#me almost too dizzy to stand and with come-and-go nausea: haha yeah why

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

my tummny fuckin. HURT

#hush n shush wifi #not brainrot #i'd love for yall to send me some pain comfort or just nice things tho #because ueuguehghhh i don't feel very good #my wonderful lovely amazing friends: dude you ok? #me almost too dizzy to stand and with come-and-go nausea: haha yeah why #i should probably draw more if i can..... #if i don't pass out first #anyways send foul legacy stuff i need it right now #the desire to be snuggled by big fluffey moth.......... #wifi demands talk

[whumpmatsus]

Why hello there new blog. 👀 I shall watch with interest. Would it be fine to ask for Karamatsu with a bad stomachache/similar?

hehe, I hope you enjoy watching!

and YES of course! God I'm such a Karamatsu girl 😩

We've got some of everything here, I think? Oops All Matsus! XD ... but the Choukeimatsu is definitely strong in this one haha

enjoooooy! <3

-

It’s kind of a given that in a house with six brothers in close quarters, anything one of them catches is going to end up running its way through all of them.

It’s… less of a given that Karamatsu is going to be the one who recovers last.

Most of the time he’s the first one to push through it, seemingly via sheer power of will because he wants to take care of the others. Or, at least, he’s not usually the one still down for the count when everyone else is on the mend.

This time around, he’s been curled up on the couch since all of them woke up this morning. They’re all feeling fine, while he’s apparently still feeling like crap.

He’s set himself up with a wastebasket nearby and he’s refused everything his brothers have tried to shove down his throat ― water, food, even medicine is turned away. They all might think he’s just being stubborn if not for the fact that he’s so clearly still sick. Regardless, they’ve stopped trying to offer since they know he isn’t going to take any of it.

As far as Karamatsu himself is concerned, if whatever sickness he’s got is going to kill him, he wishes it would hurry up and do so already. He doesn’t know how much more he can take. There’s an uncomfortable, cramping heat in his belly that’s constantly threatening to flip into something much worse. He’s been vomiting for a couple days now, on and off, like the rest of his brothers. Unlike them, however, it hasn’t gotten much better for him.

He tries so hard to be cool and unbothered. This is starting to worry him, though. How come everyone else is back to normal while he continues to struggle not to puke at the mere thought of plain rice?

For as much as Totty claims to hate germs, the youngest has been camping out next to the couch most of the morning, playing on his phone. It affords Karamatsu a view of the games Totty’s playing and the videos he’s watching; distractions as he tries to keep himself from tossing what little there is left to toss in his stomach. He isn’t sure whether or not Totty planned it that way, just that he’s grateful for something else to focus on other than the unbearable nausea.

“Heyyyy, Karamatsu-nii-san,” he suddenly speaks up, holding the phone closer to his miserable older brother’s line of sight. “What do you think of this pretty girl? Is her dress the right color for winter? It’s cute, but, I don’t know… I think maybe she would have looked better in blue…”

Now, Karamatsu isn’t sure what it is about the video clip Totty is showing him. It might be the bright lights in the background, or it might be the twirling motions the woman on the screen is making. Or, quite frankly, it might be nothing at all, since he feels so horrible.

But only a few seconds after he squints at the video clip, his stomach rebels against something. Although he wants to reply to his dearest younger brother, the second he parts his lips to give a clever retort, he feels his stomach clench. Saliva pools in his mouth, and he quickly raises a hand up to his face.

He swallows once. Twice. Three times. He tries to take a breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth like Choromatsu taught him. Nothing helps, because he ends up gagging anyway.

Immediately Totty yelps and launches himself away from the sofa. All the noise, particularly Karamatsu’s heaving, catches the attention of the rest of the sextuplets. Soon enough, someone has hurried over to hold the wastebasket beneath him, and someone else is using what feels like all their strength to help prop him over it so he doesn’t miss.

A brief glance up reveals that the one holding him is Jyushimatsu ― of course, he’s the most coordinated of them all ― and Choromatsu is playing trashcan jockey. Karamatsu’s head swims again, and that small motion is all that’s needed for his stomach to protest again. He retches a few times before whatever is left, which can’t be much at this point, splatters into the can.

“Totty!” he can hear Choromatsu scolding the youngest. “W-what the hell was that for?!”

“What was what for?!” Totty retorts. “I was trying to cheer him up! It’s not my fault!”

Ichimatsu snickers from his spot in the corner. “Che, so you made Shittymastu sick by trying to help. Sounds about right for you.”

“Excuse me?! You take that back or I’ll post that video of you being a drunk asshole online so everyone can laugh at my big, dumb brother!”

“HEY!” It’s Osomatsu who quiets the entire room with one sharp word. He’s knelt next to the couch, one hand trying to keep Karamatsu’s hair out of his face. “Would you guys all shut the fuck up? For God’s sakes, let the poor bastard puke in peace! The last thing he needs is to hear you douches arguing while he’s giving the trashcan a new coat of paint!”

For his part, Karamatsu appreciates his older brother standing up for him when he’s unable to do so himself. It’s just a little hard to convey that when his body is trying to bring up everything he’s eaten ever in his life.

It hurts, too. The sensation in his stomach is tight now, painful like there’s a knife stuck in his middle. Every gag makes a stabbing, all-over pain spiderweb through his whole body. As if he’s made of porcelain and something is repeatedly making cracks.

Finally he thinks it should be over, because nothing else is coming up. He shudders and heaves and it doesn’t produce anything other than an uncomfortable ache in his throat. Honesty, his entire body is aching now.

He lets out a few ragged breaths before slumping back onto the sofa, predictably pulled into a more-careful-than-usual Jyushimatsu hug. “It’s okay, Karamatsu-nii-san! I’ve got you!!”

“Aaah.” Karamatsu lifts his hand and places it, shaking, on his little brother’s head to praise him for a job well done. “Jyushimatsu… I’ll leave it to you… to tell my Karamatsu girls… I loved them…”

He hears Ichimatsu scoff. “You should be more worried that you were puking without puking than your nonexistent fangirls, you dumbass.”

“Yeah, that was weird,” Osomatsu agrees. “You heard that too, Ichimatsu?”

“Mhm. It almost made me want to hurl again.”

“Yeah… he should be better by now. I mean, we’re all fine. And he hasn’t been eating, so it’s not like there’s anything left in there. What’s his stupid body trying to throw up? His Goddamn kidneys?”

Karamatsu hears Choromatsu groan. “Oh, my God, you guys are disgusting!” When Karamatsu looks up, the third eldest is hovering over him with a concerned expression. “Ah… they… might be right, though. Karamatsu-nii-san… you’re just as sick as we all were at the beginning of this. It doesn’t seem like you’ve improved like we have. How… do you feel now? Any better since you threw up?”

He tries to laugh. It comes out sounding more like a sob, though. “N… no…” It feels like even too deep a breath will tip the scale on his nausea and cause another avalanche. “I’m… I’m dizzy… it still hurts.”

“A-ah, gosh…” Choromatsu’s hand sets lightly against Karamatsu’s cheek, then neck, and if his face is any indicator, he doesn’t like what he feels. “You’ve… still got a fever. And you’re sweating and lightheaded and… still throwing up. Shit.”

He moves his hand to gently card through his big brother’s hair as if trying to reassure him. “Karamatsu-nii-san… d-do you think you could make it to the doctor? If we helped you?”

That’s not an idea he enjoys entertaining. Having to get up off the couch, bundle up in a coat, ride the train… it sounds so exhausting. He’s already tired. But… if Choromatsu is even bringing it up, he must think it’s a better idea than Karamatsu continuing to try and recover on the couch.

He manages a nod. “Sure… sure, if you help me.”

“Great.” Choromatsu straightens up and heads for the door. “I’ll go call the office and see if they can get you an appointment today. If they can, I’ll go with you, and…” He surveys the rest of the room. “… I’d prefer at least onemore person go with us, just in case.”

“Yeah, I’ll go, no problem.” The eldest’s voice is one Karamatsu didn’t expect to hear, though maybe he should have. Osomatsu is still lingering on the floor next to him, taking the spot where Totty was, and, now that Karamatsu thinks about it, he can feel his older brother gently rubbing his shoulder. “… Do you think maybe we should try to force him to drink something, too? You can’t survive without water, right?”

Choromatsu sighs; not necessarily because it’s one more thing to add to the list, but it sounds like he’s just worried. He probably doesn’t want to force one of his brothers to do anything ― especially one of his big brothers, and especially when said big brother is already so sick. “I mean… yeah, it’s not good that he hasn’t had anything to drink today, and not much in the last few days. Throwing up so much is probably making him dehydrated… which, stupidly enough, can make him throw up more.”

Osomatsu hums in thought and gives Karamatsu’s shoulder a small squeeze to get his attention. “Hey, Karamatsu. Do you think you could handle some tea?”

“Really weak tea,” Choromatsu hurries to clarify. “You’re not supposed to drink anything too intense after throwing up.”

Karamatsu shuts his eyes in a desperate bid to avoid the worried, pleading faces of his brothers looking back at him. Just thinking about anything going into his body and sliding down his throat right now makes his stomach swirl viciously.

He feels Jyushimatsu hug him a little tighter, which doesn’t help matters. “Aww, please, Karamatsu-nii-san! You can drink some tea for your little brother, right? Riiiiight?”

A groan is what he gets in response, though the giggling suggests he isn’t too broken up about it.

His hair is brushed back, and stroked through a few times. “Well,” Osomatsu says softly, “how about for your big brother, then?”

After a moment of thought, Karamatsu lets out a whimper, leaning his head closer that way in an obvious attempt for more affection. “I… suppose I do only have one older brother, after all…”

He hears Choromatsu chuckle by the door. “Good, good. I’ll make some, then. We’ll try not to make you drink too much… and… I’ll call the doctor while I boil water for it. Hopefully they can fit you in. In the meantime, just, um… try to rest, alright?”

