#try not to faint please

[zenatness]

Had an idea. Noted it was June. Did the thing. It’s available on stuff over on society6 if you want it.

Happy Pride!

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[alicenpai]

buncha wanpee busts from may (boa) + 2023 (the sketches) that i never uploaded.. saw da wanpee news on twt today so ive been in the mood

[tiringwritings]

the curls

[maskedchip]

^__^ 

[shroudkeeper]

Mister Fitzgerald..?

[oh-men-of-dark-and-dismal-fate]

I feel like we as Brahms simps do not talk enough about that little gasp he does on the phone the first time he calls Greta.

[selkies-and-cycles]

self-imposed sickness

summary. i thought "hey, nezha needs to get cared for. but i'm also gonna whump him." he overworked himself into being miserably sick. possible wip of a sickfic. featuring Pigsy, Sandy and Nezha!

content warnings? he sick. vomiting and stuff. deeply dependent on caretakers.

When Nezha next awoke, someone was gently coaxing his mouth open to try and pour something down his throat. He couldn’t tell what it was- he was still feverish and only half there, and his lack of taste from his flu didn't help. He couldn't quite open his eyes enough to recognize the hand trying to coax his mouth open, but it was surprisingly gentle. Nezha obediently tried to follow the instructions, but he struggled once something warm and liquidy hit his lips. 

Ah, soup. Probably. He couldn't really taste it right now.

He coughed, swallowing down the soup with a grimace. He could feel it splattering somewhere over the blankets, but he didn't quite process it.

"Take it easy, kid." A gentle voice soothed, holding a napkin to his lips. In any other state, Nezha would be extremely embarrassed- but he was far too tired to care right now.

Distantly, he thought he recognized the voice. It was... someone he knew. They made good soup broth. Nezha was too busy trying to ponder that to really focus on what the voice was saying to him, although he understood the gist.

"You gave us all a scare, especially MK. I don't know what'd the kid do if he risked losing someone else again." The voice sighed, distantly shaking their head. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

Nezha grunted, trying to force his eyes open and understand what was going on, but his body wouldn't follow his command, and he groaned, sinking back into the bed. He didn't feel good, that was obvious, but the soup broth settling into his stomach was making him feel worse. Way worse.

The saliva in his throat felt thick, and his stomach roiled in protest of being made to digest anything. With the little strength he had left, Nezha rolled over to the side of something- a mattress?- and deposited the contents of his stomach to his right.

“Hey-!” The voice exclaimed, reeling back from Nezha’s side. The god’s head swam as he stared down at the vaguely yellow pile on the sheets, groaning. He collapsed back into the cleaner side of the bed, face scrunched in a grimace. The bed was warm- maybe too warm. The little light from the room still seemed too bright as hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him away from the blankets with a huff. Nezha blinked a few more times before his eyes started to slide shut once more, breathing in and out heavily.

A short silence settled over the little cabin container as Nezha passed out once again. Cats lingered around Sandy’s bunk bed, watching the interaction with mild curiosity. One of the cats went to sniff the leftover bile, and subsequently got pushed off the mattress by the owner of the voice from before.

“Geez…" Pigsy sighed as he pushed away another cat. He had adjusted Nezha to lie in his lap to avoid any remnants of sickness and sweat across the bed. "So, you’re not even able to hold down even fluids…" He murmured to the unconscious god, turning to call for Sandy to change the sheets. 

Now, why was Pigsy at Sandy’s boat, you may ask? Well, Pigsy was supposed to be at his shop, but MK had been so worried about the sick celestial he'd barely been able to focus on delivery. With most of the orders already made, Pigsy offered to go check on Nezha in MK’s place to calm them both down.

Sometimes, Pigsy forgot that even deities were just people.

Sandy shook the pig demon out of his stupor as his loud footsteps approached, a bundle of clean bedding in his arms. “Heyo, Pigsy.” He smiled, gingerly stepping over the cats lounging on the carpet of the room. Sandy stole a glance at the sick god, brow furrowed with concern. “How is he…?”

Pigsy sighed as he lugged Nezha away from the futon so Sandy could strip the bed sheets and clean them. "He's not doing so hot."

Sandy paused from picking up the vomit-soiled sheets, tilting his head in his very Sandy-esque way. "I mean, I think he is pretty hot." One large blue finger pointed at the lotus prince practically radiating heat.

Pigsy sighed, putting his hoofed hand up to his forehead. "No, I mean- Alright, I walked into that one." Pigsy huffed, shaking his head. "I mean, despite not physically burning people anymore, he's still burning up." He pressed the back of his hoof against Nezha's forehead, watching as the god's shoulders visibly relaxed upon cooler contact. "I know Wukong said tha' immortals can't die from illness unless it's celestial, but still…"

Sandy started to reapply clean sheets as Pigsy took to doing a second wipe down of Nezha's face just to get rid of any residue vomit. Sandy stared at the pig man for a moment, smiling slightly.

"...Wha'?" Pigsy asked.

"I guess not even someone being a god can stop the Dadsy instincts." Sandy teased lightly, a big grin on the goofy water spirit's face. "You're acting like you did when MK was a kid."

"Wha- HEY!!!" Pigsy splutters, face turning red, as he couldn't really get any pinker. "Look," he pointed a hoof at Sandy, "if ya had told me 3 years ago that I'd be takin' care of a terribly sick god, I would'a never believed you!" He protested. Pigsy then sighed, his dramatically aggravated tone (oh, Tang really had rubbed off on him) subsiding. 

