#the prompt was: fog

[poemsonmars]

i am tired of being

afraid of everything.

i step into the fog

with open arms,

and it amazes me

how much it feels like rain.

i think i could drown myself

in anything if i really tried.

-mars

[endivinity]

Closing out at thirteen, Nebula!

Comfortable in the Far Harbor foothills, there are numerous deathclaws that thrive in low-light conditions, with sleek dark scales to match. Its main diet of anglers and resulting bioluminescence makes it look like the night sky when aggravated.

[caleod]

28-10-24 "Jumbo"

[charmed-n-zesty]

What might you find here? Fantastical answers only.

[b1asho]

Just some normal frogs, nothing to see here

(Ghhhh paper and pencil oughhhh un-digititized)

[uriswhumpchamber]

While I am not one to be held back by realism, sometimes it ends up making a scenario better. Like:

Whumpee is great at whatever it is they do. They have some sort of job where they need to retain information, be able to orient themselves, and the like. Their mind is amazing at that, and they're proud - incredibly proud of themselves. And then something happens - the hurt happens.

Maybe they're kidnapped and kept somewhere they don't know, maybe they're tortured for the same information they had before. Maybe they're in a bad accident and lost. Something they, by every metric they used before to feel accomplished, should be able to deal with. Making escape plans, being able to find their way out of places and back to wherever they want to get - it's their whole thing.

But they can't. They're in pain, and exhausted, maybe being tortured, maybe just too hurt or shaken up. And they can't think. They stumble, they get lost - they get a good look at the sky and cannot find North, no matter how hard they try to remember how to do that. They walk into their captors because they make a turn right instead of left, or perhaps just walk in circles for too long without even noticing. They run for the nearest exit only to get lost not even a few meters from it, their head spinning, unable to remember the map for that very same area they're sure they knew. They cannot think, at all, their mind completely empty of anything useful.

And their pride shatters.

[whumpfish]

Reference: Psychogenic Fever

You've seen it in anime loads of times: the protagonist overexerts themselves or experiences a highly stressful event, and they dramatically collapse. The next thing you know, they're in bed with a cloth over their forehead and an ally informs the rest of us that they have a fever.

Well, it turns out that can actually happen.

If your immune system is already shot, and you experience acute levels of stress, your body will respond to those stress hormones the way it would normally respond to a virus. Your core heats up, and you develop a full-blown fever.

According to what information I was able to dig up, some patients can develop core temperatures of 41°C/105°F. I didn't apparently record mine when this was going on, but given the temperature dysregulation caused by the seroquel I take that prevents me from cooling off if I get hot and the reverse, and how hot literally anything I touched got, I was probably in that higher range.

The Progression:

I went to bed at around 1:45 a.m. I'd already been through so much stress with my grandfather's funeral, how my dad elected to process grief, and scrambling to get the SSI-D function report that had arrived in our mailbox when I was out of town returned on time, I had already crashed out earlier that day from the energy expenditure. Now, I have ME/CFS, and crashing out after exertion/stress is normal, so nothing stood out as a warning sign. If there was one, I dismissed it as my usual fatigue. I went to sleep.

I woke up about 2.5 hours later, experiencing sleep paralysis--presumably in lieu of a fever dream. When I woke up the rest of the way, I was sweating profusely and feeling about like I'd been mowing the lawn in 105° heat. I've done that, and collapsed from heat exhaustion from it, before. I was hotter at that moment than I had been back then.

I put a wrist to my forehead, and the sensation was like holding a hairdryer on high to my forehead at point-blank range. My pillow was just as hot, and no amount of flipping fixed that. (I should point out here that I normally run cold--ridiculously cold, sleep with the quilt up in the middle of a Texas summer cold--and this never happens unless I am very sick.)

I smelled like fever. Some people don't think you can smell fevers, but I was a sickly child and spent so much of my life in pediatricians' waiting rooms full of feverish children that after a while I noticed a particular smell unique to those environments. Since then, I've been able to accurately identify it elsewhere by that smell.

I was completely confused. I'd had to go into the grocery store without a mask earlier that day because I ran out, but even I don't present that quickly. It couldn't be from that. Some old geek part of me remembered Anime Fever, and on a hunch, I googled "can you give yourself a fever from stress?" And yes. Yes, you can.

I sat up, and when I touched the mattress where I had been sleeping with one hand, it felt like trying to pick a dish up out of the dishwasher immediately after it's through running. It was that hot.

The recommended treatment was anti-inflammatories and any relevant psych meds that can reduce anxiety, so I took 800mg of ibuprofen and an extra, small dose of seroquel. Then I took my clothes off and downed a few bottles of water, my usual trick for cooling down once I've gotten too hot, and sat on the foot of my bed to give my mattress time to cool down before getting back in bed to try to sleep.

The fever broke at around 6:15 a.m., and I was finally able to rotate back to the other side of my mattress and pillow, and go back to sleep. I slept until 1:20 p.m.

The Takeaway: This is a real phenomenon! Use it on your whumpees with poor immune systems, either naturally or broken down from their ordeal. It's no longer just an anime trope.

[whumpster-dumpster]

Brain fog. Whumpee feeling like their brain has turned into soup, all blurry and listless and exhausted, finding it hard to string together coherent thoughts, much less speak or act

[whatiswhump]

Whumpee has memory problems.

It started with the trauma but then never went away after.

Old memories fade and jumble if not held onto tightly enough while new ones are hardly etched in most days.

Writers always say they’ll never forget certain moments but Whumpee is ashamed to realize they don’t always remember the name of their childhood bestfriend, nor the stories their dad used to tell, or what color the house was...

For Whumpee, it is an exhausting confusion.

