#what would be easy on my intestines

[hazel2468]

Ok I gotta bitch about something real quick here.

So, good news first- got a diagnosis. PCOS. I had a feeling (and several of my friend are now correct), but it's good to have a solid "Yeah, this is what's going on here".

But anyway. Kvetch time.

So, my endo is pretty great. She offered to hook me up with their gender specialist, so I might be getting the ball rolling on that soon, which is exciting and terrifying. But we had a call and went over everything. More good news- my levels look great. Everything is normal and my thyroid levels are, quote, "beautiful". But we started talking about PCOS, talked a little bit about HRT. And then she brought up diet stuff, which I imagine is standard.

But what annoyed me was that she was talking about how to adjust what I eat because of "health risks". And so I asked her to clarify for me- is there anything in my labs of concern? And she said no- everything looks fine and dandy. I asked if there is any indication that I should be making any kind of serious changes based on my labs. Again, no. Everything looks good.

So... The only "issue" there is my weight.

My levels are good. I've been in a bit of an experimental "what can I eat that won't upset the void where my gallbladder used to be?" phase, but overall I've been eating the same as I have for years. I did tell her I wanted to work out more and, now that I'm fucking finally fixing my sleep schedule I might actually be able to make time to lift in the mornings.

But what annoyed me was that all of that stuff- good stuff- eating in a way that doesn't upset my intestines, working out more because fuck it I wanna be a strong theydy, the fact that my labs are not only normal but look great... All of it just falls before the fact that I am fat. All of it.

And to be clear, I'm not pissed at my doctor, specifically. I'm pissed because all of it seems so standard. It's the "this is the PCOS spiel" kind of thing- the general stuff that you say. And the annoying thing is that, apparently (and I was already well aware of this but it always sucks to be reminded), it doesn't actually matter what my habits are, what I eat, if I work out or not, how my labs look, at least in the eyes of the general medical standards.

No, what matters is that I am fat, and therefore I am unhealthy and need to change everything- even though literally everything else speaks to the contrary.

And what's even MORE annoying is that... I have PCOS. I have hypothyroid. Those are BOTH conditions that cause weight gain. Those are both conditions that make losing weight even harder than it already fucking is for most people.

So the fact that the medical standards for diagnosing someone with PCOS involve looking at their BMI and determining that they need to change their whole lifestyle solely based on how they look- not on their actual habits, not on their ACTUAL LAB RESULTS, but their weight?

IDK that just annoys me. It pisses me off. It put a damper on the whole "You have an answer finally AND also you're doing really well health wise.... OH but you're fat and so we need to lecture you about your diet and exercise and imply that the reason you should do those things is to lose weight."

[caesium-55]

—seven days. [ ii ]

pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.

summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.

author's note: not beta-read. not edited. here's part 2 folks. part 3 is on the works now. did i write this fic instead of studying for my important quiz tomorrow? yes, yes i did. pls pray for my score.

masterlist.

For Christmas in 2019, Max has gotten you an apartment near his in Monaco. It is a loft apartment good for one on the 8th floor, a building away from where Daniel and Max lived. Originally, he wants to get you the unit a floor below his. You decline quickly, insisting that you are very fine with rooming with Julia and Kendall, who are both members of the Red Bull PR team whom you have gotten close with since your first year working with Red Bull. Max may have beef with the PR team for making him do a lot of embarrassing shit for the views but you're besties with most of them and actually thank them for making Max suffer through PR stuff because you cannot afford therapy and watching Max suffer through PR-related activities is a good form of free therapy. Also, Monaco apartments are fucking expensive. Red Bull might be paying you well but not well enough to afford an apartment in a country as expensive as Monaco.

“I want you close,” he tells you. If you did not know any better, you'd have butterflies fluttering in your intestines right about that moment. Sometimes, Max utter the most heart-fluttering of nonsense without meaning to. It causes your heart to stutter more times than you would like to admit.

“Well, I don't want you close.”

Max will never ever win an argument with you. He knows that. You know that. The best he can do is come to a compromise, a compromise that is usually tailored to suit whatever you want.

So you got that small loft apartment a building away, good for one person only. It's easy to clean and it's cheap, Max already said that, which makes you happy because you can set a payment plan for that. An apartment as a Christmas gift is already too much, borderline giving you a heart attack already. Rich people spending their money give you, a person of the middle class folks, heart attacks. Why can't Max be normal and give you a normal gift? A bracelet? A bag? You’ll even accept it if he gave you a slice of cheesecake. Not even your parents can buy you an apartment.

It has only been three years since the keys are passed on to your ownership and people say three years is enough time for a person to make a place home. But your apartment doesn't even feel like home, only a place you’ll sleep in if you happen to be in Monaco for the evening.

Home is that humble, two-storey house painted in red and yellow in Lynnwood Avenue, Vista Del Pueblo, Austin, a total picture of a picket fence dream. Home is Abuelo's old farmhouse in El Paso where you spent your childhood riding horses and driving ATVs across the dusty dry earth. Home is the retro milkshake place owned by the sweet old couple that has been in the neighborhood longer than your entire existence. Home is the tree-lined streets where you walked the family senior dog, Niko. Home is the Austin Fire House, your Dad’s workplace that you visited a handful of times back when you were a child to deliver cookies that your Abuela baked so your Dad could share it with his co-workers. Home is your mom’s clinic in the middle of downtown, always smelling like eugenol, disinfectant, formaldehyde, and her perfume. Home is not glitz and gold and glamor and cash cash cash. Home is not seeing wealthy people left and right. Home is not Monaco.

