#seizure implication

[eliaswasoncehere]

Oh I thought you died from a seizure,, that's just worse

Yes… *sniffs* I know…

#asks #tw suicide implication #tw seizure mention

[acti-veg]

According to one analysis of wool production in Australia, by far the world’s top exporter, the wool required to make one knit sweater is responsible for 27 times more greenhouse gases than a comparable Australian cotton sweater, and requires 247 times more land. Sheep farming threatens native species around the world, from koalas in Australia to sage grouse in the US.

Domesticated sheep in the American West have, as my colleague Paige Vega has reported, been implicated in mass die-offs of their wild cousins, Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep, through the spread of the lethal pathogen Mycoplasma ovipneumoniae.

Ruminant farming’s hunger for land has made it a prime engine for colonial expansion around the world; we see this in Brazil, for example, where cattle ranching is driving illegal seizures of Indigenous land. Sheep brought by colonists to Australia “immediately trampled and destroyed all of the native yams and edible vegetables that Aboriginal people had.

The land that Aboriginal people never ceded was taken for pastoral practices,” said Emma Hakansson, the Australia-based founding director of Collective Fashion Justice, which advocates for what she calls a “total ethics” fashion system: one that’s fair to people, animals, and the planet. “Animal-derived materials in particular are a focus for us because it’s in those supply chains that all three of those groups are consistently harmed.”

#thanks anon for sending me this #wool #sheep #vegan #articles #to add #indigenous issues #environment

[violetsiren90]

All I Haven't Said | Namjoon/Reader

💜 Chapter 2 💜

Table of Contents: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 (part 1), Chapter 3 (part 2)

Pairing: idol!Namjoon x f!Reader

Genre: Soulmate AU; idol AU; chapter fic; strangers to lovers; a bit of idiots to lovers, tbh; slow burn; eventual romance; eventual smut; angst (life is messy & hearts are complex); OT7 featured

Summary: You found your soulmate - or rather, he found you. Turns out he's an idol of much acclaim who needs you for very real and unglamorous reasons. What could become of two hearts so used to giving of themselves when they are confronted with needing each other?

Chapter Warnings: This fic is 18+, as is all my work and my page as a whole; Talk and depictions of cancer, its treatment, and the symptoms of both; implication of some disregard for personal agency by entertainment and medical industries; MC is diagnosed with asthma and experiences symptoms; flashbacks of a distressing situation; soulmate first touch & subsequent skinship; partial disrobing for medical purposes; medical setting and minor treatments; some social awkwardness; talk of food, eating, and alcohol consumption in the context of a soulmate AU

Author's Note: Chapter 2 is here! I tried my best to write Namjoon's response under the circumstances, but honestly I don't know how well it was executed. Let me know what you think in the comments/asks! I'm super open to constructive criticism and feedback. Also, I did my best with the Korean phrases and medical jargon. If anyone has more extensive knowledge on those subjects and wants to fact-check, please let me know!

P.S. If you want to join the tag list, drop me a comment or ask!

P.P.S. If no one has told you yet today, you're loved and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

"At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.”

~ Pablo Neruda

Chapter 2: Touching Me, Touching You

    When you touched down at Incheon International Airport, you and Matt were greeted by a rather unnecessarily large party of Hybe personnel in black plainclothes wearing masks who snatched up your baggage and ushered you into the first of a small fleet of black SUV's. The member of the legal advisory team who had visited you in the states, Choi Kang Dae, was riding shotgun and speaking into a cell phone that had not left his ear since departing the baggage claim. In the row behind you was another man you assumed to be a translator, given his fluency in English, but who was currently chopping it up with Matt in Korean, and beside him a large, serious, silent man whose eyes kept traveling to you every now and again. You assumed that meant that the rest of the ensemble filling the vehicles behind you were security, which somehow made you feel less rather than more at ease.

The further you advanced in traffic through the busy streets of Seoul, the more anxious you became. A thousand questions began to flood your brain as your heart began to hammer in your chest. If all these people had come to meet you, were you headed to the hospital now? Weren't you supposed stop at your accommodations first? If you didn't, would you even have a chance to shower a day's worth of airport off before meeting your soulmate? Were you about to bond right now? Would people be watching? Would it hurt? Why hadn't you ever thought of these things before? You felt a familiar tightness in your chest and pulled out your inhaler. An asthma attack right now? They always seemed to strike at the most inopportune times.

Matt was suddenly turning to you.

    "Hey, you okay?" he asked, looking at the inhaler you were shaking for a second puff.

You slowly exhaled and nodded.

    "I'm fine. But where are we going right now, can you ask them?"

The translator asked the Kang Dae something in Korean, and after he responded, the other man turned to you.

    "We're going to the hospital. Namjoon-ssi had a seizure last night due to a prolonged high-grade fever, so we are trying to act as quickly as possible to avoid further complications."

Matt turned to the translator.

    "This should have been the first thing we heard when we stepped off that plane. I'm not trying to play hardball here, but we're going to have to be communicated with about every step of this process so we can decide how we're going to respond. This was in the contract, communication and a chance to speak with me before she makes any step in this process..."

Matt slipped in and out of English as the attorney apologetically reassured him through the translator of their full intent to follow the contractual specifications. You felt sick, and your heart continued to hammer - though now for different reasons. You had been worried about a shower while he was fighting for his life. This was no time for nerves. You had to fight for his life too.

    When the vehicle pulled into the ambulance bay, you and Matt were handed surgical masks and ushered, with security and other Hybe personnel in tow, through the ICU and into a massive steel elevator. You watched the round button number "5" light up red as Kang Dae pushed it with a gloved hand. After the brief assent, the doors opened into a space that looked like it was straight out of a Star Trek episode - floor to ceiling white, blinding fluorescent lights, and hospital workers covered from head to toe in sterile garments ebbing and flowing in urgent silence to and fro to the rhythmic serenading hums and beeps of medical equipment. You blinked in the offending brightness.

Your party was immediately approached by a small woman with a tablet and stylus who addressed Kang Dae. You heard your name mentioned. You heard Matt's. After a brief exchange with the Hybe attorney, Matt relayed that you were going to meet with Namjoon's oncologist. Kang Dae turned to address the security staff, and his words were met with nods and murmurs of acknowledgment except by the tall, serious man from the SUV, who responded to the attorney in a low but firm tone, his eyes flashing over to you as he spoke. You looked over to Matt, your brow creased in question. He watched as Kang Dae concluded the exchange and lead your now small group of four to follow the petite woman down a long, wide hall. As you walked, Matt leaned down to whisper in your ear.

    "It appears the indignant gentleman is your personal bodyguard. Seems he's reluctant to stay behind with the rest of security."

You glanced in surprised curiosity over your shoulder and caught a glimpse of the guard seated beside the rest of the team, elbows propped on his knees and hands clasped under his chin, a pensive expression on his rugged features, before he disappeared from view as you rounded a bend.

    The hall connected to a labyrinth of others, snaking off left and right, and punctuated with massive, heavy doors. Your guide abruptly swung left to face one of the entrees, flashing a badge card across a sensor which beeped, allowing her to push it inward. It opened into a suite of rooms much homier than the atmosphere behind you, though every bit as sterile.

In the vestibule was a small acrylic table surrounded by matching chairs. As you passed through you noted to the right, a small kitchenette, and to the left a rather large bathroom. At the end of the suite, you shuffled into a large room, separated on the far left end by a curtain. The space in which you stood was fitted with grey leather furniture, a tall bamboo plant in the corner, and a low acrylic coffee-table. An older, distinguished looking man in a white jacket stood from where he had been seated in one of the arm chairs and bowed. Your group bowed in return, and the translator asked that you be seated.

Dr. Na, as the man in the coat was introduced, would run through some last matters with you before you were to meet your soulmate. He relayed through the translator that this hospital was state of the art, Korea's finest, and a frontrunner in successful experimental treatments for cancer and other genetic diseases. The room you were occupying, he said, was a suite meant for long-term inpatient care, and would be nearly identical to the space you would share with Namjoon for the remainder of his inpatient treatment. He explained that Namjoon's condition has been detected far later than was desirable, and that treatments had included invasive surgery and aggressive rounds of chemotherapy, which had slowed, but not stopped the spread of tumors throughout his body. He said that Namjoon had displayed extreme physical and emotional resilience, but that his will to fight the disease overtaking his body had begun to wane with his strength and increasingly burdensome symptoms from both the cancer and its treatment.

At this point, Dr. Na turned to face Matt full on, and earnestly imparted to him while gesticulating at you. Matt's brow furrowed, and he nodded as he listened to the oncologist before turning serious eyes toward you. Kang Dae began to say something, but the doctor held up his hand while also turning his eyes toward you with an expectant gaze. 

    "Y/n," Matt began, interlacing his fingers as he often did when trying to choose his words carefully, "Dr. Na says that there is not a lot of research around treating cancer, especially at such an advanced stage, with the soulmate bond. There are accounts of it having seemingly miraculous effects on injury and illness, but none that have been objectively measured. It has been scientifically proven to a degree that soulmates bring about peak physical conditions in one another through the bond...over time. The thing the good doctor here really wants you to understand is that there is no guarantee that there is enough time in our situation. He says that bonding with him is going to be a major risk. If the treatment isn't successful and Namjoon should pass, that would mean your ultimate death soon after."

Matt's face had lost most of its stoicism. He looked deeply worried. He looked like he wanted you to get on a plane with him back to the States. He looked like he knew what you were going to do instead. You see, you had already thought about it - the possibility of death. You nodded.

     "Tell him I understand, Matt," you said calmly, "Tell him I'd like to meet Namjoon-ssi."

Matt stared at you for a beat, as if debating with himself before turning back to relay your message to Dr. Na. The oncologist nodded, and then turned to you and asked another question in Korean. The translator explained that the doctor wanted to know if you understood the basic implications of the soul-bond. You sighed. You did.  You knew that once bonded you would be reliant on each other for nourishment and survival until the end of your natural lives, and that the bond once established was irreversible. You knew the bond was initiated and maintained through skin-to-skin contact. You knew that the bond changed your body chemistry to no longer need food or water, and that food would eventually be rejected by the body like poison. You knew these things because you had done extensive research, not because anyone in the company asking for you to give over your body and soul had tried to make you aware. They had been interested in matters of signatures and compensation. How considerate of someone to ask you now, you thought with some contempt. You wondered what Namjoon knew, what he had been told, what he had been asked. 

     "I would like to meet my soulmate now," you said suddenly, cutting through the exchange between Dr. Na and Kang Dae.

All eyes turned on you, leaving in half-finished sentences a wake of mild surprise. "I know what I'm getting into on my end of things. You had expressed before that time was of the essence and I would like to be brought to him now."

Matt relayed your response to the group, and the doctor nodded. Soon you were being handed a hospital gown, and a sports bra, underwear, and socks from your suitcase - that you realized with a bit of alarm and indignation, you had not given anyone permission to retrieve - and were instructed to shower and change into these items. 

     You slipped into the bathroom and sank down on the closed toilet, dropping your head onto the little bundle of clothes in your arms.  In your first few moments alone in over twenty-four hours, everything was beginning to hit like a volley of arrows. Agendas, agendas. Hybe wanted your soulmate. The hospital wanted to beat his cancer. You wanted to help him live. But what did he want? Had anyone asked? Would he be honest, if they did? Not for the first time, something squeezed in your chest at the thought of him. But this time, it was stronger. Your head shot up from your lap. You had somewhere to be.

    After a quick and thorough wash-up, you padded into the hall where the little group awaited you. You were self-conscious in your limited attire, and you stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the next as people murmured in Korean. A nurse, who had joined the small throng, approached you, slipping a hospital bracelet with your name and Hangul characters and little numbers around your wrist and handing you a pair of grey slippers. Matt turned to you.

    "This is it, kiddo. You're going to go with Dr. Na and have your vitals taken, have some blood drawn, and then you'll go meet him."

Matt sighed deeply, his eyes searching yours. He took a backward glance and stepped just a bit closer, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"You sure about this?"

You nodded.

    "Yes, Matt, I'm sure."

He pulled his mouth in into a tense line, his brows drawing together.

    "That face you're making, that defiance in your eyes," his hand fell from your shoulder, "You could be his twin. I know I can't change your mind now. Nothing could."

You gave a knowing smile. He wasn't wrong. 

    "I'm gonna be okay, Matt. I'll see you tomorrow. Call my mom and tell her things went fine. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Matt scratched the back of his head, regarding you thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. He bent to press a kiss to your forehead, and turned to make his polite goodbyes.

    The nurse ushered you down the hall and into a room that looked a little more like a typical hospital room with a gauze-covered table, a scale, and other vaguely familiar machines and equipment. After she had collected the desired data and taken a vial of your blood, she made a page in Korean, and then motioned for you to follow her. She took you down another series of passages and finally, when you were sure Theseus himself couldn't have found his way back, she stopped in front of a large steel door and scanned her badge.