At the very least, he doesn’t have to tell Karamatsu twice. The second eldest relaxes, keeping his eyes shut. He hears Osomatsu quietly urge Jyushimatsu to switch positions, and he scoots himself up onto the couch. Somehow he manages to pull Karamatsu into his lap, letting his younger brother curl up against his stomach.

“Hey, there. It’s okay. Big brother’s gotcha, Kara.” A careful touch runs up and down Karamatsu’s back, bringing the slightest sense of relief. “Get some sleep.”

Then Osomatsu pauses, and with a laugh he adds, “Just… warn me if you’re gonna puke again, okay?”

#Osomatsu san #whump #Karamatsu #vomiting #fever #Osomatsu #Choromatsu #Ichimatsu #Jyushimatsu #Totty #aaaaaaaa tHEY'RE ALL TRYING sort of #one single effort was collectively made XD

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Terror in the Night

Prompts: Hello question/prompt for your among us imposter syndrome story: (if they sleep) black having a nightmare about something bad happening to purple and going to check on them in the middle of sleep cycle. Hurt/comfort cuddles follow. Can be applied to either the imposter syndrome story or the younger!purple ones. Either way. I love it. (Hope you are having a good time zone!) - anon

I have a request for your among us stories— we’ve seen Black comfort Purple, but does Purple ever comfort Black? Maybe Black has a bad dream, or another imposter wants to see what’s so special about this little human, or something else happens to one of them and Purple plays the role of comforter? Idk it popped in my head and I figured I ask, haha. - anon

moar somft coming up

Read on Ao3 Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: nightmares, implied/referenced child abuse, death but it's in the nightmare and isn't permanent

Pairings: y'all know the drill for these babes, it is platonic all the way down

Word Count: 2408

Fear has such a distinctive smell.

When the crew of the Skeld was still here, the walls of the ship used to reek of fear, embedded into the rivets, wafting down the corridors. A more sadistic Impostor would call it intoxicating, or even an aphrodisiac. It tapered off, naturally, now that it’s just Black and little Purple.

At least until Black is sitting in the captain’s chair one night cycle and their maw suddenly begins to water.

They’re out of the chair before they know it, hustling down the corridors, legs pumping, maw on the verge of a snarl. Images flash through their mind, the crew somehow found a way to survive, Purple is hurt, Purple is dying—

They burst around the corner and the door to Purple’s quarters opens automatically. They dash inside, maw agape, a roar at the back of their throat only to see a tiny huddle under a mass of blankets, trembling and shivering and reeking of fear.

Oh, no…

Black takes a few deep breaths. No use terrifying the poor little thing any more than they already are, no use acting like anything could hurt them right now. Not with Black here. They let the helmet go, and after a moment, let the suit go too.

Be soft. Be gentle. Be kind. Don’t hurt them.

“Purple,” they call quietly, slowly making their way across the room, “Purple, baby, can you hear me?”

The mound is silent, still trembling.

“Purple,” they try again, now at their bedside, “baby, are you in there? It’s just me, it’s just Black, baby, I won’t hurt you.”

Slowly, so slowly, Black begins to lift the blankets off the bed. Layer by layer, peeling them back, never far, never all the way off. Just enough to peer inside and see a shaking little Purple with their eyes squeezed shut.

“Baby,” they murmur, “baby, it’s okay, open your eyes for me.”

Purple twitches. Their hands ball up and open again in the fabric surrounding them. They twitch again and another wave of fear rolls off them.

“Oh, Purple,” Black whispers, “are you still asleep, baby?”

The twitch that follows is enough of an answer. Black bites back a curse and rests their weight on the edge of the bed, carefully widening the hole in the blankets they’ve made. They take a deep breath and reach in, gently shaking Purple’s shoulder.

“Baby,” they whisper, “Purple, baby, wake up. Wake up, baby, come on…”

Purple doesn’t move. Black tries again.

“Purple? Purple, wake up, wake up!”

Nothing.

They start to shake harder, shoving blankets out of the way.

“Purple? Purple!”

Nothing.

Purple’s head begins to rock back and forth as Black shakes them harder.

“Purple!”

Snap!

Black’s eyes widen in horror as Purple’s neck snaps in two. They drop the corpse from their hands and stagger back, unable to breathe.

Purple’s head lies there, twisted at the most unnatural angle. Their mouth is open in a soundless cry. And their eyes...

Their eyes stare directly at Black.

Because what else could an Impostor do but kill?

Black bolts upright, chest heaving, maw flopped open and whining. They place a hand against the steel wall, the cold shocking their nerves as they cup their helmet in their arm. Nausea threatens the back of their throat and they dry heave, thankfully not actually bringing anything up as they swing their legs out. They sit there, on the edge of the bed, trying frantically to calm down.

Purple is safe. Purple is safe. Purple is safe.

They groan, scrubbing their hands over the helmet. Their maw finally starts to calm down, tongue losing the barbed point as they take deep breaths.

“Fuck.”

Their hands shake as they begin to stagger to the bathroom for a glass of water. The sudden change in position has them disoriented, sending them crashing into one wall after the other. They’re dizzy. Why are they so dizzy? Why don’t they remember how to do this?

The glass shakes in their hands, almost sloshing the water over the edge as they bring it to their lips, only remembering just in time to get the helmet out of the way. Their maw growls in protest as the cold burns down their throat but it soothes some of the churning.

The glass thuds back down onto the counter as they bend over the sink, still breathing heavily. They look up to the mirror and see bruised-bitten lips, sallow cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes.

Purple’s dead eyes stare at them—

Black flinches away from the mirror, fist tightening in their hair and pulling. No. No. It’s not real. Purple is fine.

They breathe in and the scent of fear hits their nose.

They freeze.

Slowly breathe in again.

It’s unmistakable now.

Black’s throat tightens as they slowly, slowly back away from the mirror and sit on the bed. They school their face into an inscrutable expression and place their hands on their knees. They breathe in and out.

The fear only grows.

Their hands twitch toward the door and they clench them into fists.

It’s getting stronger.

The memory of the snap keeps them rooted to the bed.

It’s still getting stronger.

Dead eyes. Because what else could an Impostor do but kill?

“B-Black?”

Black is moving. Black is up and out the door and standing in front of Purple’s quarters. The door slides open slowly and they brace themselves, preparing for the worst—

“Black,” Purple mumbles, blanket clutched over their face, “Black, I—I want Black—“

Black swallows. “Baby?”

Purple slowly lowers the blanket, peering out at Black. Their eyes…

“Black,” they manage around the fabric, reaching out one little hand, “Black, I—I’m sorry, I got scared—“

“It’s okay.” Black swallows. Get it together. “It’s okay, baby, I’m here now.”

“Can—can I have a hug?”

“Yeah, sure, baby, can I—let me come over?”

Purple puts the blanket down and opens their arms, reaching out for Black as they stumble across the room. They pause just out of Purple’s reach, shaking their arms to get into the rest of their human form. Purple lets out a quiet noise as their wrap their arms around Black’s chest, burying their face in the soft shirt.

“Hey, hey, baby,” Black murmurs, clumsily patting their head, “it’s okay, we’re okay, you—you’re safe.”

Purple’s little hands ball up in Black’s shirt, tugging as they try and lie back down. Black just manages to catch themselves on the wall behind them.

“Hold on, baby, you’re gonna pull me over.”

Purple pouts, tugging insistently at their shirt.

“Do you want me to lie down with you?” Another tug. “Words if you can, baby, I want to make sure I don’t hurt you.”

“Will you come lie down, please?”

“Sure, baby, shift over.”

Purple scoots, barely giving Black enough time to calm down before they’re clinging to their arm and trying to scoot into their chest.

“Hey, hey,” they chuckle, turning to lie on their side and open their arms, “there. Come on, warmth.”

Soon, they have a little Purple buried in their chest and stomach, a cold little nose pressed into the crook of their neck, soft warm breaths puffing over their shoulder. Black hums, their maw opening just enough to nibble gently at Purple’s shirt. Purple sighs happily, burying a little closer.

“You’re really warm.”

“Are you cold? Do you need more blankets?”

Purple shakes their head, pushing closer. “Have you.”

Because what else can an Impostor do—

“Black? Black?”

Black blinks and immediately bites back a curse. Their grip must’ve tightened on Purple. They loosen it as quickly as they can and let Purple pull away from them.

“Did…did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, baby,” Black promises, fighting the urge to reach out and cup their little face, “no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Purple rubs their shoulder absentmindedly. “You didn’t.”

Doubt. Black sighs, rubbing their eyes. When they lower their hand again, Purple stares at them with a furrow in their brows.

“You don’t look good.”

Black huffs a laugh. “I don’t feel that good either.”

“What’s wrong?”

Oh, is that all? “I, uh, had a nightmare.”

Purple’s little eyes widen so large Black can see the whites. “You have nightmares too?”

Black’s breath catches for an entirely different reason. “Yeah, baby, everybody has nightmares, it’s okay.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.” Unable to resist the urge any longer, Black reaches out and gently strokes a thumb over Purple’s cheek, drawing forth a soft noise when the poor thing starts to sniffle. “Oh, hey, hey, c’mere, it’s okay, shh, shh…”

Purple crawls back into their arms, wrapping them tightly around Black’s neck as Black turns them over, laying Purple out across their front and tangling one hand in their hair, rubbing their back with the other.

“It’s okay, baby, we’re both okay now,” they coo, wrapping themselves around Purple, “you’re okay, baby, I’ve got you, we’re just gonna lie right here.”

“You—you were scared too?”

“Yeah, baby, I was scared, but that’s okay, everybody gets scared.”

Purple just sobs and clings to them tighter.

“Oh, shh, shh, baby, it’s okay, I’m not scared anymore, I’ve got you here with me, yeah? You keep me safe, I keep you safe, right? It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” Black keeps crooning to the little thing, using a few tendrils to carefully coax the blankets back up over their shoulders, tucking them snugly under the covers. “There, here we go, see? Nice and safe.”