And it is not like you stayed long in your place either. You're always off traveling around the world with the Red Bull team and accompanying Max wherever he needs your presence. You don't even spend your breaks in that apartment because you immediately fly home to your family once a break is graciously given to you before flying off again to watch Max collect trophy after trophy.

Six days from now, you're going to be flying off to Texas. That means you have six days—less than six days actually—to pack all your crayons and go. Of course you're going to pack up the day before you leave. Doing shit last minute makes your life exciting, and it's not like you had a lot of shit to pack anyway. All your belongings can be tucked into a total of three suitcases. Three years worth of belongings in three suitcases.

you: you doin good there?

Max has been holing himself up in his penthouse since your arrival from Abu Dhabi, probably dealing with his breakup with Kelly. A shame, really. You thought the two looked good together. (Do they really? the asshole part of your brain thinks.)

And P. Thank God for that child’s existence. You hate children but P is an exception. P brings the best out of Max. Max has gotten the chance to act as the father he never had. It's heartwarming, to be honest.

him: not really no

him: can you bring me coffee

you: on it champ

Fifteen minutes later, you’re knocking on the gigantic double doors of his penthouse, a tall styro cup of espresso from that cute café two streets down and a slice of blueberry cheesecake because you’re thoughtful enough to buy him his favorite cake. You experienced a breakup before. A cake and an icecream work wonders when it came to healing broken hearts.

“You're fast,” he immediately says after opening the door. You kind of expect that he’d look worse, snotty and messy and looking like he ran from hell and back. But no, he looks……fine? His sweater and shorts look absolutely neat and comfortable and dry of snot. His hair is a little fluffy from lying on his bed but not too messy. He doesn't even look like he was crying. No red-rimmed eyes. No red nose.

You fake gasp, putting a hand on your chest for additional dramatic effect, “The fastest racer in F1 callin’ me fast. Truly honored.”

A smile plays on his lips, sidestepping and beckoning you in.

You frequently come by Max’s home, for work purposes of course, but you still cannot help but be amazed by the enormity of it every time you enter. Max’s penthouse is twenty times bigger than the apartment you currently live in. One man and a big house—it must be very lonely now that P and Kelly are no longer around. Now, you’re even more worried about what will happen the moment you go back to Texas.

Oh… You still haven't told him yet.

“Coffee,” you hand him the warm styro cup to which he accepts gratefully. He utters his thanks, taking a whiff before sipping, letting out a pleasured moan.

You make your way to his gigantic kitchen, navigating your way through his cabinets in search of a plate and a fork. You slide the cheesecake on the plate towards Max, who followed you to the kitchen and sat on the empty stool in the kitchen counter.

“Thank you,” he says, picking up the fork and taking a bite. He glances at your feet, eyes trained on your YSL. The obnoxious sound of the heels clicking against the floor as you walk probably is the one that caught his attention.

“You know, you've been wearing the same shoes since 2019.”

Points for Max for noticing. These YSL Opyum heels are the first luxury items you bought for yourself after saving for three years to buy one pair. You saw a rich international student wear it once back in university and you liked how sophisticated it looked compared to all the pairs of converse or platform boots you owned. So you made it your life’s goal to own one. In 2019, after doing tons of part time jobs in university and working with Red Bull for a whole year, you managed to buy yourself one on your birthday and you’d been wearing them to work ever since.

Your regular work uniform consists of a Red Bull polo shirt, a pencil or a slit skirt, and that specific pair of heels. Around 2021, you bought another pair to replace the old one because the old one broke. And 2022 again.

“What's wrong with ‘em?” you ask, brows furrowing as you followed his train of sight. Your heels might be a year old already but they still look fine.

Max blinks, “No, there's nothing wrong. Just…Do you think you would want to wear some other design?”

“No,” is your reply. “I like ‘em just the way they are.”

“Okay.”

Your conversation drifts into something else as Max finishes his coffee and cake. You spend the rest of the day in Max’s penthouse, lying on his plush couch while a slasher movie from the 2000s played on his wide TV. He has given you access on his Netflix account so you abused it to your heart’s content because you don't even have. a Netflix subscription. You can absolutely afford one, you just choose not to. You have opted in using your phone mid-movie because the movie is beginning to get real scary but you do not want Max to think you're a coward so you acted like you're disinterested instead.

“Oh look, Charles is also back in Monaco. Do you want to hang out together?” you nudge Max with your foot, who swats it away from him, face contorting in disgust. You show him the post on Charles private IG—yes, you were mutuals in each other's private IG because whoever is friends with Max was friends with you by extension—on your phone.

“Stop makin’ that face, my feet are nice.”

Your toenails are a glorious red now. Ferrari red actually and they suit you better than the Red Bull red. Huh, maybe you should have considered applying for Ferrari instead of Renault in 2018.

“No, it isn't.”

You roll your eyes, pulling it away from him and sitting up, “Do you want me to schedule you a dinner with Charles? You might need the bro time, you know? Dad said bro times are also important, but not as important as family time, of course. My bro broke up with his sweetheart back when I was still in uni and his best buds were the reason he was back up in tippy top shape by the end of the week.”

Max stares at you blankly, “I think I understand the words individually but not the sentence entirely. I don't know if it's the accent or you Americans just have a strange way of structuring your sentences.”

“Point is, hang out with a friend because a friend can help you move on from a pussy.”

Max hurls a throw pillow at your direction, which you luckily avoided thanks to your non-racer level but still considerably good reaction time, but unfortunately, this action causes your center of gravity to shift and before you know it, you're falling from the couch. Unconsciously, you grab Max but then Max doesn't expect that you’ll grab him so now, you’re both falling off the couch and onto the floor.

You groan.

“Fuckin’ ass, man. That was uncalled for.”

He flips you off.