Room number 594.

The door opened on its heavy hinges, swinging slowly inward. Your heart was hammering in your chest. You realized the moment you crossed the threshold  that you didn't have your things. You didn't have your phone, or your bag, or the book that was inside it, or what was between the pages of the book.

You thought about pear-shaped Italian cheese as you crossed through the kitchen area.

You thought about little Diana trying to stop your mother from crying as she lay on the floor of the kitchen, body shaking with sobs, as you moved into large open room at the end of the suite.

And then, there he was. It was all you could do not to gasp.

    You would never have recognized him for the man in the photo Diana had shoved into your face last week. Sitting propped up in a large hospital bed, he was covered up to the waist in blankets. His frame, though unmistakably large, was gaunt, and his white tee draped around him like something that used to fit - patches and wires visible across his chest through the cotton fabric. His long arms were thinner than they should have been, ashy, and littered with bruises. His head leaned back against the pillows, he wore a black beanie low on his brow, but not low enough to hide the naked skin where his eyebrows had been. His full lips were chapped and parted as he labored somewhat to breathe. The doctor was speaking to a tall man in a black tee and jeans beside the bed. Namjoon was watching them, until, suddenly, his gaze flicked to you. Your breath caught in your chest. His eyes were unchanged. Something flooded your veins.

    "I need to speak with Namjoon-ssi, please," you said abruptly, turning to the doctor and the man beside him.

They looked at you, quizzically. You cleared your throat to speak again, slower and more firmly.

"Could I be alone with him, for a moment? I need to speak with him before we begin."

The doctor turned to say something to the tall man, but a voice from the hospital bed addressed them in a soft, deep timbre. The tall man glanced at you and then at Namjoon and replied. They held a short exchange before both he and the doctor filed reluctantly out of the room, taking the nurse with them.

Namjoon sat further up in the bed, his face contorting in pain as you approached him. You stood a few feet from where he sat, your hands inexplicably itching to reach out for him. You clasped them behind your back.

    "Hello," he, rasped.

Even the hoarseness couldn't hide the warmth of his voice. You thought his eyes and his voice must be made of the very same stuff. You were suddenly a different kind of nervous. You didn't even register your own initiative to speak as the question came tumbling out.

    "Do you want to live?"

Your soulmate blinked in surprise.

    "What?"

You took a breath and repeated yourself, this time with intention.

    "Do you want to live?" You asked again. "I know there are plenty of people who want you too, but I want to know what you want."

He regarded you in intent silence for a long moment.

    "Yes," he said finally, his cadence thoughtful and deliberate, "Yes, I want to live. I wasn't sure I did, but I do. I do now."

You exhaled a little breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. 

    "Okay, good," you nodded, looking away from his intent gaze as you fought, again, the surging urge to reach for him.

His lips quirked into a little smirk at your reaction.

    "I was going to ask you a question too, but after introductions," those eyes caught yours again, teasingly, and the little smile deepened just a bit, pressing a dimple into his sunken cheek.

The misery he was living in and he was teasing you? You felt something flutter a little in your chest which you willed yourself to ignore.

    "I'm sorry," you bit back a smile, glancing away a bit bashfully, "I just needed to know that you had agency over what was happening here, that it was what you wanted. If no one else was going to give you that choice...well, I was."

He regarded you silently again before addressing you.

    "It's good to meet you, Y/n-ssi. I'm Kim Namjoon."

You couldn't suppress a smirk at his stubbornness, and at the fact that he already knew your name, like you knew his.

    "It's good to meet you, too, Namjoon-ssi," you replied softly.

He suddenly leaned back in the bed, wincing, his chest heaving a bit. You looked over at the heart monitor that beeped beside him to see that his pulse was rising.

    "Should I call in the doctor?" You asked in concern.

He shook his head weakly. 

    "Not yet," he pressed out, with effort. "I...need...to know..."

You stepped closer to hear him.

    "Know what?" He closed his eyes , bringing a hand over his chest as the beeping slowed.

    "You...could...die...trying to..." he broke into a bought of coughs that was obviously painful. Once he had caught his breath, he rasped, "Are you sure, Y/n-ssi?"

    "Yes," you answered without hesitation. "Yes, I'm sure. This is my choice. I'm sure."

He opened his eyes. You held each other in a silent gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something. He didn't. He merely nodded and asked,

    "You ready, then?"

You met his questioning gaze with a wry smile and what you hoped were steady eyes as you answered.

    "Ready as I'll ever be."

    After the staff had returned to the room, the tall man in plainclothes introduced himself as Sejin, Namjoon's manager. He gave you a deep bow, which you returned, thanking you in practiced English for agreeing to bond with the idol - something that made you uncomfortable all the way down to your bones, and which you tried to dismiss without being impolite. The doctor spoke to Namjoon at some length, gesticulating to you several times. Sejin nodded along as the nurse typed notes onto her tablet.

You felt a bit frustrated, being on the outside of what so immediately concerned you. You were on the verge of asking for Matt to be brought in when Namjoon turned to you. 

    "The doctor says that while he understands first touch is an intimate experience, that he and two nurses will need to be present to monitor my vitals. My heart is on the weaker side these days."

He looked almost contrite as he said it and your chest squeezed. You nodded understandingly. He might be your soulmate, but you knew this wasn't a meet-cute. This was clinical. What was about to happen between you was a treatment. The doctor continued, and a nurse came around the bed to where you stood and waited expectantly as Namjoon turned to you, this time with an unmistakably apologetic look on his drawn features.

    "Dr. Na says that if first contact goes smoothly, we'll need to begin treatments aggressively, which means as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. I guess they want us both in just undergarments."

Ah, hence the hospital gown.

You felt heat creep up your neck. Under any other circumstances you would have been upset at the lack of privacy of it all, but these weren't like any circumstances you had ever been prepared to anticipate. You were going to have to figure the boundaries out as you went.

The nurse beside you rolled up a chair for you to sit in beside the bed, facing Namjoon. She untied and tugged the top of your hospital gown down to place a heart monitor on your chest, your soulmate respectfully averting his gaze.

When all the necessary preparations had been made, you found yourself sitting in a swivel chair cranked up to reach the height of the hospital bed, socked feet not touching the ground. You were facing Namjoon, who kept sitting forward, much to the chagrin of the nurses who kept gently but impatiently guiding him back against the pillows. You felt a sick feeling creep into the pit of your stomach as you glanced at the second nurse wheel in a defibrillator. How bad could this possibly be? Would it hurt? You steeled yourself as Namjoon sat forward again, turning up the palm of his large right hand which rested on the covers beside you.

    "It's time," he murmured softly, eyes on you as you gave one more glance to the doctor, who nodded, and giving in to an urge you had kept at bay since you entered the room you slipped your hand into his.

    A jolt shot through your body like an intense electric pulse. It hurt, like relentless aftershocks of overstimulation to sensitive flesh...and yet if felt good. So good. You had instinctively pulled to yank your hand away from the pure surprise of it, but you had tugged yourself back to no avail. You opened your eyes (you hadn't remembered closing them) to see Namjoon, head thrown back against the pillows, lips parted and eyes screwed shut as he clutched your hand in a vice grip. You glanced at the heart monitor spitting out beeps consistent with well over a hundred beats per minute. Was that yours or his? But you couldn't very well hold a coherent thought in your mind as warmth began to flood your body, followed by a tingling sensation that seemed to fizzle up from the base of your spine and trickle down your limbs.

Raising suddenly heavy eyes, you realized that you were swaying a bit on your feet. When did you stand? And you were much, much closer to Namjoon - your hand was curling around the base of his bicep, your elbow in his palm, as you pressed every possible square centimeter of your bare arm to his. His eyes were open now and he was looking at you as his chest rose and fell. You returned his gaze, unfocused, drunk on the sensations spreading through your being.

You blinked as you heard the doctor speak, but neither of you tore your eyes away, and as if in a trace, as the nurses helped you out of your clothes, and you crawled into the bed and slotted yourself against his side, stretching out your right arm to wrap around his torso. Every aspect of the feeling grew impossibly stronger, the pleasure factor so high that it felt somehow wrong to be experiencing this with a total stranger in a hospital room surrounded by others. You felt Namjoon let out a shuddering breath. His arms had snaked around you.

The last thing you remembered before falling into a delirium was the nurse pulling the covers over your bodies.

    When you awoke, or rather, came to, you felt wrong. You rubbed hazy eyes to find yourself on a little cot. Before you could even wonder where you were or how you got there, the events of the previous day came flooding back.

Holy shit, you thought, you were in Korea. You had met your soulmate - and bonded with him. 

When had you even fallen asleep? The last thing you remembered was climbing into Namjoon's bed. Your heartbeat quickened. First touch had been...something else. An image of your soulmate gripping your hand with his head thrown back flashed through your mind.

No, don't, you thought, and pushed yourself to sit up.

In your attempt to move, you quickly realized that the wrongness you felt was that you were incredibly weak. It was a strange sort of weakness, however, one that left you feeling exhausted with every tiny move but wasn't accompanied by any sort of discomfort. In fact, you felt like you were floating on a cloud, if only one you couldn't find the strength to roll off. 

You were back in your hospital gown. There was a small table to your left with a lamp, a little vase of flowers, and white telephone. To your left was a machine much like the one you had seen beside Namjoon's bed beeping away, a little green line spiking and dropping across the monitor. A long curtain stretched across the space in front of you. You needed to pee.

As you moved to get off the cot, a sting of pain shot through your right arm at the inner joint and you realized that you had missed the IV drip beside the heart monitor. Clamping the IV stand you rose precariously on wobbly legs. You shuffled wearily forward, pulling the curtain back to reveal the other half of the room...and your soulmate.

He was sitting in bed, over the covers, in a heather grey tee and navy blue sweats, bare feet crossed at the ankles. He was still wearing the beanie, and his head was dipped down, immersed in the book he was holding open in his lap. The mid-morning sun spilled through the open window, bathing the suite in a pale yellow that blanketed generic seating furniture and a small bookshelf topped with a bonsai tree and painted clay figurine beside the bed, but left the abstract art piece on the opposite wall in relative shadow.

You were about to retreat back behind the curtain when a wheel of your portable IV stand betrayed you with a squeak. You pulled the curtain hurriedly shut, but too late.

    "Hello?" You heard him call softly.

His voice sounded better, you thought. Not nearly as raspy. You must look like shit, you also thought. Oh well, you needed to get past him to look decent anyway. And to pee. And he was going to see you probably every day for the rest of your life, so, bashfulness regarding your morning mug was definitely a waste of emotional energy. You heaved a sigh, and slowly pulled back the curtain, peeking through as you advanced a step.

    "I didn't want to disturb you," you fibbed, clutching the IV stand.

    "You're not disturbing me," he responded, shutting his book.

He was looking at you with a soft expression, reserved, but still warm. He looked a lot better than yesterday, too; it was unmistakable. His skin had lost a great deal of its previously ashy quality and the bruises on his arms had nearly vanished. His lips were no longer chapped, and, you noted, were full and naturally deep in color. His face looked less wane, though still thin, his shirt still hanging loosely over his chest and broad, sloping shoulders.

    "You look a little better," you urged, hoping to justify your prolonged stare.

He smiled. You were quickly reminded like a sock to the gut how pretty his smile was. 

    "I feel better," he concurred, "Thanks to you."

You looked down at your feet awkwardly. You had never been good at receiving praise or gratitude.

    "Oh...I'm glad," you mumbled. 

    "How do you feel?" he asked.

You raised your gaze back up to meet his, a wry smile tugging at your lips. 

    "Probably about as good as I look," you rejoined.

He pulled his smile into a tight line, eyes creasing. You thought maybe that was what he looked like when he was trying not to laugh. Suddenly you felt your bladder demand priority of attention.

    "Well, I'm gonna...get ready. For the day," you motioned, quickly realizing you had nothing to change into, and slipped back into the little room behind the curtain.

Scanning the space, you noted your suitcase and bag against the wall. You filled your bag with the essentials and a change before popping back out into the other half of the room on your way to the bathroom. You noticed out of the corner of your eye that Namjoon glanced at you before looking down at his book again, and you ignored the tight feeling in your chest one more time.

    Your mom had always said that a hot shower could make a person reborn, and by golly you figured she was right. You felt life seeping back into your limbs slowly but surely as the warm water poured over your body. As always, hot water and steam against white tile oiled cogs of your mind.

Clearly, the bond had served Namjoon well. You were anxious to know what a medical assessment would report. Your own exhaustion confused you, however. Wasn't the bond supposed to nourish you, rejuvenate you? When would you stop needing food? How often would you need to practice skinship now that you were bonded? And what would that look like? A thousand questions filled your mind as you massaged your scalp. You made a mental note to write a list of questions for the doctor.