Purple sniffles before reaching out and tugging one of the blankets a little closer around their heads. Black chuckles at the determined little face before Purple cautiously reaches toward their face. They take Purple’s hand in theirs and carefully place it on their cheek.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

“I’m sorry you were scared.”

“Oh, it’s okay, baby, it isn’t your fault.” Black smiles and strokes Purple’s hand with their thumb. “You’re safe, baby, that’s what matters.”

Purple sniffles again.

“Hold on a second.” Black coaxes them back down to their side and shuffles back a few of the covers. “Watch this.”

They hear and feel Purple’s delighted gasp as they flick out a tendril to snag the tissue box from inside the bathroom. They reel it back in and take one tissue out, holding it gently to Purple’s nose.

“Blow, baby.”

Purple listens, their eyes squeeze shut as an adorable little honk rings in the room. They dispose of the tissues and wipe the last of the tears from Purple’s cheeks.

“There,” Black murmurs, “all better now.”

“That was so cool! How did you do that?”

“Remember my arms, baby?”

“Your tentacles!”

Black chuckles. “I can control them, make them stretch if I want to.”

“Wait,” Purple says, their eyes going wide again, “does that mean you can be as big as you want to be?”

“Well—“

“Could you eat the whole ship?”

Black’s heart stutters, reassurances springing to the tip of their tongue that no, they would never, Purple doesn’t need to worry, until they spot the slight pout to Purple’s lower lip and the expression of their face.

“…Purple?”

“Could you?” And yes, that is the voice of an eager child as Purple scoots a little closer to their face. “Could you eat the whole ship?”

“Well,” Black chuckles, wrapping their arms around the little one again, “I don’t think I can get that big.”

At Purple’s disappointed pout, they chuckle again.

“And even if I could, I don’t think I’d want to. Have you seen what this ship is made out of?” They make a disgusted expression and stick their tongue out a little. “I don’t want to eat that! It would taste awful.”

Purple giggles. “You don’t want to eat metal and reactor parts?”

“No!”

Purple giggles again.

“And then where would you stay?” Black tucks a strand of hair behind their ear. “I don’t want to eat your home.”

Purple stills, looking down at Black with a strange expression. Shit, this—this is probably the last place Purple wants to call home. A lump forms in the back of their throat.

“This isn’t my home,” Purple mumbles.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry.”

“You’re my home.”

Black’s chest stutters to a glorious pause.

Oh.

Oh.

Purple’s hands land on their stunned face again, squishing their cheeks gently. Black closes their eyes, overwhelmed by the weight. They hear Purple let out a soft noise and oh, it’s their turn to cry.

“B-black? Black, I’m sorry, I—“

“No,” Black gasps out, tightening their grip on Purple as much as they dare, “no, you don’t—you don’t need to be sorry, Purple, they’re—I’m—I’m—“

Purple’s quiet for a moment, then…

“Happy tears?”

“Yes, baby—happy—happy tears.”

And they have an armful of Purple, cuddled right up to their chest where their arms can wrap as tightly around them as they want, their maw can nibble protectively at their shirt, and their tears can dry in their hair. Purple hums sleepily, letting out a squeaky little yawn. The covers tug up snugly around them as Black buries their face in Purple’s hair.

“Can we go back to sleep now?”

“Sure, baby,” Black whispers, “whatever you want.”

“Can we stay under the covers?”

“Of course, baby, why wouldn’t we?”

Purple shrugs. “Everybody knows monsters can’t get you when you’re under your covers.”

Black chuckles wetly, tucking Purple’s head under their chin and pulling the blankets into position. “Then here we stay.”

Yes, as they drift off to sleep, safe and warm, wrapped in each other’s arms, here they stay.

#among us #dragonbabbles #fic

[babybunnyboy1]

Part 12

Apparently that new thing they were going to do was join the giant group of Pillagers that would once raise their axes and crossbows to hunt and kill her own village and herself. Kelly nervously sat there, staring at a plate of steak and rabbit stew nervously, wondering if they would dare poison her.

She sat right next to Donavan, who had insisted that herself and Bunny were guests of honor for the next few days, until she was healed enough for long distance travel. Kelly had never felt so queasy in her entire life. Each word out of Donavan’s ears seemed to rock Kelly to her core, almost forcing nervous vomit up her already shallow breathing throat, or was that just nausea from not having eaten in over a day?

Kelly almost didn’t dare take a single bite of food, but seeing Bunny eat plate after plate of steak. Of course, Bunny was ignoring the absolutely delicious looking rabbit stew. Completely and totally, Bunny’s eyes never once met with the rabbit stew. Kelly knew he had a strong dislike for the stuff, having tamed multiple rabbits of his own he began to dislike it. 

This had made her less nervous. Sure, this was the very same man who had shot her, though it was her fault, was it not? Bunny thought she was a Skeleton, out to kill Bunny so he shot first in hopes of monster murder. Although Bunny never did blame her for the incident, and instead blamed himself in a manner that made it seem like he didn’t care. 

She guessed that it really was her fault. She was being out so early in the morning when Skeletons and Zombies could still appear out from behind trees. It was her fault, therefore she shouldn’t blame Bunny, and instead start trying to see him as the only ally she had in this institution built for her people’s deaths.

It was her fault for getting shot. 

It was not Bunny’s fault for shooting her. 

She sighed as she picked up her fork finally, Donavan’s eyes watching her from the corner. A forkful of steak meat entered her mouth, a strange feeling really. She’d hardly been able to afford steak. She’s only if ever eaten beet stew or bread with her brother and mother. 

Steak and other meats were reserved for those who could afford it from butchers, and was considered a luxury. But when she looked around, the bit of steak still in her mouth, every plate she saw had some sort of meat on it. 

She swallowed thickly, reaching forward to a bottle of water and taking a sip. Donavan leaned forward during this moment, causing her moments to pause after she separated her lips from the bottle. “Uhm…” 

“How are you healing?” He asked her, his frown small and his eyes scanning her shoulder and hands. She had to pick up the small bottle with both hands, and no matter how she held the water bottle in her hands they shook. Not from fear, but rather a clumsy looseness. No matter how hard she held the bottle, it wasn’t tight enough to be considered safely held. She started to worry herself with the grip. Is she about to drop it? 

She sighs as she puts it down, pulling both arms close to her as she cradled her hurt one. “The potion worked… Thankfully..” She replied, of course she hesitated. 

“Not well enough, I’m afraid..” Donavan said, sighing as he watched her. “You would have had a better time actually going to the witch’s camp. They are better than brewing potions than we Pillagers are. Even so, I’m happy you got here when you did. Any less and well- it could have been worse than it is now…” 

Kelly nods, and Bunny puts down his bottle of water. “Where’s the beer?” 

He asks, sighing as he stood. Donavan shook his head in annoyance. “It isn’t even midday yet, Player, and you already want to drink?” 

“Yeah. I happen to like drinking.” 

Kelly found herself becoming annoyed with Bunny’s words, sighing as she used her good arm to start feeding herself. Her wound shot throughout the limb, it was difficult to move. Bunny had walked away by now, and most of the other men were also starting to leave. 

“Kelly?” Donavan asked, frowning. 

“Uh…” 

“Is your name Kelly?” He asks again, his voice calm and smooth. It sounded deep and gentle, like the night sky. 

She found herself blushing lightly out of embarrassment. “Yes… My name is Kelly..” She looked away. Most of the men were leaving, others were looking at papers posted up to see their jobs for the ongoing day. 

“Is your mother’s name Lillian, perchance?” He asked, scooting closer as if he were hearing an interesting story that had yet to be uttered from Kelly’s lips. 

She became hostile, glaring as she stood up abruptly. Donavan stood up out of pure instinct, shocked at the hateful glare. “How did you know that?! Do you have spies in my village?! Who are the traitors?” She shouted, her head dizzy with the sudden action. She nearly fell, if Donavan’s hand hadn’t caught her gently around her back, slowly leading her body down to rest back in her seat. 

“I know because of a story my dad told me when I was younger..” He murmured, slowly pulling his seat closer to hers. They were alone now, and he sat next to her, bending down so they were at the same level. Kelly found herself hating how he towered over her despite both sitting down. “He had a friend when he was my age, I was told he was a good man, who left years ago to escape an arranged marriage and be with a woman he loved, who was named Lillian.”

Kelly scoffed. “Yeah, next thing you’ll be telling me his name was my father’s name…” “Evan-“ “Evan-“ 

Both paused and stared at each other, an accidental interruption on both parties at the same time that shattered Kelly’s whole world. Her father’s name was Evan, and she was now terrified at how Donavan knew that name. Was it a popular name? Or did her father used to be a blood thirsty pillager? 

Donavan was excited, smiling. “Yes! That was my father’s friend’s name! Evan! My theory was right- you look just like your mother! I met her once- she wore black clothes and she held Mr. Evan’s hand-“ He was like that of an excited child who had been given a brand new version of his favorite toy. It was terrifying. 

“M-my father was not a pillager. He was a blacksmith like my brothers! Before.. Before he and my older brother died- of course..” Donavan’s excitement drained right then, and he cleared his throat. “I am… sorry for your loss. My father is dead too- that’s… that’s how I came to be in charge… Course- we all know his murderer, haha… Bunny is ruthless when it comes to war..”

Kelly frowned and sighed. “I’m… sorry for your loss.” She murmurs, frowning as she rested her body on the back of the chair. Somehow, the pair seemed closer. Kelly had such a set ideal of pillagers in her mind, she forgot that they were people too. They had families, ideas, and a culture she was oblivious to because of her stereotypes she was only now not thinking of. “I always thought pillagers killed each other to get a… higher rank? Is that the term?” She admitted and questioned herself, sighing. 

Donavan chuckled, shaking his head lightly. “Higher rank is right, but we don’t kill each other. We’re a military people, not a barbarian society. We rise in ranks by honorable deeds, like training recruits or doing brave deeds or even bringing a large amount of food and materials back to the base for the rest of the group.”

