, uncomfortable, “I think dad will like that better.” She simply nodded and said, “okay, baby” and hugged him tight.
After she signed the paperwork, she gave him the keys and an address, told him to meet her there. They showed up to a sedate office with a discreet sign out front, “Kimball Collins, Esq.” She took Steve inside, sat him down with a small, officious looking man and explained that she was not going to be around for much longer and this is the man who was going to make sure he could keep the car until he turned 18 and could own it outright.
Steve didn’t understand at first. Was she going overseas again? Maybe he could come with her this time. But once he got it, once he cried and tried not to and she held him and told him it was okay to, she said that there would come a day he’d need to leave home. Because his parents wouldn’t let him live there or because he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he’d need a way to get away. He’d need something of his own. So he could have the car, the only kind his father would stand for even if he wasn’t the one paying for it, and he could sell it if money helped or keep it if that helped more. And she and Mr. Collins had made sure no one would be able to take it from him. He would always have a way to leave, she’d made sure of it.
Aunt Charlie passed two months later. In the coming year, Richard tried to take the car, for disrespect, for bad grades, or just to be an asshole. But every time, Steve only had to call Mr. Collins, who was very quick at delivering very threatening letters via very official-looking messengers that saw Steve with the keys back in his hand within a day. It’s only a little time before Mr. Collins is delivering him the title outright.
And in the summer of 85, after his dad is fed up with Steve’s inability to keep the most menial of jobs—it doesn’t matter that the mall burned down, Steve shouldn’t have been working there in the first place—and swears he’s not supporting him anymore, Steve packs up some clothes, his nail bat, and a stack of letters postmarked from all around the world, and leaves his home for the final time. The first night, terrified and angry and so, so sad, he parks up at the quarry and pulls out a flashlight. He opens a sack full of paper and card stock and picks up the first piece he touches. Through blurry eyes he reads, Dear Stevie.
—————————————
I am still not back, but I missed y’all, and I had most of this sitting in my drafts so I finished it off and here it is! I hope you like it!
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eternalgirlscout · 4 months
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idk if this is just me but rabies is exactly like if something was made up specifically to fuck with people with OCD. you're telling me there's a disease endemic to large portions of the world that can live in my body with no symptoms for years? once symptoms start it is 100% You Die Disease? and one of its major vectors where i live is an extremely common animal with teeth so small it's possible not to even notice it bit you? surely i can get vaccinated though--ah, no, you need a "reason" or they don't give you the shot. the standard of prevention is Vigilance, Checking, and Avoiding Certain Behaviors, things that my brain is very good at doing in a healthy way, for sure. eat my ass.
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marksandrec · 1 month
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Hi all,
I'll keep this short, since I know this isn't a blog people come to for sad times, but I thought I should at least mention what's up.
My stepdad died this past week after a long illness. I don't especially want to get into all of it here, but obviously it's had an effect on posting and will do so for a while.
I don't know when I'll feel like making stuff for the blog; some days I might want to, and others I might not. Right now, I'm not really feeling it.
Thank you for understanding.
-marksandrec
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larsnicklas · 21 days
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[240307 wsh at pit] capitals rookie ivan miroshnichenko scores his first nhl goal. miroshnichenko was washington's first round pick in 2022; he was diagnosed with hodgkin's lymphoma that year and briefly stepped away from hockey to (successfully) receive treatment. he is now in full remission and looks to be a crucial piece of the capitals youth movement for years to come.
+ miro gets some love from the steadfast veterans
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sensitiveheartless · 7 months
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Hey y’all! Just wanted to update that I seem to have caught covid (tested positive earlier today), so progress on all my stuff is gonna be even slower until I’m recovered. I feel like I couldn’t think my way out of a paper bag right now — the brain fog sure is a thing, huh? This is my first time getting it and I have to say, so far it’s a 0/10: Would Not Recommend, I feel like microwaved garbage
Anyway, just thought I’d let you guys know that if I’m even more sporadic about posting, this is why lol
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spielzeugkaiser · 2 years
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[MASTERPOST]
They have a talk! Lambert knows something is up by now, since the calls and text messages from Jaskier get rarer and rarer - and most of the time it's Geralt who writes back; but he probably thinks Jaskier is having a hard time with mental health.
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plural-culture-is · 16 days
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amab alter in an afab body culture is our voice sounding like mine only when were sick or after smoking even after 2 years on T so we might be dying (we have a bad cold and congestion) but at least im gender again
.