    Once you had finished your morning routine, you felt infinitely more prepared to face the day. You changed into a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. As you shuffled back toward your room, you noticed Namjoon bent over the bonsai, tiny scissors in hand. A nurse was typing on a tablet on the other side of the bed.

    "Um, Namjoon," you asked, as you paused.

He startled a bit as he looked up at you, dropping the little scissors and cursing under his breath. The nurse peeked over and when she had seemingly assessed that no damage had been done, she smirked.

    "At least no bonsai limbs were lost this time," she murmured.

Namjoon slipped the scissors into a little leather pouch.

    "Hilarious," he deadpanned, then turned his attention back to you, "Sorry, did you ask me something?"

    "Actually," you blinked in surprise, "I was going to ask you to ask the nurse, but I guess I can ask her myself this time."

The nurse smiled at you. 

    "Ganhosanim, this is Y/n-ssi," Namjoon said, addressing the woman. She gave you a bow which you returned.

    "Annyeonghaseyo," she greeted you, "I'm Nurse Cha and I'll be your attending on most days. Please feel free to speak to me in English," she smiled.

You felt a weight lift off your shoulders. While you had been studying Korean furiously ever since your decision had been made, having medical personnel you could communicate with at this stage without having to rely on Namjoon to translate for you was a welcome relief. 

    "If you have a minute, I have some questions? Or, I will, once I write them down. Could I just put my stuff away and come right back?" You asked eagerly. She nodded, still typing away on the tablet. You dropped your bag beside your suitcase, which you tossed on the bed and unzipped to extract a pen and a notebook with three little bees embossed into the cover. You donned your slippers and crossed back over to Namjoon's side. He was sitting on the bed again, and nurse Yun was examining one of his arms. You plopped down in an armchair beside the bookshelf. 

    "Nice bonsai," you remarked, trailing your eyes over the intricate geometric patterns of its shallow stone pot.

    "Nice journal," he replied. "Moleskin?"

You nodded, holding it up to show him the front.

    "It has bees," you said with solemnity, as if the whimsy of the endearing was something to be taken quite seriously, and Namjoon hummed in grave assent. Nurse Cha glanced between you, a smirk at the corner of her mouth.

    "You said you had some questions, Y/n-ssi?" She offered.

    "Yes," you began, scribbling a few down in the pages in your lap before beginning. "Firstly wha- Oh! What happened to me yesterday? Did I pass out?" You interrupted yourself to ask.

    "Yes," she replied. "While the bonding was successful, and the skinship was highly rejuvenating for Namjoon, it appears that you were giving more than you were getting from a physiological standpoint, and while the effect was still probably similar to you on a cellular level, you were disproportionate in your transfer of energy. We've put you on an IV drip for now to ensure you're getting the replenishment your body needs regardless of food intake."

You jotted down a few lines of notes.

    "Okay, makes sense. Now, moving on to the food thing - we're still eating, right?"

Nurse Cha began typing on her tablet as she responded.

    "Yes. However, there is great boidiversity as to when and what people start rejecting as far as food goes. The average point of solid food rejection begins around two weeks after bonding. Generally, bonded individuals are still able to consume water and distilled alcohols, though they become unable to experience taste."

    "Does alcohol have the same...effect?" Namjoon spoke up from the bed.

    "An intensified one, actually," she responded, "Being a bonded mate means rediscovering your tolerance, and caution is of course advised. We've actually taken blood panels to alert us of any food sensitivities you may have. These should be immediately eliminated from your diet, as the rejection symptoms can be more severe in cases of late-stage ingestion with these items. The doctor will be in later to review those results with you."

    "Okay. And how often will we need to practice skinship, and are we going to need to initiate it ourselves or are we going to be on a schedule?"

    "I was wondering about that too," Namjoon said, adjusting his beanie.

    "The doctor will go over that with you as soon as he arrives in a little while as well. I know I'm scheduled to update your charts every six hours, so I'm sure there will be some guidance involved at first."

You quickly glanced up at Namjoon and then down at your lap. A warmth spread through your chest as you tried to keep your eyes on your notes and off of his bare arms. You were having those stupid urges to latch onto him again. Your hand twitched around your pen. You wondered what his thoughts were on your next session.

Just then, Dr. Na entered the room. He greeted both of you warmly and Nurse Cha took over relaying the consultation in English.

The oncologist was very optimistic about the effect of the soulmate bond on Namjoon, saying that his vitals had stabilized, his pain levels were lower than they'd been in weeks and the inflammation in his body had decreased significantly. He stressed that, while these were good signs, they were not a guarantee that the skinship was treating the cancer, and that they would have to take scans after a time to see if the tumors had were in fact shrinking.

He reviewed your blood panel results, letting you know that from that point forward you were to avoid consuming nightshades while communicating to Namjoon that he hadn't tested positive for any food sensitivities. He showed you a chart dictating when and how long you should practice skinship each day, beginning with a session immediately following the consultation. He cautioned you to alert medical staff if during a session you began to feel overly-drain, as they did not want you coming to the point of fainting again. You were removed from your IV drip.

    After the doctor had taken his leave, Nurse Cha fixed you with additional monitors, instructed you both to strip down to your maximum level of comfortability for the session, and departed. Once you were down to bra and panties, you climbed up into the huge hospital bed to join Namjoon, who once again kept his gaze trained anywhere but your side of the bed as you slipped under the covers and pressed yourself into his side.

Suddenly it was as if you had slipped into a warm bath under the influence of champagne. You closed your eyes and sank into the incredible sensation of his touch. His skin was like a warm cup of tea on the coldest day of the year. Like the first refreshing moments of a plunge into cool water at the height of summer. It was everything wonderful all at once, and you were so caught up in the sensation that you were barely cognizant of a tiny moan escaping your lips. 

Horrified, you bit down on your bottom lip and prayed to all that was sacred that Namjoon hadn't noticed. His immediate soft laughter, however, betrayed him, and you felt your face burning with embarrassment - beads of sweat pricking on your forehead as you covered your face with a different kind of groan.

    "Sorry," you murmured, ruefully.

    "Nah, I get it," Namjoon chuckled, his chest rumbling under your cheek. "If it feels as good for you as it does for me, then that's the correct response."

You allowed yourself to giggle a bit in turn.

    "I'm glad it's already helping," you remarked, and you felt him turn his head as if he was looking down at you.

He was silent for a beat before addressing you again.

    "Everything happened so quickly yesterday, I didn't even get a chance to thank you."

    "For what?" you countered, even though you knew exactly where he was headed with this.

    "For leaving your life behind and coming to Korea to give a stranger a chance at his. I'm going to spend the rest of my time making it up to you."

You felt your chest tighten. You pushed yourself up on one arm and turned to face him. The sheet fell down your upper body as you moved, but you were too intent on looking him in the face to notice. 

    "Namjoon, you're not a charity case. I didn't do this so that you would owe me something. This is a choice I made. All mine. So relieve yourself of any debt you may feel you owe me. We're bound by circumstance, but you're a free man in every sense of the word. I won't be a burden you bear any more than you wish to be one to me."

If you had been looking through his eyes, you would have seen yourself, pressed up out of the sheets with all the modesty of a sea nymph, your features glowing with the effects of the bond and fixed with a splendid kind of resoluteness and soft defiance. But, you saw it from your own, taking in the quiet shock on Namjoon's features that slowly morphed into something you couldn't place. Not yet. You didn't know him well enough.

After regarding you blinkingly, he looked at you with earnest eyes and gave a nod.

    "I accept those terms," he assented, and you believed him.

You thought maybe you'd believe anything he said, and, suddenly aware of the bareness of your torso under the intentness of his gaze, you slipped back down against his side.

    "I noticed you dropped the honorifics," he murmured teasingly.

You glanced back up at him.

    "Oh...sorry, I'm not used to it. I can -"

    "It's alright," he interjected, "I think we should be familiar. It will make things easier, right? Only if you want, though," he quickly added.

    "Yeah, no, I agree," you answered, shifting to press your leg more fully against his, and smiling to yourself as you keyed up your next remark.

"And I'm only your noona by a little bit anyway, so no need to call me that..."

This time a loud laugh burst out of him that shook your head enough for you to roll away and shoot him a look as he brushed a hand over his eyes in amusement. You smiled as you took in his dimpled cheeks and crescent eyes, and nearly didn't notice the voice speaking in bemused and startled Korean at the mouth of the hall. It was Namjoon who looked up first.

    "Yah!" He called in indignation and warning as you followed his gaze to catch but a glimpse of two young men, badly repressing snickers as they bolted back down the hall to the entry of the suite. 

Namjoon sighed sharply and turned to you with and apologetic expression.

    "I'm so sorry, those idiots are my friends. They're used to coming and going as they please to visit me - which, obviously now they can't just barge in unannounced."

He slipped out of bed, and you glanced away as he pulled on sweats and a shirt.

"I'll tell them to come back at a better time."

    "No, no!" you protested, "Just let me get decent. I want to meet them."

Namjoon paused as he kicked on his slippers. 

    "You sure?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

    "Yeah, yeah. I know we're still on skinship time, but, maybe we can just...hold hands? I mean, as long as you're okay with it..."

Namjoon's mouth slipped into a wry grin as he glanced down to the other end of the suite. 

    "Yeah, I'm fine with it. I apologize in advance if they can't be."

You gave a confused shrug as Namjoon picked up his phone and crossed into the vestibule area to give you the privacy to change. You pulled your leggings and sweatshirt back on and perched yourself cross-legged on the hospital bed, listening with amused anticipation as Namjoon spoke in exasperated Korean on the other side of the wall. You heard the door and three sets of footsteps accompanied by giggles and shushing, and then your soulmate emerged, all but herding the two young men preceding him into the room.

You immediately recognized the strapping, dark-haired one with the leporine smile as Jungkook, the young man who had accompanied Hybe's representation to visit you on Namjoon's behalf. The other young man you also recognized from internet images as one of the members, though you couldn't recall his name. He was shorter than Jungkook, though not by as much as he should have been due to the significance of his heeled boots. What he lacked in height he made up for in athletic build and voluptuously beautiful facial features. He shook his honey blonde hair out of his eyes, earrings tinkling as he regarded you with a coy smile.

    "Ijjogeun Y/n-ieo. Y/n, this is Jungkook and Jimin," Namjoon said, gesturing to each of the members as they made polite bows. 

    "Annyeonghaseyo," you said, returning their bows deeply, "Mannaseo bangapseumnida - dasi mannaseo bangabseubnida, Jungkook-ssi."

Jungkook flashed a blinding smile, round eyes wide and sparkling.

    "It's good to see you again too, noona," he answered in English. Namjoon's brow creased as he glanced between you and the young man you had been originally introduced to as the maknae of BTS.

    "You've met?" he asked. You nodded.

    "Jungkook was one of the people who came to meet me in the US when your company made the proposition," you explained. "He spoke very, very highly of you. His reference of your character was one of the major contributing factors toward my decision to come."

You smiled softly at Jungkook. Namjoon nodded, brow still drawn, as he pressed his tongue into the side of his cheek, jaw clenched and jutting forward, as he clapped the youngest on the shoulder. You thought Jungkook's eyes were just a bit glassy as the two shared a look that seemed to hold a lifetime of history. Jimin regarded the two with sentimentality before returning his gaze to you, again full of enigmatic mischief. The blonde took a step toward you, then turned on his booted heal, saying something to Namjoon in Korean.

You cocked your head to the side, glancing at your soulmate.

    "He said I look a lot better already," Namjoon said, eyeing Jimin warily as the younger man continued speaking, flashing you a devilish grin. Jungkook pulled his pierced lower lip between his teeth as he glanced between Namjoon and Jimin. You looked again to Namjoon expectantly.

    Awkwardness radiated from him as he deflected saying Jimin was just making fun, and he shot the younger man a look that unmistakably communicated his lack of amusement. Namjoon made another remark in Korean, and joined you back on the bed, hesitating only a moment before he took your hand in his.

You saw his shoulders sag in relief as he breathed a sigh through his nose at the contact. You had to restrain your own reaction, glancing down shyly as to avoid the two pairs of eyes trained in rapt curiosity on you from the end of the bed. Namjoon continued to speak with them, translating between you when your limited Korean wasn't sufficient, and gradually your awkwardness eased in the comfortable presence that emanated between your soulmate and his members.

As the visitors were about to take their leave, Jimin trained you with a newly serious look, leaning against the edge of the bed, and glancing at Namjoon as he spoke in what you could decipher was gratitude. 

    "He says they're all so grateful to you and glad to have you with us," Namjoon translated. You noticed his thumb slide over the back of your hand as he said it. So did Jimin, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth as he eyed where your digits were intertwined.

    "Ah," you said awkwardly, "No thanks necessary, we're in this together, right?"

You pulled your hand from Namjoon's and in an attempt to raise your arm and give him a nonchalant pat on the back, you backhanded him directly in the face. 

