#curse you overactive stress response

[lavendarsarepretty]

sometimes i think i’m fine then someone talks to me and i go absolutely ballistic because they a) asked me where i was going instead of how i am so i don’t have a script for what to say b) smiled at me and now my brain is convinced they’re Out To Get Me because being friendly isn’t real apparently c) asked for my contact info to talk to me and it stressed me out so badly i ended up acting like a dick. i am under the impression that this interaction would have gone a lot better had i known his name except because i didn’t i genuinely thought it would be best to aggressively avoid all chances of contact so i didn’t possibly upset him by not knowing his name later down the line (my anxiety made me prickly and unapproachable and most definitely was ruder than not knowing his name). this is why i can’t make friends

[phantalgia]

Why is it hard for me to engage with my interests?

One of my biggest struggles is being able to engage with any of the things that I enjoy. I don't really understand it and it comes from a multifactored place. But I think it can be broken down into two major blocks. A mental block and a physical one with some overlap between the two. So I guess we can be like Kamala Harris and use a Venn Diagram as a mental visualization.

Physical Blocks

I think if it wasn't clear enough already, I have some physical barriers that keep me back. From Dysautonomia-like symptoms I've had never been aware of since I was maybe 13-14. To COVID infections, twice, and a surgery that has knocked the wind out of me. Where the physical blocks intersect with the mental ones is in "hyperactivity" which is all I can call it as I don't know exactly what it is besides some guesses.

I think the physical blocks are clear and if we abstracted COVID and surgery from the equation, we're left with these mild dysautonomia-like symptoms. These have manifested mostly as trouble getting up out of chairs, some orthostatic hypotension, easily fatigued, loss of concentration, intense headaches, sometimes a feverish feeling, an overall intolerance to being upright (sitting or standing) without being short of breathe, blood pooling to extremities, puffy hands and feet, tight throat, short of breathe, and probably some others I can't think of.

Again, still leaving out COVID and post-surgery, this is what I dealt with before. I don't know what it is exactly. Because it very much could just be an overactive stress response. Or something along those lines. And I didn't know how much it affected me in every day life. Because it is so mild or has been blamed on other things like "not exercising enough" (which isn't true by the way, I was doing a lot of physical exercise), blamed on anxiety (which even then they didn't bother to try and do anything about), or was just dismissed outright.

To this day, because of COVID and post surgery experiences, I have become more aware of these symptoms because they have been THE SAME symptoms I dealt with before when I was in my teens but just cranked up a lot with some new stuff added in there like tachycardia. I had developed heart palpitations by the time I was 18-19 long before COVID. And then of course I would discover the Non-Compaction in my heart because of COVID. So in some ways COVID became a blessing and a curse telling me that I'm not making this up and I legit feel this way. My biggest worry as a teen was if I was ever going to be able to hold a job, I kept it a secret as I was embarrassed as to what people might say.

So with all the gaslighting and very real feelings I was having, it affects your mental well being. And I was not a happy kid. This is on top of whatever mental blocks I was already dealing with too.

Mental Blocks

All I really know is that I was really anxious growing up. That's about it. But it affected me in ways I didn't realize.

Most of the time I would spend days out of school just because my anxiety about school was so bad. There was nothing exciting about it or anything to look forward to. Much of it was stomach aches I would have early in the morning because I was so nervous.

These would go away by the time I did make it to school and spent some time there. But much of very early days at school, in elementary, just felt very linear, scripted almost like I was just a casual character.

But I had a lot of interests as a kid, I don’t remember how this happened but Leonardo Da Vinci was one of my biggest inspirations as a kid. I thought the idea of self teaching and being able to do more than one thing was so cool. To me it was unheard of in a time of specialization and very linear, structured, organized curriculum. It infected my perception of the world and how you were supposed to learn in school and outside of it.

Modern Education Soured Creativity in Learning

I eventually want to talk about an observation I had where for some reason, in certain hobbies I get very antsy and perfectionistic about things while in others not so much. So if I seperated learning to use a computer and academic work, using a computer I was able to learn without being so nervous about while academic interests made me nervous. This is something I could expand upon in a future post but it's more of an observation.

I think the very linear and structured nature of contemporary pedagogy painted this picture of the most ideal "learner" that I had to be. Which lead to a lot of procrastination, being distracted, being antsy about imperfections even before opening up a book. Things seemed daunting just before I even started. I would find myself pacing and pacing and never starting. This is as early as elementary school. But even if I did start what would happen?

Most of the time my mind would start to wonder, I'd get distracted or become self aware of what I’m doing and question it. Something didn't feel right and I couldn't figure it out. It would leave me uncomfortable. Sometimes I'd ignore the feeling or the feeling would get so unbearble I'd have to stop and almost breakdown or pace.

So there's a lot of anxiety here and maybe even an obsession over the most ideal of conditions for me to even start work on anything. This is a phenomenon that only occurs at home. Nowhere else. Not even at school. School just felt like I was passively moving along. Neither present nor unpresent.

These feelings and expectations for myself would creep up again in middle-high school and left me deeply deeply depressed. I still struggled to articulate the feelings I was having because they were so confusing.

On the days outside of school I would spend time trying to figure out why I felt the way I did, I did have unrestricted internet access afterall. At first I found out I was a procrastinator. I tried to use that as an explaination but that didn't work. So I kept looking for anything to describe how I felt. The closest thing I found was "perfectionist".

Perfectionist?

Perfectionism is kind of weird because what it is isnt an actual mental illness and is instead a personality trait that can be toxic. But if I was a perfectionist it created an environment for me where I couldn't get anything done, I was waiting for the correct conditions, and I had this ever looming feeling of "some thing not being right" if I was doing something.

It was quite literally ruining my life. And I tried so hard to explain to teachers and therapists that I was a "perfectionist" but I got dismissed each time and gaslit that I wasn't. My teacher essentially was insinuating that I was just lazy.

I couldn't quite understand why perfectionism wasn't technically a "mental illness". This feeling, this thing was ruining my life and had me institutionalized.

I actually still don’t understand why it isnt a "mental illness". But learning about anti-psychiatry and the history of psychiatry it makes sense. Perfectionism is a desired "trait" for capitalism. If you’re a perfectionist, it means you have the innate desire to be the best, you’re meritocratic even though it's costing you your body.

There is some academic research into perfectionism as a "personaility trait". Wikipedia has stated there's maladaptive forms that can lead to or be a sign of anxiety disorders, OCD, neurodivergency, etc. but there is a citation needed there, in the article.

Personally, I don’t like perfectionism. I think it's a horrible thing to be infected with and just ruins your life whether it exists by itself or is the result of neurodivergency or OCD. Nobody should ever be striving for any level of perfection and should instead be focused on the things in front of you. I don’t care if perfectionism has some "positive" qualities. They don’t. They'll just create burnout and alienate the affected person from others and their passions. It's the illusion of positive qualities.

I’m probably sounding like I’m trying to pathologize perfectionism and that does seem like it. That mostly is because it's coming from a deep hatred of those feelings that affect me. But I can only blame the environment that created "perfectionism" not perfectionism itself. Perfectionism is not a disease but a symptom of a society that requires meritocratic people and the self interested homo economicus.

With that all said, I don’t believe that perfectionism is a complete picture. As hinted, there's a connection between OCD, neurodivergency, and anxiety disorders. I think through that lens I might be getting somewhere.

Am I Neurodivergent or OCD?

It's kind of strange to be an advocate for "post-psychiatry" or "anti-psychiatry" and in favor of movements like "mad liberation" while still holding onto these labels. I don’t fully know what the discussion is surrounding labels in this area. I've seen arguments to go beyond them, reappropriate them, or just get rid of them outright. But when discussing fitting into a capitalist society, the labels can be a good tool, even if they don’t carry the nuances and the freedoms to not conform to certain standards.

I've wondered if I may be OCD or Neurodivergent in some capacity. My diagnosises have been clinical depression and generalized anxiety. Nothing more. I have been tested for depression, anxiety, bipolar, and ASD. It was nothing new, for ASD, I had a blip of it but not enough to call it Autism. A lot of my self research has found that it can be hard to diagnose neurodivergency in adults, especially if you mask it well and is very expensive. I didnt actually see any real experts in neurodivergency ever. So I may never know.

But I do feel like I fit many hallmarks of neurodivergency: difficulty concentrating, unorganized, trouble socializing, easily distracted, hyperactive, sensitivity to certain stimuli, stimming. It's hard for me to keep up with my thoughts while writing which is probably why I write so poorly.

And I feel like I have obsessions: obsessive rumination, obsessive interests that i protect, thinking about the same thing over and over again uncontrolably. I get a physical pain sensation when I don’t tend to my interests as well, it's like a nagging sensation.

They kind of overlap with each other. Sometimes the intrusive obsessive thoughts give me a release of adrenaline that i need to pace off and stim for hours on end. I will be so unaware of my surroundings and just lost in my head. It really prevents me from doing anything. And this applies with or without the perfectionist trait.

Another problem is because I am such a "perfectionist" I often won’t even do my interests because of the pain of starting or it "not feeling right". Or that I’m going about it the wrong way. Or it's too late or too long or I’m too "dumb". Many of these are just feelings before they ever become actual thoughts. So it tends to first go through my body, preventing me from doing anything then the thoughts come.

I have had friends tell me that they believe I’m ADHD. Just my behavior screams it. They say it because they have ADHD themselves. So it's quite possible I may have it. I did do a sheet test for OCD and ADHD with my psychiatrist in which I tested as possibly having both OCD and ADHD. But they're not offical diagnosises.

So I may not ever know what the truth is. I’m just as lost with what my mental blocks are as I am for my physical blocks. I’m left obsessively questioning the truth of who I am. And it causes me great fear and stress. I’m expected to go out there in the world and be like everyone else when I’m too anxious to even talk to someone in public. That isnt to say I havent made any progress in discovering myself. In recent years, Ive learned some things.

The Strides I've Made

I learned to let go of trying to find the most optimal way of learning things. Although, it's a bit complicated. It still comes back, and I think I can never escape the feeling.

I learned a little bit about how people learn and what really happens is just memory and associations with things that mean a lot to you. Diversifying resources on the same topic, mixing things up as you learn, trying non-linear approaches.

I learned that you can read a book non-linearly and can read as many books as you want at once. You can return to them any time you want. This may seem like a strange and obvious thing to say. But believe me, school really put this idea of the most ideal scenerio into everything. What is the most "optimial" might not be the most practical for everyone.

I learned to allow myself to go back and forth between what interests me and what doesnt. This applies to daily routine and to long term routine. Sometimes I want to read or watch something for 5 mins but something else catches my attention or thinking and I tend to that. Sometimes I want to learn art for 3 months and then drop it for another interest.

I learned that I just want to read everything and it's ok to go back and forth between books and maybe I won’t finish them. It's just how I roll. I can skip around in books, look at other sources and forms of media. It's ok, I can come back to them.

Adjust as you go. I can always improve my routine and where my mind goes. Starting a blog has been one of those improvements. It's a place where I can talk about things that I learned and am learning instead of having it all stuck in my head where they can get lost or jumbled up or make me overstimulated. I can empty it out, and it makes it easier to think about these concepts and retain them in memory. So ontop of that I learned to KEEP A JOURNAL essentially.

There might be more things I learned. But the thing is. I learned to accept my quirks instead of trying to avoid them which lead to idleness. It's still imperfect, and I think because of the physical stuff I’m dealing with I regressed quite a bit.

I’m trying to learn to forget about long term goals and focus on the now. Like have a long term or medium term goal in mind, then take that named goal. Take it out of your brain and lock it up in your own invisible safe. Don’t focus on where you want to be. Or on outcome. Focus on what you’re doing. Lock away the goals, you already know what they are, you can forget them and focus on what you’re doing.

Bottom Line

I’m currently on the path to learning the most important lessons: DO WHAT WORKS FOR YOU! Not what the most optimal is or the most effecient. Just DO WHAT WORKS FOR YOU. And if ANYTHING adjust it as you go. YOUR system probably won’t be the same system in a few days, weeks, months, or years. It'll probably always change, even subtly! MAKE A JOURNAL OR BLOG AT SOME POINT. That way you can organize and see your progress and thinking and get feedback. ACCEPT YOURSELF! DO WHAT WORKS FOR YOU NOW! NOT THE IDEALIZED YOU!

Anyway, moving on...

Where Mental and Physical Blocks Intersect

What came first, the chicken or the egg? I’m still wondering if I was always like this, my environment made me like this. Or some mixture.

I think what makes it difficult to diagnose myself with anything is the fact that so much of these physical symptoms overlap with mental ones and vice versa. Anxiety looks like dysautonomia and dysautonomia looks like anxiety. Or it looks like ADHD, ASD, OCD. And on and on.

I can be certain that regardless, my physical symptoms make me lose my train of thought and I lose interest in things easily. It's quite difficult to get much done. The mental stuff also makes me insanely self concious which adds to stress and I have this ever looming feeling of inadequecy or pressure to be at my end goals.

My mind is hyperactive and any sort of stimuli gives me a surge of adrenaline and I have to pace and stim. But then I get sick afterwords or don’t have the energy to pace or stim but I do it anyway. There's a lot of contridicting stuff that happens between my mind and body. Even just in my mind too. Or should I just say my body as a whole acts in contridiction all the time.