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feydfuckernation · 2 months
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Okay I need more Sweeney Todd I'm in shambles about the revival currently. What Sweeney headcanons do you have please share and please elaborate !!! Angst goofy stuff whatever it is I Would Like To Hear
oh anon do i have some headcanons for you
sweeney lost his mother to scarlet fever as a child. his father died from cholera not long after, leaving him an orphan without many prospects. he became an apprentice to a barber on fleet street, who offered him a place to stay and an hourly wage until eventually he too passed away, leaving his home and his fortune to the boy. eventually he had made enough of a name for himself that his business attracted anyone in the central london area, highborn and lowborn.
lucy was initially born into high society and lived quite comfortably for most of her life. her father was a merchant and a sailor who worked for the east india company up until his untimely death at sea in the late 1850s. she then moved to london and lived with her grandmother where she worked as a washerwoman until she met and married benjamin barker.
lucy was always very fond of books. her father had taught her how to read at a young age and ever since she always seemed to have one with her wherever she went. her favourite books were often horror stories and gothic novels such as mary shelley's frankenstein, the vampyre by john william polidori, and various short stories by edgar allen poe.
before they had johanna, lucy was originally pregnant with another child; a daughter she and benjamin planned to name annabel lee, after their favourite poem. unfortunately due to birthing complications she died in the womb and was born stillborn. they buried her on a hill by the sea and had carved on her tomb: for the moon never beams / without bringing me dreams / of the beautiful annabel lee.
both sweeney and mrs. lovett have killed at least one person prior to the events of sweeney todd.
lucy's maiden name is winthrop.
there is a brief honeymoon period that happens between act one and act two where sweeney and mrs. lovett are rather domestic with one another that lasts for a few months or so.
sweeney sometimes mumbles in his sleep about lucy when he's in bed with mrs. lovett. she has heard him on more than one occasion.
mrs. lovett and sweeney have both used lucy as a means of coping in one way or another: for sweeney, he sometimes pretends mrs. lovett is lucy to try and regain some sense of normalcy, while mrs. lovett pretends she herself is lucy as a means of holding onto whatever scraps of affection sweeney has given her.
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galaxywhump · 1 year
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if wren started begging for something during a torture session (a small break bc he feels like he's gonna be sick, or some water) would daniel grant that to him? or would it be situationally dependent?
I know you were probably expecting a straightforward answer, but your ask made a WIP happen, so here it is.
[SV-240 masterlist]
contents: forced relationship whump, slavery whump, creepy/intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, illness, non-graphic emeto, torture, knives, stress position, blindfold, creepy comfort.
~~~
Wren woke up feeling terrible.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary for him, but that morning he felt terrible in a different way. He felt ill; weak and slightly dizzy, shivering despite it not being cold in the house. He didn’t tell Daniel, even though he wanted nothing more than to be given medication, hot tea, and some peace and quiet. No, telling Daniel would also mean him being overly caring and doting, which was the last thing Wren wanted to deal with.
So he didn’t say anything, and then he learned that Daniel was in the mood for some handiwork with his favorite knife.
Shit.
He still didn’t say a word when Daniel closed handcuffs on his wrists and attached them to a chain connected to a hook in the ceiling, forcing him to keep his arms outstretched and stand on his tiptoes. He didn’t say a word when Daniel put a blindfold on his eyes and earplugs in his ears. He just shuddered and gritted his teeth when the knife pierced his arm and was dragged downwards.
Just get through this, he thinks to himself while Daniel makes small, precise cuts around his shoulder blades in a pattern that only makes sense to him and his artistic vision. It’s not the first time.
But it’s the first time when he feels this awful during torture, and the position he’s in doesn’t help. His body is under so much strain, stretched out uncomfortably, he can barely stay upright, his arms hurt, his head hurts, everything hurts, and Daniel’s only adding more pain. He still feels dizzy despite the darkness - or maybe because of it - his face is covered in cold sweat, he starts feeling slightly nauseous. The blindfold is soaked with tears of frustration, he can hear his heartbeat way too clearly, it’s the only sound he hears, he feels horrible, he wants out, he wants this to end, he can’t handle this after all, but that means…
“Stop,” he mumbles weakly, shaking his head and whining when the pain from the cuts seems to intensify now that he’s not fully preoccupied with his illness. Talking with the earplugs in is an unpleasant, almost surreal experience, and he can only hope he’s actually saying something, that his voice isn't too weak. "Please stop."
But this is Daniel, so Wren can imagine him laughing at his begging, making a stupid comment promising that this will be over soon, sweetheart, but this isn't about that. He whimpers when the knife cuts into his back again.