Namjoon's hand flew up to his cheek and the two younger members erupted in laughter. You apologized profusely, trying to make sure Namjoon could hear you over Jungkook's wheezing and Jimin's shrieks of what you were pretty sure was "oh shit, there are two of them". When Namjoon had assured you that he was perfectly fine and the other two had composed themselves, you said your goodbyes. As soon as they were out the door, Namjoon was apologizing.

    "It's fine," you smirked with a shrug, "That's friends for you. I would have been concerned if they hadn't poked a little fun. I like them. I want to meet the rest of them."

Namjoon slipped back up onto the bed and intertwined his hand with yours as he glanced down, a pensive look on his face.

    "There's a lot of people you need to meet," he said quietly, thoughtfully.

You studied him as he continued to look down at your joined hands.

"In fact," he continued, "There was someone I was hoping you could meet tomorrow. Someone we should sit down...and talk with."

You nodded, regarding him intently.

"Her name is Kim Hyung-seo," he continued, "She's my fiancée."

AN: Yeah, sorry to drop that at the end and peace out. 😁✌

Tag list: @butterymin @little-dark-empress @aretha170 @kamilamb @jlee97 @thephotoend @callmenoona25

#kim namjoon #knj #bts #kim namjoon fanart #knj fic #namjoon fic #bts fics #namjoon soulmate #soulmate au #bts soulmate au #namjoon x y/n #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #bts reader insert #reader insert #eventual relationship #eventual smut #eventual romance #strangers to lovers #idol au #slow burn

[sophieinwonderland]

u have a v distinct way of doing things and i am v aware of it so i play by ur methods. i will take this excessively diplomatically so no one can possibly misconstrue my words

i made the original post ab this whole thing. in spite of having been labeled as anti endo (and a singlet for some reason) i’m not rly. i have been involved in the plural community long before my DID dx and my last bf was a veritbonder. i have seen the endo community from the inside and don’t have issues w it.

my problem is the disingenuous nature of many syscoursers, and you are not excluded from this. i could do the same thing as you have done and explain why i think PNES should just be called regular seizures and they’re exactly the same now. there are many sources where they have been called seizures for years and years. but language changes, and i know you know this. it is one of your whole arguments as to why you are for the use of tulpa. to you, that word means something different than its origins.

to me, as a bodily semiverbal person, these terms mean something different. these words have evolved within the community that they were applied to. the system community, both endogenic and traumagenic, is dissociated (ha) from the semi/nonverbal community at large. you don’t know how we use these words because you literally do not participate in our community or culture. just like someone who commented on one of your other posts said, this is exactly like when verbal autistics who lose speech insist that saying “go nonverbal” doesn’t hurt nonverbal people.

as i said in my original post, and yet people somehow become unable to read for one sentence, if one headmate fronts for a significant amount of time that you could be considered semiverbal as one body, then you can do that. you are very disingenuous with your “bodily experiences” post, even though i am very sure you understand what people mean by that. my entire body regardless of any headmate fronting will always be semiverbal or nonverbal as my brain damage progresses. i use these words to tell people that as a body i cannot speak how you speak. if i had some headmates that couldn’t talk i would just say that. those specific ones can’t talk. my body is verbal overall.

if you go into our communities, we will hear you say “i am nonverbal” and will assume that your body does not and cannot speak. we will defer to you and seek to uplift your voice as one of the most disabled members of our society. our community is based around intersectionality and understanding that there are people more disabled than you. it is the job of verbal people to listen to me, and it is my job to listen to nonverbal people.

if you use these terms just for yourself. just between you and your therapist. between you and your friends. then no, it doesn’t matter. it was never about that. it is about the community and community implications of people who are objectively less disabled taking a word for people who are more so.

headmates can be people, they can do that, but a single body exists. you can’t just ignore that. i don’t become white when my white headmate fronts. i don’t gain the ability to walk unaided when abled headmates front. i don’t become less disabled in any way. i don’t become verbal.

and if you want to counter with abled systems can have alters that can’t walk, because i know you just want to, we don’t call it paralysis. we call it functional, somatic, or psychogenic paralysis. it works differently in the body just the same. you can’t insert yourself into semi/nonverbal spaces any more than you can insert yourself into a SCI support group.

i could do the same thing as you have done and explain why i think PNES should just be called regular seizures and they’re exactly the same now. there are many sources where they have been called seizures for years and years. but language changes, and i know you know this.

I'm already lost...

Is there some sort of discourse claiming that you can't call psychogenic non-epileptic seizures... seizures?

and if you want to counter with abled systems can have alters that can’t walk, because i know you just want to, we don’t call it paralysis. we call it functional, somatic, or psychogenic paralysis.

Or that psychogenic paralysis isn't a valid type of paralysis?

The cause may be different, but there are a ton of different causes for various conditions.

Someone blinded by an eye disease is blind. Someone blinded by their eyes being physically damaged is blind. Someone who experiences psychogenic blindness is blind.

Likewise, psychogenic paralysis IS paralysis. And a psychogenic non-epileptic seizure IS a seizure. You can add a qualifier to that... but it's not necessary.

if you go into our communities, we will hear you say “i am nonverbal” and will assume that your body does not and cannot speak.

That could be a fair assumption with no context. Although I... frankly doubt this happens often, or is a mistake that lasts long without being corrected.

If someone hears me say "I'm a cis woman" without context, I'm sure they would wrongfully assume I mean that the body is AFAB.

Obviously, it's important to try to mitigate miscommunications like these. But I assume that if you're dealing with a system with nonverbal headmates, you'll realize shortly the error. Unless that nonverbal headmate is the host or is otherwise fronting all or most of the time, in which case... maybe the miscommunication isn't as important as you think it is. 🤷‍♀️

our community is based around intersectionality and understanding that there are people more disabled than you. it is the job of verbal people to listen to me, and it is my job to listen to nonverbal people.

And this, I think is a mistake. At least when taken to the extremes I see here.

First... I'm really not comfortable with the idea of "more disabled" here. Sure, you can kind of apply this in specific contexts to try to say recurrent symptoms aren't as bad because they don't happen as often... but having your legs randomly give out while crossing the street might be more harmful than being a fulltime wheelchair user who wouldn't have been in that situation.

I'm also not comfortable with this thought in this specific case as it suggests that the nonverbal singlet is "more disabled" than the traumagenic DID system with severe memory loss and c-PTSD who has nonverbal headmates, and therefore gets a right to police their terms.

But let's say for the sake of argument this has merit and DID systems with nonverbal headmates are "less disabled" than nonverbal singlets:

Yes, you should absolutely listen to people with disabilities. Especially severe ones. But...

Dysphoric transgender people are technically more disabled (in that specific context) than non-dysphoric ones.

The same logic you're using could just as easily be used to support transmedicalists over non-dysphoric transgender people. Actually, the same logic HAS been used this way. Repeatedly. It's one of the main talking points employed by transmeds to garner sympathy.

There HAS to be more critical thought put into these issues than just "listen to the most disabled people in the room," which in this context really feels more like "accept what the most vocal members of a group say on a given platform without question."

This is also the logic sysmeds use against endogenic and non-disordered systems.

"We're disabled trauma survivors, so therefore you're supposed to listen to us when we claim this other marginalized group of people aren't real and their experiences aren't valid, and they aren't allowed to use terms we claim are ours regardless of whether those terms originally were or not. If you disagree with us then you're ableist."

We cannot afford to normalize this sort of exclusionism and gatekeeping.

#syscourse #neurodivergent #neurodiversity #actually neurodivergent #multiplicity #systems #system #plurality #plural #endogenic system #disability #mental health #nonverbal #sysblr #actually neurodiverse #asd #autism #pnes #psychogenic seizures #actually a system

[pet-shop-of-horror-fan]

Many people, myself included, separate disability into mental and physical, however, I have seen many talk about disability in a way that creates a Secret Third Category.

People will talk about physical disabilities as visible physical disabilities or by the need for a mobility aid.

Which is where the Secret Third Category comes in. If someone's chronic illness is debilitating but not visible, then where does that put them? What about the deaf and blind? They may or may not be visible and aids for deaf and blind people are not mobility aids. As well, visibility and the need for mobility aids can be fluid.

That's not even getting how we should categorize the likes of brain damage, seizures, and migraines.

To be clear, there is nothing wrong with talking about, or even focusing on, disabled people who are visibly physically disabled or those who need mobility aids. That's great! I am glad to see it become more common! And I am also sad to see so many disabled people attacked for talking about it!

But it harms the disabled community to speak as though all physically disabled people are visible and use mobility aids.

I have seen many people who are not able-bodied and do not think of themselves as such say they are not physically disabled because they are not visibly disabled and do not need a mobility aid.

It's not just about how you or I think we should define disability, it's that so many people are not noticing or thinking through the implications of their words and this has a real affect on the disabled community.

#disabled #ableism #physical disability

[spyramy]

Thinking about the layers in Harry's cataclysmic brain event at the start of Disco Elysium.

1. The surface layer: the man drank so much he gave himself brain damage and now contains only traces of his past self.

2. Except it's not him piloting this new start, instead the wheel is being given to someone else (the player) to fill in the blanks with their own preconceptions and intentions.

3. Having said which, there is no definitive 'Harry' to return to. Much as we gain and lose parts of ourselves everyday, and *learn* to be ourselves much more than we are ever born to be. And the skill tree mechanics, encouraging you to level up skills to reward your curiosity more than improve your gameplay, reflect this better than I've ever seen it done.

4. Apart from where alcohol is concerned, because Harry's chemical dependency breaks through and intercepts the player's game as Electrochemistry. One cannot forget one is an alcoholic. And the day one task "find booze and drink it" will remain with you all through the game if you choose not to fulfil it. Even if you internalise the "wasteland of reality" thought, essentially sobriety, that nerfs your skills and nullifies all gameplay effects from alcohol. It is still there.

5. On top of which, in the Church while you're dancing, a failed check will lead to Harry having a seizure, and learning that what killed his memory may run deeper than drinking yourself to brain damage. Or even that, knowing that he has some sort of epilepsy, he intentionally triggered a huge seizure through alcohol/drug overuse in an attempt to either die or "not be this animal anymore"

6. It also begs the question, is there something more seriously wrong with Harry? Some of his internal voices, like the Necktie, read more as psychosis than internal monologue. His ex wife describes him as 'crazy' so I think it's possible all this predates the incidents of the game. Is this illness fatal?

7. Even if he is a seriously ill man, it kinda hardly matters in the scope of the game in which The Pale is eating the world. Harry's condition may be the microcosm of this; a long neglected problem, exacerbated by human behaviour, encroaching in on a beautiful, complex, loving, imperfect experiment, while the inhabitants bicker and infight, unaware that it will all be over much sooner than they think.

8. NOT TO MENTION the implication that Revachol herself being deeply connected to Harry, that Harry is her instrument, she took control of him and bestowed upon him the grace of a clean slate. That very palpable spirit of Revachol watches over the whole game, and maybe that is who the player is supposed to be.

9. Other things about European romanticism and post-war and cold war shaping of European cities, identities, lives and legacies, and how I've never seen a game inhabit this so well. The craters in our cities are the craters in our souls etc etc. I literally have to stop now.

And there's a huge amount of dialogue options I have never seen that might give a whole heap of other perspectives...

#disco elysium #the pale encroaches

[trans-axolotl]

okay neurologist appointment scheduled for in two weeks. i get incredibly nervous going to the doctor (live laugh love medical trauma) and if anyone who has been to a neurologist before could tell me what type of questions to expect, what testing might happen, etc.

also if any Mad friends could provide insight about what the implications of disclosing that i had an eating disorder would be that would be appreciated--i am worried about my symptoms being dismissed as my eating disorder, despite the fact my disorderly eating has not been impacting my life for around a year now and i'm meeting my nutrition needs. my impulse is to not disclose, but i'm not sure if that is information that would actually be relevant.

for context: had a convulsive fainting episode, went to the ER, preliminarily they said it didn't look like seizures and was likely POTS, but neurologist follow up is to confirm all of this.

really wanting to make sure i'm prepared before i go in.

#personal #pots syndrome #chronic illness tag #eating disorder mention

[salembutnotthecat]

Salem's Sickfic Masterlist

Masterlist of Fics I have written!!

if you have a question, comment, concern, or a request, feel free to send it over!