Pigsy tried his best to fix Nezha's hair, watching the man breathe in and out, his face red and splotchy. To think even a god could overwork themself to the point of being this sick…

Pigsy sighed, lugging Nezha back onto the now clean bed. "Well, maybe I ne’er would’a believed you, but the dude's sick and needs help. And although this is perhaps a little more personal than I had expected…"

Sandy gently laid a blanket back over Nezha, who still laid mostly unresponsive on the bed. Pigsy looked down at Nezha, arms folded but face a bit softer.

"...Well, he's saved our asses enough that I think I can give 'im this."

[fear-no-mort]

if the rest of the entire show was just rick and morty finally resting and calming the fuck down i truly wouldnt complain

[johndonneswife]

[stringbeans-and-peas]

[valenshawke]

Teresa of the Faint Smile... Holy shit...

Epsilon... I can't...

[todds-rwby-liveblog]

Anyone making fun of this shot either never took a 1st aid class or never paid attention in them and it fucking shows. Stfu please <3

[mejomonster]

Sick of being sick

[whump-captain]

- Day 6 -

Prompt: Deprived

Started off as sleep deprivation but honestly drifted off a little lol. Post-rescue Ethan having a bad time adjusting to being possessed by an alien entity, on top of his general trauma.

---

CN: nightmares, past torture (implied), loss of limb (mentioned), fainting, exhaustion, mild gore

---

Ethan barely slept anymore.

At first, he thought he didn't have to. Out of all the changes his body had suffered, it would be the least strange one. He hardly felt the first sleepless night of wandering the empty campus, pulled along by some distant restlessness, some need to escape. It took him until noon to realize he was not tired. He stayed up the next night, too, and felt no different for it.

But five nights in, he learned that time borrowed had to be returned. Exhaustion set in suddenly, in a rush of faintness that he almost collapsed under. He waved off his students' concern with a lie about a busy week and pushed through the rest of the day in a half-conscious daze of swaying floors and throbbing headaches. When night finally came, he hoped he was at least too tired to dream.

His dreams had changed, too. He was always aware he was asleep; a numb weight in his limbs kept him tethered to his body. But he could neither move nor wake himself up. And knowing that the cold he felt wasn’t real didn’t make it any less biting.

In the nightmare, he couldn’t feel pain. But his throat constricted and he couldn’t breathe, his paralyzed body twitching. Linde’s sheet-white face loomed over him, ice glinting in his eyes, and when he turned around, the back of his head was a gaping, pitch black maw lined with the teeth of shattered bone. Ethan couldn’t scream. Hands pushed down on his shoulders and held him still as scalpels longer than his arm snaked around him and slowly tightened to slice through his skin, then muscle, then bone. Someone dragged him out of the chair he was bound to and both of his hands stayed behind, trickling blood onto the snow.

No matter how the dream began, it always ended with a bag being pulled over his head, leaving him in hot, suffocating darkness. Then Lucy’s voice pushed through it, quiet but clear:

“You won’t get out of here. Not alive.”

The cold devoured his lungs from the inside.

“Not ever.”

The words would ring in his ears long after he started awake.

But as shaken as those nightmares left him, they weren’t the worst that sleep had to give him. They, at least, were his.

Sometimes he would dream of things he’d never seen. His body would ache then, as if something impossibly heavy held it like a vice. Like a skin-tight prison of stone.

It was strange to think that the alien thing he shared a body with was capable of dreaming.

Its nightmares were as vivid as Ethan’s own. There was something deadly under his feet, something that burned and stripped his flesh off of his golden bones. His tears were colder than ice and they left his cheeks ash grey where they trickled. Something wanted him dead. He couldn’t die and yet he was afraid.

He saw his own body through a distorted lens of such disconnect that he revulsed himself. His eyes were useless water; his blood sang so horribly that it begged to be stopped. The only part of him that felt familiar was the hand he had lost and regrown.

Then he would wake up and his hand was once again foreign, and alien, and gold. The seam where metal met flesh stung like frostbite. For hours after, he had trouble believing he was actually awake.

So he didn’t sleep. He spent night after night in a tireless haze until his legs suddenly gave out. It soon became hard to gauge how long he could last. One night he woke up to a panicked security worker tapping his face - he’d collapsed in the middle of a lecture and the students almost called an ambulance. Someone helped him up and though the hands on his arms were gentle, the touch almost froze the breath in his chest. He stared at the security worker, shaking, trying to see her real face through his mind's illusions. She was just a co-worker. There was concern on her face.

Linde was dead and Lucy was in prison. Ethan was hundreds of miles away from what had hurt him.

He made up something about low blood sugar. The students dispersed and he managed to talk the security worker out of escorting him anywhere. With lead in his limbs, he left the lecture hall, grasping at the walls for balance.

His eyes burned. When he got to a mirror he saw that the blood that shot through them was taking on a golden glint.

[vi-visected]

dean winchester should’ve been a linkin park fan and i’m tired of pretending that i don’t think so

[darkdragon768]

So I'm playing (-1) pokemon violet (-1) and I'm (-1) taking damage (-1) every five (-1) seconds because of (-1) the awful (-1) graphics, (-1) the ridiculous (-1) handholding and (-1) the horrendous (-1) fps.