It's a fight and a battle every day. It makes the joy of learning and experiencing things almost impossible. I’m fighting back as much as I can. I know part of that battle is also self acceptance of who you are NOW. Not who you should be. You’re a work in progress. It takes a lifetime to learn how to live life, just like any hobby or interest you pick up.

How These Blocks Manifest In Every Day Life For Me

On a "good" day my life might look something like this:

I wake up and do whatever comes to mind. If I’m at my computer I might be aflicted by the sensation of my soul dropping down to the floor weighing me down like wearing wet clothes, especially wet socks.

I get short of breathe, my head could feel tingly, and I just feel weighed down. I might have a tight throat. And some issues with concentrating but not too bad. It's more of an annoyance.

Eventually it causes strain in my head and even a full on headache or feverish feeling. Luckily I don’t get to the point where I’m that fatigued usually as I’m not in an environment where I have to strain myself as much.

However, the mental stuff comes in. It might be something I see, hear, think that triggers me to pace and stim non-stop. I get anxious about the stuff I’m doing and lose interest pretty quick.

I might be nervous or overwhelmed with an interest and never start. Or maybe I do start and it just stresses me out. Or maybe I lose interest and move onto something else. Or maybe something about it causes me to feel hyperactive and pace. There's a lot that happens there.

I tend to ruminate with things, often related to what i was doing and get into wacky scenerios in my mind or it branches off somewhere else non-stop. It's just so weird to have these competeing feelings of hyperactivity and extreme fatigue. It's nuts.

I’m put into a position of idleness. Or taking one step forward and two steps back.

My current hobbies I've been engaging with have been guitar and reading. However, because of the physical stuff it's been hard. I'll quickly switch between practicing guitar and reading and even between books. I’m ok with "forgetting" things I read because reading isnt about remembering things, instead they're stored somewhere, they just need the right trigger to cause memory. But there's also layering sources of the same topic or trying to find ways to connect to completely seperate topics together to enhance memory. I’m going off on a tangent....

Anyway, I may read back and forth between books until at some point I lose interest. I might start pacing and think of something related to what i read but it branches off till it's unrecognizable.

Recently I tried to incorporate some form of journaling to better organize and think about the stuff I’m reading but I started to become too obsessive and worried about it. It stopped my progress on reading and I’m scared to go back to reading because I’m afraid of not having forgotten what I was reading. Even though part of me knows that it's not a big deal I still get scared anyway. A lot of difficult concepts often scare me away or I forget easily or I gloss over which that's fine. It's all a journey.

I’m really obsessed with learning, just a hyper awareness of how I’m actually learning something and retaining information that it becomes so sacred to me that it's scary. It's a very strange thing. It keeps me idle or makes any approach to topics daunting. Ive looked into different theories of epstimology like constructivist and transformitive approaches. I like those two approaches. It feels like I am constructing my knowledge but also transforming my prior beliefs about learning as I learn.

Since I've been physically sick, the idea to start a blog came in to fill the void of my idleness, my fear of returning to my books/interests, guitar, and my emotional state. It's been hopefully a place where I can dump whatever is on my mind until I feel satisfied enough to move on and get back to my hobbies and write about those as I learn.

In Closing

So, it's hard for me to move forward with things. I’m really all over the place and idle at the same time. My writing style, I think, reflects that. It's slow for me to get things moving and I’m trapped in a state of confusion as to what I’m dealing with.

I hope in time I will know. But for now I’m glad to just be able to talk about these things that keep me in place. I feel like this isn't a complete picture of what it feels like but it's close enough for me.

[mister-fleck]

relax: arthur fleck x sophie

prompt: “Could you write arthur/sophie nsfw? I imagine him as less experienced than her, but so excited and happy to what’s going on.”

Arthur struck his lighter once, twice, three times before taking a deep pull off of his cigarette.

A week had gone by since Hoyt had fired him. That particular phone call still made Arthur’s cheeks burn with shame whenever he thought back on it — which was often. The whole ordeal skyrocketed Arthur’s already prominent amount of stress. Cash had grown tight, not that he had all that much saved up to begin with, and Arthur had been forced to take a step back and reevaluate how to spend what little change he had left. 

And it was imperative that he did so. Arthur didn’t have the greatest resume, certainly no college degree, and the faded homeschooled certificate he kept stapled to it didn’t mean anything when it came to employers. Who in their right mind would hire somebody whose main credentials were clown and nice guy?

Due to the current hardship that life always seemed to throw at him, Arthur had disciplined himself into smoking less. He couldn’t afford the luxury of smoking two packs a day anymore, not with the responsibility of feeding his mother and paying the landlord. 

He had waited all day to smoke this cigarette. Arthur had told himself that he would be rewarded with it at the end of the day, but only if he pushed himself out of his comfort zone to apply for work elsewhere. Interviews were always at the top of Arthur’s list when it came to what made him nervous. And nervousness led to anxiety, which led to paranoia, which led to laughter…

Today hadn’t gone any differently. Nobody even remotely considered him — Arthur had consistently struggled to find the right words to sell himself as a diligent employee. Which was frustrating, because Arthur knew he was a  hard worker. He put his heart and soul into everything he did, especially when there was the possibility of failure. Yet none of this mattered, not when Arthur could only shrug and grasp at his throat when asked: where do you see yourself in five years?

But he had tried. Arthur had gotten dressed, combed back his hair, and put in the effort to further his life in this dreadful city called Gotham, so he deserved this damn cigarette. 

Shoving his cold hands into his pockets, Arthur let the smoke travel into the furthest parts of his body before exhaling it during his walk home. 

“C’mon, we’ve got to hurry it up. It’ll get cold out soon, baby girl.” 

Arthur lifted his gaze from the filthy sidewalk and was met with the vision of a slender woman rounding the street corner, hand in hand with a little girl.

His cigarette nearly fell from between his lips. Sophie.

After their short encounter in the elevator, Arthur had developed a serious crush. He could count on his fingers how many women had offered him the time of day, let alone smile in his general direction — so their brief moment, no matter how insignificant it may have been for her, had been imprinted on his heart. 

Arthur wasn’t proud of how he had followed her to work the day after. He hadn’t planned on it — Arthur had been on his way to the drug store when he spotted her leaving the apartment building, and well… he couldn’t stop himself. She pulled him forward unknowingly, like some sort of unrequited magnet. 

He had even imagined her showing up at his apartment, flirting with him in his door way. Calling him funny. 

And now they were walking in the same direction, the pair a few buildings away, their strides brisk. Sophie’s daughter was holding a red balloon and seemed to be disappearing in the fluffy winter jacket that she was bundled up in. Arthur’s eyes fell to their joined hands and envied the sight for more reasons than one. 

“Gigi, come back here!”

Sophie’s sudden demand pulled Arthur out of his thoughts and he focused on what was playing out before him: the red balloon was now a few feet away from the two of them, most likely having been blown away from the late October breeze, and Gigi’s little feet were pitter-pattering in the same direction, determined to catch it.

Right into oncoming traffic. 

Breath hitching, Arthur tossed aside his cigarette and broke into a clumsy sprint toward the child without hesitation, nearly falling flat on his face in the process, but managed to grab Gigi by the back of her coat and yank her onto the sidewalk before a taxi cab could smack right into the side of her. 

The rest was a blur. Arthur’s throat clenched and unclenched as he knelt on the sidewalk, his lungs burning, his nose pink and itchy from the chill. He heard Sophie scold her daughter somewhere behind him, her voice tight with concern and anger and thick with tears. A soft hand fell against his shoulder soon thereafter. 

“Jesus Christ, thank you so much, are you okay?”

Arthur began to laugh. 

It came out in sharp bursts, loud and jagged, each peal like a bruising kick to his chest. Mortified and nearly hyperventilating, Arthur buried his face in the crook of his elbow and fought off the urge to curl up into the fetal position. He clenched his fist and slammed it once against the pavement as he drowned in his own self-hatred. 

The hand on his shoulder retreated and Arthur’s heart broke. He had to fix this. He couldn’t let this be how Sophie perceived him, not as some delusional sicko devoid of empathy. Anguished, he dug around in his pants pocket until he felt thin plastic and held the card up over his head as he succumbed to more agonizing laughter. 

To his embarrassment, it took Arthur nearly a full minute to calm down, and by then he had accepted the fact that Sophie had probably left him there out of pity. But as he lifted his head, now throbbing and heavy, Arthur saw that she was kneeling beside him, dark eyes wide with worry.

Sophie smiled sadly at him, but didn’t move away. Instead, she parted her lips. “Hey.” 

Arthur, out of his mind and abruptly infatuated, returned the favor. “Hey.”

An hour later, Arthur found himself seated in Sophie’s apartment, perched nervously on the edge of her couch with his hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee. He turned the mug over and smiled at the messy, painted lettering splayed across it: Best Mommy Ever. 

Arthur’s heart had been hammering away ever since Sophie had invited him back to her place. He had politely insisted that repaying him wasn’t necessary, but thankfully she was insistent on patching up his banged up hand. 

“Thank you for waiting,” Sophie murmured, reemerging from Gigi’s bedroom. “Had to check under the little one’s bed for monsters. You know how children can be.”

With the way Sophie looked in her sweater and leggings, Arthur felt like a little kid himself, dazed and bashful in her presence. He smiled up at her. 

“I used to work with them,” he heard himself admit, knees pressed together and ears heating up. “I’d entertain the kids down at Gotham Children’s Hospital.” Arthur ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. “I’m a party clown.”

Sophie broke out into a bright grin and Arthur could have passed out. “Really? That’s so sweet, Arthur.” She rounded the couch to sit next to him, not too close, but not far away either. “That’s your name, right? Arthur Fleck?”

Please never stop saying my name. “Yes. Arthur.” 

Picking up her own mug from the coffee table in front of them, Sophie leaned back into the couch and crossed one long leg over the other. “I’ve always liked that name.” 

She took a sip. Arthur mimicked her, letting the hot liquid soothe his throat. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. It’s sweet. And distinguished.”

Looking down at his wrinkled jacket and beat up corduroy slacks, Arthur lifted one of his shoulders quietly. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever been distinguished, but I try my best to be sweet.” His voice was small, meek. 

“You’re kind of precious, you know that?” Sophie commented bluntly, her eyes flitting about him. “My neighbor said that you were kind of a creep, but I don’t think that’s the case at all.”

Arthur sagged a little. “They said that?” Hoping to rectify his reputation, he leant forward slightly, earnestly. “I swear, I’m a good guy, I’m just a little…”

“Shy.” Sophie finished for him, still smiling. 

She was the sun. She was the moon, the stars, the unimaginable in-between. Arthur’s pulse skipped. “Yeah.”

Arthur wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but midway through the evening news Sophie had allowed herself to scoot closer, resting her head against his shoulder and lifting her legs up onto the couch as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. He didn’t breathe for a solid two minutes, unaware of what god to thank for blessing him. 

Sophie’s voice came softly, “Is it okay if I…?” 

Arthur looked down to see one of her delicate, feminine hands tugging at his sleeve and he nodded fervently, lifting his arm so she could curl up underneath it. Content, Sophie hummed and went back to watching the weather man on the small television set across from them. 

He could have cried. Arthur didn’t know whether to feel confident or insecure — she had to have felt comfortable around him to be so intimate, which majorly stroked his ego, but did she simply feel obligated to be kind to him, after how he saved her daughter? Did Sophie mind that he smelled like cigarettes and cheap laundry detergent? Was he too thin, too bony to rest against? Was he —

“Your heart is beating so fast.”

Arthur’s thoughts halted. He felt his mouth go dry. “I’m sorry.”

Sophie reached out and squeezed his knee. “Relax. You deserve to, you know.”

“Are you real?” He had blurted it out without thinking, a tremble in his voice. It was a strange combination, Arthur realized, to be smitten and terrified all at once. 

He felt her body shake with soft laughter. “You’re so funny, Arthur.” 

You’re so funny, Arthur. 

Arthur’s heart began to break. He cursed his overactive imagination and squeezed his eyes tight, words tumbling out haphazardly, “It’s just, you’re so kind to me, and you’re beautiful, and I would hate it if you were… if you weren’t…” He struggled to find the right words, as usual. “If I was dreaming.”

There was movement against him, careful and gentle, and when Arthur opened his eyes he found Sophie much, much closer. Straddling his lap. Smirking at him. 

“Does this feel like a dream?”

Both so slowly and all at once, Sophie cradled his face in her hands and captured his mouth in a warm kiss. 

The world faded away. For the first time all night, Arthur allowed himself to turn off his brain and just enjoy her, her company, the way her body fit perfectly in his arms — which were now wrapped carefully, tenderly around her — the way her fingernails felt as they scratched affectionately against the back of his neck before sinking into his hair. 

They kissed for a long time, languidly, unhurried. Not even the opening theme to The Murray Franklin Show could pull him out of this moment, not with how Sophie was beginning to roll her hips and nibble at his bottom lip. 

Arthur was hard instantly, despite how innocently he was maintaining his posture, how modestly he was holding the woman. Sophie must have noticed though, because she pulled back with a vixen-like grin, the both of them out of breath. 