End Zone, Endgame

i. one: in which despite being twenty five, linebacker novak daskalov has to come to terms with the fact he is not invincible, especially when he has a child in public school. (tw for emeto, fever, sickness; additional warning: sickee is a single dad with a daughter, who appears in the story, proceed as you wish.)

ii. two: in which novak learns that despite being a football player, a dad, and an adult in his twenties, the past can still haunt you, especially when you're coming down with something. (tw emeto, fever, character panic, mentions of past abuse)

iii (a). three, part a: in which novak learns that just because the past is past, does not mean his brain lets him off the hook. especially not with a raging fever and a hell of a virus. also, novak is a grown man who makes really poor decisions. (tw emeto, fever, flashbacks of abuse)

iii (b). three, part b: in which Novak is miraculously not too terribly injured (to an extent anyway) and his physical recovery turns into the beginning of emotional recovery too. (tw emeto, concussion mention, religious trauma, parental substance abuse mention)

iv. four: in which novak is fulfilling the duties of being a dad, but also has to realize that being a dad doesn’t make him invincible. (tw emeto, illness fever, content warning: fic begins with child illness, but is majority adult illness)

v. five: in which novak is away for a team building retreat, but the team gets built in a very different way when the star linebacker gets sick (tw emeto, fever, sick away from home)

vi. six: in which novak is stuck with a migraine that results in a seizure. vanessa uses the opportunity to learn more about her girlfriend's high school best friend. (tw emeto, fever, character seizure, migraine, implied past trauma)

vii. seven: in which Novak's girlfriend, Yuliya, plans a nice dinner date night, but Novak is very poor at communicating. (tw emeto, nausea, stomach pain, character not telling significant other about something)

viii. eight: in which it's novak's birthday, but as luck would have it, a proper dinner with family and his girlfriend is the last thing his body wants to have part in, celebration or not. (tw emeto, nausea, being sick in public)

ix. nine: in which even as a coach, not a player, novak still makes terrible decisions about his health, and his girlfriend is convinced he'll send her into cardiac arrest before they get married (affectionately)(tw cough, implied emeto, fever, character making themselves sicker)

Ruat Caelum (Until the Heavens Fall)

i. one: in which vanessa gets sick and almost loses it outside the house she shares with her roommate, willow. (tw for emeto, sickness, fever, nausea)

ii. two: in which we see fragments of vanessa's past, and how deeply she cares for willow. (tw for emeto, panic attack, fever)

iii. three: in which the tables have turned, and we see that even a med student isn't invincible. (tw emeto, vague implication of injury, fever)

iv. four: in which despite being in police gear, vanessa is the farthest thing from invincible despite her better desires. (tw emeto, fever, stress, slight panic)

v. five: in which willow's mom instinct meets her med student instinct, and vanessa is exceptionally confused and totally a cat person (tw emeto, fever)

Ballad of the Wildflowers

i. one: meadow likes to think she's invincible, as untouchable as poison ivy, but even the most vibrant wildflowers wilt once in a while. (tws for fever, nausea, vomiting, slight panic)

ii. two: in which, despite her efforts, meadow has to deal with one of her worst fears, even if she thinks it's stupid. (tw emeto, emetophobia)

Novemetober 2023 (Rescheduled)

big thanks to @monthofsick for hosting this event

i. day one, unconventional receptacle: in which chef emiliene lahaye overestimates her ability to keep herself together and has to utilize a last resort. (tw emeto, fever, underage (16) caretaker)

ii. day two, can't stop puking: in which a fresh out of college novak daskalov gets sick at the worst possible time with the worst possible people. (tw emeto, fever, sickness, pushing too hard when sick, bad environment)

iii. day three, torture (figurately speaking): in which amancio literally has not been sick in over a hundred years, but his special half-human protegee decided to give him a little taste of humanity (and amancio is not enthused at all) (tw for dry heaving, supernatural (not the show) characters, half ghost character, tw implied partial death)

iv. day four, messy: meadow loves to put on a show in every aspect of her life. even the less desirable moments. meadow also learns that it can always get worse. (tw emeto, fever, sickness, scat [in conjunction with emeto])

v. day five, undesirable caretaker: the (fictive) crown prince of sweden has far from a good life, or a good support system. no matter how bad things get. he's just a liability, isn't he? (tw emeto, fever, implied abusive parent) [so much appreciation for @simplysickness to entrust me with their characters so they can live on]

vi. day six, post adrenaline puking: in which caffeine is not medicine, no matter how hard motocross star xavier davenport tries to convince himself it is. (tw emeto, caffeine overload, brief/vague mention of mental health issues, bad coping mechanisms) [once again, sparrow has put their children in Salem's Foster Care System(tm)]

vii. day seven, too feverish to think: in which even in college novak has a severe lack of braincells and refuses to let himself quit anything until he's good and fucked (tw emeto, sickness, overwork, stress, panic attack, fainting)

viii. day eight, choose: loud or silent: in which novak still refuses to quit until he's undeniably fucked beyond a logical explanation, except he's a grown ass man now which has taken more braincells from him than it has given back. (tw emeto (small), migraine, hypersensitivity, character seizure)

ix. day nine, persistant sickness: in which no, novak does not learn his lesson and thinks he is invincible no matter what. he absolutely is not. (tw for migraine, emeto, seizures, character overworking themself.)

x. day ten, motion sickness: in which vanessa is sure nothing stresses her out. well, everything except one thing. and of course, that one thing will make her pay for being so worried in the first place. (tw for emeto, anxiety, motion sickness, brief description of crime scenes at the beginning)

xi. day sixteen, waking up puking: novak daskalov does not know his limits and is so absolutely stupid and cannot lie to his girlfriend for shit. (tw emeto, fever, exhaustion, seizure mention (but no actual seizures this time))

xii. day seventeen, sick for the first time: in which for once novak is in the caretaker position, which isn't exactly common, and even less so that it isnt someone related to him in a familial way, but he's determined to do the best job he can for his ice princess. (tw for emeto, fever, lying about sickness, mention of chronic condition (lyme disease))

xiii. day nineteen, sick in more ways than one: in which the summer heat does nothing for one linebacker in particular, on top of everything else (reupload with edits)(tw for overheating, emeto, dizziness, migraine mention, fever)

xiv. day twenty, late caretaker: vanessa mcallister is usually a loan wold. or, she used to be. but now she has a station pup, leaving her to be a lone wolf plus one, much like her coworker is. (tw for emeto, resistance, fever, sick on the job)

xv. day twenty-one, sleepy sickie: novak likes to lie about being okay and convincing himself and others he is, but unfortunately he has one massive tell that gives him away. (tw fatigue, nausea, vomiting)

xvi. day twenty-seven, headache: novak daskalov likes to think he has no enemies (well, very few). funny how the biggest enemy of all is his own damn body and self. (tw emeto, migraine, hypersensitivity/overstimulation, seizure)

#emeto #emeto fic #emeto cw #emeto tw #sickfic #fever cw #fever tw #seizure tw #seizure cw #sickfic writer #vomiting

[eagle-eyes-sideblog]

That Medical Anomaly

Summary

An AU where the reader is the subject of a secretive experiment that leaves them the perfect Player... among other things.

Possible triggering themes for this AU/story include medical trauma, descriptions of chronic illness, ableism, depression, and death. If I've handled anything insensitively, please let me know.

A more 'formal' introduction, along with rambling about my thought process, under the cut.

Self Aware MadCom belongs to @saltymongoose. The concept is really interesting to me, even aside from the xreader stuff (although it's definitely also that lmao). So I thought I might explore that a bit with a concept that's already been floating around my head for a bit. The world that the reader is from is deliberately left a bit vague, but it's sort of magical realism. Most relevant to this AU: there are things like doctors and computers existing alongside curses and other magical ailments.

Also, this doesn't really include much MadCom or SAMAU... Well, no interactions with the characters, anyways. It's mostly just an introduction to my ideas for this AU, so it describes more of what your life was like beforehand and how you found the series. Do also note that I've never played either M:PN game, so there might be some inaccuracies.