"I'm serious, stop, I-I think I'm gonna be sick, I just need a break."
The knife disappears, and Wren swallows desperately, struggling to take a deep breath.
He flinches when he feels Daniel grip his arm - thankfully an undamaged part of it - and a moment later his wrists are released. Daniel catches him before he can collapse, unable to stay upright after the punishing position.
The earplugs are removed, and the blindfold follows. Wren winces and blinks, and when his eyes get used to something other than darkness, he sees Daniel's face, with worry written all over it.
"Are you still feeling sick?" he asks, and Wren nods.
Daniel wraps Wren's arm around himself to support him and leads him to the bathroom, where the nausea gets overwhelming. Daniel holds his hair back for him, not saying a word for now.
Wren closes his eyes, exhausted, and fuck does everything hurt, but mostly his arms and back now that he's moving again. He's trembling, getting up feels like an impossible task, and he's still crying, from pain and from his awful state, and he's not even mad at himself for it.
"Better now?"
"I think so," he mutters. Daniel lets go of his hair.
"I'll get you some water."
Wren nods, keeping his eyes closed, not daring to move an inch for fear of his body igniting with pain again and the room spinning.
Anxiety creeps up on him; nothing like this has ever happened before, and he doesn’t know what to expect from Daniel.
He comes back and hands Wren a glass of water, then sits down next to him, looking at him with a puzzled expression.
"What happened?" he asks.
"I think I'm sick." Wren stares down at the water, every breath causing his fresh wounds to shift and hurt even more. "I feel like shit, and… you just saw for yourself, I guess." He sighs. “So just get the session over with before it gets worse.”
Daniel firmly shakes his head, frowning.
“No. You need to rest. I’ll take care of your wounds and then you can lie down.” He pets Wren’s hair. “We can continue some other time.”
Wren huffs, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You do realize how fucked up that sounds, right?”
Daniel just chuckles in response. He does know. It changes nothing.
The knife will return in a few days, and yet Wren can’t help but be relieved as Daniel cleans and dresses his wounds, then gives him a shirt and carries him to the living room.
“I can carry you to the bedroom, if you’d like. Unless you prefer the couch.”
“Couch,” Wren mutters. The bed is more comfortable and the bedroom would offer more peace and quiet, provided Daniel leaves him alone, but he wants to stay out of there as much as he can, and the couch is too small for Daniel to lie down next to him.
As much as he hates the couch, he can’t deny that it’s comfortable, and in his exhaustion he practically melts into it. Daniel even brings him a blanket, which Wren curls up under, pulling it up to his neck.
“I’ll bring you some pills,” Daniel says, pressing his palm to Wren’s forehead; he clicks his tongue when he confirms that it’s unnaturally warm, and brushes Wren’s hair away from his face, making him wince. “Do you need anything else, sweetheart?”
“Rest,” Wren sighs, struggling to keep his eyes open. Now that he’s stopped ignoring it, his illness has decided to hit him with everything it’s got.
“Okay. I’ll fetch the pills and you can sleep after you’ve taken them, alright? Try to stay awake.”
“Mhm.”
Daniel leaves, and Wren wraps the blanket tighter around himself, blinking slowly, trying to fight his exhaustion off for a bit longer. Daniel is just as doting as he’d feared he would be, but… aside from his usual sweethearting it feels good to be taken care of, and to be listened to. The wounds still sting, a reminder of the torture he’d gone through and will go through again soon, but he can’t bring himself to care. He waits for his captor and torturer to come back with the medicine, and he has to remind himself not to thank him for this bare minimum of kindness, more than most of what he’s gotten throughout his life.
He wishes it wasn’t like this, moments of kindness and loving care juxtaposed with pain and tears and coercion; he knows how much Daniel enjoys doing this, being the sole source of both suffering and comfort.
He’s aware of so many mechanisms of his captivity, yet he’s powerless to fight them, forced to accept them, and all he can hope for is that all these processes won’t shape him into something else, whatever Daniel, whose smile is unnervingly genuine and fond when he enters the living room, wants him to be.
“Sleep well, sweetheart," Daniel says softly once Wren's washed the pills down with water. "I hope you’ll feel better when you wake up.”
“So you can torture me more?” Wren mutters, closing his eyes. 
Daniel’s lighthearted laughter keeps ringing in his ears long after he's fallen asleep.