“Sorry,” Arthur rasped, a bit of a grimace on his face as he tried to fight back the urge to buck his hips up into her.

Sophie’s face was flushed as she stole another kiss, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, “You really are precious.” 

Sensing his distress, she reached back to take one of Arthur’s hands and guided it wordlessly down the front of her pants and over drenched panties. 

Arthur’s cock twitched in his underwear. “Oh, god…” 

The both of them sat panting, foreheads pressed together, adjusting to the fact that they were now openly expressing how much they wanted one another in this moment.

“Touch me,” Sophie prompted, a shaky whisper.

Arthur shuddered, swallowed hard. “Can I?”

“Please.”

Horribly inexperienced, Arthur nodded and cautiously dipped his fingertips beneath her panties and let them slide against slick, swollen flesh. He groaned softly and let his gaze fall, hypnotized by the sight of his hand lost behind the fabric. 

Sophie whimpered immediately, hands back in Arthur’s hair. He began to rub little circles right where she needed it most. “U-Uh huh, just like that. Fuck.”

Arthur was flying high. He hadn’t managed to mess up all night, which in turn led him to think that this may still all be some very vivid dream, but the way Sophie’s lithe little body trembled against him, how soaked his hand became as the minutes went by of him teasing her — that was enough to make him feel tall, broad. Like a man.

Soon, Sophie was shaking like a leaf and squeezing at Arthur’s shoulders insistently. “Take…Take my pants off.”

Arthur blinked in surprise, but he didn’t need to be asked twice. He retreated his wet hand — earning him a sharp gasp from Sophie — and helped her wriggle out of her leggings and panties. They were both a little clumsy and began to chuckle, but Arthur’s laughter turned into a moan when her hand palmed at his crotch.

“S-Sophie, you don’t have to—“ 

“Shh,” she cooed. “I want to make you feel good.” 

His chest began to heave in anticipation and Arthur knew he had to be honest with her before they went any further. “I’ve never done this before.” 

Sophie hummed, kissed him hotly. He heard the metallic scratching of his zipper being pulled down. “Then let me teach you.”

All he could do was nod and look up at her, pupils dilated, pulse skyrocketing. He wiped his sweaty palms on the fabric of his pants before scooting back to allow Sophie to pull his throbbing erection out of his briefs. 

“Wow,” Sophie breathed, skimming the pad of her thumb over the tip of his cock and eying the size of him. “Good for you, Arthur.” 

Arthur’s chest swelled with pride, feeling validated and maybe even attractive for the first time in his entire life, but he didn’t let it get to his head. He couldn’t, not with the way Sophie had wrapped her fist around him and was beginning to stroke him lazily. 

A whine tore out of his chest. “I don’t have a condom,” he managed to say, seeing stars and shuddering.

Sophie licked her lips and shook her head briefly, her voice low with lust, “That’s— That’s fine. I’m on birth control.” 

“Oh,” Arthur replied lamely, a bit strangled. “Okay.”

“Arthur?”

Green eyes lifted to brown. “Yeah?”

“Kiss me.” 

Arthur surged forward and did as he was told, and she swallowed his moan when he realized that she was about to straddle him in an entirely different way. He wasn’t sure of where to put his hands, whether it would be impolite to take her by the hips, or too awkward to keep them at his sides, so he gingerly held her face instead and braced himself.

Sophie felt absolutely divine as she sunk down onto him. She was warm — no, hot — and so wet, smooth and delicious and his hips jerked up as a reaction, making her squeak in pleasured surprise. 

They fell into a slow, heady, delicious rhythm, guided mostly by Sophie who seemed to be loving taking control. Arthur’s hands fell to her waist, nothing demanding but enough to express that he never wanted her to stop fucking him. 

“You feel so good,” Arthur stammered, his hot face pressed against her shoulder as she continued to ride him with leisurely rolls of her hips. He lost control a second time, his hips snapping up once more.

Sophie muffled a breathy cry into his hair and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Do… do that again, baby.”

Baby. 

Tightening his grip on her waist, Arthur began to pump his hips up into her steadily now, his brow furrowed as he focused on keeping it together. “Like this?”

“God, yeah,” Sophie breathed, her head falling back in pleasure. “You’re a fast learner.” 

Arthur felt her clench around him and he hissed, knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to hold off much longer. He sped up unconsciously, the sound of her ass slapping against the tops of his thighs making him dizzy.

“Sophie, I think I’m going to…” He didn’t know how to explain himself, not wanting to be crude.

“Me too,” she reassured him quickly, matching his feverish pace. The tightness in Arthur’s belly was about to snap.  Her voice grew light and needy, “With me, Arthur! Now, right now! Fuck!”  

Sophie’s pussy spasmed hard around his cock and Arthur’s vision went white as he came inside of her. The ecstasy that crashed over him seemed to last forever, intense and heavenly, and he had to bite down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out. 

Almost five minutes passed before the trembling aftershocks between the two of them subsided and Sophie leaned back to press her lips to Arthur’s forehead.

“Wanna cigarette?” She murmured, threading her fingers through his hair, still very much on top of him. 

A smile slowly flirted with Arthur’s lips. “Yes, please.” 

[kylo-ren-has-an-8pack]

i think i used to know you (are you different now?) - Gingerpilot (M)

A/n: written for the prompt from anon “are you drunk + gingerpilot”

Oh boy, is this one bad idea. You’ve done it now, Poe. You’ve gotten into some scrapes in your day, but this? You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? No, you saw a stray and you had to try to pet it. You could have left him alone, or better yet, told Leia and the rest of the Resistance his location, but nooo. You just had to charge in head first like everything else. This is bad. This is-

“I haven’t got all day.” 

The frantic, running dialogue playing in Poe’s head stops abruptly at the familiar, stern voice. 

A disheveled and downright wobbly General Hux – yes, of the First Order and everything, Hux – stands in front of him. He’s not like the holos he’s seen of him or even the still images. He hasn’t had a regulation haircut to that mop of orange hair in a while, that’s for sure, though from the looks of it, he tried it himself and didn’t do so well. It’s not bad, exactly, but it’s not the precision that a droid would have and it definitely doesn’t look like he’s ever had to do it himself. The General – is he one anymore? There had been rumors – is also missing that big, pretty, black coat of his. His clothes are common. Well-kept and makeshift-pressed from the looks of it, but definitely not military grade anything. He’s thinner too, if that’s even possible, not starving, more like the type of bony you get from stress and forgetting to eat a meal too many times. Poe can’t remember the last time he could afford that sort of mood. All in all, it’s an interesting look for him. 

“Well?” Comes the sniveling voice again. 

It was one that probably commanded respect back in the First Order, but to Poe, it seems put on. Fake.

Poe hasn’t ever been scared of ol’ General Hugs or even particularly cautious when it came to one on one’s, but he’d always known what he was capable of, at least. He’s known that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him or anybody else, maybe even his own guys if it meant winning. When he’d seen that same man slumped against the table of an outer rim cantina booth, far from any sign of Kylo Ren or the First Order, he didn’t know what to feel. All he knew is that he seemed different, vulnerable, and if the rumors were true, maybe he'd be more willing to talk than usual. Naturally, he invited him to his room. 

“Are you drunk?” Poe keeps his distance. What is he supposed to do now? Dammit, Poe.  

Hux’s dry response can almost be interpreted from his expression alone. “You found me in bar.” 

“Yeah, so, I mean,” Poe stammers, still struggling to come up with a halfway decent plan. What’s he supposed to do? Interrogate him? Fight him? But the look in the other man’s eyes assures him that Hux only followed him for a different reason entirely.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this if one of us is—and another thing. How do you know I didn’t just ask you here to kill you?”

“I don’t, but it couldn’t be worse than where I am now. Come over here,” the other man commands, as if he still – or ever – had the authority to be ordering him around. Instead of waiting for him to move, the ex-General steps forward himself, in a shaky but purposeful stride and grabs him by the collar, yanking forward and sending his lips crashing towards his own mouth. 

Poe makes a muffled mmpf sound, surprised, even if he shouldn’t be, but hell, it’s been a while. This can’t be happening. He can’t have let himself get into this situation. He can’t be kissing General Armitage Hux of the First Order--Oh hell. The curse crosses his mind unbidden as his mouth opens and his tongue slides against the other man’s own, warm and wet. It doesn’t matter if he can’t be, because he is kissing General Hux of the First damned Order.  Poe hears a sound that’s almost a pleased groan escape him, but he’s going to go ahead and label that officially an exhale for his own sanity.

This isn’t right, this isn’t right, this isn’t-

“Oh shit,” Poe murmurs out the swear as he feels the other man’s hand cup his crotch and then squeeze. His body begins to react before he can even think to stop it, to think of all the horror this man has caused, or to even weigh if there’s any chance that he’ll get out of this with useful information.

“Mmm. That’s better.” Hux nearly purrs out the words, his squeeze turning into a rhythmic massage. “I know who you are...pilot.” 

“You-you do? And who's that?” 

“Don’t patronize me, Dameron. I know who you are and I know why you invited me here. To interrogate me, to kill me…what does it matter anymore?” His hand never stops, his mouth still so close that Poe can feel his breath on his face, thick with the scent of the drinks he’d been throwing back all night. 

Poe does his best not to show it on his face. It being, the fact that he has a full on hard on, thick and heavy in his enemy’s hand, just from that little bit of attention. He’s ignored his overactive sex drive for too long apparently, and now apparently, his body is calling quits on him. He wants to pull away, or rather, he knows he should pull away. He should reach for his blaster and get out of this mess, but it's just kind of a tricky situation when the person you're planning to threaten already has your balls in their hand. 

“If you think that, then…why don’t you come back with me to-”

“No! Just because they won’t have me anymore, doesn’t mean that my allegiance lies anywhere else. I still believe in it.” The General’s voice gets sharp and then cracks. His hand squeezes until it’s almost uncomfortable…then it relaxes, easing back into the slow massage, as if the brief show of hurt and vulnerability had never happened. “I’m simply suggesting, perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” 

Poe’s voice is breathier than he’d like to admit. “An arrangement?” 

“Yes. I won’t be joining you, nor will I be turning myself over to your firing squads.” 

“The Resistance has those? I thought that was just the First Order,” Poe jokes weakly. Hux’s hands stops abruptly, and despite himself, Poe pushes his hips forward in a little thrust. 

“You never stop running that pretty mouth, do you?” Hux peers at him quizzically, drunk, but it still feels to Poe like he’s looking straight through him. Again, he can almost see what Hux wants to say and it’s a lot. Threats, commands, innuendos…threatening, commanding, innuendos? Yeah, probably that. 

“So, what’s the arrangement?” 

“Hmm. We’ll see.” Hux scoffs.

And then Hux is kissing him again and Poe figures maybe this is the easiest option to getting what he wants out of the First Order General, if he even is one anymore. 

[southparkmountainview]

Mun Name: Ky, Juju (doesn’t matter honestly) Mun Age: 24 Character Name: Thomas Gray (added a surname for specificity) Character Age: 25 Character Occupation: Currently looking, has had issues with being hired 5 + Headcanons: 1: Very anxious boy, tends to overthink and doubt himself a LOT. 2: Cannot have much, if any, caffeine or even alcohol (it brings out his tics pretty badly); Gets bad as well with hunger, anger, stress, fatigue, cold temperatures, and even excitement. 3: Is a very loyal and reliable person, but has had issues in the past due to his disorder. 4: Can be very protective of people he cares and trusts, but the problem is he tends to be really wary of who he allows in. (Also you can try to pry secrets or emotional states out of him, but chances are you’ll lose). 5: Has a major affinity for artistic pursuits (sewing, baking, and painting).

2+ paragraphs displaying your ability to write in character:

“Ah Christ on a cracker,” he exhaled audibly to himself, feeling absolutely exhausted after such a day. The job hunting was nowhere near successful and his hopes were becoming deadened. Not to mention how chilly it felt at the moment, causing him to do all sorts of exaggerated movements. A soft squeaking noise following with a shake of the head and tightly shut eyes, he had been used to this but it seemed more challenging to manage due to the cold. Perhaps he could try to focus on surroundings, the very least he could do right now.

How many jobs had he gone through? He couldn’t count, honestly, but he had to think it’d been at least 3, maybe. It was getting dreary, where could he turn? If he hadn’t been cursed with this issue, maybe he’d have gotten one by now. Sure, he’d come to embrace it over the time he had tended to CBIT sessions and Competing Response therapy, but there were times like this, he despised it. As he fixated on that he couldn’t stop the familiar cramping tension in his neck and shoulders that coincided with the twisting discomfort in his gut, the itching in his throat too. A very audible clearing noise came out.

“I’m lucky that no one’s out here right now…” he mulled under his breath, now feeling okay to just let the tic fits slip out at the realization it was safe to do so; Not that he had control over it entirely but he hated suppressing so goddamn much. Maybe he should just go home at this point, it was dark and late, Winter not giving much time for daylight and making his anxiety worsen. “You fucking cock shit-” he slipped out as his nerves grew overactive, causing him to feel the urgency to hurry home. Who knew what kinds of people would be hiding, he didn’t want to find out.

Welcome Ky/Juju @erratic-puppet​! Your character Thomas has been accepted into South Park Mountain View. Please create your account for Thomas and send us a message!