All that being said... enjoy!

~~~

You, along with several others, were the subject of an experiment when you were a teenager. It was so secretive, you were never even given the details of why it had been conducted. That, or you had forgotten, given that one of the major side effects of the experiment was memory loss.

The experiment itself was something about deliberately letting specific kinds of contagions into the subject's body. You knew a few of them were fungal, and many were magical in some way, although they were different for every experiment.

Apparently if they chose the right infections for the right subject and 'balanced' them properly with the individual's immune system... they would stabilize. This led to the subject gaining supernatural abilities based on whatever magical infections they had.

Of course, most of the subjects weren't so lucky. The various infections would usually just take their courses; often the combinations would very quickly kill the subject. Those that survived were left with permanent problems ranging from aphasia to compromised immune systems to seizures.

You were their star subject, the one better off than all the rest. The staff made sure to remind you of that every time you complained about anything. "Be grateful," they told you. "At least you can still speak. At least you're still recovering. At least you're still alive." They never said it out loud, but you heard the implication. All of this is only happening because of us.

Bullshit. You were only 'better off' because of sheer dumb luck. Had they succeeded? Maybe. But their idea of success didn't even take you into account.

And their idea of success still left you with problems. Yes, you have sharper senses now, and you can draw energy from more than just food. But you're face-blind, and your hands and feet are numb, and you sometimes hurt so badly that you can't walk.

Not to mention how unethical the experiment itself was. They didn't even study people who already had these conditions; they deliberately induced them. Hell, one of your roommates was six years old! Why they let her participate still bothered you today.

...But it wasn't all bad. You cherished the friends you'd made there, even if you'd lost contact with most of them.

Not just your fellow patients, either. Most of the staff were... annoying at the very least. But a few seemed to actually have your best interests in mind. For example, your favorite nurse, Max, recommended an animated series that might help take your mind off of things when you were in the depths of depression.

You very quickly fell in love with Madness Combat. The simple graphics, where characters were denoted by outfit and style rather than facial features, seemed perfect for you. You grew to adore Hank, Deimos, Sanford, Tricky, and every other character, getting invested in their fights even when nothing else made you happy.

And the episodes were just plain fun to watch. Even when you had issues with your memory, the fight scenes interested you more than enough to make up for it. The community, too, seemed to welcome you, and you came to cherish the friends you made there.

Not only that, but you found a little game on Newgrounds. Although your numb hands made it hard to play, it really did capture the things that made you adore Madcom to begin with. Your favorite nurse approved too; after all, it was an exercise in hand-eye coordination!

Naturally, you were beyond thrilled when Project Nexus came out. By that point, you'd already left the facility. And your memory had recovered enough to get well and truly obsessed with the lore.

You smiled, picking the Tourist difficulty and sitting back to watch the intro cinematic. This was going to be fun.

(Unbeknownst to you, it would also be much, much more than you bargained for.)

#reader insert #self aware m:pn au #that medical anomaly au #eagle eyed writing #madness combat x reader #do i dare maintag this #no probably not #btw name is taken from the medical anomaly #by really introverted producer (r.i.p) #it may change!! that song is just very good #i have more thoughts on this au but im eepy and shall go to bed now #samau

[glitchyred]

"(though honestly I have no idea why the implication that SoMS as a cheat code was seemingly created with the express purpose of traumatizing children isn't explored more in the fandom LMAO)" PLS talk more about this

Sure! The thing that always stood out to me about Snow on Mt Silver is the explicit implication from the title that this isn't like, a hack or cursed cheat code made by some weirdo, it's an "Easter Egg". You know, those secrets programmers put into games with the intent of eventually being found?

Creepy Easter eggs are not unusual even in Nintendo games, look at the ghost people throughout Pokémon or Mario Galaxy's Hell Valley Sky Trees, so that sort of thing was probably the inspiration for the phrasing. The thing is Easter eggs are usually some one-off thing that, if it's a spooky one, is meant to creep you out for a minute and doesn't serve much other purpose. Snow on Mt Silver is. Like. A whole Event.

It's definitely possible that whatever it was was scrapped or never meant to be found, given how its unlocked, but why was it ever made in the first place?? Why is it in the game in this hypothetical universe where it exists. What purpose did it serve. Aside from the contents of the Easter egg, it's clear that this has some form of Severe psychological side effects on the people who play it - the narrator's brother was put into a state of severe shock and the narrator themself was traumatized. Gore shit aside, the intense flashing patterns and extremely loud noises bring to mind hypnosis and brainwashing (on top of the obvious threat of seizures). Which again calls into question why this was meant to be found, at some point, by its players - the target demographic of grade schoolers.

I like to put SoMS in the same timeline as Lavender Town Syndrome and Ax Candle Rope even if they aren't really related because it creates this timeline of like. The Pokémon Company experimenting with brainwashing children. Kind of like Polybius. Throw in some other Nintendo creepypastas like Personalized Mario 64 and you can really have a field day with this hypothetical universe where Nintendo is straight up running psychological experiments on their playerbase LMAO

Anyway I like thinking about SoMS's game story in a vacuum as much as the next guy but i really wish people talked about the external story of it more because it has some uh. Implications

#and i think those implications can be interesting for the game's characters too. if ;blake didnt make that obvious #ask #snow on mt silver #infodumping tag

[serickswrites]

Whump One Shots

Here are all my one shots (can become series by request!) organized by theme (this is the first of many)

Whump

That Didn't Work Out as I Intended--TW: implied/referenced kidnapping; hurt/recovery; trauma response: flight and freeze

Definitely Not--TW: kidnapping, torture, future torture, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper

Just Watch--TW: kidnapping, confinement, creepy/intimate whumper

Let's Kiss--TW: noncon; assault, future assault, kidnapping, self-sacrifice, creepy/intimate whumper

You Can't Quit On Me Now--TW: kidnapping; blood; hospital; wounds; mild description of gore; major character injury; recovery and aftermath

Idiots--TW: referenced kidnapping; implied torture; helplessness

If I Have to Tell You Again--TW: kidnapping; creepy/intimate whumper, implied torture, noncon, defiant whumpee, conditioning

Horribly Wrong--TW: kidnapping; future/implied/referenced torture; beatings; restraint; forced to watch

A Mask--TW: kidnapping; blood; death; character death (temporary)

Impossible--TW: referenced torture; hurt/comfort; hurt/aftermath; recover/aftermath; reluctant whumpee; hospital

Kind of Fun--TW: suffocation; blood; creepy (not intimate) whumper; defiant whumpee

Moon--TW: blood, major character injury, restraints, captivity, stabbing, rescue, caretaker and whumpee

Stars--TW: mentions of torture (electrocution, beating, whipping, waterboarding), attempted drowning, bound, forced to watch 

Rain--TW: past abuse/torture, recovery/aftermath, conditioning, burns, break with reality

Wake Up--TW: torture, burns, kidnapping, creepy whumper, blood, future torture implied

Lost--TW: restraints, rescue

Flirt--TW: wounds, injury

Movie--comfort, vaguely referenced whump

DND--TW: kidnapping; torture; blood

Late--TW: restraints, torture, defiant whumpee

Sleep--TW: torture, creepy/intimate whumper, water torture

Braids--TW: kidnapping, restraint, gags, torture, creepy/intimate whumper

Call Me, Maybe?--TW: kidnap, rescue, injury, referenced torture, restraint, gags, seizures

Smile--TW: kidnapping, creepy/intimate whumper, noncon, future assault, past assault (assumption)

Earth--TW: kidnapping; burial; buried alive; rescue attempt

Gone--TW: recovery/aftermath, discussion of suicide (very very passive ideation), implied torture

Five Minutes--TW: kidnapping, torture, blood, creepy/intimate whumper

Flowers--just comfort, vague implication of past whump

Tree--TW: restraint; kidnapping; defiant whumpee

Hush--TW: ball gag, gagging, noncon, implied kidnapping, creepy/intimate whumper, defiant whumpee

Ghost--TW: character death, death of a loved one

Snow--TW: kidnapping, escape attempt

Reunion--TW: past mention of trauma/abuse; dissociation; comfort; hospital; mention of blood

Taste--poisoning

Five--TW: kidnapping; torture; blood; stabbing; creepy/intimate whumper; conditioning

Beloved--TW: past abuse/trauma; aftermath/recovery

Sizzle--TW: restraints; mild depiction of gore; branding

Countdown--TW: kidnapping; torture; referenced murder

Here?--TW: kidnapping; beating (aftermath); hallucinations; referenced character death (major)

Sleep--TW: sleep deprivation; kidnapping; torture; restraint; defiant whumpee

Song--TW: hospital; coma? (honestly idk what medically is wrong with whumpee....); aftermath and recovery; implied torture; implied kidnapping

Shoulder--TW: gun; blood; gunshot; wound; mild depiction of gore

Snap--TW: escape attempt; broken bones; torture (mild); kidnapping (implied)

Crackle--TW: sickfic (maybe, idk what caused Whumpee’s pneumonia--which is what this is y’all if you didn’t know lol)

Pop--TW: restraint; kidnapping; dislocation

Cook--TW: kidnapping

Shirt--hurt/comfort

Roses--TW: non-con drug use, creepy/intimate whumper

Unsure--TW: aftermath; trauma aftermath; hurt/comfort; hurt/recovery

Better--TW: captivity; kidnapping; implied torture; referenced botched rescue attempt

This--TW: self sacrifice elements

Lies--TW: torture, blood, knives

Anniversary--TW: captivity, non-con, drugging, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper

Touch--TW: referenced captivity, hurt/aftermath, referenced blood, implied kidnapping, implied torture

Wake Up--TW: implied kidnapping; mcd; noncon drug use; poison

Sea Sick--TW: cruel whumper, seasickness

Dropping the Eaves--TW: captivity; physical assault; implied torture

On My Way--TW: no express whump warnings, but pain is coming

Sick--TW: creepy/intimate whumper

Tired--TW: blood, unconsciousness, hurt/aftermath

Sense--TW: implied kidnapping/captivity

Worse--TW: injury, blood

Writing--TW: hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, implied torture, implied kidnapping

Missed--TW: implied torture, implied future violence, rescue

This is a nightmare--TW: referenced kidnapping, referenced torture

Wrong--TW: captivity, restraint, torture

Wonderful--TW: kidnapping, torture, restraints, non-con, sexual assault, blood

Hug--TW: hurt/aftermath, referenced kidnapping

Stubborn--TW: captivity, torture

Try--TW: abduction, implied future torture

G'Morning--TW: implied noncon, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper

Interesting--TW: choking, implied noncon, creepy/intimate whumper

Last Chance--TW: kidnapping, restraints

So Many--TW: restraints, implied torture, stress position, noncon, creepy/intimate whumper

Goodbye--TW: self-sacrifice

Happen--TW: hurt/aftermath, blood, unconsciousness

Plan--TW: hurt/aftermath, hospital, broken bones, head injury

Unexpected--TW: bindings, gags, restraints, implied noncon, creepy/intimate whumper

Stay Down--TW: head injury, blood, physical violence, gun

Struggle--TW: kidnapping, sensory deprivation

Blood--TW: blood, blood loss, knives, stabbing, gore, caretaker and whumpee

Bad Dream--TW: kidnapping, torture, restraint, drugging, creepy/intimate whumper, hurt/aftermath

To Annoy--TW: stress position, whipping, blood, violence

Let Me See--TW: blood, wounds, gunshot, sprains, self-sacrifice

Cold--TW: hypothermia, hospitals, rescue

Dreaming--TW: mcd, referenced death

Bolt--TW: arrow wound, wound, blood, losing consciousness

Worse Ways--TW: threats of death, electrocution, defiant whumpee

Spiked--TW: drugging, referenced kidnapping, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort

Why Care--TW: hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

My Heart Belongs to You--TW: medical whump, blood, gore, blood loss

Yandere Whumper Request--TW: yandere whumper, captivity, non-con, restraints, gags

Self-Inflicted--TW: captivity, blood, knives, self-harm, escape attempt

Shrapnel--TW: explosion, blood, wounds, unconsciousness, self sacrifice

Alright For Now--TW: Hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, tbh this is just fluff

Don't Leave--TW: hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, implied sensory deprivation?

Like That--TW: torture, knife, blood,, defiant whumpee

Safety--TW: torture, captivity, restraints, electrocution

Clown--TW: captivity, torture, wounds, whipping, restraints, defiant whumpee

Promise--TW: implied torture, kidnapping/captivity, mcd (maybe? you pick your ending folks: does team arrive in time to save whumpee? or do they just find caretaker? the world may never know)

#serickswrites #not writing #whump

[meluisart]

Kiri / Grace thoughts because I saw the film and lost my mind: spoilers for Avatar: The way of Water below the read more! (Maybe reads a bit messy, I saw it an hour ago and I am reeling. Seeing it again tomorrow so maybe I’ll be more coherrent then).

At this point I am relatively certain of the fact that Kiri does not actually have a dad, not in the bloodline kind of way, not in the physical sense. Sure, the Sullys adopted her but I’m talking about a dad in the direct off-spring sort of way here.

One of the first things said in the film is that Kiri was born of Grace’s Avatar, with it being a mystery who her dad is.

It’s clearly not Norm, even though teased by others, Kiri basically stated she’d rather die and dismissed it completely.

Kiri’s connection to Eywa is so strong she doesn’t always realise she’s getting sucked into it, connected through Tsaheylu.

Kiri’s first Tsaheylu to the Metkayina’s Spirit Tree goes well, she sees Grace both as a human and as her Avatar. All is alright until she starts asking about Eywa, and who her dad is. At which point she has a ‘seizure’ and has to be disconnected by someone else. 

The first point I am pretty sure they could have tested for it, since Avatars share DNA with their drivers and the RDA definitely has the tech for it. Even if Grace got it on with a Na’vi, they would have been able to find that out but the implications are very much that they really do not know.

The Kiri/Grace scene had me feeling all sorts of feelings but that aside it sort of reaffirmed my theory? All goes well until she starts rambling off the specific questions, and it reminded me very much of Mo’at’s prayer in the first film.

"Take this spirit into you, and breathe her back to us. Let her walk among us, as one of the People.”

Though Grace did die, and was taken into Eywa, the lack of consciousness did not mean her Avatar had died. If anything it was still alive. What if Eywa saw an opportunity, adhered by the prayer, and while not giving Grace back, gave someone else back through her, someone new: Kiri!

And Kiri... born of Grace... walks among the Na’vi, as one of the People. Prayer fullfilled.

So, TLDR; I’m pretty sure Kiri has two moms and a Great Mother?

#kiri augustine #grace augustine #avatar #avatar the way of water #avatar 2 #james cameron's avatar

[tototavros]

Are you... a lawyer? A legal historian? An amateur enthusiast?

You seem to know a lot about law and think a lot about law.

I wish I understood law, like, at least in some general sense. It would be cool to be able to read about important court cases and so on and be like "oh, these are the implications of this", as you seem to do.

Do you have recommendations for how a person such as myself with a passing interest in this but not a whole lot of time to dedicate to it (it seems very time consuming a subject to learn) can learn more about it?