~~~
taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood
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thedeafprophet · 2 months
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I kinda have a parallel between the trio with each having been heavily affected by death(s) in the past that left a lingering mark on them to the present (Alex with his parents, Josie and her family), but I'm not sure if I've mentioned Jamie's situation on here....
I think I mentioned at one point, that when they were younger an illness hit the orphanage they were at (an unfortunately Very common thing that happened in the past). A lot of people never recovered, including one of the only friends Jamie had at the place. They linger still with survivors guilt with the experience, despite be quite young at the time and only having fragmented memories of what happened.
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dragonflavoredcake · 1 month
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I get this when I get sick and my family thinks I'm insane. I'm autistic and not sure if that's a component
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not-terezi-pyrope · 4 months
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Covid review
Bad. Very bad
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muzzleroars · 6 months
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Hi!
So, more angst.
What would happen if Michael were to suddenly die?, maybe it was an accident, or just a straight up mystery.
How would the rest of siblings and v2 grieve?
Honestly i can see this scenario being a VERY vivid nightmare Raphael had once, that or it's a common ocurrence for him.
it's definitely something that's there for all of them, the fear that michael will just rapidly decline or be killed with how much he's working a body he no longer knows the limits of. and that anxiety is kept strong because the scares actually do keep happening, with michael suffering bouts of illness due to his overworking or seemingly for no reason at all - the latter are far more frightening, his unexplainable lapses into severe symptoms always carrying with them the fear that this is his body finally shutting down, unable to cope. so their grief teeters, hanging on every rattling breath and the foul ichor that leaks from his mouth, waiting to see if it will be needed, knowing it will be needed but just when. so his death would never exactly come as a surprise, but there is a unique bereavement that comes after watching someone be so ill for so long
gabriel, being the only fallen angel in the bunch, is very open about cursing god for this outcome, that everything he forced onto michael is what ultimately made this happen. his grief is consuming as an angel of treachery, and he is furious that after all of michael's dedication and loyalty to the point of his own detriment, it only earned him this end. this is what the extreme end of a love for god does, this is what happens when one cleaves to him and has no other anchor. he would apologize to michael, telling him how sorry he is that he wasn't there to save him when he was so far from home and taken in by his own desperation for a god who left them. he's sorry. he didn't deserve to rot like this, to end his life in pain and fear and crushing grief and hatred of the self. gabriel should have been there for him, he should have found him when he never came back because he knew only he could regulate michael's unchecked adherence to his faith. but he didn't. he stayed behind while michael tore apart his own body and soul for a god who can no longer hear him, and now he's dead because of it.
raphael wants peace for michael, weeping endlessly for him but just hoping that wherever he is, there is no suffering. that's supposed to be heaven, that's supposed to be what they were born into, but michael never found it. and truthfully, in a way, raphael is glad he finally passed, as ugly and awful as it sounds in his own mind - he watched him suffer through death, day after day, even when he wasn't actively ill or bedridden. his body was consumed by death, he watched as michael rotted away and he saw how he spent so much time in prayer, his endless recitation of psalms of contrition and sickness, his constant readings of job to seek any comfort apart from his decaying body. he implored god over and over and over, to save him and restore him, until he was so exhausted he had no choice but to sit with himself. and raphael tried to heal him, he watched michael attempting to adhere back flesh as it sloughed off, and he knew his anguish was becoming unbearable. so he's finally gone from it. even if there is no life for an angel after death, raphael almost doesn't care. just let michael be at peace, even if it means he's become nothing.
uriel had become especially close with mike in his last days, as they both greatly enjoyed silence in each other's company. in fact, uriel had sought michael out as a source of comfort, still viewing him very much as a protective big brother that kept his anxiety at bay because that had always been michael's job. and that trust meant more than michael could express, so happy he could continue to give uriel that same sense of security despite his appearance now and he greatly appreciated his company every time he sat with him in the garden. so for uriel, that comfort goes with michael. he can't leave his body, doesn't want to walk away and know that he won't see him again, so he stays beside him almost stubbornly. he cries sporadically, but often just sits by his side in silence until they have to forcefully take him away so michael can be buried in the garden he so loved. the garden they spent all that time in together. and uriel follows him out there, now just keeping by his grave. he talks to him more than he probably does anyone else for awhile, occasionally asking him for a sign that he's still listening...but it never really comes.