[irishplaguedoctor]

Adeo Fit Creator

Warning: This fic has mild gore, adult themes, and cursing. Audience discretion is advised. Also it’s very long so...

Summary: Instead of leaving like he had originally planned, Henry decides to stay with Joey and help him out with the old and new problems constantly resurfacing at the studio. But with Henry’s new medical issue, and the sudden disappearances of his fellow workers, he’s starting to regret his decision. Luckily, his ol’ pal Joey has an offer for him that he can’t possibly pass up.

Despite the impossible deadlines, despite the violations of safety regulations, despite the incessant absence of my best pal, the new and broken pipelines, the constant complaining of whats-its, and the growing void in the company’s bank account...I chose to stay.

Joey’s losing it, I can tell. Ever since he lost the ability to walk he was a shell of his former self. He’s a lot more reclusive now, he barely leaves his office anymore, and half the time whenever I try to talk to him it’s like I’m talking to a wall. That rambunctious man that wasn’t afraid to let anyone know what he was feeling and why, is gone. He’s just a broken old man now, and his old pal just didn’t have the heart to leave.

I still draw the scenes, sketch the forms of the devil darling himself, and give them the love and care I always do in all my works. Though, the same couldn’t be said about the others. Sammy has been a lot more hostile ever since Joey shut his doors to him, Alisson has yet to stop looking over her shoulder because of the breakdown she had to deal with from a raging Susie who felt she was just backstabbed. Everyone else...everyone else is just...it's as if everyone has been shrouded in dark ambience. Some are extra tense, some are depressed, and some are just not all there. If I hadn’t been working here for a couple of years I would’ve thought this place was a funeral parlor. 

But it’s not, and these people are still acting as if someone had just died.

I stilled my pencil at that thought. I looked at the unfinished sketch of a sad demon who’s crying over the loss of his melted snow-pal. I tapped the edge of the page in anticipation to continue working but decided against it and let the pencil fall onto the table. I sighed and leaned back on my stiff chair.

Someone might as well have.

I gently knocked on the door, careful not to spill the stack of sketches and work pieces in the other hand. There was a gruff ‘come in’ and I gingerly turned the squeaky knob. The door whined as I pushed it open and was greeted with a dimly-lit office and the boss leaning forward in his wheelchair, staring at what appeared to be a blank page with his writing hand halted in contempt as to what to write.

I shut the door behind me and walked up to the desk and laid the stack of papers down before him. He didn’t look up, nor did he even glance at the papers before him. It was only after a moment of silence did he give up on writing and laid his antique pen down.

“I take it these are the new storyboards?” He didn’t look up but instead caressed his pale hand on the top page gently.

“Yeah, I finished it. We should be good to go.”

“Good. Good.” He nodded slowly, taking the top page off and inspecting it with tired, glazed eyes. “I’ll get this to Sammy and we’ll discuss the music arrangement.” He placed the page back on top and slowly swiveled his chair to reach the outer right drawer. He pulled out a large binder and scooped the stack of papers inside, his ghostly hands shaking the entire time. It broke my heart to see him like this, it hurt every time I came in here. I was about to say something when he beat me to it. “Good work. That will be all for today.”

I stared at him for a minute before deciding now wasn’t a good time. He’s still reclusive and dismissive. To think this man used to be a stubborn show-off.

I left the desk and went to turn the knob before something stopped me. I turned to him to find that he picked up his pen again and finally started writing, it was very slow and almost a pain to watch due to his shaky hands.

“Joey,” I called. He didn’t look up, but he did stop writing. He didn’t say anything so I continued. “You can always come talk to me. You know that right?”

His pen started moving again, and I decided not to linger anymore. I closed the door and left the broken man to his work.

I couldn’t go to work today, my leg wouldn’t stop hurting. It started out as harmless charlie-horses at night, but now it’s constant. I couldn’t get out of bed, every moment I tried putting weight on it the pain would slice through me like a knife and make me bawl like an overgrown baby.

My wife decided to call the doctor and make an appointment. I told her that I probably pulled a muscle and needed to rest and that she was just being her usual overactive self. She huffed at my comment and made one anyways. Thinking back on the conversation, the way that I said it, I never realized how much Joey had rubbed off on me.

I called Joey and told him the situation. He was quiet at first but sent his regards and hoped that I would feel better. It kinda through me off guard, he was always the type to chide me for the smallest things and make a big joke about it, but then again he hasn’t been ‘Joey’ for a while now.

Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed my sketchbook off of my night stand and continued where I left off. I drew until noon, in which my wife helped me to the car and drove me over to the doctors. As we waited in the office, I pulled out my sketchbook again and put the finishing touches on the sketch. As I finished shading in the last piece, the doctor walked in with his trusty clipboard in hand. He was an older gentleman, and a sweet one at that, he wore a smile that could put a tantrum child to rest.

“My, my, if it isn’t the calmest man in the world.” The doctor chuckled softly, examining the clipboard one last time before setting it on the counter nearby. He grabbed his stethoscope and placed the cold medal on my ribcage. I flinched at the touch, in which the good doctor chuckled again. “Well...maybe not in the world but…” After he finished, he swung the stethoscope to hang behind his back as he grabbed the clipboard and sat next to me, pulling a pen out of his coat pocket and flipping to a blank page. He licked the tip of the pen with his tongue for a few seconds before jotting down the name and date. “Alright sport, what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s his leg doctor,” Linda intervened before I could even think of what to say, “He’s been in pain last night and all morning. Nothing seemed to help ease the pain either.” The scribbling of the pen on the board replaced the temporary silence after my wife paused, waiting for a response, when none came she continued. “I was hoping you would help.”

Finishing his notes, he looked at my wife with a silly smile. “Well, I mean, don’t you think you’re kind of, I don’t know, jumping the gun? It may just be the classic case of a pulled, or twisted muscle.”

I gave her a knowing look, and she rolled her eyes. “I didn’t want to take a chance.”

The doctor’s smile broadened at the cute exchange. “Well, there’s no harm in that.”

He placed the clipboard back on the counter and pulled out rubber gloves. The familiar snap of a glove-slapping-wrist echoed in the room as I lied on the bed and allowed the doctor to roll up my jeans. He pressed various points all along the leg, turning it over every so often to get to other areas that were hard to reach. He did this for about five minutes before unrolling my jeans back into place. He took off the sticky gloves and threw them away in a nearby trash can. He picked up the clipboard once again and sat back with his pen in hand.  

“Hmm...There’s definitely a lot stress and constriction,” He looked up for a brief minute as I sat back up again before continuing, “Can you please describe your pain?”

I looked down at my leg, still feeling the tight, throbbing pulses shoot through me like an elastic band constantly snapping. “It...hurts like hell,” I started hesitantly, “like as if someone is grabbing my leg and pulling and twisting it to go the wrong way.”

The doctor paused and my wife looked at me worriedly. “That’s quite...the description.” The doctor continued writing down on his clipboard before looking back up at me. “I may have an idea as to what it may be, but it’s too soon to tell. In the meantime, I’m going to subscribe to you a muscle relaxer and see if that helps.” The doctor tore off a piece of the paper and handed it to my wife. “Give this to the pharmacist and they should help.”

The doctor got up and swung the stethoscope back to the front. He patted his coat and wiped off the excess eraser shavings on his clipboard. “I want you to come back in two weeks for a follow-up. Though, if the pain is getting worse I want you to come back as soon as possible. In the meantime,” He gave me a warm smile, “try to relax and limit as much strain on the leg as possible. I’ve got some work to do.” He nodded his farewells and left me with the Misses.   

Time has passed, and it didn’t get better. It only got worse. The spasms were more frequent, and they hurt like hell. But it wasn’t just my leg anymore, my whole body started jerking uncontrollably, and I felt extra heavy, like all my energy was sucked dry.

My wife called the doctor again, except this time he was coming here because I couldn’t get out of bed without collapsing into a ball because of agonizing pain.

When he arrived, he pulled my covers off and immediately examined my leg like the previous appointment, except this time his touch felt like needles pricking into my skin. He hummed grimly as he placed the covers back over my leg.

“Not good. Not good.” He mumbled as he reached into the bag he brought and pulled out a very small vial and syringe. “Alright, I think I know what you’re problem is and I believe this is going to help.” Infusing the shot with the unknown liquid, he uncovered my leg again and inserted it into my upper thigh. I gagged from the unsuspecting surge of pain and tightened my grip on the covers until my knuckles were white as snow.  “I know, I know. That should do it.” He placed the syringe back into his bag and covered my leg again.

My wife, who’s been watching this entire time from the back of the room, made her way to the edge of my bed. “What’s wrong with him doctor?” She whispered hoarsely.

My brain couldn’t think from all the pain. In a vain attempt to make it stop, I threw the covers over my head and shut my eyes.

“I believe this to be a generalized dystonia; perhaps a dopa-responsive type.” The words were muffled but I could still hear them. “Tell me, has your husband experienced any trauma in the head or spine?”

“N-no. He hasn’t. His work doesn’t really involve him doing a lot of exercise since he’s an animator.”

“Any previous jobs?”

“He used to work at a local factory, but that was before we met so I don’t know that much about it.” I could feel my wife sit on the bed, drumming her fingers on the bed sheets. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

The doctor hummed thoughtfully as he picked up his bag. “I’m sorry to say there isn’t. The medicine I gave him should help but unfortunately it may take a long time for it to take effect. Make sure he keeps taking the muscle relaxants, it should help the process. Luckily, what he has isn’t fatal so you don’t need to worry about that.”

The doctor was about to leave when a sudden thought occurred to him. “He can still work, but I advise against walking at all costs. I recommend a wheelchair in the meantime. I shall take my leave now.”

With that he was gone, and I was finally able to get some sleep.  

“So...that’s gist of it.” I finished relaying what happened the past ten days to Joey who only listened in silence with a very stern look on his face. “I can still work, but I will need to take more breaks, and my pace may not be the same as before, but I’ll make sure everything reaches its deadline.”

Joey nodded in understanding. “I see, no worries Hen. I’ll make sure everyone is aware of your new condition.”

Hen. That’s a nickname I haven’t heard in a long time. I’ve forgotten how much Joey teased me for acting like a mother hen when it came to making sure my drafts were perfectly correlated into the animation sequence. “You need to stop fluffing your feathers whenever someone made a mistake, Ms. Hen,” He would say. Which I found hypocritical considering he was more of a perfectionist than me.

Thinking on it now, I didn’t realize until now that Joey seems more...himself than before. In fact, the opposite. He seemed like he was full of life. The last week and a half or so really threw me for a loop with days full of pain and others filled with soggy thinking and heavy breathing that I didn’t notice the slight shift in the atmosphere in the studio.

It wasn’t just Joey that changed either. There were a lot of maintenance going on with new pipe installments, and some kind of plan for machine? I only heard rumors, but I didn’t think much of it. But still, I had absolutely no idea as to why Joey needed such large pipes, but I figured that’d be something I could ask later. Right now I just needed to focus back on getting into the swing of things again.

“But I’m glad to see you’re back at work, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Probably go out of business was what I wanted to say but I didn’t want to sour his mood after the weeks of downcast I had to deal with from him and everyone else.

Actually, now that I think about it, I haven’t seen as many people around; no Sammy, Susie, Norman, not even Thomas. I thought for sure I would’ve ran into at least one of them on my to Joey’s office, especially with the new maintenance going on, but it’s been extra quiet lately.

Well, excluding the sounds of drills and pumps everywhere.

I decided to ignore the thought. “Me too.” Was all I said. I placed my hands on the cold wheels of my chair and awkwardly turned around to head out the door. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“Actually…” His voice cut me off and I turned my head to look over shoulder to stare at the sly grin plastered on his aging face. “...there is something you can do for me.” He chuckled to himself as he pulled out a book from one of his drawers and placed it on the desk. From what I could tell it was black and newly published, but it was too far away for me to make out the words. “Could you meet me downstairs after hours?”

It was a very odd request, especially coming from Joey, but considering how I missed a good chunk of work and not being able to be by Joey’s side when he might’ve needed me the most made me obligated to pay him back, no matter how weird it was.

I looked at the new elevator before me, it looked nice...and functional. Joey had these installed the first week he got stuck in the wheelchair so he could go anywhere in the studio without having to worry about the stairs, including the new, lower levels he demanded on. Why would he need so much space anyways? To build an amusement park? Now that was a silly thought.

I sighed. It seems like he doesn’t tell me anything anymore. I was usually the first one he talked to for a new plan, but now, it seems like I’m the last.

I sighed again.

But only Joey uses the elevator, not because it’s exclusive for him but for how everyone knows that the elevators were known, well, for not being made with the proper materials. Budget was strict and Joey couldn’t afford some of the right material, and it showed quite often. The ticks, the screeches, the rough movement, despite the fact it’s only little over a month old. I doubt it would even last the year, but who knows. For now, it’s my only way to reach the basement without worrying about the stairs and heaven knows there’s no way I’m going to go through that awful agonizing pain again.

I hesitantly pushed the button and rolled into the slightly dilapidated elevator. I pushed the button for the basement and the elevator jerked upon request. I jumped a little when the elevator started to descend slowly but relaxed when I realized I wasn’t falling to my death. As I waited, I looked down at my troubled foot. I never knew how much it was twisted until a few days ago, it was almost as if I broke my ankle based on how much it faced the wrong way. I always shuddered at the sight of it. Luckily, however, it wasn’t hurting right now, it reached its climax a while back and has slowly deteriorated to a mild sore. I guess I could thank the muscle relaxers for that, despite it taking about a week for them to actually start working.