Nevertheless, Max ends up following your advice though and calls Charles to hang out the next day. Lestappen fans should be thanking you on Twitter the next day for bringing those two together on an off-day in Monaco. Maybe they'll hang out and eat together in a restaurant? Maybe they'll go on a yacht picnic?

Except Max sends you a message at high noon.

him: sos

you: is your kitchen burning

him: no

him: but this is still an emergency and you need to come quick

him: he’s with his girlfriend and i don’t want to thirdwheel

you: succ it up

him: you can’t do this to me

him: i just got my heart broken in abu dhabi

you: where are you

him: home

him: i also need help in cooking

Charles is the one who answers the door when you knock. He looks genuinely surprised when he sees you and you deduce that Max hasn't told him that you're coming over.

“Babe, who’s that?” you hear Alex’s voice behind Charles and you light up immediately, quickly moving past Charles to throw your hands around the sweet young woman.

“Alex!” Alexandra laughs and hugs you back. The sound of her laughter is as pretty as she and God definitely has favorites because why did he sculpt this twenty-one year old like the daughter of the Aphrodite while you look like you were born from one of Hephaestus’ sperm that lost the gene pool contest? The world is unfair. You always get the short end of the stick, may it be career-wise or appearance-wise, and you can't even bring your personality to the table because normally, without the whole act of professionalism and sophistication you put on, you act like an extroverted American frat boy on a good day and a sassy drag queen slash war freak on a bad day so yeah, you guess that's the short end of the stick, too.

“Seriously?” you look up and saw Max holding a frying pan, staring at you unimpressed. You roll your eyes and slowly pull away from the hug, gaze returning to Alexandra.

“How’ve you been, sweetie? Been a while since I last saw you.”

You didn't get a chance to talk to her in Abu Dhabi and in Las Vegas.

“Good,” she replies, smiling sweetly and ugh, you want to pinch her cheeks so bad. But Charles is pulling you away from Alexandra before you can do so.

“No, no, she is mine, yours is right over there,” Charles says, pointing at Max, who's still standing there in the corner. “Go on. Shoo.”

You roll your eyes before walking up to Max, “‘Sup?”

Max raises a brow at you, “So Charles’ girlfriend gets a hug and I get a sup?”

“Well, she's Alexandra Saint Mleux and you’re just….” you look him up and down. “Nevermind, what you trynna cook?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I thought you said you were cooking.”

“I said I needed help with cooking.”

Your eyes narrow into slits, “You’re going to let me do the cooking, aren't you?”

“You know that pasta you made in September that you said was your mother’s recipe?”

A sigh escapes your lips as you roll the sleeves of your button-up to your elbows and power-walked your way to the kitchen, the sound of your YSL heels clicking against the floor bouncing against the walls of Max’s kitchen.

Lunch goes great. Charles and Alexandra love your cooking. Max has even asked for seconds. Good to know that he's eating well. Somewhere down the line, champagne is served even though it’s mid-afternoon and the four of you're sitting in Max’s balcony, staring at Monaco scape below. Thankfully, it is a cloudy day in Monaco. The heat of the sun isn't too harsh on the skin. Despite that, you hand Max a sun screen.

“Sorry about Kelly, by the way,” Alexandra says. Your conversation has drifted towards Max’s failed relationship now.

“That is very nice of you to say,” replies Max, smiling slightly. “But I’m okay.”

You give him a look, clearly unconvinced. Admitting vulnerability gives him hives so he's definitely lying.

“You look too okay for a guy who ended a three-year relationship,” Charles muses and his words get you immediately thinking.

Oh? So they’ve been dating that long? You never noticed.

“Even [Name] looked worse when she broke up with that Williams mechanic two years ago and they dated for like what? Barely a year?”

“Unprovoked!” you exclaim. Alex and Max laugh.

But yeah, Charles is right. When you broke up with Leo in 2021, it was not the prettiest sight. He entered Williams mid-2020 as a mechanic and he immediately caught your attention. He's kind and handsome and a very sweet guy. You have similar interests—engineering—and a similar sense of humor and you just….work so well together, you know? You were sure he was your soulmate the moment he cracked up that Physics pickup line and you know it was the same with him. You swore to God that you’d run away from all the British charming assholes but Leo made you eat your own words and gave you a run for your money.

But alas, 2021 season came and Red Bull Racing became busier than ever because Max and Hamilton got crazily competitive and Max demanded your full attention, needing you as a support system to win.

And Leo. Well, he’s busy, too. Engineers are always busy. But he felt neglected because all your attention was on Max. He felt like he was competing with Max for your attention and it shouldn't even be a competition in the first because Leo was the boyfriend and Max was not. And you cannot even deny that you prioritized Max that year. You wanted Max to win. You needed Max to win, so he can finally ask Horner to move you to the engineering team.

Losing Leo is devastating but Max won the WDC title that year and while you spent nearly a month crying over Leo after the breakup, you're hoping that at least, in 2022, you’ll finally get that damned engineering position at the cost of losing your soulmate. That the tears you shed and the broken heart you carried inside your ribs will be worth it if it was in exchange for your dream. Then, it does not happen. The job isn't given to you and you spent the early months of the 2023 season wishing that you have chosen Leo instead of Max Verstappen.

“You’re still friends with him, right?” Charles turns to you.

“Of course,” you say honestly. You're still mutuals on IG and he still hearts your IG stories at times. You still talk, too, on the freer nights where there's a lot of time to waste. “We ended on good terms.”

“How about you, Max?”

“Can we not talk about this please?”

The four of you empty that bottle of champagne and once the sun has begun retiring for the night, Alex and Charles also left. You're soon to follow, fixing your tote bag and going through the mental checklist in your head so you will not forget anything and not waste energy returning here to pick it up.