“And you kill other people in doing so…?” 

Donavan’s smile faltered, nervously glancing off to the side. “M…mostly whoever fights back… and Iron Golems hurt when they punch you in the gut.. Their entire bodies are made of iron, after all..” 

“I bet..” She rolled her eyes. Donavan scoffed. “Ah- as if you’ve ever been struck by an Iron Golem-“ 

“Try three!” “Bullshit-“ His jaw dropped, shock in his eyes. 

“I got pushed over and stepped on…” He winced, a hand subconsciously going to his left hip. “Ow…” She laughed, smiling. “They were all charging a Zombie that had snuck past… I was in the way…” She lifted her shirt up to her belly button, showing a few large but pale scars that mingled with black spots. “I was also less than 6.” 

He stared at her shirt, blinking momentarily before looking back up at her. “Why do you have witch’s marks…?” He asked, his voice quiet now. 

“I’ve always had those.” She says, trying to think back to a time before them. “I think I was born with them..? My twin brother, Casper, he has them too! But ah, only they’re on his back.” He nods along, frowning as he straightened his back. “Huh… It’s midday...” He said, staring at a clock as he stood. “Do you want me to walk you to your room?” He asked, holding out his hand. His gentle, large, sandpaper feeling hand. She took it, frowning at their almost similar skin tone. They were both born with pillager fathers. She stood, wincing and holding her arm that belonged to the wounded shoulder close, not daring to move it. 

“I’d appreciate it… I have no idea where it is.” She says, frowning as she looks to the side towards the window. 

He smiles, their hands still lightly brushing as they slowly walked. “Just follow me. I know this place like the back of my hand! I was born here.” 

She giggles, smiling as she walked close. “You know, when I was a child I thought Pillagers were born in a mansion with an axe in one hand and a crossbow in the other…” 

He barks a laugh. “You’re kidding!” 

She scoffs. “It’s true! I also thought that when the sun goes down it goes into the ocean and fizzles out before exiting the ocean and becoming the moon! Then it goes back through the ocean, but turns and goes through the Nether and going back on fire there from all the lava.”

He laughs harder, wheezing a bit. “Oh fuck-“

“Well it made sense to me!” She tried to defend, one hand going up. 

Donavan smiles, standing straight. “I used to think that ancient Evokers made the sun, and every once and a while it ran out of energy and Evoker prayers, or spells, powered it…” 

Now it was Kelly’s turn to laugh, her entire body shaking. She wheezed small ow’s every once and while, holding her shoulder as she laughed. “I don’t even know what an Evoker is, but even that’s a little far fetched!” 

Donavan smiles, shrugging, “Well it made sense to me.” He said, repeating Kelly’s words. 

Kelly and Donavan stopped in front of Kelly’s medical room door, sighing. “Y-yeah… Made sense to us both, as kids…” She murmurs, shaking her head before watching Donavan open the door. “Thank you.” He nods, smiling at her from the door way as she sighed and sat back down on her temporary bed. “Of course… Call if you need anything. I’ll post a guard for you.” 

“Thank you… uhm… Gen-“ “Donavan.” He interrupted, holding the handle to the door. “You can call me by my name. You’re not my soldier after all.” She laughs slightly, then nods as she stares at him. “Thank you, Donavan. I appreciate the walk, and the stories.” She says, before settling into her bed. “Have a good day.” He nods, turning now. “You too…” He said, before closing the door slowly. It clicked, and his heavy boots slowly disappeared down the hall. 

Today was going to be a good day. 

#minecraft fanfiction #minecraft #mineblr #sm-baby if you see this you inspired me so much #i listened to the edgiest music for this #fanfic #fanfiction #original work #original content

[mermaidmafia-official]

{Part III: A COLLAR OF SPIKES}

tagging @bebemoon​, @ayzrules​, @interluxetumbra​, @bubblingbeautifully

the aftermath of march 18th, or: aaargh

‘So, you just kidnapped a werewolf.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry, did my saving your furry little butt interrupt your dying-in-a-cellar-while-the-whole-island-burns-down party?’ He stumbled, and the vampire grunted under his weight. It was dark, and the air smelled musty and damp. ‘Alright’, he managed, between gritted teeth, ‘Why?’ ‘Why what?’ ‘Did you help me?’ There was a pause. He could sense the faintest traces of human presence, of booze and cocaine. A century old, at least. ‘I didn’t like what they did to you’, she said. ‘And I make very bad decisions.’ ‘Obviously.’ He grimaced. The pain he could take - that dull, reassuring ache - but he hated feeling this dizzy and limp. Ruddy vampires. They shouldn’t have known about the wolfsbane - no one had known for centuries. The wolves had made sure of it, ever since - ‘I’ve had worse’, he said, and she scoffed like someone who had never been tortured for information on the Borgia family in a Milanese dungeon. ‘Even so, shouldn’t you be healing by now?’ ‘Your friends had a little too much fun with me.’ ‘Not my friends.’ There was a thudding noise and he was doused in a cloud of dust. Coughing, he reached for something to hold on to and found rough brick. He could feel the darkness reaching for him, and fought. She was tugging him into a room filled with ghosts of scents - oak, perfume, whisky, and sweat… If I die here, he’ll never find me… Then, the darkness claimed him.

///////////

The smoke cleared slowly, retreating from broken city walls and leaving the corpses exposed. Raf licked the coppery taste of blood from his lips, and felt the adrenalin slowly drain out of his body. A dull pain raged in him, and he realised a deep cut in his shoulder had almost cleft his arm from his torso. He waited for the sharp sensation of flesh knitting itself back together, and came up empty. A wave of nausea washed over him. I have to find the others. Ten paces, with the world spinning around him, and then he was on his knees. I don’t understand. Someone calling his name. Ferrando, with black hair and blood-stained features, suddenly next to him, cursing and slapping his face. Raf growled. ‘Wolfsbane’, Ferrando explained, his face grimy with dust, as he pulled him to his feet, ‘laced on their blades. The one poison that may affect a werewolf. It dulls the senses and stops the healing.’ ‘How did they know?’ Ferrando shook his head. ‘That I don’t know, my friend, but you may be assured that I will find out - as soon as we get you out of here. You’ll heal as soon as the poison wears off.’ Raf grimaced as they stumbled across the battlefield, the scents of scarred flesh, smoke, and blood loud in his nostrils. ‘Cesare?’, he asked. ‘Spanked Sforza’s arrogant little arse. We’ve earned him a resounding victory, old boy, and the Borgia Pope will have no choice but to throw us one of his feasts!’ Raf grinned. That was good news indeed.