Upon entering the level, the doors screeched upon opening and I quickly rolled out of the death trap with relief. I made my way through the halls and headed towards the storage room Joey wanted to meet me in. As I slowly rolled my way over, I couldn’t help but feel...nervous. Joey always asked the weirdest things sometimes but nothing like this, it kind of put me on edge. But I wanted to get this over with as fast as possible, so I trudged onward.

But once I reached the room and opened the squeaky door, my heart dropped into my stomach. On the floor, sketched in what looked--and hoped to be--ink, was a pentagram.

“What...the…”

“Ah! Henry!” His voice pierced my thoughts and I swiveled my chair to see Joey off to the side, with the black book from before in his lap. “Thank you for coming.”

“What the hell Joey?!” Was all I could say at the moment as I tried to wrap the idea around my head why there was a demonic symbol on the floor of the studio’s storage closet!

Joey chuckled. “That’s about what I would expect from you.” He rubbed his book like a sweet child and looked up at me again, “But before you decide to do anything else, let me explain.” It was more a question than a statement, but right now I was deciding whether or not to get out of there or get a valid reason for...whatever the hell he was doing. I decided to choose the latter, and do the first right after.

I held my hands out in aggravated submission, and Joey smiled in anticipation. “Excellent! Now...where to start...oh!” He looked at his book and showed it to me. “Do you know what this is?”

I squinted at the small text and read aloud, “The Illusions of...Living?” But the smaller text below was just too small to see from the distance, and I wasn’t inclined to move an inch further into the room.

“Yes! Yes! I wrote this book. It took me years but I finally finished it!” He hoisted his book up in pride. “So much research, so much time, and now everything seems so much clearer now.”

I was afraid to ask what was clear so I remained silent and let the old man ramble on.

“I know what I must do for this company.” He opened the book to a specific page, and stared at its contents in nostalgia before looking back to me. “This,” he said, gesturing to the unholy symbol on the floor, “is the answer.”

“What does...this...have anything to do with making cartoons, Joey?!” He’s lost his mind! “This isn’t something you should mess around with.”

Joey rolled his eyes at my accusation. “Do you think I’m stupid? I have studied these things for years, I know what to do and what not to do, and I know what I’m doing.” I wanted to retort but the soft squeaks of his chair silenced me as I watched him stroll over to the other side of the pentagram with a wild look in his eyes. His smile grew wide, too wide for my liking, and gave me a determined look. “I’m going to make my- no...our dreams a reality!”  

There was a flash of light and a resounding boom, I shielded my eyes and prepared for the worst. An unknown force propelled my wheelchair into the room and jerked to a sudden stop, causing me to fly off and land face first onto the stained floor. It all happened so fast that I failed to acknowledge that the pentagram below glowed a blood-red color. I tried to get up but it felt like gravity was ten-times heavier than it should be. It took most of my energy to just lift my head up and look at the crazed man I called my friend.

He looked down at with me a hefty chuckle and a twisted grin on his face. “You ready to witness a miracle?” It was no more a question than a statement. He opened his book and started spouting gibberish.

As much as I wanted to get up off the floor, let alone smack some sense into this guy, I couldn’t.  

My head hit the floor as my neck gave out. I cursed as I felt my head throb in pain, I tried to reach my hand to the tender spot that made contact with the floor but only felt an icy, wet substance touch it instead. While the touch felt nice against the heated temple, it also felt too...wrong. I looked at my hand only to see it be completely covered in a black substance. I stared at the black mass before me in horror as I twisted my body around to find that my legs, too, were engulfed in the icky, black gunk. I tried to wipe it off, shake it off, but it only spread. I flipped onto my stomach with weak determination and stared at the sinister man before me. He was laughing now. Laughing and laughing and laughing!

“J-Joey! W-wha-!” Bile started growing in the back of my throat and before I knew it I coughing it up and spitting it out onto the floor. But it wasn’t mucus or blood, it was black just like the crap that was growing all over me. Shit, it’s inside me too?! I cringed at the taste that was left in my mouth, it was stagnant and disgusting, but all too familiar. It reminded me of when I inked over the rough sketches; when I would lick my pen when the ink on the stub would dry over.

That’s when I realized what this black stuff was. It wasn’t some unholy plasma, or any such thing, it was ink. Regular ink.

“It’s torture, I know.” My gaze shot up to the crazy lunatic above me. I glared daggers at him but the only response was an amused grin. “But you are the only one capable of it. As for the others…” He closed the book and rolled over to the objects in the back of the room that were covered with old, worn bedsheets. He struggled as he looked for a good hold and yanked the bedsheets to reveal wooden coffins. I held my breath but immediately coughed up more of the ink. The air felt like daggers when it brushed against the back of my throat. “...different methods are advisable.”

“...o-others…?!”

“That’s right!” He wheeled around and came back to the circle. He was close enough now that, if I had the power, I could reach up and touch his foot. But the ink that has now spread up to my neck is weighing me down even more. My hands don’t look like hands anymore, just nubs, and I couldn’t feel my legs anymore, let alone have the power to turn onto my back to even look at them. “Did you think you were the only one to receive this wonderful blessing?”

“Blessing my ass!” My outburst caused another round of coughing fits and as I hacked up more of the ink. I couldn’t even see the etchings of the pentagram anymore.

Joey shook his head and waved me off. “You’ll thank me later. They always do.”

I growled, and stopped. That growl was too deep to be mine. Too sinister to be mine. I choked on a whine as everything started to set in. I could feel the ink drench my hair, blind my eyes, and dye my teeth black. W-what’s happening to me? What’s Joey doing to me?!

“J-Jo…” I gurgled as I kept trying to spit the ink out, but it kept coming. I was getting colder, and colder, and then it felt like thousands of needles were pricking my skin all at once. I tried to scream but it came out distorted and wrong. So wrong!

“Oh how I envy you Henry.” Joey mumbled, turning his wheelchair away from the abomination that I was becoming. “As much as I want to be the star of the show, I am not suited for the role. I would be incomplete, a misshapen creature that would never be perfect. But you!” He abruptly faced me again. “You. Are. Him! You are the only one with the proper ingredients, the essence, the living image!”

He looked down on me with a confident, endearing smile as if he was a proud father of an accomplished son. “You give him life!” He laughed and extended his hands in fantasia. “A life that is now yours!”

His laughter was drowned out as my ears melted away into nothing. Everything was melting away. My hands, my legs, my face. It hurts so much, and there was nothing I could do to make it stop. It felt like my body was stretching and thinning out into infinite. I wanted to scream, to cry, to yell...to call for help. To call for Linda! The more I struggled, the worse it got, the more it felt like the floor stretched on forever.

Oh gosh...Linda...it hurts! Make it stop! Make the pain stop please!

Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop

MAKe iT sToP

iT HurTs…

….heLP ME…

...Linda…

...please…

....

…

And then all I saw was black.  

________________________________________

Whispers. I hear whispers. I hear crying...and screaming. They sounded strange, yet familiar.

….

I’m so tired...and scared, but I also feel safe and warm. Where am I?

Darkness. Inky, blackness. Am I underwater? It feels like it.

I look up and see a very small glimmer of light. A way out maybe? I swim up to it, and make contact with the outer world. It’s dark, but not as dark as the water. I struggle to climb out. My body doesn’t feel right. My arms, they’re too long and thin. My legs too. I feel wrong. I look wrong. Everything is black like the water, no...ink.

I’m starting to remember.

My head is throbbing.

I reach and caress my head as I tried to rub the source of pain. I feel horns, one longer than the other. I’m not supposed to have horns, right? I ignored that and tried to focus. I can see images, but I can’t define them.

They’re on the tip of my tongue.

It was frustrating.

I looked around the room, it was hard to make out because of how dark it was. I needed to find the light switch.

I cautiously got up, trying to be aware of the fact that my center of balance has shifted last I remembered, and I took a step, and then another, but soon I fell to the floor. I caught myself just before my head could make contact with the hardwood. I looked at my right foot to find that it was twisted. Twisted so much that it faced the wrong direction.

Then I heard the whispers again. I turned around to find nothing, but then I looked at the ink puddle I came from. It was still, and yet it seemed to call to me; to return to it. The offer was very tempting to crawl into that black cocoon I came from, but I wanted answers to the new questions that constantly berated my mind.

I ignored its calls and stared back down at the twisted appendage in deep thought. How did my foot get so twisted in the first place?

I shooting pain drowned those thoughts as my head started throbbing uncontrollably. More images were being broadcasted into my head and suddenly pieces came together at last. My leg, my disease...Linda...Jo-

Just as quick as my memory came, something else did too; a swelling sensation in my chest. All I could think about was that throbbing, malicious strain in my chest. On instinct, my hand touched my chest and I could feel the tassel of what seemed to be a bow below my neck.

Then everything clicked. All of my memory was back.

Joey did this. Joey did this. Joey DiD ThIs!

My entire being seethed with rage. I got to my knees and stared down at the floor in heavy contemplation. That bastard! That fucking bastard! I growled and digged my hands into the wood. I didn’t notice the inky veins cascading the walls and floors of the room as it began to rain ink as I continued to dwell on my newfound rage. Whatever the hell he did to me, he’s going to fucking pay! I punched the floor like it was nothing and splintered wood flew everywhere, leaving a large hole on the ground.

“JoEy,” I cringed at the sound of my own voice, but I didn’t let it deter me. If anything, it made me even angrier, “I’m GoINg TO fiND You, anD riP YOur FuCKinG HeARt OUT!”    

It took me awhile but I was finally able to get the hang of walking again. I limped pretty badly, but there was no pain. The inky tendrils displays itself on the walls and the unfathomable rain follows me wherever I go. It actually looked kind of pretty.

But I didn’t care about that. I didn’t care about any of that. I just want Joey. I want him to suffer. I wanted to make him regret ever trying to do that satanic shit with me!

I want to RiP that black heart of his out of his chest.

His hEaRt will BeAt in my hands as I get to watch the life fade from those awful, devious eyes.

I want to see that stupid smile twist into a pAIn.

Nothing else matters at the moment. Nothing else.

________________________________________

*Riiiing* *Riiiing*

The sound of the phone jittering on its medal pedestal knocked on the aging man’s mind vehemently. A scowl crept onto his pale face as he took his eyes off of his prized novelization and onto the annoyance. Who the hell would call this late at night? And to Joey Drew of all people?! He so badly wanted to ignore it, but his stubborn instinct warned him otherwise.

He sighed and picked up the damn thing.

“Hello?” He greeted the caller with hidden malice. A familiar, sweet voice responded. Bile started to surface in the back of his throat considering the new, treacherous circumstances this particular woman would be calling, but it didn’t let it bother him. He shoved the feeling away. “Aw, Linda I presume?” He waited for a response but nothing came. Henry’s wife always was the shy, introverted type especially in front of the glowing beacon that was Joey Drew, but she seemed extra quiet. He assumed that the call was about Henry--why else would she call?--and used his charm to dissuade her worries.  “Henry’s still here if that’s what you were wondering. He wanted to catch up on the work he missed while he was gone.”

The woman’s voice responded with a very faint I see before the static of the phone overtook her again. The man was getting more annoyed, and more intense, he began drumming his fingers nervously on the wooden desk. After what felt like forever she spoke again, except this time her words left the man chilled to the bone.

“I’m going to come over and check on him.”

He needed to act fast. “Oh no no no, please, you’ll only bother him. He wants to be kept alone, he insisted! But don’t worry your pretty little head, I’ll keep my eye on him and make sure he’s alright.”

But the woman on the line wasn’t convinced. “I’m coming anyway.”

Damn! “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Please, it’ll make me feel better just seeing him with my own eyes. I’m sure you would understand, right?”

He’s losing the battle! “I do! But I also understand that Henry can be-”

*Hrrrrrrmmmmmmm*  

The sound pounded his ear drums violently, she hung up on him. He bit his lip and slapped the phone back onto the pedestal venomously. He lost, and now that woman is coming over. She practically threw a wrench in his plans!

He glared at the phone sitting quietly at the corner of his desk and then to his book in front of him in contemplation. He opened it and flipped the pages nonchalantly, organizing his thoughts in his tired mind before an idea popped into his head.

He smiled. “If that incessant bitch wants to come, let her come.” He stared at a certain page full of runes and incantations with hungry eyes. “She’ll make a fine addition to the family.”

________________________________________

There. There it is. Joey’s office, just at the end of the corridor.

It’S ALmOst TIme.

My body shivered in anticipation. I took a deep breath and a soft whistle escaped my overbearing SmILe as I trudged onward. Ink spiraled and spread across the walls as I got closer, the rain staining the floors and echoing a faint plip plip that seemed to soothe me. It was almost hypnotic, but not hypnotic enough to steer me away from my goal.

The ink entrails are staining the door now as I held out my oversized hand and viciously gripped the knob. The door rattled but did not budge. I scowled. The door is locked.

“What the-”

I swung my head around to face the other end of the hall. My first thought was Joey, but all I saw was a shaky teen quivering in over \-sized overalls.