“You can stay for dinner.”

Max’s offer surprises you.

“No.”

His face drops as quickly as your answer came.

“You're goin’ to let me cook again.”

“No, I’ll cook.”

You give him an unimpressed look. Clearly, you're not convinced.

“I swear, I’ll cook.”

“What if I get poisoned?”

“You won't get poisoned.”

When you continue staring at him, he sighs.

“Just stay please?”

Of course, you stayed. He asked after all.

You keep your eyes on him as he makes dinner with clumsy hands and a bit of unsureness behind his actions.

“You're goin’ to burn it, honey,” you point out.

“What honey? I didn't put any honey in it.”

You blink. He blinks back.

“You’re gonna give me aneurysm one day.”

Shaking your head, you walk into the bathroom at the end of the enormous hallway, lock the door behind you, lean your back against the door, and slowly slides down until your ass meets the cold bathroom floor. You slap a palm against your forehead and purse your lips to stop a scream from erupting.

God fucking dammit, Max is too adorable back there and this is not doing good things for your heart.

[five-rivers]

wandering heart

For @phantomphangphucker for phic phight!

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The needle was bronze.  

The copper alloy stood out better against ectoplasmic flesh than it would have against red blood.  It dipped in and out of Danny's skin with machine-like precision, drawing a slender purple string in its wake.  Appropriate.  Clockwork was at least partly mechanical.

“You're getting close to my liver,” said Danny.  “Careful.”

“You are aware that these facsimile organs are not at all essential to the function of your body.”

“Sure they are,” said Danny.  He leaned his head back on the cushion Clockwork had provided him.  “That's why you're sewing me up.”

Clockwork's tower wasn't Danny's usual post-battle stop, but the fight had been nasty and it had been close. His other choices had been flying an hour to reach the Far Frozen and leaving an ectoplasm trail through the mad science lab dedicated to dissecting ghosts.  The decision had been easy.  

Clockwork had complained, of course.  Ninety percent of the time spent stitching had doubled as time spent snarking.  It was fun.  

“You have more than fake human organs in here, and losing that much ectoplasm is unhealthy for a ghost regardless.  You are friends with the doctors of the Far Frozen.  Perhaps you should avail yourself of their knowledge more frequently.”

“I already have one health class I'm failing.  Don't need another.”

“You are not failing your health class.”

Danny peeled back an eyelid that had fallen shut at some point during the exchange.  “Are you using your time powers to spy on my grades?”

“Hardly.”  Clockwork picked up a pair of ornate scissors and snipped the string he'd been stitching Danny up with.  “But even so, I doubt you would notice if I removed one of your so-called organs.” 

“You could try,” said Danny.  He closed his eyes again and leaned to the side until he was slumped over on Clockwork, who made an offended noise.  “You’re trapped now.  Stuck.”

“I am a shapeshifter,” said Clockwork.  “You cannot ‘trap’ me simply by leaning on me.”

“Can too.”

Danny was tired.  Sometimes, he could shrug off both fights and injuries like they were nothing, but unicorns were vicious and Technus was mean.  Electricity always took a lot out of him.  

Clockwork sighed heavily.  Danny smiled.  

“You aren’t nearly as charming as you think,” said Clockwork.  

“And yet, you are neither kicking me out nor stealing my pancreas or lower intestine or anything like that.”

“I could.”

“But you haven’t.”  Danny tucked his feet underneath him and snuggled more heavily into Clockwork’s side.  

The ghost groaned, but obligingly made room for Danny.  Yes, yes, exactly according to plan.  The evil one, where he made friends with Clockwork.  He figured he was already halfway there, if Clockwork was willing to sew him up, but with this it was definitely closer to three quarters.  

Having thought this, Danny promptly fell asleep.  

.

The front doors of Clockwork’s tower were not made to slam open, but Danny, fingers of one hand clenched over his chest and still wearing a Far Frozen medical gown, managed anyway.  He was resourceful like that.  

“Clockwork?” he called.  “Clockwork!”  He flew from room to room, only sticking his head in long enough to assess them for Clockwork's presence.  

Finally, he found him.  

“Clockwork!” he shouted, re-energized by the sight.  “Did you steal my heart?  My heart?  My actual heart from my actual chest?”

Clockwork stared blankly at Danny for long enough that his panicked doubled and doubled again.  This was, quite literally, his only lead.

“No,” said Clockwork, finally.  “I stole the replica of your actual heart.  From your chest.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“Is it?” asked Clockwork, smugly.  “After all, you didn’t even notice this one was gone.”

“Oh my god, I cannot believe you did this.”  Friendship plan canceled.  Or something.

“I cannot imagine why,” said Clockwork.  “After all, I told you exactly what I was going to do.  You even gave me permission.”

“I thought you were joking.  Who’s going to think that you’re serious about stealing a friend’s organs?  That’s a joke.  A joke.  Banter, if you would.  Not an invitation to steal my literal heart.”

“Even so, it has been done.”

“Well, can you undo it?  Put it back in?  You didn’t, I don’t know, toss it out with last week’s eggshells or something?  Stick it in the back of the kitchen junk drawer.”

“No, I know exactly where I put it,” said Clockwork.  

“And you can undo it, right?  It’s not, like, expired?”

“It is difficult to get more expired than a ghost’s heart.”  

Danny stared at Clockwork expectantly.  

“Yes, I can undo it.  It will be the work of a moment to return it to its proper place.”  

“Great, so…  Lead on.”  Danny made a forward sweeping motion with both hands.  

Clockwork’s eyes slid back towards his time screen.  “Can it wait?”