/////////////

Well, thought Nessa, watching a pale, amber-coloured whisky swirl around in her glass, as far as insanely stupid ideas are concerned, this one has to be my fucking masterpiece. I should get a trophy. She looked across the room to where the huge werewolf was curled up on one of the deep, plush sofas. In their best times, these sofas had easily carried six flappers and a dandy - now, the biggest one ached under just one wolf. She had draped one of the curtains from the Really Private Booths over him, feeling a little foolish. Did werewolves even feel cold? Nessa sipped her hundred-year-old whisky knowing it would do absolutely fuck-all, and remembered the sound of bones breaking, that night on the ice. He had healed in less than a minute then - so why not now? Well, if he dies on me, at least no one will ever know, and not just because I know how to dump a body. Her thoughts turned towards the coven. Had they all got out? If anyone took care of their own, it was certainly the Bloodmother… but there had been so much chaos. And all because one sleazy, pompous old fart without even one shred of substance or style - well- plenty substance, just not where it counted. Nessa knew a gang war when she saw one, and this one had just escalated. A sound interrupted her thoughts, and when she turned, the wolf was looking at her. ‘You’re still here’, he said, taking in the plush furniture, the old-fashioned chandelier, the curved ceiling, the bar. Nessa found herself wondering if he liked the place. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. It’s daylight out, which means I’m stuck here.’ He stared, annoyingly handsome even when dishevelled. Or especially then. Focus, Nessa. ‘Either you’re incredibly cocky’ he said slowly, ‘or you have the survival instincts of a dodo.’ Nessa huffed. ‘What do you know about dodos?’ His shrug turned into a wince. ‘Met them. Madagascar, 1694. They’re pretty dumb.’ ‘Well, I’m not… a dodo.’ How the fuck did we get here? ‘I’m just counting on your sense of fair play. And don’t tell me you don’t have one, I saw you race.’ He relented. ‘Won’t your coven miss you?’ Given they survived that mess. She shrugged. ‘Probably. They might just think I got lost, which isn’t that far from the truth - happens surprisingly often-’ ‘You don’t say.’ ‘-once, I landed in the middle of a rave in St Petersburg…’ Nessa squinted at him. Haha, funny werewolf. She was this close to poking her tongue at him. ‘Anyway, they’ll expect nothing less.’ Let’s hope that’s true. He leaned back on the sofa and crossed his arms. If he was still groggy, he didn’t show it. ‘So- what is this place?’ Nessa swivelled around on her barstool, trying to hide a fond pride under assumed casualness. ‘Used to be a speakeasy.’ He nodded, annoyingly unsurprised. ‘Run it yourself?’ ‘Oh you know, it was all the rage back then, every girl wanted one.’ ‘How come it looks like a time capsule?’ ‘You remember that crashing sound when we came through the door?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘That was a wall.’ ‘Ah.’ ‘This used to be a railway tunnel, in the 1880s. I guess they just bricked it back up…I haven’t really been here since the fifties, but you should’ve seen the place in its heyday.’ He nodded. ‘Smells like it.’ Now he was just showing off. ‘No way you can smell that.’ Ah - wolfish smile. And a spark of mischief? Or the thrill of the chase? ‘Self-made moonshine, from the back. The very stuff you’re drinking right now, although I can’t say why… A smuggling tunnel to the harbour. Dancing and a band. Cocaine, quite a lot. And jazz.’ ‘Oh come on, even you can’t smell music!’ He grinned. ‘No, but the odds of guessing that one wrong were slim.’ ‘Granted.’ She leaned back on the bar. ‘By the way, do you want some? There’s nothing to eat down here and we’re all out of shirts, but if you’re thirsty, I got you covered.’ The wolf shook his head, apparently done with smalltalk. He got up slowly, grimaced, and started pacing to and fro. She didn’t object. ‘You go by Pixie, right?’ ‘With my human friends, mostly, but yeah. You can also call me Nessa.’ He tilted his head. ‘Since when do vampires have human friends?’ She crossed her arms. ‘Look here, wolf boy, I’d like to see your primary food source course through the veins of something that won’t shut up about cars and the economy and… fucking Game of Thrones. Of course, I would never drink Ian.’ ‘What the hell is an Ian?’ ‘Oh, he finds my food for me. You’d be surprised how many weirdos out there want to see their own blood in a wine glass. I think it’s a goth thing.’ Wolf boy looked confused. Luckily, she was used to getting that reaction from people. ‘Anyway, what do I call you?’, she asked, politely steering the conversation into more stranger-friendly territory. ‘Raf.’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, that’s it? That’s not your whole name, is it?’ ‘It’s enough.’ Only for Nessa, it wasn’t. ‘What’s it short for?’, she asked, and then, drawing a blank on names in general, suggested the only thing she could think of: ‘Rafaello?’ He stared at her, and said ‘no’ in that deadpan voice people sometimes assumed when dealing with her. She didn’t mind. Already, she was filing him away as Rafaello in her memory, even though he seemed to have little in common with a small, coconut-flavoured sweet. She took in his broad, bare shoulders, the movement written into every sinew and fibre of his body, and the keen green eyes that kept her in view. ‘You don’t seem the zealous type’, she concluded, finally. ‘I thought you werewolves were all about the blood war.’ He shrugged. Bruises shone in the half-light. ‘I’m a mercenary. Always have been.’ ‘Even in your first life?’ ‘Especially then.’ It wasn’t a joke or a brag, just a statement. Perhaps it was that this old speakeasy, with all its memories and the century-old shadows of party-goers, awakened her nostalgia, but Nessa felt something click into place. ‘Ah’ she said, with a little smile. ‘I always did have a soft spot for the stupid boys.’ Raf’s face darkened a little. ‘First off, I’m 550 years old, and second- you know nothing about me.’ She looked into her empty whisky glass. ‘True’, she agreed, ‘but you do kind of remind me of the ones I did know. Rakish and reckless, the lot of them.’ Cocky, and brave. ‘Nothing to lose and nowhere to go, and rage deep in their bones. Not like yours, of course, not the kind that comes out at full moon. It just… went into knuckle rings and switchblades and tommy guns.’ Rakish, and reckless, and needlessly dead before their time. ‘They wanted to run with the wolves, too - metaphorical ones, these ones, street gangs and rum runners and mobsters.’ She paused. ‘They tended to die badly.’ He stared and paced and said nothing. ‘And I know what you’re thinking, wolf, but I had nothing to do with that’ she went on. ‘I could never stand to watch all that spark- all that life- go to waste.’ She gestured vaguely at the empty space, which seemed for a moment to be filled with the spectres of long-dead dancers, and felt sad. ‘Even tried to turn some of them, back in the 1940s, when that seemed a very romantic thing to do. So much pain when they died, torn to shreds on the battlefields of France. Never tried it again, after that.’ In the ensuing silence, the dancers slowly faded back into darkness, and with it the faces of those young men that had come and gone for over a century. The wolf looked away when he said, ‘You still don’t know me.’ Her gaze wandered gently over his furrowed brows, the tired, yet defiant look in his eyes, the half-heeled cuts on his torso, and the hand clenching restlessly. ‘If you say so, Raffaello’, she said, with a shrug. And then he looked back at her, with just a flicker of a smile. She grinned. ‘Do you want that drink now?’

.

#btr: a collar of spikes #vampy's writing #c o m p l e t e #but really.... bergh #it was fun in my head #hope you enjoy

[bruhimsicc]

Food Poisoning or bad luck? My second fic!

I apologize if this is a basic plot, the whole vacation idea. It’s just so fun to write haha.

Trigger warnings of sexual stuff without consent!!

Love you guys🥰 I hope y’all hate Ryan as much as me. And I created him!

The beach air was so refreshing, Cooper almost forgot about how bad his stomach felt. It was hurting. Very bad. And the timing was worse. Ryan and his parents had been sweet enough to invite him to stay with them at the beach for three nights, and it was just the second night. They went to dinner, toasted to spring break with glasses of wine for Ryan’s parents and sprite for the boys, not clueing in to the fact that cooper and Ryan have surely already had their shares of alcohol before and locked eyes with the menu. Cooper got chicken tacos, mostly because that was one of the cheapest things. Leave it to him to worry about money when he’s with the wealthiest family he’s ever personally known.

Dinner was nice, even though Ryan and cooper dreaded being mature and talking about nothing with parents. They just wanted to go mess around in the pool, and do another type of messing around back in their room. But as they walk back from the restaurant, the walk is painful. Cooper feels like he weighs twice his amount, and the sand is hard to trudge through. The sweatshirt he wore made him sweat buckets, even though the beach breeze was chilly. And Ryan’s arm around him was too much, he ducked out of it and pretended to run away, teasing him so he wouldn’t be angry at him for not wanting his touch. The playful steps had his stomach cramping horribly, just small shocks of pain he couldn’t do anything about. Without thinking about making a show, he screwed up his face.

“You good coop?” Mr. Pierce asked. Cooper quickly cleaned up his face and straightened his posture, something about complaining to people about what’s bothering him has never been his strong suit. He was always that kid that would go to school despite feeling awful, not wanting to show any weakness.

“Oh yeah I’m good,” he reassured. He went back to Ryan and made a wish that he’d feel better by the time they got back to the Pierce’s giant beach house. He couldn’t feel awful at a place like that, that was somewhere that everything was supposed to be perfect.

Since it was late, they didn’t go to Pool, much to coopers liking. He usually loves the pool, and night swimming. But his stomach ache has only gotten worse and he can’t stand up straight without getting a cramp bad enough to make his head dizzy. Cooper is always nervous about this type of stuff, whenever they go to a restaurant he always silently hopes he doesn’t get sick from his food. And even now, he’s praying it’s just a stomachache, or maybe he ate too much. I’ll be fine in an hour or two, he soothes himself. The bed they’ve been sharing envelopes him, and cooper doesn’t even care to change out his clothes that smell like outside air. So they chill, lay in bed together and put on ladybird to watch. Ryan always trashes this movie, and cooper doesn’t get why because it’s a masterpiece, absolute art. But it’s evident Ryan isn’t focused on watching a movie tonight, he’s focused on cooper. Ryan pets cooper’s thigh, and his hand, and then back to his thigh, obviously not seeing that the vibe isn’t returned. As much as he tries hard to focus on the movie, and appreciate how artsy their sets are, cooper’s heart pounds because he’s become queasy in the last minute or so. Ryan’s touch is annoying him again, and he’s squirming all around the bed. The nausea isn’t in his stomach, it’s in his chest, and it feels like it’s in his head, all the way to his brain. Cooper sits up for a second to take a deep breath, trying to stop sweating and regain any composure he had before the food in his stomach started bullying him, making him feel hot and dizzy. He immediately lays back down and closes his eyes, but feels Ryan’s eyes on his own.

“What was that, silly?”

“Mm nothing,” he replies. The way he’s feeling is scaring him now. Cooper is an easily embrassed person, and this is hell for him. If he’s sick, all the attention will be on him, and that’s a nightmare. It feels like anxiety and food poisoning and overheating all at once inside him. His hands are sweaty as Ryan grabs one, and he opens his eyes to see him coming in to kiss his cheeks. Cooper exhales quietly. He’s not in the mood, or in the right health to do this. It’s sweet, but he feels horrible. Ryan moves to his warm neck, kissing it extra hard.

“Ryan,” cooper tries to shut the romance down But his voice isn’t more than a whisper right now. The cramping is back, making him more nauseous and his body twitches as it hits. Ryan takes this movement as a tease, kissing more of his body. Cooper appreciates the attention being off his face, and onto his chest, it’s not as hot and suffocating, but he still isn’t in the mood for this. He feels seasick now, having to swallow a few times to help from gagging.

“Ryan c’mon,” he tries to nudge him away, but Ryan’s hot and bothered. His determined. Coopers heart beats too fast, and his palms sweat. This always happens when he feels sick, he gets nervous when he doesn’t feel perfect. The swallowing stops him from saying more, and Ryan goes farther down his body. The deep nausea though, that drives him to stop this. A cold shower alone sounds nice.

“Ryan stop, my stomach hurts,” Cooper whines. At this, Ryan lifts his head. His face lacks any sympathy. He looks fed up, as usual.

“Your head always hurts.”

Cooper opens his eyes at the sharp tone. “I said my stomach hurts, weren’t you listening,” he replies, moving to lay his head into his pillow. Ryan gets off of him, and lays down, far from his boyfriend. He’s pissed.

“Yeah i heard you, you never wanna do anything. There’s always a problem. Your head, your stomach.”

Cooper rolls his eyes, he shouldn’t even have to have a reason. He doesn’t want to, that means no. But now, he feels to gross to argue.

“That’s not true, I just want to watch a movie with you.”

Ryan gives him a sour “whatever.” This is typical, cooper wanting to just relax and Ryan acting like a pubescent hormone generator. He gets pissed, cooper cleans up the mess, and everything is back to normal. But not this time, his stomach is in his throat. As they settle back down and shift their attention to the TV, neither of them is actually watching. Cooper’s stomach is tensing, he thinks it feels like a fever, but in his stomach. He shouldn’t have eaten, he should’ve gotten something like a salad. Of course chicken would make him sick, and of course he would get sick with some of the people who make him most uncomfortable. The thought of eating makes his stomach squeeze, and cooper Tastes the food for the unwanted second time. He sits up, slouching with his face in his hands. Ryan is totally watching him, but cooper needs deep breaths to try and regain his calm stomach. He rubs at his face.