It was Wally. I thought it was just Joey and I here, but then again, Wally did like to sleep on the job…

“WalLy!” I called. He has to have spare keys, he is the janitor after all. “HElP mE OuT!”

He shook his head and took a step back. “Uhh...ugh…! N-no I-!”

I took a step forward and a loud squish echoed throughout the hallway. “WaLly! KeYs!”

He bit his lip, then he turned tail and ran. “The money ain’t worth this! I’M OUTTA HERE!”

“WALLY!” I tried to run after him but the uncomfortable tug on my foot stopped me. There was no way I could catch up to him.

I looked down at my malformed hands, and then my skeletal torso. Am I...am I really that terrifying? Wally has always been the skittish and cowardly type, but the way he acted now sent chills down my spine. I’ve never seen him so pale. So horrified. PeTRifiEd.

....What about Linda?

I stared down at my left hand and noticed the absence of my wedding band. I felt all along my ring finger to see if it was just covered up by the ink, but there was nothing. Oh gosh, how was Linda going to react?! The thought made my heart ache. As if she had enough to worry about…

There’s gotta be a way. There’s gotta be a way to fix this! There HaS tO BE!

I clenched my fists. Change of plan. I’m going to torture that son of a bitch into fixing this.

And then I’ll proceed to rIp HiS HEarT OuT.

________________________________________

*rattle*

The sound made the tired man jump from his seat. He closed his book and watched the door in horror. A sea of ink cascaded his door as it seemed to move up and down like the waves of the ocean. Never had he seen such a sight, he didn’t know whether or not to be scared or in awe.  

*rattle* rattle*

It seemed like someone was desperately trying to get in, and for once he thanked his anxious-thinking for making him lock his office door like he did every night after hours.

“Who’s there?!” His hands were trembling but he made sure it wasn’t evident in his voice. He was very good at that.

…..

Silence. The door stopped rattling and knob stopped twisting, but the ink still swirled and shifted on his foggy-glassed door. He didn’t dare break the silence for fear of who--or what--was behind the door to start doing it again.

For all he knew, it was just him right now.

Another minute went by and ink started drooping naturally on the door. The man relaxed a little. “...maybe it was just the ink in the pipes again.” He muttered. “It has to be. There’s no one else here.”

Suddenly a loud scream could be heard.

“UUhhh. Ugggh!”

The man froze, his hair standing on end. The voice sounded familiar. “I-Is that...Wally?”

“....I’M OUTTA HERE!”

Yes it was definitely Wally, he recognized the young teen’s quip anywhere.

But then it was quiet again, just like before, but this time the man was still on edge. “Hmph. Kid must’ve slept on the job again.” He told himself, trying to shake away the feeling fear in the back of his mind. Wally was probably the one trying to get in, to do his usual rounds. Yes, that had to be it. There was nothing to be scared about. Henry’s in the basement in the middle of his metamorphosis, and his other creations are down deep into the newer, lower levels of the studio. Everything was fine. He let out a shaky breath that he didn’t realize he held and chuckled to himself.  “That stupid teen...scaring the wits outta me...I’m gonna have to dock his pay for that-”

*Pound* *Pound*

The sound of the door being pelted over and over again shook the man senseless. He thought it was over. He thought Wally had gone, but it appears whatever he was doing he wasn’t finished.

POUND POUND

It got louder and more violent. “What the-” Joey couldn’t even finish his sentence when the door was yanked off his hinges and thrown away like a piece of plywood.

The thing standing there, glowering at the man with unrelenting rage, definitely wasn’t Wally.

________________________________________

I punched the door with my fists over and over again. If I can’t unlock it, I’ll break it down. The door screeched from the constant abuse as wood began to splinter and the medal beginning to bend out of shape. I could hear a distraught Joey on the other side and it brought a smile to my face.

So close. Soon it’ll be over. I’ll make Joey change me back, I’Ll kILl thE BAstArD, and say it was an aCciDEnT. I grabbed the bent door frame and pulled all of my weight onto it. The sudden pops and groans of the hinges was bliss. I’ll THroW his corpse into the elevator and cut the lines. I’ll bREak it and send it hurtling towards HeLl! No one would suspect me. And JoEy will be right where he belongs!

TO. rOt. In. HelL!

With one final pull the door was yanked off his hinges, and I hurled the piece of wood behind me. There, sitting behind his desk as usual, was a pale man with a horrified expression on his disgusting face. The sight made me laugh as I triumphantly limped over to his desk and thrusted my hands onto it. The wood underneath my hands cracked and bits were sent flying everywhere.

“Hen-!”

Before he could even say my name, I grabbed the edges of the desk and threw it across the room. It made contact with the wall and chunks of wood exploded everywhere, causing Joey to hold his hands up in a guard against the flying debris.

With one swift move, I was holding him by the neck with my gloved hand as I held him up to be eye level with me. He instinctively clawed at my hand to no avail as I gleefully watched him writhe in agony.

ONe mOVe. And his life will be mine. But firSt…

“JOeY.” I glared at the piece of trash I held and flexed my hand around his neck. “yOU BaStARd.”

“Hen-!” My grip tightened.

“SHUt uP!” I bared my fangs and growled. “YoU Are GOinG tO FiX THIs, JoeY. YOu aRE gOinG tO TuRn Me BaCK TO NoRMal. NOW!”

“I-I….*urk*...can’t!” I hissed and flexed my gloved hand again, but despite that he continued, “That’s...impossible!”

I scowled at the wriggling man and threw him down in a fit of rage. I held back a roar, his voice still continuing to pierce my ears. “It’s...irreversible.” He coughed as he wrung his red neck. Despite the choking and foreboding situation, he still had a fire burning in those infuriating eyes. “Perfection requires s-sacrifice, don’t y-you understand?!” He struggled to get up but failed to do so with nothing to support him, desk nor wheelchair. He tried to stand but felt too weak to even get on his knees. And yet that determination never waded. He spotted his book a few feet away and tried to reach for it in vain. “You are incomplete. We must continue the r-ritual and-”

I kicked him in his pie-hole and his head whiplashed and hit the ground hard. His nose bled furiously and his teeth were stained a bright red. I hissed at him. “NO! YoU WiLl tURn mE BaCK tO NoRMaL!”

He coughed more and spat out blood. He turned and glared at me. “W-why...can’t you understand?” He wiped away some of the blood and sat up. “I’m doing this for you! For us! Once you’re complete we’ll become successful! We can fulfill our dreams! Do you know how they’ll react? Seeing a real-life ‘Bendy the Dancing Demon’? We’ll be big!”

“sHuT UP!” I roared as I swung and kicked him on the side of the head. He was sent skidding a few feet away, trailing blood along the wooden floor. “I DOn’t WanT THiS! I NeVEr wAnTeD thIs!”

He hacked up more blood as he tried to lift his head, only to crash back down onto the floor. But his eyes didn’t waiver. “Y-you’re an i-idiot. W-why can’t you accept m-my gift of immortality?! Why can’t you let me help you?”

It’s the same thing. Over and over.

“Our lives can change for the better! No longer would we be shackled to the unending cycle of life and death, we can build a better place, a better world for our studio!”

Over and oVer.

“Nothing could stop us. We can achieve greatness!”

Over AnD OveR.

I dug my claws deep into his neck and hoisted him to my eye level once again, staring into the fiery eyes of a mad man.

“Heh heh. Y-you just need to trust your old pal.” He smiled, showing off his bloodied teeth. “You just need to stop being such a mother Hen-”

Crack.

His limp body dropped to the floor with a soft thud. His eyes now a dull and empty gray. The smile was gone and was replaced with a grim, thin line.

I stood there, staring at the body with an empty gaze and then over to the black book he cherished so much. I limped over and grabbed it, flipping through the pages.

Gibberish. Just gibberish.

I threw the book aside and went back over to Joey. I grabbed one of his legs and started dragging him out of the room, towards the elevator.

I grinned.

One swift motion...and HiS lIfE wAS MINe.

The sound of a door creaking open broke the ominous silence. The sound of heels soon followed as the whine of the closing door clicked shut.

“H-hello? Mr. Drew?” Linda’s hushed voice was quivering as she looked around the empty, inky studio. Splotches of ink were everywhere and the sound of turning wheels was the only sound she heard in the room.

She walked over to her husband’s desk to find it empty. She looked at the unfinished sketch on the table with mild interest as she walked away in the opposite direction. She was starting to get worried now, she knows it’s much too late for anyone to be working now but surely she would have seen Mr. Drew or her husband by now, right?

She did call in advance.

She decided to continue her search anyways. She followed the signs and headed towards the Ink Machine room. No one was there except for the monstrous mechanism that was hoisted up with chains. The room held a foreboding atmosphere and she walked out the moment no soul could be seen.  

The moment she did though a loud crash boomed throughout the studio and shook the foundation. She yelped in surprise as she lost her balance and fell on her bottom. She waited until the shaking stopped before trying to get back up again. To her disgust she fell onto a puddle of ink but that was the least of her worries right now.

“What the hell was that?!” She prayed that whatever it was, Henry wasn’t involved in it. Although chances in that are exceedingly low considering the lack of presence now.

For now, she put those thoughts in the back of her mind and ran towards the source of the noise.

________________________________________

It was done. It took a lot of time and effort to drag both Joey’s body and his wheelchair to the elevator, but I made it with no injury. Now, the only problem was how to cut the ropes and chains on top. It was way too high for me, despite my new, uncanny height, and my leg prevented me from climbing it. Not to mention I didn’t have anything to cut it with. I thought about my claws but the rope was too thick and the chains were too hard. I needed pliers of some kind, or maybe an axe. But where the HeLl am I supposed to find that?

So cLoSE, and yet sO FaR!

The ink around me bubbled. What do I do now? I seethed as I flexed my claws in thought. Then, to my surprise a large tentacle rose up from the ink. I took a step back in fear and readied myself for combat, but it did nothing. In fact, it moved when I moved. Confused, I walked back to it and touched it. It didn’t faze it, whatever it was. I reached my hand up and waved to the side, it did too. I waved my hand to the other side, and it did that too.

I looked at my hand and then back at the inky tendril. Am I controLlIng it? I waved my hand repeatedly and watched as the tentacle swished side to side as well. Can I control the InK?

An idea popped into my head. I swung my hand back, the thing copying my motions as well, and lashed forward in the direction of the elevator. The tendril swung and cut through the chains and ropes that held up the deathtrap as if it was butter, and watched in triumph as the box screeched downward into the abyss.

There was a loud boom and the tremors knocked me off my feet, causing the tendril to sink back into the vibrating ink beside me.

Once it stopped, I whistled in relief.

It was OvEr. JoEy’s GONe.

I chuckled to myself as I stood back up again. But I stopped myself when a thought pierced my heart.

WhAt NoW? I have no way to turn back to normal. I looked at my deformed body in distraught. How can I come home to Linda LoOKiNg LIke tHiS?!

A whine escaped my teeth as realization hit me like a ton of bricks. What have I done?! I wandered helplessly over to where the elevator was and stared down into the darkness. I KiLled my friend! HoW cOuLd I EvEn THINK tO Do sUch A ThINg?! The ink rain is starting to rain harder now, pelting me and the floor furiously.

WHat HAVe I beCOme?!

I held my hands and examined them in contemplation. The ritual must have done something to me, something more than just change my appearance. I would never think to go so far as to even think about killing someone, no matter who or what they did. Even if it was Joey. I would never hurt a fly!

I stifled a sob. Am I going insane? If I could easily kill Joey, my old friend, my wife may be in danger as well. What if I hUrT her too? The thought broke my heart.

The sound of heels brought me out of my thoughts. The ink rain dissipated into a subtle pour as I turned my head around. There, standing in the doorway, was Linda.

She held her hands up to her mouth as she slowly walked away from me. She was white as a ghost.

“LInDa?!”

Her eyes lit up immediately but as quick as it came her eyes were shrouded in darkness again. She shook her head in disbelief, and then ran off in the opposite direction.

“LINDA WaIt!”  

This time I ignored my incapacitated foot and ran after her. The sound of her breathing and the steady tapping of her heels helped locate the direction she was going. She was faster than me, but I know that between the two of us I had more stamina, even when I was out of commision during that hellish week of staying in bed. I kept calling her name, over and over again, but her only response was her breathing getting heavier and heavier.

At one point we reached a long hallway and I could finally see her. She paused towards the end to catch her breath, but the moment she saw the inky patterns flourish on the wall she pushed herself to keep moving. She rounded the corner and suddenly there was a shriek, followed by a loud thump.

Terrified, I pushed myself to run even faster. It felt like I was running in slow motion as I neared the end of the hall, the anxiety draining me constantly. It was excruciating. It felt like hours but I finally rounded the corner to find Linda sitting on her side, holding her right foot close to her. Her heel was off and she was shivering uncontrollably.

She must have twisted her ankle.

Cautiously, I limped over to her. “LiNdA.”

She whipped her head around and on instinct threw her heel at me. It hit me square on the forehead and stumbled back, putting my hand over my pulsing temple. I growled as the throbbing berated me over and over again.

The growl threw her off and Linda immediately stood back up again. Using the wall as a support she ran away. She stumbled multiple times and constantly collided with the wall to confirm my suspicions.