“No!”

“You haven’t had it for weeks.  You won’t miss it for a few more minutes.”

“Uh, yes, I will!  You can time travel.  Whatever you’re doing, you can do it later.”

“I suppose,” said Clockwork.  “Very well.  Follow me.”

Clockwork led him back, through narrow halls, into a towering closet with spiral shelves.  It was full of what could only be collectively referred to as stuff.  

“Wow, I wasn’t serious about the junk drawer thing.”

“Oh, please,” said Clockwork.  “This is hardly junk.”

“You’re a hoarder.”

“I resent that appellation,” said Clockwork, flying up and rotating slightly.  Danny kept his feet on the ground, slightly intimidated.

“The only reason you aren’t drowning in all this is because your house doesn’t have to exist in Euclidean space.”

“And yet, I am not drowning in it.” Clockwork continued to float upwards, a faint frown on his face.  

“You do remember where you put it, right?”

“Yes, Daniel,” said Clockwork, visibly rolling his eyes.  “I put it right– Ah.  Interesting.”

“Interesting?  What do you mean interesting?” demanded Danny.  He flew up to hover near Clockwork's shoulder.  “Did something happen to it?  Is it– It's not there?  You said you knew where it was!”

“I said I knew where I put it, which is rather a different thing altogether.”

“No, it isn't!  It's not like it has legs!  It couldn't have wandered off on its oooohhhhhhhh my God, it could have wandered off on its own.  That thing had more ectoplasm in it than a Christmas turkey.”

“It is, in fact,” said Clockwork, “entirely made out of ectoplasm.”

“If it’s moving around like that, can we put it back in?  Would it– Would it try to escape?  Like, escape my chest?  Is that a thing?”

“Unlikely.”

“As unlikely as it starting to move around in the first place?”

“Unlikely,” repeated Clockwork.  

“Where even is it?  Do you know?  Can you tell?  Obviously, your whole ‘I know everything’ shtick is a lie, but can you, like, rewind things so that it’s here?”

“No,” said Clockwork.  “We will just have to look for it.”

“In your hoarder cave?”

“It is not a cave.”

“Ah, but you don't dispute the hoarder part?”  He spun, head over heels, trying and failing to see the entirety of the not-really-a-closet.  “What if there are things in here?  Like, living things?  Could it have been eaten?  By, like… Clockroaches?  Do you have clockroaches here?”

“Media tends to grossly exaggerate both the aggression and size of temporal boggles–”

“They’re real?”

“Why would you ask about them if you didn’t think they were real?”

“I don’t know.  It turns out I don’t think through the things I say to you very well.”

“Clearly.” 

Danny arrested his motion.  “Where do we even start?  This place is huge!”

“That statement assumes that it is still in this particular room.”

“Oh my God.”

“Although, if we are to search this room, it would make the most sense to start from either end and work towards the middle.”

Danny flipped over.  “I can’t even see the other end.”  This was only barely an exaggeration.

“Then we had best get started soon.”

Danny rubbed his face.  “Am I even going to recognize it?  What will it look like?”

“Like the organ it was imitating, of course,” said Clockwork.  “Oh, and don’t touch anything.”

Danny groaned.

.

There was something quivering and green huddled behind a bank of jars.  Was that… it couldn’t be…  He formed a stick out of ice and went to poke it.  

“What are you doing to that poor frog?” asked Clockwork.  

“Holy– It’s a frog?”

“Yes.” 

Danny stared.  Clockwork was covered in splatters and streaks of ectoplasm from head to tail.  

“Why do you– I don’t even want to know.  Did you find it?”

“Yes,” said Clockwork, holding up a jar.  There was…  Well.  It was a heart.  “Are you sure you want it back?  Surely, the sentimental value cannot be that great.”

“Wh– It’s not about the sentimental value.  Open it up, put it back in!”

Clockwork’s sigh was incredibly put-upon.  “Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He unscrewed the lid of the jar, and the heart, which had up until that point, laid quiescent on the bottom of the jar, flew out, smacking Danny in the face.  

“Augh!”

“Grab it!” 

Danny managed to get a hand around a ventricle, but ectoplasm and ectoplasmic muscle was slippery.  It escaped his grip.  It flopped-flew its way down to the bottom of the genuinely-not-a-closet and made for the door.  Danny dove at it, only to get a faceful of ectoplasm from an artery for his trouble.  

Danny wondered if this was what Skulker felt like.  He let ectoplasm dribble out of his mouth.  

“That, bleh, that tastes like my ectoplasm,” he said.

“That’s because it is,” said Clockwork, tiredly.  “I will refrain from asking you to elaborate on your ectoplasm-tasting experiences.”

“Look, when nature gives you a weapon, and afterlife gives you enemies, you use the weapon.”  He peered cautiously out of the door, wary of being sprayed with what was essentially his own blood once again.  “Where do you think it–”

He got another mouthful of ectoplasm.  

“Bleh,” he said.  

“I don’t suppose you saw it?” asked Clockwork.  “Which way it went, etcetera, etcetera?”

“No,” said Danny.  

“Then this will be a long night.”

“Can’t you just, like, stop time or something?  So it won’t move around while we look”

Clockwork gave him a look.  

“I’ll take that as a no.”

.

“I think,” said Danny, from where he was dangling from the ceiling, a tangle of clock chains wrapped around his ankle, “that we need help.”

“Unfortunately, I must concur,” said Clockwork, who was underneath a pair of couches even he’d been surprised at owning.

“Unless you want to use your totally awesome time powers to find it.”

“No.”

.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam.  “What did you lose?”

“My heart,” said Danny.  “And I didn’t lose it.  Clockwork stole it.”