“What’s up with you,” Ryan inquires. There’s no actual care in his voice, just obligation to ask.

Cooper doesn’t respond, just breathes through the deep ache and the queasiness. Without any warning, there’s stomach acid in his mouth, and he swallows it quick enough to tell Ryan, “I have to pee.” The bathroom door closes and coopers head spins. His vision is a black tunnel, and he manages to lean over the toilet right before all of his food rises into his throat, but ignores his mouth, and comes out of his noise. He moans to himself, the burn of the acid was worse coming out of his nose first. But now it’s coming out both. The taste disgusts him, and he hasn’t even gotten to take any breaths yet. Whenever he tries to inhale, his stomach clenches and more puke pours out. He must be coughing pretty loudly, because the door opens abruptly. He hears Ryan’s voice, not sounding any less pissed than before.

“Coop, what, what the hell?” Ryan does a double take. Cooper responds with a burp, and more throw up falls into the water. The nausea has gotten better, but the deep pain in his stomach is much worse. He didn’t think food could hurt his body so much.

“I can’t stay, I’ll puke,” Ryan adds, making cooper feel so, so embarrassed. He’s just adding problems to this trip and making Ryan feel bad while he’s at it. This is so bad, he thinks to himself. Spit drips from his mouth and there’s vomit on his chin, but the puking is done now. His whole body shakes, and his hand feels almost too weak to flush the toilet. Standing up to wash his hands and rinse his mouth isn’t pleasant, because he gets an intense wave of head rush, not like his anemic self isn’t used to it. Cooper desperately hopes Ryan’s parents didn’t hear him, maybe it was a one time thing. He doesn’t need the attention and worry. When he opens the door, Ryan is back on the bed, looking at him expectantly.

“Do my kisses really gross you out that much?”

Cooper’s face falls. He was hoping Ryan would try to not be a smartass about it.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, laying back down, making sure to be far away from his boyfriend who lacks any sympathy skills.

“I told you I felt bad,” he adds. Ryan scoffs.

“I thought you just didn’t want to kiss, you say stuff like that all the time.”

Cooper would love to actually say what’s on his mind. That if he doesn’t want to make out, then they shouldn’t have to. But he’s too tired to get Ryan riled up and start and argument. His eyes fall closed despite the cramps and shivers that won’t let up.

The next time he wakes up, it’s to a weight below his stomach. His face feels hot and his body heavy as he floats on weak knees to the bathroom, to get sick a different way this time. Hands clutch his stomach the whole time, trying to ease the pain. It really hurts, and he’s so embarrassed despite being alone. Everything aches.

Ryan is snoring when he comes back to bed. He wants to wake up his boyfriend and have someone to talk to, even if it would just be complaining, but he knows better.

Cooper is asleep and feverishly dreaming again before he can even think.

The next time he wakes up, it hasn’t even been ten minutes since his last trip to the bathroom. But this time is different, this time vomit pours out of his mouth the second he moved his head, making a mess of his sweatshirt and the pillowcase covered in sweat. It burns his throat, even worse because he’s laying down. A heave forces him upright and shakes the bed, stirring Ryan. Cooper throws a hand over his mouth, and uses the other to shake Ryan’s shoulder, not even bothering to be careful about making him mad.

Ryan groans, “uuggghhh, what.”

“I...I don’t- feel well.” His statement was interrupted with a nauseaous hiccup, letting Ryan know something was up. Not that he cared much, but the smell and cooper’s heaves were enough to make Ryan hop out of bed to get the tiny trash can from the bathroom. His boyfriend lets all the sickness rush out of him. There’s no telling why Ryan felt absolutely nothing in his heart. He just couldn’t bring himself to care that his boyfriend was miserably sick, all because of some food from a sketchy restaurant that a cook most likely half-assed. Cooper’s stomach hurt worse than ever, worse than the last time a meal turned on him. He was 15. At school. It wasn’t a nice time. But this was worse, every breath was aborted before it reached it’s full potential, turning into a cough that there was no air for, and pushing up more food and stomach acid. Ryan turned a light on at that point, and cooper saw his own mess of beige and brown covering the trash can and his sweatshirt. He didn’t want to look back at the pillow, surely splattered with sickness too. Ryan groaned, cooper would’ve thought he was being dramatic if he was in control of his senses, but his abs squeezing painfully was distraction enough. He finally got a moment to breathe, and looked up to see his boyfriend walking out of their room. Maybe he was getting him a glass of water to rinse out his mouth. Cooper is dizzy, head rush attacking him despite not even standing up. Speaking of standing up, that something he needed to do, according to the push below his stomach. He stands on weak knees, trying not to pass out as he walks slowly into the bathroom.

Cooper suffers through it. Again and again and again. He rests his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. He could be delirious, but his face is awfully hot. His forehead crinkles up and a grimace takes over, do you even get fevers with food poisoning? He has no idea. And frankly, he doesn’t even need to know. He feels awful enough.

The effort to wash his hands is threatening, but it reminds him he should put some water in his body. A quick look in the bedroom tells him ryan isn’t back, and there’s no water cup there either. Don’t be selfish cooper. You’re the one who’s sick, you can take care of yourself. He reminds himself of these things as he heads out to the kitchen.

An open floor plan is always nice, but right now it’s a problem starter. From the kitchen, cooper can see his lovely, thoughtful boyfriend curled up on the couch, snoring peacefully. He’s knows it’s stupid to think about. And he knows he’s the one inconveniencing them, but it would feel nice if Ryan cared a little bit. If he ate something that hated him, and was miserable, cooper would hold a bowl for him to throw up in and wipe his face. And he would bring water and change the pillowcase if he was too tired to wake up before he puked. A lump forms in his throat, but there’s no time to wonder if it’s from sadness, or if it’s stomach contents in his throat. A heavy, hot, and sticky wave of the worst nausea he’s ever felt overcomes cooper and before he can remind himself to walk slowly so he doesn’t faint, he’s throwing up over the toilet again. Surprisingly, he hasn’t ran out of food to vomit up yet. Despite already having been sick multiple times, this time is hell. Cooper has never had projectile vomiting before now, and it’s awful. The acidic taste ruins his throat, and chokes him. His nose burns, and the whole world smells like puke to him. Cooper is sitting on the cold floor, not even using the energy to stand, but he’s so weak that before he knows it, his vision becomes a tunnel and his poor brain spins. A weak moan escapes him before his head not so gently hits the bathroom floor, not waking anyone up.

[sequoiann]

❧ h.js | sick model

pairing; seventeen joshua x reader

genre; fluff, model!au

synopsis; proceeding with your job and going down the catwalk while you’re furiously sick isn’t the best idea. you fall and nearly pass out, and he saves you. 

word count; 1588 words

parts; pt.1 , pt. 2

✧ a/n; i literally got inspiration for this when i saw a video on youtube showing a few models falling on the catwalk HAHA wow // hope you guys like thiss !!

“Seriously, Y/N,” Jen said, exhausted from the continuous failed persuasions. “Just stay home. It won’t kill you to call in sick for one day.” 

“Yes it will,” you deadpanned, stuffing your necessities into your purse as you huffed out a breath of warm air. “It’s an important event today. I can’t miss it.”

“You’re literally burning a fever of 38.6 degrees, sweetheart,” Jen pointed out incredulously. “And you can’t even stand upright on your two feet.” 

“Yes I can—” you argued, but felt your head spin. Your hand quickly reaches out for a form of support, and Jen immediately rushes to your side, holding you up.

“Yeah, sure you can,” Jen said sarcastically, letting you go after you found your balance. “I’ll call your manager for you, okay?” 

“No, Jen,” you insisted. “I’ll go. I’ll come back right after that. It’ll only take a few hours. I’ll hold out.” 

Jen looks at you in frustration and worry. 

“I’ll be fine. I promise,” you assured.

“Fine,” she relents. “I’ll wait in the car. I’ll drive you.” 

You nod gratefully, putting on lipstick to cover up your pale lips, and foundation which was now a shade or two darker than your white-as-sheet skin. You swallowed a pill which was supposed to help with your dizziness, before going out and getting into the car. 

Jen drives you quickly to the venue. 

“Call me when you’re done, alright? I’ll come and pick you up,” Jen said, and you nodded, smiling, before getting out of the car and walking to the makeup room where you should be. 

The place was huge — a convention hall. You could barely find your way around, so you just went through random hallways in an attempt to figure out where the makeup room was.

Your head was spinning faster by the minute, and your legs were becoming horribly wobbly. Anyone could mistake you to be a drunk woman.

Your shoulder suddenly comes into contact with someone else, and you stumble backwards, immediately leaning to the wall for support as you pulled your coat tighter around your shivering body. You panted lightly, trying to clear your fuzzy vision and mind. 

“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” 

You glanced up for a brief second, nodding to whoever that was. You barely managed to identify his features — blonde hair. “Yes, sorry.” 

You said nothing else as you left the guy, walking down the hallway, finding the makeup room and entering. 

“Y/N! Come sit down, we need to get your makeup done quickly,” your makeup artist said, practically forcing you onto a chair in front of the mirror.

She quickly removes your lipstick, not really bothering about your pale lip color underneath, before putting on another shade of lipstick. She does your eye makeup and whatnot, while your hair stylist curls your hair to perfection.

“The Minister is out there, and so is the President. Do well, alright?” you heard your manager instruct from behind. You hummed in reply, not really being able to talk as your makeup artist was carefully covering up your facial flaws.

Everything was done in fifteen minutes, and you were given a long, golden dress which flowed down to your ankles. They showed you to the back room where you were given your personal space to change, before rushing you back out to put on your other accessories. You pushed away the throbbing headache that was coming, trying to focus on preparing as you were ushered backstage where the other models were. 

You didn’t bother wearing your stilettos yet, because you were certain that you would’ve fell while half-running to the backstage, so you just held them in your hands.