I was able to compose myself and ran after her again. She noticed and hastily grabbed her other heel. “L-leave me alone!”

She threw it but this time I was able to jump to the side just in time. She bit her lip and tried to run again but tripped over her own feet and fell onto her stomach. The wind was knocked out of her and she lied there, stunned and immobile.

I limped to her side and crouched to her level. The only thing I could think to do was sit her up and have her lean against me. She struggled weakly at first but gave up when it was too hard for her to focus on breathing. I tried to shush her to calm down but only a whistle was heard. It didn’t help.

“L-let…*huff*...m-me g-g-go.” She pushed her free arm against me, but I tightened my grip and tried to cradle her instead in hopes of getting her to calm down. I wanted to raise her arms to help open up her windpipes to make it easier to catch her breath, but it would make her feel more vulnerable and scared, so I decided against it.

“iT’s OkAy. I’m nOT gOIng tO HuRt YoU.” I spoke softly. She started struggling again, but I held my ground. “It’S mE LiNdA, iT’s HenRy.”

She froze at the name and gave me a frightened look. “Y-you’re….you’re not my husband!” I flinched as she pushed harder against me. “You look nothing like my husband!”

My heart broke, and it seemed like time stopped for me. I was stunned, and she took advantage of that. She broke free from my hold and crawled away. She stood back up and wobbled over to the wall, glaring daggers at me. “You’re a monster!”

That was it…that was what killed me. It felt like my heart shattered into little pieces. I continued to sit and stare at her in disbelief, shaking my head in denial. “I-I...I’m not a MoNstEr…I’m not...”

She took this chance to limp away from me, and I still couldn’t move. It hurt too much. I continued to watch her until she rounded another corner and disappeared. That was when my despair reached its critical point as inky tears cascaded my vision, leaving everything blurry. It felt like I was melting, like before when Joey was doing that awful ritual to me.

I sobbed as the ink rain pelted me once again. The loud sounds of ink meeting the floor drowned out my soft wails as I continually denied what just happened; how Linda ran away from me screaming bloody murder like I was a monster!

Then I heard it again, that familiar whisper. Except this time it wasn’t from any puddles, it was coming from inside my head. It beckoned me to return to the ink again, its sweet voice promising love and safety. It was so tempting, so so tempting. I just wanted the pain to go away. But I was scared, those whispers weren’t natural.

But then its voice changed into something familiar, something sweet and soothing, and it said something that perked my ears.

“Come and join your family.”

Family. Linda wanted a family. I remember having the talk, about how she wanted kids and that she and I would raise them together. ‘It would be wonderful,’ she told me, ‘we would shower them with love, and we get to watch them grow up into wonderful people! Wouldn’t that be amazing?’ That smile she gave me that day was extraordinary, it gave me the same feeling that this voice is giving me now.

The voice sounded exactly like hers.

It must be good then, right? Right?

“Please, won’t you join us Bendy?”

Hearing it say my name was bliss. That was my name right? Yes, it must be, it feels right. I stopped crying as the rain lessened, the pain was fading away.

“The children need a father.”

Yes, yes they do. Someone has to take care of them; to protect them from unwelcome strangers, from wandering into the dangerous world beyond these walls, to protect them from themselves. That’s how a father shows his love and devotion to his children.

RiGht...LiNDa?

I smiled as the ink clouded my vision with a welcoming, inky, bLaCk.

Henry is GoNE, buT BEnDy iS hErE.  

________________________________________

She kept running, heading towards the exit. She was close now, just around the bend and she’ll be home free. She’ll get out of here, call the police, and get everything situated. She’ll find her husband and things will be okay, everything will be okay…

...everything will be okay...everything will be okay…

That’s what she told herself anyway, over and over again.

Around the corner and there it was, the exit. To anyone else it was a shabby old door but to her it was salvation. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she rushed over to the door, happy to have this nightmare end. But she stopped as she watched in horror as ink sprawled itself all over the hallway and onto the exit. Ink started pelting her as large drops seemed to ooze from the ceiling.

She didn’t need to turn around to know that that thing was close behind her. She ran as fast she could with her twisted ankle, one hand on the wall as support and the other shielding her eyes from the constant downpour of black liquid.

Her heart racing, she reached out her hand and grabbed the medal knob but failed to twist it when she was suddenly yanked back. The creature got her.

She screamed as the monster grabbed her by the throat and held her up to its eye level. It had a pleasurable grin, just like the one her husband always drew on his devil darlin, and it growled. It slowly tightened its grip around her windpipe as she struggled to break free, kicking it and scratching at its claws with now debauched nails.

“L-let go!” It was getting harder and harder to breathe for Miss Linda as the monster only tightened its grip and growled in mild satisfaction. Her tears have not let up, her mind stricken with fear and terror at the thought of dying and not seeing her beloved again.

Its grip tightened once more. She sobbed. “H-henr-ry…*hic*...H-henry! H-help me…*hic*....”

The monster flinched and seemed to frown at the poor woman in confusion. Its grip loosened as the ink rain let up and scrawl on the walls became less evident. It continued to loosen its grip until it finally let go and the dropped the woman unto the inky floor. She collapsed into a fit of coughs and hiccups as she tried to catch her breath.    

Her arms were shaking vehemently as she tried to sit up, but her all energy was drained from the near suffocation and collapsed onto the floor once more. All she could do was stare at the monster’s legs as she gulped the air to fill her thirsty lungs. Everything was blurry for a moment until things started to reset back into position when she noticed the monster’s right leg; it was twisted and facing the wrong way.

Then it clicked, like someone turning on a switch in her oxygen-deprived brain.

There was only one person she knew that had that injury.

She turned her head upwards to look at the creature clutching its head with a scowl on its inky face, as if it was berated by a migraine. Her eyes darkened as realization hit her.

This thing was her husband.

While the ink rain was barely raining now, the ink was now up to her eyes and she did her best to lift her head high enough to not let the ink get in her mouth. She shifted her body onto her knees to try to sit up again when the sound of wood cracking stopped her.

For a moment she felt her heart pound mercilessly against her rib cage as she tried to figure out where the sound was orginiating from. But the moment she realized where it was coming from, the floor below her gave way and she fell.

Time seemed to slow as she watched the ceiling get farther and farther away. She was too shocked, too tired, to scream or yell as she continued to fall. Her life flashed before her eyes: her childhood, her high school years, the day she met Henry, the day she married Henry, the day she watched Henry drive off to his new job at an animation studio…

...She felt herself tear up at the memories.

“H-hen…”

THUMP

Her head met the wooden floor.

________________________________________

The ink demon knelt down and looked through the new hole in the floor to see the body of the woman lying there, unmoving, as blood slowly stained the floor around her head. It cocked its head to the side in confusion. WhEn DiD tHiS haPpEn? Whatever happened, it looked to be recent. But if he was here, wouldn’t he have seen it happen?

He growled and clutched his head, he was getting a bad headache so he decided to not dwell on it.

He decided to investigate the scene. He stood up and, as if it was second nature to him, opened up an inky portal on the nearby wall and limped through. The portal opened up into the room below and instantly everything grew dark as ink sprawled all along the walls and as ink rain casually fell from the wooden ceiling.

He limped over and knelt down next to the woman. He could have sworn he seen her somewhere before, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He sighed, he was getting a bad headache again. He hated this.

Unlike the multiple souls he could feel further down into the levels of the studio and in the embrace of his ink, he doesn’t sense anything from her, no movement, no soul, whoever she was she’s dead now.

He shrugged his shoulders. Didn’t matter anyways. He grabbed the woman’s waist and lifted her up. He limped through the same portal from before and emerged back onto the first floor, heading towards the ink machine.

She’ll make a nice addition to the family.    

[rockleefangirl987]

What You Love...(For Rock Lee Birthday Month!)

I wrote this last year as we had a challenge for Rock Lee Birthday Week. I thought I would post it again, and this was in answer to the challenge made by @sausage-fist. I thought it was a great way to start it out. Here was the challenge:

Lee has a passion for training and becoming stronger!! It’s what he strives for every day. What is your passion? What do you strive to become? Create something that involves you telling him or showing him the thing you are most passionate about whether it be sports, drawing or even comedy!! Show Lee what you train for every day.

What I train for? I try to write each day, as I have since I was too young to even know why. My inspiration included the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell and Daphne DuMaurier, because they wrote the books my mother loved and taught me to love. I wanted to tell stories full of unbridled passion and real human beings with all their little problems and life not always turning out as we hoped. I wanted my readers to visualize everything as though a movie was playing before you. So as a writer, you struggle with all the right words and...

Well, Lee, this is for you - one more time. 

I...I do not...I do...not...understand,” he said between deep gulps. I watched his head bounce up, vanish, bounce up again, then drop out of sight - over and over as it had for the last ten minutes. No matter how often I saw him perform his push-ups, the idea of him managing a conversation and performing a countdown in his brain astonished me to no end.

“What do you mean? What don’t you understand?” I replied, drawing one leg underneath me as I readjusted myself in the large wicker chair.

The fall morning was too beautiful to stay indoors, even if your work engulfed you, preventing a full enjoyment of the day. Still, it was nice being close to one’s muse. One’s overactive muse...We had been out in the garden for hours, me with my writing and him performing what came naturally. At one point there were pull-ups and rotations from a stout tree limb fifteen feet off the ground. On another occasion, he did nothing but run. For the two of us, it was typical.

Once more I asked, “I know sometimes I feel like I’m talking in riddles.”

“No...No...it...it is not...not that. You said you...you were...having...problems.”

“Yeah.”

“But...what you are doing...it seems simple, right?”

Twirling my favorite pen as one might a baton, I stopped before launching into one of my habits: clutching the instrument between my teeth. How many times did I have to remind myself: you don’t know where that pen came from? Even if I was the only one handling it. Even if I kept it safe within any of my numerous notebooks. I snatched an antibacterial wipe from a nearby container, and while I cleaned the pen, concentrated once more on what he asked.

I couldn’t help smiling at the notion. From others, I might have taken exception, but from him? The innocent expression indicated one thing: his questions were because he was curious and cared about my well-being. For the last hour, I had grumbled, scowled, buried my face in my hands, torn one sheet from the binder, then another, doodled terrible stick figures - a couple with bushy eyebrows (seeing those made him giggle as he joked ‘I do not look like that, do I?’). Still, I wondered how I might better explain so he’d comprehend, not because he was stupid, but…

“Yeah, I guess it does seem simple.” Smiling, I tapped the notebook resting on the portable writing desk in my lap. “Every time you see me, I’m putting words to paper.”

“Or typing...typing away...on...your...computer. Sometimes...you never stop.”

“Neither do you.”

He paused, considered my words, then returned to his routine. “That is true...But...But is it that...difficult?”

“Writing?”

He nodded a response.

Chuckling, I used an index finger and thumb to massage the insides of my eyes. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it can be. Not all the time, but...I don’t know...It just feels like it’s all stuck up here.” I pointed at my head. “And it doesn't want to come out! I see it...I can hear it...Everything! Descriptions, what everybody says to each other, what characters are thinking or feeling! Then I try to write it, and I read it, and I think…”

“What do you think?” after I didn’t respond for several moments.

“That it’s the most godawful garbage anybody’s ever written.”

“Two thousand!” he shouted.

Was he already finished?

“But I have seen books in bookstores. I tried to read excerpts.” He sat cross-legged on the ground near me. “And I told Guy-Sensei the writing was so painful I thought I was going to cry. Tenten is more explicit. She said the authors should be locked in a room and forced to listen to the pain they have inflicted on their readers.”

I snickered, rolling my eyes, nodding in agreement.

The chunin continued. “And some of those books have been made into movies. Although truth be told, the filmed versions were not any better than their source material.”

I laughed again. “Who died and made you a movie critic?” Shrugging, he responded with a smile I'm certain he prayed would make me feel at ease. Under normal circumstances, it might have. Right then, nothing I felt empty, lost in the problems of my own making. “Yeah, well, I’d like to be a little bit better than that. Not that I’d sneeze at a million dollar contract from a publisher or a movie studio, but my name’s going to be on it. I’d like people to look back at my stuff and think ‘Wow! Another Gone with the Wind! Another Pride and Prejudice!’ Not ‘Oh my God - take away that woman’s laptop and paper and pen and break her hands so she never writes again!’”

There came that soft giggle which never failed to make me smile. I couldn't help it. “That is so silly. I have read your stories, remember? No one would ever accuse you of writing...well…some of the books I have seen. You do not write about vampires or werewolves or fifty whatever.” A blush came to his cheeks. “You write about...people, life.”

“I try,” I muttered, exhaling. I was frustrated. I had been working on one chapter for three weeks - bits and pieces here and there. What should have been a basic, informational few scenes stressing the heroine’s dilemma bogged me down a third of the way through. In that time frame, I rewrote one scene more than a half-dozen time. Another key scene faced four times under the knife. Each time I looked at the words, I groaned, cursed (I never did that in front of him), and either hit the backspace key or drew several furious lines through the sentences on the lined paper. That second scene annoyed me to Hell. It sounded stilted, forced. Characters I’d handled for almost a year fell to pieces. I imagined them glaring at me from my Chromebook screen or my notebook, each of them thinking ‘What in the world is her problem?’ I honestly didn’t know, so in the meantime, I returned to previous chapters - the chapters I loved, chapters over which I had also once struggled.