“Is this some kind of Ice Queen situation here?” asked Sam.  “Are you going to lose all empathy and care for other people?”

“No,” said Danny.  “It’s just the, um, physical thing.  And only my ghost half’s physical thing.  Apparently.  Apparently, the ‘human organs’ I have in my ghost form aren’t functional, unless the functionality is, like, the functionality of being incredibly annoying and spraying ectoplasm everywhere.”

“So, what should we bring for this thing?” asked Tucker.  “Butterfly nets?  Bow and arrow?  Guns?  What’s the endgame?”

“You want to shoot my heart?”

“I don’t know what you want here, dude.  I’m still kind of reeling over the fact that the guy you were hanging out with literally stole your heart.  Do you need someone to give him a stern talking to, make sure he gets you home before curfew?”

“That’s disgusting.  He could probably be my great-great-great-great-great-great–”

In ghost form, Danny didn’t have to breathe all that much, so he was able to go on like that until Sam and Tucker joined forces to stuff socks in his mouth.  

.

“How in the world did things escalate to Clockwork stealing your literal heart?” asked Jazz.  

“Okay, yeah, I see how that’d seem bad, out of context, but you see, it isn’t actually my literal heart–”

.

Danny glared at Clockwork’s idea of ‘help.’ “I bring three completely reasonable and competent people, and you bring them?”

“From my point of view, I am the one with the reasonable and competent people,” said Clockwork, gesturing at the combined forces of Nocturne, Ghost Writer, and Skulker.  “You, meanwhile, have brought three teenagers.”

“Are you really calling Skulker competent?”

“If not, he at least has experience in being outsmarted by you.”

“Hey!”

.

“Alas,” said Tucker, “the heart wants what the heart wants, and what it wants is freedom.”

“Where,” said Sam, kicking at a puddle, “is all this ectoplasm even coming from?”

“Around,” said Danny.  

“Ooh,” said Jazz, “it’s condensing it from the atmosphere?”  She paused.  “What are you all looking at me like that for?  I can have scientific curiosity!”

“I think it’s more because of what’s happened to your hair,” said Ghost Writer.

“What’s happened to my hair?”

“You don’t want to know.”

.

“Danny, I think I hate you,” said Sam.  They were sitting on one of Clockwork’s couches.  Clockwork had a lot of couches.  A fact that Clockwork seemed both bemused and distressed by.  

“Oh, trust me, the feeling is mutual.  As in, I hate me too.”

Clockwork sat down on the couch next to Danny.  “Daniel, I must tell you that while hate is beneath me, I am seriously regretting my earlier decisions.”

“Does that mean that you’re going to time travel back to–”

“Absolutely not.”

Tucker ran past them with a butterfly net, chasing down a green blur.  

“That’s a blob ghost, isn’t it?” asked Sam.  

“I do believe so,” said Clockwork.

“Well,” said Danny.  “At least this all makes us friends, yeah?  Can’t go through something like this without being friends.”  At least he’d get something accomplished with all this insanity.  

“I wouldn’t call myself friends with Skulker.  Or Nocturne.  Acquaintances, more like.”

“I notice you didn’t say anything about Ghost Writer.”

Clockwork shrugged.  “He’s somewhat more tolerable.”

“And me?”

“I suppose.”

The heart fell straight down, into Danny’s lap.

“Are you serious–”

[yandere--stuck]

AaaaaAAA I was so happy to see you already had a gore fic for Bill in the works! I have reread it like. 5 times. Your writing scratches my gore itch perfectly, and I just adore fics the intestinal stuff especially <33 and his mentions of your heart also… the romance!! I was inspired by what you wrote, I hope you enjoy it once again :D! (also im doing great, hope ur doing well too :D!!) - zagreus gore anon

Notes for anyone else: This contains gore!! So much gore!! Body horror— It’s Bill’s love language!! (intestinal trauma, mouth trauma, eye trauma…. Honestly ‘you’ here are violated in like every way possible.) No sexual content, but it’s suggestive to me. Bill Cipher is a Weirdo.

---------

You never quite get used to the pain. You wish you did.

In your memories, the sensation is dulled. You know it was painful, you know it was one of the most horrible sensations of your life, but the full extent of it… You can’t remember. Your brain must be protecting you from it. Every act of Bill’s love would constitute life-long trauma for anyone else, yet you live through another session of it day by day. No. Scratch that. They wouldn’t be alive to recall it. They wouldn’t make it half as far as you. For you, no such easy, simple fate can ever be attainable. The weirdness of his new world has conquered Death itself.

Bill had cradled his intestines in your arms, laughing as they helplessly twitched and writhed against his body, cooing at them as you howled in pain. “Aww, are you excited to see papa?” He’d said, and only the strangeness of it had kept you from repressing it. He talked to your guts as if they were puppies, as if blood smeared across his bricks were innocent licks against his skin instead. Another time, he’d wrapped your guts around his triangular body, and called it the ‘world’s most intimate hug’ as he whispered sweet nothings about how much he looooves you, and also the health of your gut bacteria. Somehow, he always outdoes himself.

Bill had dug even deeper, crumbling your ribs to smithereens in his hands, and held your still-beating heart in his palms as an object of reverence. “All mine, all mine…” He’d muttered to himself, his pupil momentarily expanding to a large, inky abyss. The pain had been so intense that you’d slipped into shock. A bad habit of yours, as Bill called it, would be your tendency to slip into memories of the past to escape the present. When you should be focusing on him.