v2, like gabriel, reacts outwardly with a lot of anger though its reasons differ - how could michael come and love it right at the end of his life, and how could it let him? the grief is so different for v2, only ever knowing him sick with all his venerated images presenting an abstract it never met. it knew its attachment was foolish, it knew it should have shoved him off when things started to get too personal, but it was in awe of what he had gone through and survived, finding a beauty in him and a rare connection it failed to make with so many others. it wanted to save him, it told him it would, and michael began to say that he believed it. god had answered his prayers. but he was wrong, he died thinking v2 could do anything for him. and so that anger is at first misdirected at michael, demanding to know why he gave up, why he fought so hard and had promised v2 that he would live as long as it was willing to find a cure. he quit on it and left it behind even though v2 had told him over and over each time he got sick that he scared the shit out of it. didn't that mean anything to him? didn't he care? but soon it all collapses inward, v2 apologizing for letting him down, for blaming him for his own death when it saw how hard he fought with his own body every day. he had even told it how much this body wanted to die. but v2 is stuck with how it failed him like it had failed humanity. it can only really cope by fully cultivating the samples it took from him, all his plants and fungi and insects, into the same little ecosystem he once had. it keeps michael alive in some way to it, with the garden and all its generations started from those that had once lived with him. it also keeps the icon he gave it to call on him if it ever needed his help, but it hasn't spoken to it since - he never failed to come when it asked, and it doesn't ever want him to.
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sansofhumor · 10 months
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I was sick again last night, and, like always, had skelebro thoughts. This is getting pavlovian lol.
CW: illness, magic vomit, and dissociation oh and uhhh weirdess about eating. It's not an ED, but figured I should warn for similar themes possibly.
Otherwise, it's just a stream of consciousness ficlet... don't mind the tense changes.
Papyrus wasn't sleeping so it would be inaccurate to say he'd been woken up by the noises in the bathroom down the hall. As it was, he stopped staring at his ceiling and blinked himself back, taking in his room: the action figures, his desktop, his bookshelf, his closet.
Color was easy. A red book cover, the cape on Action Guy, the red border of flame on his carpet. The red finish on his car bed.
Texture came next. The hard sides of his computer, the hard wood of his door, the hard bones of his attack box.
He always skipped taste and smell—he's a skeleton, and he kept his room much too clean for that.
Hearing. The buzz of electricity humming through the house. The muffled stumbling in the bathroom.
He sighs and swings his legs out of his bed mentally resets his counter back to zero. He leaves his room and skips the bathroom, taking the stairs to the kitchen instead. He grabs a glass of water and a new packet of tasteless little crackers even though Sans is bound to have a half a dozen open packets leaving crumbs all over his room. On the way back he grabs a spare blanket.
"Aw geeze, did I wake you?" Sans asks, in between shallow breaths. He's sitting on the tile, back to the shower. The little under sink cabinet is open like he'd grabbed it for leverage.
"I wasn't sleeping." Sans winces, and Papyrus can tell mostly from experience that it's more about Papyrus not sleeping than his volume.
Papyrus puts the glass and crackers on the sink counter and drapes the blanket over Sans' shoulders. He looks smaller under the blanket.
"You don't gotta stay," his brother says, like he says everytime. If Papyrus had eyes he would roll them out of his head. Sometimes he thinks they're backwards, the both of them. Sans hates when Papyrus gets sick, can barely stick around to get him something to drink. Papyrus supposes that's what he gets for getting sick so much less now.
"You'll feel better, if you drink the water," he says instead of anything else. It's not really a lie, even if Sans will definitely feel worse at first. His brother heaves a great sigh and reaches for the water, then takes small, hesitant sips. Papyrus keeps his hand on Sans' back.
"You can say it," Sans says, after taking the world's smallest amount of liquid. Even that much makes him wince as his body absorbs it.
"I told you so," Papyrus says, cheerfully. It's their running joke. I told you not to go eating at Grillby's. I warned you about the grease, bro! Sans gets to play his part so much less often now, but sometimes Undyne has a new recipe to try that Papyrus knows is going to upset the delicate nature of his skeletal magic matrix and he eats it anyways because Undyne is a very good friend and also, Papyrus is much better with his diet so sometimes it only hurts a little.
He guesses Sans is the same, he just has more friends.
Sans' eye lights have fuzzed out, a gaussian blur hazing their normally pointed stare. He's made of bone, so he can't quite go pale, but the sticky, cold sweat slime of illness beads up enough Papyrus can tell he's not doing as well as he was three seconds ago.
Papyrus helps prop him up, close enough Sans can lean over the toilet even with his wobbly frame. Papyrus doubts Sans drank enough water to help at this part, so he rubs small circles against Sans' spine and when his brother dry heaves with a miserable little sound Papyrus pats his back like he's trying to get the last bit of sauce out of a can.