All of you were then lined in order — you were sixth to go out, and down the catwalk. 

You took cautious, deep breaths, before slipping on your heels, and going up. 

The heels made you increasingly unstable on your feet — you felt like you were walking on the surface of water. A wave of nausea washed over you but you held it in, keeping your chin up as you strode down the catwalk. 

But the moment the cameras flashed, your mind went into a frenzy. The bright light made you so dizzy, you heard ringing in your ears, and your knees gave out on you, not being able to hold your weight anymore. 

You collapsed onto the floor, and loud muttering was immediately heard. 

“What happened?” 

“What’s with her?” 

“Did she fall?” 

You were conscious. You were still awake, but you couldn’t move — you had no energy to. 

“Get someone to pull her out! What the hell is she doing!?” you heard your manager whisper-shout from the back.

Joshua witnesses all this. He immediately stands up from his seat, and his right-hand man stops him. 

“President?” 

Joshua shakes his head, giving him a small smile. “It’s okay.”

He hops up onto the catwalk stage, kneeling beside you as you continuously struggled to move your limbs. They wouldn’t budge — they were almost numb. Your clouded vision spots Joshua, but you only know him as the blonde man who had bumped into you in the hallway.

“Come on,” Joshua whispered, putting an arm under your neck, and another under your knees, picking you up bridal style as he carried you backstage. 

You couldn’t keep yourself awake any longer — so you let unconsciousness take over.

Joshua notices as you go limp in his arms, and he quickens his footsteps to the nearest prep room, laying you down on the mini couch at the side.

“Call the ambulance,” he instructs firmly.

“But, President, the Minister is out there and she—”

“I said, CALL THE AMBULANCE.” 

Everyone flinches, and your manager quickly dials for one. 

“Did anyone not notice while she was preparing? She’s obviously sick!” Joshua fumed. Your stylists immediately drop their heads, guilty.

“President, the ambulance says they’ll take 15 minutes to get here,” your manager said, the phone a distance away from his ear, and Joshua growls.

“Whatever. Hang up on them. I’ll drive her myself.” 

Joshua picks you up again, walking briskly out of the venue, getting to his car and gently setting you in the passenger’s seat. He shuts the door on your side, before getting behind the wheel and starting the engine. 

You stir, waking up. Joshua notices, and turns to you.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” 

Your eyes opened with difficulty, and squinted. That’s when you recognized this ‘blonde-haired guy’.

Joshua. Your childhood friend. 

“Josh?” you said, unsure, your voice hoarse.

“Took you long enough,” he joked, but became serious the next second. His hand pressed against your neck, and you were aware of how sweaty you were, although you were quivering. 

“Why would you come to work today when you’re this sick?” Joshua said in disapproval, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing it on your neck.

“What do you mean, come to work? How do you know I work here?”

Joshua smiled to himself, glad his instructions were carried out. After finding out that you applied for this job, he had instructed all the staff to not tell you who the President of the modelling company that you were under was. Aka him.

“That’s not important. I’ll take you to the hospital, alright?” Joshua said, and you shake your head vigorously with whatever energy you had. 

“Don’t,” you told him. That’s when he remembered — you had a fear of hospitals. You could never go to one, so whenever you were sick, you got medicine from the pharmacy and tried to get yourself better at home. 

“Just take me home,” you told him, hoping he remembers your address, because you honestly can’t recall it at that moment.

“Of course.” 

Joshua drives you home and you take the chance to sleep, wanting to numb the symptoms of fever you had. 

When Joshua reached, he gets out and runs to the other side of where you were, opening the door and unbuckling you. You wake up almost instantly.

“Do you need me to---”

“No, I’ll walk,” you told him, smiling gratefully anyway. He nods and helps you out, locking his car before supporting you back to your house. You must admit, it felt comfortingly secure and warm in his arms.

“Do you want to come in or are you going back? I think the fashion show is continuing,” you told him, suspecting that he was an audience. He bit in his lips to suppress his chuckle.

“It’s alright. They’ll handle themselves.” 

You frowned at his tone, but didn’t question as you half-invited him in. 

“Do you need anything?” you asked weakly, noticing that Jen must’ve gone out.

“No, all I need is for you to get to bed,” he said, and you smiled, trudging to your room and immediately going under the covers. Joshua and you were close, so you weren’t that self-conscious around him.

Joshua drags a chair from somewhere and puts it beside your bed, sitting down. He somehow had a wet cloth with him too, and he put it on your forehead.

“So you’re just going to sit there and watch me as I slowly fade into my dreamland?” you joked, your eyes already fluttering close.

Joshua chuckles, and you notice the golden badge pinned on his suit. 

President.

“Wait,” you said, your eyes suddenly opening. Joshua swiftly removes his suit before you could get another look at it, leaving him in just his white button-up.

“I’ll explain when you wake up, okay? Go to sleep now,” he said, and you looked at him suspiciously, but sunk back into your pillows, drifting off to sleep as your body could no longer stay awake.

Joshua smiled as you easily slipped into dreamland.

“Sleep tight.” 

#seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen joshua #joshua hong #hong jisoo #joshua #jisoo

[viper-no-viping]

Wweelp. I guess it's Rambling Time.

Not even sure how far I'll get in any particular topic, but, we're still kind of rusty with blathering shit for school assignments, so.. Here I am, exercising my shit-blathering pathways, or whatever.

I guess an initial General Weather Report would be suitable, given that seems to be how our collectively chronophobic ass keeps track of things that we will Almost Definitely forget in the nearish future.. But that would require thinking in detail about Various Things and that's kind of Not My Bag rly, heh, so. I dunno, I guess we'll see what happens.

Suppose starting with the current thought process will suffice. There's this trans chick on YouTube we follow, who posted recently that she's getting bottom surgery, now that she's recovered from her facial feminization surgery. From there I ended up at.. One or two other videos, pretty sure it was two, about her transition timeline.

And now "transition timeline testosterone" is sitting there in the YouTube search bar staring back at me and I'm just like :\ lol dunno, or someshit.. sigh.

This video made some Feely Feels rear their dysphoric heads, because of some Hashtag Relatable shit about the way he described stuff.. And I'm sure the seething jealousy that he got top surgery means something, heh, meanwhile we're over here crossing our fingers that the body isn't too fucked up for even a breast reduction, which, even for that, the co-pay alone.. ugh.

I mean, not like I actually know how much it would be yet, hopefully Tahni will remember to ask about that when we see the primary again for the results of the next ultrasound to make sure that ovarian cyst isn't fucking cancer, fucking goddamn cancer, never would have thought we'd be stressing over that as a possibility but here we fucking are..

Well. I personally don't have much history, hehe, what with the Iiii don't, exist, Iiii don't, exist.. et cetera.. yeeup, not sure where that was going, but anyway. Yeah. If not from the fucking ovaries, possibly from the goddamn thyroid, which is Fun. Apparently there are no actual known causes for the thyroid cancers, shit just fucking happens, more commonly in "women." Yay.

But I mean, even if it is some kind of fucking thyroid cancer, at this point just take the shit out and put us on thyroid meds for the rest of our life, just make this shit stop.. ugh, but it's probably not even one thing, is it, this whole fucking body is going to shit, and how many months will it be until we've done enough tests and shit to figure out what's even going on..

It's so funny, two years ago they Really Thought it would just be an endoscopy and colonoscopy to find the cause, just a couple tests.. xD Ahh, funny in a kind of lol kill me way.. But at least shit is actually showing UP on tests now. Just having the vague undiagnosable bullshit is a different kind of agony, like before the LPR was diagnosed, it is Fucked Up trying to get any kind of answer on shit when your main symptom is just a constant hellish nausea, not anything that comes back from a lab test with Actual Results that doctors will Actually Respect.. To say nothing of how family and friends start slowly but surely deciding to themselves that it's just you making a fuss out of "nothing."

So, yeah. Different kind of hell, but godfuckingdamn I would take almost any other ailment aside from this fucking Everlasting Period bullshit. Talk about fucking dysphoria, haha. You really hate acknowledging the existence of this entire section of the meatsuit you're stuck in? Here, have some as-yet-undiagnosed ~menstrual issues~ that make the most unpleasant thing that section of the meatsuit does last TWICE AS LONG AS IT USED TO!! THAT SURELY WON'T MAKE YOU WANT TO STAB YOURSELF AT ALL!!!!

Yep. Look how well I'm coping. XDD STFU self, damn.

Or, well, I guess don't STFU, still need to exercise the word-vomit muscles, god knows how the fuck I'm gonna get by the rest of that godforsaken pass/fail How To Actually Do Shit With Your Psychology Degree Part I class.. Due tomorrow is an assignment in place of a midterm, to make a resume and goal list of shit to do that'll make said resume better.

Except there are no accredited fully-online law schools yet, so what in the ungodly fuck are we gonna even do with the degree? It's not like having it is gonna make the body less of a complete medical fucking wreck, it's not like it'll erase the fact that we can never know when we're going to be suddenly fucking incapacitated with dizziness/ridiculous cramps/intense don't-fucking-move-or-you'll-gag nausea for days on end so we can't actually keep a consistent schedule of doing anything outside of the house, what the fuck good is it gonna do me to make a fucking resume reminding me of exactly how worthless of a job candidate we are at this point?

Whoops, that Got Deep real quick, haha. But like, seriously, what the shit do I even put on a resume aside from the fact that we accidentally started the Psychology Club at our high school? If we use the non-chronological resume format it'll make the employment gap stand out less, but it's supposed to emphasize skills and experience instead, and what fucking skills or whatever can we even put on a resume? What fucking skill set will make you a viable job candidate when you can't even stand for the length of a shower without your legs getting shaky, but you don't have a fancy enough degree or the social stamina to handle a job that doesn't require some form of physical labor? Not to mention I think there's also supposed to be a made-up cover letter, something like "Hi I'm XYZ and I'm applying for ABC job with this resume", what the fucking shit can I even put for that when I know how Ridiculously Limited we are at this point?