That time, he’d jolted you back to reality by fire-hot pain slashing through your heart. All the time, it continued pumping, spurting blood in Bill’s direction with every pump. His powers were the only thing keeping you alive. When, once, blood sprayed right into his eye and he was forced to take a break, you smiled for just a moment. A lopsided, crooked grin. He’d used a mirror to show you his handiwork. In the outer flesh of your heart, he’d burned a little triangle. He’d already healed the skin. The lighter pink scarring stood out against the rest of your heart. Marked forever. Though he’s usually so talkative, at that moment, he’d been quiet for just a few seconds.

Then, he’d laughed, breaking all tension. “Wow, it sure smells like barbecue in here!”

On another occasion, he had hummed a little tune to himself, comically large saw in hand, as he cut off your limbs one by one. You could never forget the sound as the teeth sawed through your bones, bit by bit. Tearing through muscle. The clunk of your arm hitting the floor. Your leg. Rinse and repeat. You swore you could still feel your arms and legs, once you lost enough blood and your vision went hazy. Bill had hugged you against his smaller form. (He could change his body’s size, technically. But he always preferred appearing just as he was to you.)

“Without all those gangly, long limbs of yours, we can really cuddle now!” The next day, all of your limbs had regrown.

He’d cradled your face with one hand, and kept your mouth open with his other wrist. You could see nothing except for that giant eye of his as he pried your teeth out of your mouth, one by one. The taste of blood filled your mouth. He’d tug and tug and tug, not nearly using enough strength, and being entirely aware of it, until finally yanking it out once and for all. (Until it regrew, that is.) Under your gaze, he took your teeth one by one, drilled a little hole in them and strung them together on a necklace.

“Hmmmm,” he’d hummed to himself, a long, drawn-out noise. “I feel like it’s missing something. What do you think?” Before you could answer, not that you had any desire to, he snapped his fingers. “Oh! I know! For a sign of our undying love for each other, it’s a little plain with just teeth!”

In the next moment, Bill had taken out one of your eyes. You cannot comprehend how such a, relatively, small part of your face could hurt so unimaginably much. You wanted him to drape his guts all over himself again. You’re sure a point-blank gunshot to the head would’ve hurt less. Been less discomforting. His fingers had shrunk into paper-thin appendages and slipped past your eyeball, digging and cutting away at the nerves behind it. You cried tears of blood. If there was anything in your stomach, you might have thrown up.

Then, all at once, pain had blossomed into pure, mind-numbing pleasure. Compared to the pain, this is what you would like to forget the most. You’d gurgled out a moan through the spit gathered at the back of your throat. Your limbs had twitched helplessly against your restraints. When your optic nerve finally snapped, you’d whined as Bill took your eye out, exclaiming “Pop!” as he did so. For just a moment, he’d juggled your detached eyeballs in his hands, having left you panting.

“Yes, now this’ll make a good centerpiece!”

Pain had become just pain once again as soon as his touch left you. There is nothing good about a gaping, throbbing hole left in your face. You whine, sniffle softly, to get his attention. You hardly ever speak out loud anymore. Bill can read your every thought and is aware of your every idea. When speaking takes up more energy than it saves, why should you? In that moment, you had lacked the energy to think about it, your body desperately trying to recover itself.

Right now, you wonder why he’d make it feel good. Why, this one time. You don’t immediately get a response. Bill just laughs and laughs and laughs, running his fingers across the teeth of his necklace, poking the eyeball in the very middle. In your eye-socket, an exact replica of it has re-formed itself.

“You’re so funny! Why do you think I did anything at all? That was all you, baby!” His pupil transforms into a heart. It’s a blink-or-you-miss it transformation, and as soon as it happened, you think you’ve made it up. “I told you that you’d come around to it! Maybe we can even share in a little bit of pain next time, huh?”

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since, both his words and how mind-numbingly good it had felt. Maybe he’d simply lied to you, maybe it’d all been his doing. That would be the best outcome, right?… With time, you know Bill will ‘show you his love’ again— He always does. But this time, you await it with fear, largely fear, but with a little anticipation, too. There’s no need to tell him. He already knows.

ANON I AM BARKING LIKE A DOG!!!!!!!! BARKBARKBARKBARK THIS IS AMAZING!!!!! God, your descriptive voice is so good, it's so vivid!!!! Bill tricking reader into thinking they like it and them believing it...... Yummy yummy corruption in my tummy <3

Thank you so much for this, I can only hope what I write holds a candle to this!!! You never disappoint raaghh.

Bill draping your guts around as the world's most intimate hug. GOD. Also it's so fashionable! Gut scarf, teeth and eyeball necklace, literally wearing pants of your body to shoe his love and claim of you. Aaaa I'm kicking my feet!!

Thank you so much again holy smokes

[teal-fiend]

an observer who has perfected the craft of pushing people into predator mode.

word count: 2600

You were hanging out with this guy all day. You hadn't known each other for that long, a few months. and you still didn't know; were you just going to be friends? Or was it going to be romantic? You didn't mind either way, really. Although you would have liked clarification. But he seemed genuinely interested in you; you had shared interests, and it was just easy being with him - not in a bad way. it was just effortless in a way that was refreshing.

You spent the day out and about; walking around, you got lunch together earlier, but a few hours passed and now you were going back to his house

you expected a kiss, but instead he puts a hand on your stomach. Strange, but not entirely unwanted.

"Are you hungry?" he asked

"Um, yeah, I suppose."

You were starting to get hungry; it was time for afternoon tea, or an early dinner.

"Do you mind?" He asked softly. You muttered a no, you didn't mind. He petted your stomach gently, scoping it out, it seemed like. You felt him gently poke at your soft middle, moving briefly to feel either side of your hips, before returning to the belly area.

You looked to his face and he was concentrated, almost with a medical focus. You felt your face flush with the precise attention you were getting. But you also wanted to ask him what the hell he was up to.