They're skeletons, so they absorb magic very easily when they eat. But they're also skeletons, so there are some things they can't process like other monsters. Papyrus isn't sure why or what process is different. He just knows that heavy, rich foods make him and his brother ill. And non magic food is worse. Maybe it's too much and too little magic intent, maybe they were just made wrong.
Sans had kept a little notebook, when they were younger, of all the things that made Papyrus ill after eating. It'd grated on Sans, who would go out of his way to find something new and exciting and fun to eat for once, and have Papyrus squalling afterwards in a disconnected and pained haze. Sans didn't like keeping him on a bland low-magic diet. Sometimes they didn't have the opportunity to be picky about their foods anyways.
Sans never had been, and maybe, Papyrus thinks, that's a habit his brother can't break now that they're grown and whatever delicateness Papyrus has had to build diet around has caught up to him. If Sans weren't so used to eating whatever Papyrus couldn't when they were kids would he be better at sticking to the bland or overcooked low magic foods he needed?
Papyrus uses a corner of the blanket to mop up the slime from Sans' brow and leans him back. He grabs the water again when he sees nothing had made it into the toilet and makes Sans drink more than a shaky kitten's sip.
Sans mumbles something a little too quiet for Papyrus to hear—by design, because Sans' eye lights are more focused now, and the slime is drying on it's own. That doesn't really matter, Papyrus has known his brother for long enough he can identify the self-deprecating tone merely from counting how many beats it's been since he opened the bathroom door.
He wishes Sans would take better care of himself. But Papyrus is always going to be there, so it's okay that Sans doesn't, sometimes. Papyrus is always proud of himself, or tries to be, but in these moments it's always easier. He may be loud, and stubborn, and too optimistic for his own good, but that's exactly why he can help Sans. He doesn't ever startle his brother, because he's loud. He never let's Sans get away with crawling into a metaphorical hole because Papyrus will out stubborn him. And he'll keep doing it, repeating this bittersweet, backwards nostalgic cycle because he's optimistic enough to think it helps.
He's hopeful that one day Sans'll get better, either at remembering his own limits and needs or magically recovering from—well. Everything. But it doesn't matter if he ever does, really.
Papyrus can feel it under his hand before Sans even makes a noise, so he has his brother leaned over the toilet again when he heaves suddenly. This time refuse magic hits the bowl with a splash and Sans makes that startled noise which means it decided to expel itself in every inconvenient way.
Papyrus uses his advantageously long arms to grab a hand towel and waits until Sans' shoulders are shaking less, before pulling him back up a bit.
"Gross," Sans says, and Papyrus has to agree, because somehow the greenish mix of Sans' magic has found its way through his nasal holes, and his eyes. Papyrus offers the towel and Sans takes it, wiping roughly at the magic splattered on him.
Papyrus waits to see if another fit will crash into his brother's frame. Sans just breathes. At some point Papyrus realizes Sans' breath has fallen into a deep and regular pattern, and Papyrus lets his relief relax his tense posture.
Sometimes these fits can take hours to resolve, all night even, into the artifical light of morning. Those times are the worst, because Papyrus has to leave for the sentry job and he knows Sans just crawls into the shower and runs the tap until he either gets enough energy to make it back to his bed or Papyrus finds him sleeping, waterlogged, in the tub.
Papyrus cleans Sans' face with a new towel, catching the many spots Sans missed. He wraps Sans up in the blanket and lifts him up in his arms. It recalls a vaguely mirrored memory in him, a time when Sans used to be taller than him and would swaddle him in the closest thing to a baby blanket he could find.
Papyrus deposits Sans in his room, giving into the urge to tidy just enough that the mattress actually looks like a mattress and not a junk yard. He shuts the door behind him, goes back to the bathroom and when he blinks again the bathroom is blindingly clean and the stink of bleach is almost over powering. He starts to count—white tiles, white light, white towels, black shadows in the corners like ink staining paper—realizes he's better off somewhere he hadn't just scoured clean to within an inch of it's life, and steps out of the bathroom, into the hall, and back into his room.
He's definitely not sleeping.
Sans can sleep well enough for the both of them.
Papyrus wakes up his computer and opens the undernet, typing slowly into the search engine. He finds a pencil from somewhere and a piece of paper. He resolves to, at some point, get a notebook.
He finds a little mommy-cooking blog that hasn't been updated in awhile, with simple recipes. He taps the pencil lightly against the paper as he scrolls through and reads and writes.
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