An amateur historian at most, law is just something I'm currently learning about and one of the best ways for me to learn about things is to talk about but it, trying to reason through it etc., so I'm naturally in my 'annoying amateur' hour on this. I did similarly for Haskell and want to thank everyone who stuck around through that, as my position naturally receded from "omg best thing ever" to "real neat".

Mostly it came about as I was trying to find podcasts that weren't annoying talk-radio-replacements as most politics podcasts end up becoming, and I found National Security Law which did a good job of "discussing the controversy" on various things (surveillance, int'l drone strikes, etc.) and even deeply discussing individual cases in their Deep Dive series (Youngstown Sheet & Tube Co. v. Sawyer aka the Steel Seizures Case is my favorite of them, if you want a place to start). I mentioned this show at a party to @xhxhxhx and he told me about a show I've come to like even more, called Divided Argument, which got me to start listening to the actual Supreme Court arguments (Oyez does the Lord's work in packaging them as podcasts).

After that, I picked up some casebooks for cheap to read, got about halfway through each and ended up bored, although I cannot recommend that enough as a way of understanding accepted modes of legal reasoning.

I don't really track legal academic work very much, but Will Baude (co-host of Divided Argument) has smashed it this year with fascinating papers covering the ineligibility of Trump for President under the 14th Amendment and the scope of the Privileges or Immunities clause of the 14th Amendment, both from an originalist perspective.

The Federalist Society has a YouTube channel where they put up a bunch of different videos each week from various chapters of the Society, which I find to be often quite informative, although these days, more and more, I use it for understanding the bases of legal-political positions I strongly disagree with, but occasionally they have some neat deep-dives into e.g. the developments in bankruptcy law which have led to the recent controversy over the Purdue Pharma bankruptcy and opioid litigation.

#i could be better at displaying my complete lack of qualifications but its time consuming & annoying to hedge in such a way #im hoping i can go to law school if software doesnt heat up in the next year

[wishesofeternity]

“Alexander the Great had three sisters - Cynnane, Cleopatra, and Thessalonice - and all three were eventually murdered. Since both' of Alexander's sons met similarly violent ends, it may appear at first glance that little distinguishes the pathetic life and death of each of these three royal sisters from the more pathetic and yet shorter lives of their nephews. Indeed, even earlier in the century, before the long and troubled demise of the Argead house had begun, very few male Argeads managed to die at home in bed.

On reflection, however, the very fact that a long dynasty was coming to an end should have meant that the sisters of the last king would have a better chance of survival than the minor male heirs of that king. After all, once the father is dead, the heirs are for practical purposes (assuming they are well below the age of maturity) no man's sons, and can do no would-be dynast any more than short-term good, whereas the king's sisters can be married and thus legitimize the seizure of royal or quasi-royal power. Better yet, a king's sister may produce children of the blood of the old royal house, as well as the new.

But two of Alexander's sisters did not realize the potential advantage seemingly inherent in their situation and ultimately all three died exactly because they were Philip II's daughters and Alexander's sisters. This failure to realize the potential to be the bridge between two dynasties is most surprising in the case of Alexander's full sister, Cleopatra. Analysis of the careers of Alexander's relatively obscure sisters, worthwhile as an end, in itself, should answer the question of why the Successors proved to prefer murder to marriage (in two of the cases) as well as produce important information about the nature of Macedonian monarchy in a period of great and rapid change. The significance of the similarity in ultimate fate of the three sisters and their nephews has been ignored for too long.  

“...   Calling Alexander's sisters his "relicts" is meant to convey two truths about  them: their similarity to the other relics of Alexander (his corpse, his tent, and,  of course, his empire) and their manipulation by various of the Successors  and (by means of allusion to the older meaning of "relict" as a female survivor  of some related and now departed male, with its implication of the lack of a  separate existence for such women) their peculiarly property-like quality in the  period after the death of Alexander. The answer to the question posed initially - why did Alexander's sisters fare so poorly and so similarly to their nephews - should now be clear. Alexander had no successor. Even Antigonus, although interested in the same land area as Alexander, was not a true successor to the curious monarchy Alexander had invented - a traditional national monarchy onto which a curious sort of personal monarchy had been grafted - Antigonus was, like the other generals, on the way to creating a personal monarchy. Thus even he did not really need Cleopatra. Cassander, with his marriage to Thessalonice and at least superficial attempt to imitate the traditions of Macedonian monarchy, could not really be Philip's heir because he could not be an Argead; he had murdered Argeads and would probably have liked to murder more. Until the death of Alexander, Macedonian kingship had been tied to one dynasty. This was so much the case that the kings used no title, but simply signed themselves as so and so, son of an Argead. Trying to decide whether Philip's or Alexander's reputation was greater after 323 is ultimately devoid of any real political meaning; neither had any real successors and thus Alexander's sisters and Philip's daughters, representing as they necessarily did continuity with what had come before, could have no future.  

Cynnane died in an ill-advised attempt to take royal power by military and quasi-military means; the army did not save her. Thessalonice died in the death throes of the pseudo-dynasty Cassander had fabricated, her death demonstrating that even her son did not need to see himself as the heir to the  Argeads. Cleopatra died making one last attempt to function as a symbol of continuity, and for that she was murdered. The sisters were expendable because continuity was neither needed nor genuinely desired.”

Elizabeth Carney, “The Sisters of Alexander the Great: Royal Relicts”

*I disagree that Cynnane's attempt to take royal power was ill-advised. As Carney herself points out in another book, "although this daring plan ultimately proved fatal for Cynnane, it succeeded in its object and was brilliantly conceived".

#the visceral tragedy of thessalonike's life always gets me #historicwomendaily #history #cynnane #cleopatra of macedon #thessalonike #thessalonike of macedon #alexander the great #macedonian history #ancient greece #ancient history #queue

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 8–Reflections

This chapter is dedicated to all my haunted bitches <3

(Happy 4-20!)

In an effort to cut down my novel-length CWs, I’m only listing chapter specific warnings from here on out, the full list of general content warnings for this series is on the Masterlist. Proceed with caution :) 

CWs & TWs: Whumpee having his second revenge killing fantasy of the day, creepy/intimate whumper making pervy dick jokes and being a bully, Whumper getting dragged (deserved), partial nudity (non-sexual), briefest implication of past non-con (blink and you’ll miss it), bug and rodent mention, paranormal encounter, descriptions of a corpse-like creature (light gore and body horror), death mention (of previous Whumper)

Whumpee has some abilities, in this chapter you’ll see: THIS TEXT = EMPATHIC READING

Word count: 3,652

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

“Hold still, Mutt. I don’t wanna cut ya,” Wyatt warned, sounding more cautious than usual, as he made a clean scrape of the razor to The Aid’s tilted-up cheek. 

‘Since when do you pass up the opportunity to make me bleed?’ The Aid thought. This was worse; this was so much fucking worse than his feared toenail-clipping or lotion-lathering scenario. He’d rather have his damn nails ripped out with pliers than be stuck sitting pretty and bare-chested as his Master glided a shaver over his face. 

A disgusting noise ripped through the air only a few seconds later and immediately assaulted his ears. Something sounding like a choked growl emerged from the older man—was Wyatt having a seizure? A heart attack? Only in his wildest dreams did he think he’d get to witness the rat bastard drop dead at his feet. The Aid’s eyes widened in alarm and suppressed excitement as he willed himself with every ounce of self-control not to move a muscle. 

Once his Master fell to the floor, he’d pounce. Wrap his good hand around his neck. Squeeze, squeeze so fucking hard until his fingers tore through skin. Stare the asshole straight in the eye until the last flicker of light sizzled out. 

Wyatt turned to the sink, his face bright pink and nose scrunched, still making that god-awful noise that bounced off the bathroom walls. 

The Aid waited at the edge of his seat—any marvelous second now.

The ruckus cut off when Wyatt leaned over the counter and hocked a large, murk-yellow loogie in the sink. He rinsed the razor still clenched in his fist under the running faucet and cleared the remaining phlegm from his throat with a few more nasty hacks before making another pass on The Aid’s stunned face. 

‘…How disappointing.’ The Aid’s thought came delayed, his usual stream of internal monologue halted by his unfortunate misreading of the situation. Sure, he was annoyed by his Master’s comment, frustrated for losing himself in the second murder fantasy of the day, but he was even more peeved by the bastard’s gross abuse of his sink—his beautiful sink carved out of imported gold-veined Carrara marble. 

He was only half a stroke of the razor in before Wyatt stormed into the bathroom—without warning or so much as a courtesy knock on the doorframe—and informed him he was taking too goddamn long and needed to wrap up the dog and pony show. Some words were exchanged, somehow leading to the brute snatching the razor from his hand and taking it upon himself to finish what The Aid started but was deemed incapable of finishing—because, as a 24-year-old man, he apparently couldn’t handle basic grooming. 

“Ya were in that shower for an awfully long time,” Wyatt began, tossing The Aid a sly glance as if he knew a secret daren’t need repeating, but he would air out in the open anyway—classic Wyatt fuckery. “Bet ya enjoyed that alone time, huh? Must’ve gone to town on ya’self with uncloggin’ the pipes, eh?”

Wyatt rinsed the clump of white foam and whiskers off the razor as The Aid’s eyebrows pinched together and his mouth flattened into a thin frown, his stomach mercilessly twisting in on itself. 

He didn’t even have a moment to respond, not like he wanted to, before Wyatt continued, “Ah, it’s all the meds, huh? Yeah, sometimes when I’m on antibiotics, I can’t rub one out right either. Or if I drink too much, but you know that.” The asshole had the ribald audacity to sprinkle some extra spice on the last words for added creepiness and then wink at him, much to his gut-churning dismay. Just throw it on the long, open tab of egregious offenses. 

The Aid forced a painfully tight breath through his lungs and made a succession of slow blinks. Still wide-eyed and unsure how he ended up in this conversation he refused to partake. 

Wyatt ogled The Aid up and down in a dramatic show of indifference. “What ya actin’ shy for, huh? We’re both guys—well, more or less,” he teased, dropping an octave to drive the message home that The Aid was just about as other as one could possibly get. 

“But I suppose even the likes of you enjoy playing with ya’self. Got a dick, might as well use it, amirite?” Wyatt snickered, primarily to himself, as he made short strokes over The Aid’s chin. 

Nope. That’s it. The Aid had enough—time to take the old dog out back.

“I was crying. A lot…Sir,” The Aid tersely responded, needing to end the topic above all else. Knowing the insight would likely invite ridicule, but preferring that over exchanging lewd locker room talk with his abuser. 

Wyatt tsked, shaking his head. “Crying—yeah, that sounds more on brand for ya.” He almost sounded disappointed. 

He paused a moment to rinse the razor before his lip curled as he scoffed out, “Big fucking crybaby. Ya’r eyes leak more than ya’r pecker.” 

The Aid ignored the vulgar comment like he ignored much of everything else, letting it roll over him like cool water in a stream— besides, ‘You can’t make sense out of things where there isn’t any.’

Wyatt knuckled the underside of The Aid’s jaw to hold his face still as he started scrapping off his mustache in short glides. He sucked in his top lip in hopes of avoiding a nick, studying his Master’s face scrunch and furrow in concentration—the way Wyatt leaned in, the guiding, almost-tender support below his chin, the careful strokes of the razor against his skin, the delicate, purposeful closeness between them. It was familiar, almost felt okay, natural even. 

He was the frog in a pot of boiling water, now simmering alive. He knew it and hated himself for it.  

Wyatt continued working; the only sound heard for the next few minutes consisted of water spurting from the faucet and swirling down the drain with the occasional interrupting whooshes of the razor rinsed and taped against the lip of the sink to dispose of the billows of stubble-speckled foam. 

He guided The Aid’s chin up so he faced the ceiling, making multi-directional glides on the underside of his jaw and neck. The Aid’s eyes slid to the side, fixed on the clearing in the middle of the mirror, the only section free of condensation from his long-overdue shower. His combed-through hair was still dripping wet, and his skin was still dewy from the lingering humidity.

A towel draped loosely around his waist, the only thing separating him and Wyatt. He tried not to think about how self-conscious he felt, how disgustingly intimate this invasion of privacy was. He tried to ignore Wyatt’s wondering gaze, working him over from head to toe. Rather, he placed his focus on observing the older man’s reflected movements work with an unfamiliar level of consideration for his welfare that he thought Wyatt was incapable of providing. 

There—in the corner of his eye, he could’ve sworn he saw something dart out past the mirror's edge. 

A bug? No, too big to be a bug. So, a rodent? 

He knew damn well Wyatt wasn’t keeping up with the household chores during the past few months while he was out of commission, so varmints taking up residence was possible—likely even. His Master’s love affair with takeout was well-known and unmatched, and he seemed unfazed by being surrounded by rotting food and trash. He imagined just how filthy the living room, family room, front room, upstairs loft—and if he was fortunate, even the garage and pool house—must’ve gotten without his daily intervention. At that level, they’d probably need to call in an exterminator. 

His eyes nervously flicked to the other side of him, where his large, porcelain soaker tub sat—nothing. If there were something, it would have been there plain as day.

He loosened a breath, trying to expel the wave of sweltering anxiety that flushed over him—

Mice. Rats. Cockroaches. Ants. Everywhere. An infestation of them. 

Images of biting, creeping, diseased dregs of the animal kingdom invaded his mind. His skin ruddied from the prospect of waking up to a giant rat staring at him with those little creepy beady eyes he hated so much. A ripple of nerves detonated from the pit of his stomach, giving him the sensation like he ate fire for breakfast as shivers prickled under his skin. He unconsciously balled his left hand into a fist, his fingernails digging into his palm.

“What?” Wyatt spat, taking notice of the tension feather in his jaw.

“Eyes playing tricks on me, Sir. Happens sometimes without my glasses on,” The Aid explained, glancing at the counterspace where he left his glasses before getting in the shower. 

“Jumpy little fucker,” Wyatt murmured, gliding the razor over his Adam’s apple. 