Even the trauma, most of it flies away in wisps- only hints at what happened to them. The feelings of horror remain but not even the absolute of what occurred can be a certainty.

Because they don't even have the proof that their misery is their own.

If they can't fully grasp it do they deserve to suffer it? What if they made it up? Or it wasn't as bad as their breathless night terrors told them it was?

They just don't know...

[hersurvival]

Bergamot on my lips at 2 am

Vanilla and lavender on my breath

Driving through the freezing dark

To give you a kiss

Out comes a little sigh

Grinning and looking me in the eye

"Wow," you whisper

@nosebleedclub September 18th - London Fog

[flowercrowngods]

for @evergreennwilloww, i’m sorry it kinda ate your ask but here’s your steddie first kiss prompt fill, hope this is fine 🌷🤍

There are many versions of Steve Harrington and Eddie is kind of obsessed with every one of them. But this one? Oh, this one might be his favourite.

Steve, comfortable in his bed, his eyes closed and small smile tugging at his lips, illuminated by the soft warm glow of the fairy lights they installed above the bed the other day.

Lying on his side, Eddie traces the play of light and shadows with his eyes, his hands itching and aching to follow, but he clenches them in the douvet so he won’t do anything stupid. Steve’s lashes are casting long shadows over his cheeks and Eddie wants to draw him. Again.

He sighs a little, sounding wistful even to his own eyes and he can feel his cheeks burning already, bracing for the worst. But Steve’s smile only widens, and even though his eyes are closed and he doesn’t move his head, Eddie feels like he’s been found out.

Steve’s hand is resting right beside his on the covers, and Eddie looks at it for a moment. They’re so close. They’re always so close lately, and Steve is always smiling, never moving away. Always staying, never leaving.

It drives Eddie insane. Takes his breath away, makes the world stop, leaves him aching and yearning and itching to reach out.

It would be so easy, too, to stretch out his fingers, move his hand just slightly until his pinky can wrap around Steve’s thumb. To play with his fingers, careful and gentle until his hand rests on top of Steve’s and their fingers can slot together like they were made to do.

So easy. And he can’t breathe, can’t hear anything above the sound of his own heartbeat when he moves, slowly, so achingly slowly.

And then Steve turns his hand. Palm up. Inviting. And Eddie’s breath hitches.

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, though he barely has a voice, “or think it’s too much… Just pull away.”

Steve doesn’t.

The first touch is light, tentative, and it tickles. Makes Eddie huff on a smile, giddy all of a sudden. Giddy and disoriented and so, so brave.

Steve hums with the second touch, Eddie’s finger slowly running along his middle finger, tingling and warm, all the way down palm to his pulse point. It makes Steve’s hand twitch, almost reflexively, and Eddie wants more of it.

And then Steve’s eyes open and he turns to lie on his side, facing Eddie, never once moving his hand from where Eddie is playing with his fingers now, still so very tentative despite everything.

But Steve isn’t looking down at their hands like Eddie, and it makes him look up, meet his eyes. He’s never seen them so gentle, so bright in the soft light of the room, and it almost makes him look away again. But he doesn’t. Because he’s already being brave.

“Hi,” Steve says after a moment, finding the words he didn’t have all day. It fills Eddie with a different kind of warmth, knowing that Steve is being brave, too.

“Hi.” He rests their palm together now, his fingers moving in between Steve’s. But it’s Steve who really tangles their fingers, slowly, because Eddie can pull away anytime, too. He doesn’t.

And then Steve lays his other hand on Eddie’s shoulder, moving up, up, up, gently caressing the skin of his neck until it comes to rest on his cheek.

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, and Steve whispers, “Pretty.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie opens his eyes again, because Steve needs to know. He needs Steve to know.

“Yeah.”

And then they’re both smiling, holding hands in the soft glow of this moment they made for themselves and each other. The world stopped and they improvised to make a better one. A gentler one.

Steve is the one to close his eyes first, breathing for a moment, before, “Eddie?”

“Hm?”

Steve’s thumb caresses the back of his hand, drawing patterns of gentle bravery that send goose bumps all over his body.

“Can I… Do… Permission to lean in?”

He wants to think it’s ridiculous, wants to huff and chuckle and find some witty way to retort. But not now; not with Steve, not when he’s been fighting to find words all day and finally, finally has them.

This perfect, perfect boy is asking to kiss him. Asking if it’s okay. And Eddie wants to write poetry about it, about permission sought and granted. Permission to give you my heart? Permission to stop the world with you and make a new one, just for now, just for us, just for this?

Permission, because Steve wouldn’t do anything to hurt Eddie or make him uncomfortable. Permission, because Eddie gets a choice in this.

“Permission granted,” he breathes, revelling in the smile he gets for it.

And then Steve is kissing him. Gently, sweetly; a chaste little thing, hand on his cheek, thumb stroking along the dimples of the smile he can’t contain.

When Steve pulls away, his eyes are still closed but his smile speaks for itself. Eddie’s hand comes up to comb through his hair; and Steve rests his forehead against Eddie’s, their hands still holding, their knees now touching.

Steve Harrington has many wonderful versions. But this one? Oh, yeah; this one is definitely Eddie’s favourite. He leans up to brush a kiss to Steve’s forehead, and another when he hums happily.

Yeah. Definitely his favourite.

[puppetmaster13u]

HYPOTHETICALLY if I were to put forth the idea of a DC & Minecraft crossover of the batfam or even all of Gotham getting dragged into a MC world of sorts, what would y'all's thoughts be?

[aunteat]

lawd give me the strength to finish this kinkfest fic amen 🙏

[caleod]

14-10-24 "Roam"

[lauronk]

sorry it took so long 🙈

[swingstep]

when youre trying so hard to be the edgy anime rival but your friends wont stop goofing around >:/