A bunch of blathered nonsense to fill a page with lots of words and hopefully conceal the fact that we're completely making shit up. That's what. Because I can't just say "I'm Pretty Much Fucked in terms of traditional employment because chronically ill autistic multiple, and am trying to plan out a career in online comics, or if online law school becomes a thing I'll gladly use my psych degree for that." That's how you fail an assignment, even if it's the truth. I can't exactly write a cover letter to the internet announcing our intent to try that shit. So. Yeah. All aboard the Blathering Train, instead.

But yeah, anyway, that's enough financial/career angst for right now. Back to dysphoria angst!, lolol.

Yeah, so, here I am staring at this shit in the search bar and just.. Like, I don't even know if it would be medically safe to try HRT at this point, but aside from that, I don't even think that's what we want, ideally? Not interested in dealing with facial hair, armpit and "downstairs" hair already pisses some of us off enough..

Not sure if we're interested in being perceived as male, I guess, but not really wanting to be perceived as female either? I'm pretty sure at this point most of us are either specifically agender, or don't subscribe to the concept of gendering traits at all and just call themselves non-binary..

Like, the vast majority of us have fucking hated the body's boobs since they first showed up in middle school. We gave Not A Fuck for gendered shit, in general, but on an autistic sensory level we Fucking Despise pressure on the body's chest and these bitches are heavy. Even moreso than usual, recently, what with the hormones being fucked up. Fucking hate it.

But like, how do you explain to a doctor that you want the boobs off completely? The best we can probably realistically hope for is a reduction because back pain, but I dunno if it would Raise Questions if we asked what the smallest possible size they could do was. Could we settle for As? Would it be weird to ask to go from DDs to As? Weird enough that someone would take the time to be like "now hang on a second" and start trying to make us go through the red tape bullshit to be on record as Officially A Trans TM?

If we could get away with not wearing a bra without looking like we're wearing weird droopy melons under our shirt, I feel like that much would be enough for several of us, even if the body did still technically have some small boobage. As long as it didn't impede us or anything we wanted to do, if it didn't get in the way or weigh down on our chest, if it didn't make our shirts fit weird, I feel like we could deal with that..

But then I see this trans bro on YouTube here and hhnnghh why can't we just not have themmmm..

I mean, ideally, why can't the fuckers be detachable so those who don't hate them can put them on when they feel like it and the rest of us can go on our merry way without them, but, heh, science isn't quite there yet.. Next best thing seems like it would be getting top surgery and letting whomever felt like having boobs just stuff a bra when they wanted to. But of course, insurance won't pay for it if it's just because We Really Want It, we'd have to either be Officially Trans TM and jump through all those hoops and hope top surgery is covered, or we'd have to just settle for a breast reduction covered under back pain.

I guess it also Says Something, that so many of us in the system are asexual-and/or-gay dudes, or simply never thought about it and are female "by default" aka because the body was categorized as that and we didn't care enough about gender to think there was any other option, we just accepted the narrative presented to us, that we were just "not like other girls." None of us have ever felt super masculine or super feminine, that I can recall, because What The Fuck Even Is Gender, and why the fuck is it necessary to divide up traits into human-created categories anyway..

But it makes it hard to figure out exactly where we are in terms of transness.. We've known Basically Forever that we "aren't like other girls," but gender means so little to us that we never particularly wanted to be a boy either, so calling ourselves a trans guy or even just non-binary transmasculine still seems odd, even though it seems like the latter should fit..

But then, how much of that is just cisheteronormativity in action? Because I know we've had several dreams wherein we had a wang and it felt pretty natural, not foreign and out of place like the body's current genitalia setup. But like, what the fuck does wang-creating surgery even look like, that sounds like a whole mess of complicated shit to figure out, and we're already medically compromised..

With the arrival of our newest non-straight dude, one of several in the system, some of us have had to seriously reexamine where we stand on gender shit. I guess at this point it's generally accepted that we would have been much better suited to existence as "semi-effeminate AMAB homoflexible non-binary ace," rather than "pan-quoiro AFAB possibly transmasculine non-binary ace"..

I guess it feels like masculine should have been the starting point that we feminized to our liking, instead of starting off with feminine and not knowing if we want to be "masculine enough" to be categorized as "transmasculine".. Is it "masculine enough" if we want the boobs off but can't do HRT because half the shit this other video mentions sounds just as bad as having the boobs? We can't stand body hair and acne and all that, and god knows how HRT would even work with all the hormonal issues the body's already having..

The more I think about what we ultimately would ideally want, the more it seems like we would really just prefer having no AFAB reproductive parts/periods and no boobs, maybe a wang and a lower voice, and that's it. I guess maybe we could try out the aesthetic of some minimal beardage, but body hair in general already irritates several of us.. So like, for various reasons I don't see HRT happening.

We already know most of us would have the boobs off tomorrow if we could, but I guess what's tripping some of us up now is the fact that Vern is way less genitalia-repulsed than most of us, and in fact seems to generally handle the notion of Having A Body better than most of us.. And he definitely identifies as a guy, a non-binary semi-effeminate robot guy but still definitely masc-leaning, so.. What does it say about us if so many of us have already been questioning this for so long, and now the one who's most secure in his gender identity out of all of us is one of our masc-leaning non-binary guys?

I don't even know how we would.. React to it, I guess, if we did try to.. I dunno, embrace being transmasculine or something.. It doesn't feel like we'd prefer to do anything drastically different, behavior-wise, and we don't care enough about pronouns to try to figure out something gender-neutral that isn't "they" because gender-neutral "they" within a plural "they" system is confusing as fuck.. So like, I don't think most of us on the fence about being transmasculine would change our names or whatever, or use he/him pronouns, it would just.. Feel better to not have certain anatomical bits be perceived as part of who we are?

But then that just kind of makes us wonder if we're being a Bad Trans TM or something, like if that counts as reducing gender to body parts or something.. This is all so goddamn complicated.

Hot damn, finally got around to looking up some YouTubeage about how the fuck a phalloplasty actually works.. Taking skin, fat, a nerve, and an artery from the donor site to make it, that sounds so fucking unnerving to even think about, taking body stuff from one area and like.. Making a wang? Ughh, there are so many stages.. Yeah, no, even getting the AFAB reproductive bits out seems like possibly too much intense surgery for us, I don't see how we could ever manage this kind of bottom surgery, shit sounds fucking terrifying, I guess the notion of taking so much shit from another area on the body just kind of gets us in a body horror kind of way..

So yeah, I don't see us being able to do that.. And I mean, we're not really sexually-focused to begin with, so like, aside from just the base-level comfort of Having It, it's not like we'd desperately Need a wang or anything to have a fulfilling life? Just NOT having the AFAB reproductive shit/periods, that would be the main thing, not having that shit and not having the boobs. If we had a lower voice we could pass as a guy if we wanted to, and we'd probably like that, but weighing that one thing against the whole list of other shit that comes with HRT, it's probably not worth it.

But how do you ask for, much less get covered for, removing the boobs and reproductive stuff with no Official Medical Reason, just "because I don't want it"? Non-binary dysphoria doesn't seem like it would be considered a Valid Enough reason for it to be covered, but we don't want to go into a Full Transition either, so.. yeah, I dunno how we'll end up being more comfortable just existing in the body, with so many roadblocks.

I dunno, objectively it's probably internalized transphobia/nb-phobia or whatever the name for that is, not feeling "trans enough" and whatnot.. But I guess part of it is also, why can't we just be a fucking gender mystery and be allowed to exist that way? It's our fucking meatsuit, why do we have to pigeonhole ourselves into either Male or Female just for our insurance to believe that certain bodyparts cause us extreme dysphoria and we'd be better off without them? Why can't we just be a person with no boobs and maybe a wang and a voice that can't be readily identified as male or female?

I dunno why I'm even rambling about this, I know why, cisheteronormativity and various historical fuckeries, et cetera. I guess it's just frustrating trying to figure out where we are on the gender spectrum when we're blocked from making the modifications that would make the body feel less alien to us. Maybe if we could actually get top surgery, we would have a better idea of whether we consider ourselves transmasculine or just some kind of masc-leaning genderfluid non-binary, which is where several of us seem to be right now..

Hnngh. This guy seems like a good example of where we might end up one day if we do end up trying out HRT, but the idea of the body being more of a pain than it already is in terms of body hair/acne/et cetera just seems so shitty..

Haha, is it weird that I'm kind of hoping that ovarian cyst will end up being cancer and they'll give us an option to remove the whole reproductive setup in there? Because we would do that shit in a heartbeat. What's that called, a hysterectomy? A total laparoscopic hysterectomy with bilateral ovary-something-something.. How do you convince insurance that you Need that to improve your quality of life, without establishing yourself as Fully Transitioning?

Wow, this guy's scars are so small, huh, would have thought it'd be worse.. Goddamn, we'd love to have all that shit taken out. Not like we're fucking using any of it, it's just been causing us more and more agony since puberty, can't be doing this fucking 11-day period bullshit anymore, the dysphoria was bad enough on its own..

ugh, why the fuck am I even looking at all this, not like we can do any major surgeries for a while yet, if at all..

I don't know, I guess trying to work out what we would collectively be least-dysphoric with is useful, it's just extra depressing thinking about how hard it'll be to get the boobs off, or even reduced, much less the whole reproductive removal biz.. feh. Time to ramble about something else.

hmph, actually, should probably do the other quiz for that pass/fail class.. -.- That way we can just deal with the resume/goal list bullshit tomorrow, mmmmboy.. meh, that would require more focus than I probably have though, guess it'll be tomorrow.

I dunno. The 10th-to-12th anniversary is fast approaching, probably best to just disappear into distractions a bit longer, at least until it's passed. Still not sure if it'd be best to avoid tumblr or what, on the 12th, but I guess we'll see.. meh.

#this is mostly collective-wide shit but i Cannot Be Fucked to properly tag all this so #i'll just leave this here for now