There—again. In the misty reflection, The Aid thought he saw three spindly, mossy green fingers with long, blackened nails curling over the side of the tub.  

 

Well, that sure as shit wasn’t a rat.

He blinked frantically in the mirror, paralyzed as every hair on his body bristled. Only one other thing besides the man in front of him elicited this level of primal terror. And it wasn’t rodents.

“Fuckin’ hell, Shortcake, what’s ya’r damage today? Did I deprive ya’r freak-of-nature brain of too much oxygen, and now ya’r short circuitin’ on me?” Wyatt grumbled, not concealing the twist of bitter amusement cutting through his scathing glare. He must’ve noticed the sprouting goosebumps.

“Sorry, Sir, I’m just…cold,” The Aid lied, allowing himself to tremble, hoping it would pass as shivering.

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? Ya don’t feel cold to me. Ya basically turned this place into a fuckin’ sauna. Best knock this funny shit off. And ya wonder why ya get the shit knocked outta ya, can’t ever act right. God damn idiot.” 

CONTEMPT

Wyatt’s projected emotion shouted at him without even a tap of mind-prodding. The contempt he could deal with; he’d gotten used to it like some dimwitted friend he only tolerated in small doses when no one else was around to talk to. But he’d welcome contempt with open arms and freshly baked cookies if it meant evading the prowling malefic forces.

He kept quiet as his Master lined up his sideburns, eyes glued on watching him work in the mirror—he needed a degree of separation. The Aid couldn’t stand staring at the brute’s ugly mug head-on.

Wyatt’s eyes scared him the most, they always had, ever since the first day they met over six years ago at his Master’s 50th Birthday Bash Madame Eleanor threw for him. 

His eyes were a chilling shade of icy blue, dead blue—the blue of frostbite and cracks in a frozen lake that would splinter, break beneath your feet and swallow you whole within seconds. His downturned, frosted eyes sunk deep and high under his protruding brow. He had that naturally off-putting I-rant-in-my-truck-and-post-hate-videos-online look, complete with a permanent scowl etched on his thin-lipped mouth with naturally arched, bushy eyebrows. He kept his ashy brown, silver-stripped hair short and combed to the side in an effort to hide his cow lick. A grown-out chevron mustache hid his top lip while he kept the rest of his face clean-shaven. But, despite his efforts, his broad chin and neck always displayed the dreaded permanent 4 o’clock shadow commonly plaguing many middle-aged men. 

On the rare occasions when Wyatt smiled at him or during the more frequent scenarios when his Master flashed his teeth in a rabid bear sort of way, The Aid couldn’t help but notice the worsening entangled mess in Wyatt’s mouth. Wyatt’s big teeth, yellowed and crooked, peaked through irritated and swollen-looking gums. At this point, The Aid was more than sure Wyatt caught a preventable case of gingivitis. The culprits? A straight-up lack of routine teeth brushing commingling with a nasty nicotine addiction he couldn’t kick. The daily consumed carton of cigs and the cuds of chewing tobacco nestled in the pocket of his bottom lip did no favors as far as oral health was concerned. 

As if a torn-up grill wasn’t bad enough, Wyatt’s age and substance abuse showed clearly on his face: frown lines, forehead lines, crow’s feet, blush-burned and puffy cheeks from constant flushing, and a hawkish but equally reddened nose. His skin looked weathered and dehydrated; living in a desert certainly didn’t help his case. The Aid thought his Master appeared as if he were in the trenches of fighting off a perpetual allergic reaction. If the older man took better care of himself and used a nightly retinol cream and sunblock in place of drowning his sorrows in IPA 12-packs, lines of coke, and slot machines, maybe he wouldn’t look so haggard. 

The rest of Wyatt Sullivan only highlighted his villainous features. He was massive, pro-wrestler huge—broad-shouldered, burley, and too damn tall. The Aid thought of him as the Brawny paper towel guy’s evil older brother, but with a beer gut and a drug problem.

After intake, Handler Bryce categorized The Aid as “happy and temperate.” Later, he even went so far as to market his personality as “eager to please”—and that he was, despite how much he disliked the term. He performed all his domestic duties with a bright smile and a peppy “at once, Madame” or an “as you wish, Sir.” He kept a praiseworthy, straight-backed posture and spoke correctly in a measured, even tone—just like how he was taught. He was the whole Mystic Grand Servant package and then some. Yet, he’d instead focus on the half-man, half-Uruk-hai orc in front of him that broke down every carefully built pillar of poise and A1 caregiving and turned him from a regal investment to a cowering dog in a matter of months than acknowledge the phantom digits lurking in the reflection.   

There. 

Again. 

In the tub. 

A fuzzy mass of black and green moved.

‘No. No. No. Go away. Not here, not now. Not with him,’ The Aid pleaded, hoping this thing could somehow pick up his mental cry for a truce. 

In the corner of his eye, he made out the blurred yet unmistakable shapes of skeletal, bony-knuckled fingers too long to be human drum on the tub’s edge slink down the side with each successive thrum in demand of his attention. Truce denied.

It could try all it wanted, but he utterly refused to give that thing even a quarter of a full-fledged glance. That’s how it got power—by him acknowledging it. It always started with something small—an audible finger tap, a ghostly whisper, glowing frost-colored eyes in the dark—to draw him in like a fish to a lure.

Oh, this thing wasn’t out to kill him—no, he didn’t think that was even possible. But it wanted something he considered worse: to feed on him. Slurp up the raw energy droning and pulsating inside him—the special spark that manifested as his abilities—like he was a fucking Baskin-Robbins cookies n’ cream milkshake until it got its fill. It’d only make its rounds again once he was restored to full power, and it craved another Aid-sized snack. By its too-frequent pitstops, he assumed that meant he was a tasty delicacy and one of its favorite hole-in-the-walls. 

If it got its way, it would breathe him in, suck the life force out of him until his eyes rolled to the back of his skull and he lost consciousness. It would plunge him into a deep, restless sleep from which he woke with nothing short of a splitting migraine and depleted energy source lasting for days on end. It took him weeks, sometimes even months, to fully recover from a psychic attack. 

With each menacing tap, his chest started to heave, each breath quicker than the last. His heart raced, the deep-rooted fear dissolving all gathered composure with each thud. If the oxy hadn’t kicked in already, he suspected he’d be zapped with the splintering pain of his cracked rib lancing into his side with each lungful.

‘Don’t look, don’t you fucking look!’ he internally screamed. ‘Why couldn’t this just be a fucking mouse?’

“No need to get all huffy, Runt, almost done,” Wyatt scorned through the tense silence. For one of the only times in his life, Wyatt’s voice brought him a strange comfort and grounded him. 

‘Don’t give it attention, and it’ll go away.’ He took a deep, calming breath, thinking happy thoughts of green pastures and rainbows ending in beautiful waterfalls and—

His daydreaming was cut short by a slow, inhuman wheeze—Haaaaayyyyy

The spectral pitch of the other-worldly voice permeated every corner of his mind like a plume of dark smoke that he couldn’t shut out—it was just there, all around him, seeping into him—buzzing on his skin, ringing in his ears. 

He panicked. 

His steeled gaze melted faster than a cartoon character popsicle in summer. His eyes darted straight to the growing dark mass in the mirror. 

His heart stopped, his breath stilled, and his body froze—petrified and goggle-eyed. 

This living nightmare made those dreaded anthrophaghes look like child’s play.

A gangly arm hung over the front-facing side of the tub, exposing the thing’s equally revolting and terror-inducing body inch by inch. Its skin—painted a lifeless grey-green with blotches of gangrenous rot like a decaying corpse—was simultaneously loose and stretched too tight like half-melted, sloppily applied saran wrap pulled over a fake, anatomically incorrect skeleton with half-assed patchwork over the areas where it ripped. 

At one end of its lanky arm, unfurled spider leg-like fingers with sharp, grime-crusted nails scrabbling the floor towards him. The other end led up to a too-bony shoulder, and then…he stared long and hard at the twisted, bloated face of Madame Eleanor.

His heart dropped into his stomach. His lungs refused to allow him a breath, filling him with stale air. 

It couldn’t be her, not the real her. She was long dead. He knew that.

But he also knew he wasn’t the only one with a penchant for mind tricks. It must have tried to recreate Eleanor Sullivan’s likeness based on memories it poached from his mind during an encounter before—only his last memories of her were of her lying dead in an open casket. 

Its face—no, Eleanor Sullivan’s poorly copied/pasted face was ghastly. Nearly unrecognizable. 

In place of Madame Eleanor’s Botoxed face with bright, almond-shaped blue-green eyes, the reflection unveiled far-apart, lidless, ivory-colored eyes with no pupils locking onto him. Her button nose was gone, gnawed off, exposing the black gorge of its nasal cavity. Its mouth, a long, lip-less strip of decaying flesh, pulled out to its rawboned cheeks, revealing slivers of its pitch-black abyss-of-a-mouth. What sat on its head was nothing but a few clumps of long, feathery white strands of hair loosely tacked onto its molted skull—a far cry from his Madame’s signature dyed sandy-blonde locks. The gauzy wisps swished over its warped features as its head followed behind its arm’s descent onto the floor.

That thing began crawling out of the tub like it was Samara crawling out of a goddamn tube TV. 

‘Oh hell no.’

He jerked back, face contorting with stone-cold horror, as a frightened shriek he couldn’t contain ripped free from his raw vocal cords. 

“God damn it!” Wyatt bellowed, pulling away from The Aid’s face. He was too stunned to speak, too shaken up from the surge of adrenaline coursing through his body to notice the fresh slice on his chin.

“Did you see it?” He sputtered frantically, head whipping in the direction of the tub, blood streaking down his chin. “It—it—” he pointed at where the thing was supposed to be. 

Nothing. 

Wyatt all but shook his head, examining the empty tub. “Fuck, ya couldn’t just sit still? Now look at ya, bleedin’. Jesus Christ, ya’ve fucking lost it. Don’t tell me ya’r kook ass thought ya saw a ghost,” The man idly mocked, recalling the last time he noticed The Aid stare off into an empty corner with his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. 

The Aid shook, his lip quivered as he tried to belt out, “No! Not a ghost, worse than a ghost. It—” he turned to Wyatt to see a half-fed up, half-scornful glare shooting back. He stopped, realizing just how nuts he looked and sounded. He sank into himself.

“I’m sorry, Sir. These meds…they make me feel weird,” he sighed, swapping his fervent panic with a practiced flavor of clear defeat he knew convincingly shadowed his face and wilted his voice. He did indeed feel like a kook, not because he doubted what he saw, but because he remembered just who he was talking to—King Deflection.

“Don’t think that’s gonna get ya outta taking them. Best learn how to deal 'cause ya still got a long way to go.” Wyatt grabbed the washcloth sitting on the sink, ran it under the water, and blotted the slice on The Aid’s chin. 

“Hold that there,” the older man directed. The Aid obliged. Wyatt halted any further disparaging remarks and even refrained from shooting him the usual hate-crazed glower.

“Lucky it ain’t nothin’ but a little cut. I think that means we’re done here.” His Master nonchalantly wiped the last few strips of shaving cream off his face with the corners of the rag, then cleaned up the shaving supplies.  

The Aid fell into a long silence. His fingers smoothed out the bunched-up ripples of terrycloth; his eyes anxiously darted back and forth between Wyatt and the tub. Tried as he might, he couldn’t calm the tornado still whirling in his gut or mollify his nerves, still heightened and simmering. 

Gone. It was completely gone without a fucking trace.

<-Previous | Masterlist | Next->

Taglist: @sacredwrath @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears @3-2-whump @potterhead5ever

If ya wanna be added or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me! :)

I know what you’re wondering—yes, The Aid is haunted by a sleep paralysis demon, The Night Hag! It’s a subtle element here, not a major plot point so if you don’t like paranormal shit, don’t worry it isn’t going to overtake the story (I just wanted to give it its own intro chapter).

Which goes without saying, chapter vibes:

#The Aid is having the WORST day #Eleanor Sullivan is haunting the narrative literally and figuratively folks #Wyatt is such a creep and I hate him #I know I made him—that doesn’t take away how much I can’t stand him #this is the most self-indulgent thing I’ve written so far :’} #The Aid #Wyatt Sullivan #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #supernatural whump #paranormal whump #night hag #sleep paralysis #sleep paralysis demon #oc story #original story #original au #whump oc #whump fic #horror whump #body horror #gore #slavefic #slave whump #oc whump #whump writing #nightmares come at night #living nightmare #whumping my ocs #whump story

[shuunnico]

Would you change anything about Cyberpunk's story?

I'm going to assume you mean without dramatically changing the story.

Cyberpunk 2077 Spoilers

I'd do maybe three things total.

First, I'd extend the start of the game. Jackie dies about 4 hours into the game and about half of that is spent without him.

Instead of a montage, I'd have those moments be played out. It would allow you to create subtle tutorials (unlike the actual game, where you just get teleported to a training room). You'd be able to bond more with Jackie over missions, over downtime, and you'd be able to know Mama Wells and Misty more before Jackie's death.

With the game having Jackie at your hip for that long, played straight, it would make Jackie's death more surprising and less predictable. It would allow you to world build, build up a couple more characters and make V's backstory more fleshed out.

You can start out living in the Wells' bar, then get a place of your own, get your own car, get your implants, etc. By taking more jobs, it becomes more believable that Dex would seek you out, instead of (basically )starting the game with that.

Second, I'd bring Adam Smasher back at least once more. You see him during the Relic heist, you see him in a flashback, then he's the game's final boss.

The ideal might be he's a world trigger, where he's actually hunting you through Night City. Make enough noise and he might show up and the only option is to run.

But I can see how that might be frustrating. So even if it was just one more mission where he ambushes you, that'd be fine. Just something to remind the player why he's a big deal. And, of course, make him more powerful in the endgame.

Third, I'd change the intensity of the threat to your life. The implication in game is V has months, if not weeks, to live. This causes narrative dissonance whenever the player is taking actions that don't progress the story, effectively doing side jobs when V's life is directly under threat.

Initially start with the idea that V will die in a few years. Have it start out as not such a pressing matter. Have the actual problem be the loss of control and seizures, rather than the immediate threat of death.

Then, start introducing the plausibility of a cure. At that time, ramp up the threat and have V start degenerating faster, with it being months left to live. So you have the threat being bigger, but with a viable cure on the table (and a less pressing time frame) it still makes sense V is planning for the future.

Have there be periods in the game where the main mission stalls for a bit and encourages you to do side jobs for cash or influence.

Then, near the end of the game, you have the story pull the rug out from under you. The degeneration picks up faster, giving V only days to live. Now you're in the endgame.

You generally get the same story beats, but it doesn't make you quest why you're out there doing a racing subplot when V could die at any moment from the Relic.

#Cyberpunk 2077 #Spoilers