“You are seeking perfection.”

I looked up and into those large dark eyes. “I guess.”

“Of course you are! You have shown me so many wonderful chapters, and I am always honest and tell you how they are. They are good. No, how great they are. The old adage is right. You do have a way with words.”

I ducked my head. That was something I had heard since my school days.

“And then you return and tell me, ‘I redid this. What do you think?’ It will be the same scene, but you have added more dialogue, removed this or that, changed a phrase about, added a new thought...and it is still good. Then you work on another chapter or scene, but you keep returning to the other, although I did not think anything was wrong with it in the first place. But you know what?”

“No, what?”

“No matter how many times I read it when you make the adjustment, whatever that might be, it is even better than before, although I did not think it possible...But you must realize, the time is going to come when you cannot make another change. That it is as good as it will ever be. Otherwise...you will never finish.”

“Huh.”  

He scooted closer. “You have been working on our story for a while.”

“I just want to get it right.”

“I know. I appreciate that. But you joked the other day you have barely scratched the surface and you have written...sixteen chapters?”

“Eighteen, nineteen,” I confessed. “Some of them don’t have chapter numbers yet because they come later in the story. And a few are so long, I could split those down into another chapter or two.”

“Yes...They are good too, you know.” He gave me a thumbs up accompanied by a toothy grin. “I especially like the one, you know, the one where…”

“I know.” This wasn’t the first time he told me he did. Every time he read that part, tears filled his eyes when he finished. “It’s kind of my favorite too.”

“How many revisions?”

“I deleted a sentence last night.”

“Not again!” It was his turn to sigh in frustration. “If you have not scratched the surface yet, it will be another year or two or three before you write ‘THE END’, and it will not be the actual end because you will revise and rework and rephrase it and…”

“Yeah I know, I know!”

It happened before I knew it. Pen, notebook, and portable desk were thrown to the ground. I was upset with myself, not with what he told me. He realized that too, having seen my temper flair before. He also said nothing when he saw me tear up, reaching down to touch the cherry wood of the lap tray he’d given me as a birthday gift. If I damaged something which came from his heart…

With great calmness, he picked up the items, placed them on the table in front of me, then raised the lid on the Chromebook.

“When I said I did not understand why it is not simple when you are writing, I was wrong.” He maneuvered the mouse, digging deep into the carefully organized folders in the Cloud. “When someone has a passion for something, and it means everything to them, others should not tell them they must give it up or lower their goals.” Although I observed him in profile, he was smiling. “I ought to know.” He turned briefly, winking at me. “This is what you work hard for. This gives your life meaning. It is your code - your Ninja way. I have made a promise to support you as best I can, just as Guy-Sensei still does for me. I am sorry if I do not always appear to understand.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s not you. A lot of times, you’re the one who gives my brain the jumpstart it needs.” I gave the lap desk a quick once over, pleased there was no damage. “I’m sorry.”

“It is alright.”

“But it’s not alright. You gave me something special and I…”

“Your passion got the better of you.”

“That wasn’t passion. That was me and my stupid temper.” My voice dropped lower. “Lee, what are you looking for?”

“It is fine. I have found it.”

I saw that the folder he clicked bore the tentative title of the story I had given my nearly undivided attention to these last eleven months. “But I don’t…”

“Your writing means the world to you. One day you will finally show everyone what I consider myself privileged to read. But until then…” He squatted in the chair next to me. “Start it again. I want you to hear how good it is, and I find that reading it aloud can make a great difference.” When I hesitated, he gave me a slight nudge. “Go on. Remember, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Black letters against a white background were plastered across the screen, meaningless when I first took a look at them. All of that came from me. The inspiration was the person at my side. Giving him a peck on the cheek, I smiled and began to read the words familiar to both of us.   

@ten-all-over @fruitysmellz @sausage-fist @samlovesmaitogai @shock777 @nejicanspin @sincerelysinclair17 (is that you @Morganknightos), @teacher-monica @strikeelectricart and all you other Rock Lee fans. 

[poorlilbeans]

Keep FightinG (pARt Sicks!) (see what i did there?)

this fic. is so long. why am i doing this. anywho this part has a whole lot of talking... WE FINALLY HAVE A DIAGNOSIS, Y’ALL. WHOOP WHOOP! but yeah there’s also some fluff in there bc i am hardcore victuuri trash sooooo... yeah i hope you have as much fun reading it as i am having writing it :)

When Victor woke up, Yuuri had still been asleep, and that was weird in itself. Normally, not only did Yuuri suffer from insomnia, but he was an incredibly light sleeper. Someone could sneeze two cities over and somehow, some way, it would wake him up. Today, however, he didn’t stir when Victor got out of the bed and fixed the covers around him, untangling the IV chord that had somehow wrapped around his blanket during the night. 

Victor needed to get out of that hospital room. He needed to be doing something other than worrying. It was 6:30 in the morning. He figured he could get about an hour of practice in before the nurses would be waking Yuuri. It was better than nothing.

Yet again, skating proved easier said than done. He was distracted, constantly wondering if Yuuri was awake yet. The English-speaking nurse probably wouldn’t be in for her shift yet, so he’d be alone, unable to understand anyone, missing Victor...

No. He wasn’t awake yet. Obviously. Victor barely stopped for breath for the entire hour, skating as hard as he could through the fog of worry that engulfed him. On the way out, around 8:00, he ran into Yurio. 

“What are you doing here?” Yuri asked, like it was completely inconceivable for a professional figure skater to be at an ice rink.

“Skating,” he answered slowly, tentatively. “I was just heading back to the hospital.” Yuri regarded him with an uncharacteristic look of unmasked concern.

“Tell Katsudon I said hi,” he whispered, pushing past Victor.

By the time he got back to the hospital, the male nurse from yesterday had roused Yuuri and appeared to be having language-barrier issues with him.

“You drink water,” the nurse was carefully saying, to a very pale and very confused Yuuri. It was a simple request, but he didn’t seem to understand, and the nurse didn’t have enough English to rephrase. Victor entered, and Yuuri immediately seemed to forget about the nurse, letting out a low whine and reaching out towards him. Taking his hand, Victor turned to the nurse and asked, in Russian,

“Is everything alright?”

“We’re a little feverish right now,” the nurse answered. “He seems to have forgotten that he can’t drink water without moving the oxygen mask, but he won’t let me touch him to move it for him.” Victor turned back to Yuuri, who was gazing at him with bright, unfocused eyes.

“Are you thirsty, love?” Victor said softly, rubbing his knuckles.

“No. Hurts to move.” That made sense. The nurse had removed the blanket and the long pajama pants to keep Yuuri from overheating any more, and it revealed that his elbows, knees, wrists and ankles were flushed red and disturbingly swollen. He lay stiffly, awkwardly, making it clear that his joints were not tolerating any movement. 

“That’s okay,” Victor whispered, doing his best to mask his concern. “I’ll do all the moving for you, alright?” Yuuri hummed, either too delirious or too sore to nod, and Victor gently removed the oxygen mask and brought the cup of water to his lips.

Yuuri managed a few sips of water before whining in protest, punctuating it with a little hiccup. Alright then, no more water. Victor put the mask back in place, hoping it would be enough incentive for the delirious man to try and avoid throwing up. Once they were settled, the nurse spoke again. 

“We got his results back from the blood lab. They didn’t find any evidence of disease, except that he’s producing auto-antibodies.”

“Which means?”

“Which means it’s safe to assume that whatever’s making him so ill is some kind of autoimmune disorder. His combination of symptoms is pretty unique, but individually, they’re all symptoms of various autoimmune disorders. So that means we don’t have a name for the disease, but we are able to start treating it.” Victor didn’t really understand, but he nodded anyway, squeezing Yuuri’s hand protectively. “For the moment, however,” the nurse continued, “we need to focus on getting that fever down.”

It took hours. Thankfully, Yuuri didn’t seem too uncomfortable, save for his inability to move without aggravating the painful inflammation in his joints. Victor climbed into bed with him again, whispering reassurances in his ear. The sensation of Victor’s breath on his neck tickled, and Yuuri giggled deliriously for several minutes. The nurse elevated his broken ankle, and covered his arms and legs in ice packs to try and bring the swelling down. Every time he added a pack, Yuuri yelped, cursing in Japanese at the cold. Victor just held him, trying not to despair at how... different he looked. How ill. He was so pale. He’d visibly lost weight, too- weight he definitely didn’t need to lose- but the Prednisone being pumped through his IV (to reduce inflammation, ironically enough) caused his face to swell up, so he somehow looked gaunt and puffy at the same time. The worst part, though, was his eyes. Normally, Victor could stare at Yuuri’s eyes for hours and not get bored. They were so expressive; they sparkled, shifted around, widened and narrowed- he could portray emotions with his eyes better than he could with any words. Now, though, they were dull and confused. Victor couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact for more than a few moments, because those weren’t Yuuri’s eyes. 

It felt like hours before his temperature began to go down, and when it did, it seemed like a miracle- until Victor looked into Yuuri’s wonderful, expressive eyes, and saw nothing but pain and fear.

“When are they going to let me go home?” he whispered. Victor almost missed the delirium; at least then, Yuuri hadn’t been quite so aware of how miserable he felt.

“I- I don’t know, my love. But they know what’s wrong now. They’re going to make you better.”

A little while later, the English-speaking nurse arrived with Yuuri’s first dose of immunosuppressants. 

“You’re going to be on both for a while,” she told him. “Once you go home you can take the Prednisone orally, and you can wean off of it slowly until you’re just on the immunosuppressants.”

“For how long?” was Yuuri’s fearful response.

“Well... forever. You’ll be on the immunosuppressants forever.” Yuuri was visibly holding back tears as he obediently swallowed the pill. The nurse offered him another inhaler, which he took wordlessly. “Since we know the source of your breathing troubles, we’re starting you on a preventative inhaler for a while. Hopefully, once the drugs start working, you won’t need it any more. I thought you could try a few minutes without being on oxygen, and see if your breathing is any better.” Yuuri just nodded, cuddling sadly into Victor’s side. “Do you understand why you’re taking these medications?” He shook his head; Victor felt silent tears soaking his T-shirt. “An autoimmune disease,” the nurse told him, “is when you have an overactive immune system. In most cases, it attacks another part of the body; the digestive system, the skin... but for you, it has attacked multiple parts. It seems to have affected your digestive system, your respiratory system, your nervous system... it’s likely your fever is a defense mechanism; your body is under the attack of your body.” Yuuri didn’t answer, so the nurse kept talking. “Chances are, you were born with the disease, but it was inactive until now. The goal is to make it inactive again with medication, but most people have the occasional flare-up after diagnosis. Usually it’s random, but environmental factors do sometimes play a role in it. Some people have flare-ups after switching to a new medication or eating a new food. Extreme stress is also known to cause flare-ups.” Then, after so much prolonged silence, Yuuri laughed. Hard.

“What’s so funny?” Victor and the nurse asked in unison.

“I am stress,” Yuuri cackled. “I am the human manifestation of stress.”

“It’s entirely possible that’s what brought it out in the first place. Were you particularly stressed out before you got sick?”

“Yeah,” he answered, still giggling. “It was right before a competition. I had panic attacks three days in a row.”

“Panic attacks? Have you been to a doctor about those?”

“Yeah, I’m on medication. The doctor here knows about it.”

“Alright. You have to be diligent about managing that. Autoimmune disorders can be tricky enough without a mental illness to set them off.” Yuuri nodded, but it was clear to Victor that he still found the irony of the situation absolutely hilarious.

Yuuri was cleared to leave two days later. He certainly wasn’t healthy; he had to be taken down to the parking lot in a wheelchair, and Victor carried him to the car, trying not to flinch at how light he had gotten. The instructions were clear and strict: Keep him on the medication. Make sure he drinks water. Don’t touch him when he has seizures, unless he’s at risk of choking. Call the doctor with any questions. Take him back for weekly checkups. If it gets out of control, call an ambulance.

They drove in silence for a while, Yuuri clutching a plastic garbage bag just in case. He’d started solid food that morning, and his stomach didn’t seem too happy about it. Eventually, at a red light, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.” Victor blinked in surprise.

“What for?”

“Just... all of this. For scaring you. For being sick. You didn’t... you... you deserve better.”

“No, don’t do that. I love you. I wish more than anything I could take the pain away from you, but I can’t, so I’m more than happy to be here for you instead.” He held up his hand, the gold engagement ring glinting in the late afternoon sun. “In sickness and in health, remember?” Yuuri’s ears tinted pink.

“I’ll never understand what god I pleased to bring you into my life.”

“Maybe,” Victor breathed, “you were wonderful all by yourself. Maybe you didn’t need to please a god to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Maybe even when you’re sickly and sweaty and swollen you’re still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Maybe, without divine intervention, I am still more in love with you than I ever imagined was possible. Maybe we’re in love just because we’re in love. Ever think of that?” Yuuri ducked his head, grinning bashfully.

“We should really get around to getting married.”

“Maybe when you can walk again.”

AHHH this fic is already way too long but i keep having ideas >.< w h y am i like this eurgh

regardless, i hope you’re enjoying it so far :)