Soon he looked up at you, your eyes met, his expression was neutral, like this was a normal thing for him. He asked you if you wanted a belly rub. You though that was what he just did. But you had no reason to refuse, and now you were curious - you wanted to see where this was going. So you agreed.

He led you over to a kind of couch-chair, that he encouraged you to seat yourself in. He guided you to lie back, making sure you were comfortable. Then he went back to what he was doing, pressing lightly on your stomach.

He worked in on your belly, kneading down on it with some force, but not a painful amount. When he got lower down, on your intestines, you felt some pressure.

"This is your lunch," he pointed out, poking at a firm spot under your skin. It was, you remembered the time the two of your spent at the cafe earlier. You didn't think that he'd be massaging your stomach later

you blushed, unsure of his motivations still. He began working on that spot, and you did feel some release of pressure, accompanied by a gurgle as the food moved down your digestive tract.

"What are you doing?" You asked, on the verge of mild annoyance from his lack of an explanation.

"I'm making room," he said simply.

...

You could piece things together. He probably had figured out that you were a pred. And he probably wanted to feed you. prey.

But how did he know? Was it really that obvious? You felt your face heat with embarrassment. How many people knew just by seeing you? How many people knew but never brought it up out of courtesy?

Anyway, You should have probably told him that you don't really eat prey. Not that often anyway; you definitely weren't hungry enough right now.

"Do you mind if I...?" He touched the corner of my mouth. You told him again, no, go ahead. He parted your lips carefully with his fingers, with the confidence and expertise of a dentist, he inspected your teeth. He pressed down on their points; you heard him hum, as if in confirmation. A practiced eye could tell a predator by the teeth. The canines tended to be longer, yours weren't, but your other teeth were of a certain thickness and sharpness that was indicative of a predator; your molars had a pointedness, similar to a dog's. Supposedly, this would help in holding down on prey as it was eaten.

You felt his fingers graze overtop of them, and you salivated at the taste. When he removed his hands, you closed your mouth and swallowed.

"Look," you said, "I'm not all that hungry. Well, not that kind of hungry"

"Your body is ready for prey" He explained, "You haven't eaten in a couple weeks at least."

"I just had lunch a few hours ago."

"I mean, you haven't eaten prey. I've been with you almost every day this year, and although you might be able to hide it well, I know it's been a while."

You can still taste his flesh on your teeth, you lick your teeth and swallow again.

"Sorry," he said, sounding genuine, "you're probably going to feel pretty hungry in a minute. but if you don't want prey, I have regular food in my fridge - or I can uber something if you want-"

"Why would I be hungry?" You did feel a little hungry now. But not... not that hungry...

"I mean," He started sheepishly, "the belly rub; your stomach is awake now, and your small intestine is empty too."

"Okay-"

"- and the hands in your mouth thing; you've had a taste of prey now, so your body's going to start preparing to consume that."

hmm.

"And talking about eating - specifically talking about eating prey, it can kind of help with releasing those predator hormones that come out before you consume prey."

He continues, "not to mention, we were walking around the park all day, that amount of exercise will also, um, stimulate appetite."

"You've got this down to a science," you say.

He smiles, but tries to hide it, "yeah, sorry. Yeah, I guess I do. But it's not like that-"

"You said you have food?"

He shows you to the kitchen

You go into his fridge, and take out a stick of celery. you crunch on it aggressively, like you're biting apart someone's arm. It falls into your stomach sadly, and you feel an angry clench in your middle. It doesn't want that kind of food anymore.

You feel a little light-headed, a little dizzy, your gaze snaps back to this guy. He caused this, it's his fault.

he looks a little scared as you glare at him. Good. You feel a swell of pride or righteous justice, but then you feel sad. You like him, you don't want to scare him. You don't want to mess this up. but he's the one that messed it up

"What made you so sure that I wouldn't eat you?" You ask

He opens his mouth, but seems lost for words. He whispers "please don't...?"

There's a reason you don't often engage with your predatory side; it's very hard for you to control.

He didn't know that, but should this be a mistake that costs his life? Your stomach is growling now, you put a hand over it, to silence it or comfort it.

"Do you have prey?" You ask through gritted teeth, "Besides yourself?"

"Yes! Yes," He says, "I'll be right back." He rushes off, almost quick enough for you to want to chase after him. But you stay where you are, your hand now gripping the countertop because it's the only thing keeping you in place

three people enter the room, it's him and someone you know to be his friend. The third person you do not know

your predator brain immediately feels excitement. three entire prey! all for you to eat up. You could run to the front door and lock it, then you could chase down each one of them - it would be so much food.

You remind yourself that you aren't even capable of eating that much. You try to be more present in the moment, you realise that someone had asked you something, but you weren't paying attention.

One of the prey speaks, "Never mind, I'll see you later," they say to each other. Then one prey walks out of the front door. You feel disappointed - you should have locked it. Now there are only two of them. Still, you've never eaten two at once.

One of them approaches you. you feel adrenaline building as they get closer - it's not even running away.

But no, no, this is not the one you're supposed to eat. "Are you alright?" He asks.

You can't even begin to broach the question. "I'm hungry," you respond, which is true. More true than the words can express.

He nods. With more confidence than he should have, he takes your arm, and guides you into the living room.

Soon, the prey's hands are in your mouth. You're gulping them down ravenously, animalistically. You haven't consumed prey in a long while; it's good to be back.

"good, eat, eat up" he says gently

As you swallow, you feel a relief from the mania of hunger. Your anger dissipates too, somewhat.

Him encouraging you feels good; in the past, people have ran away in fear. But he stays by you, even helping push the prey down your throat when you get stuck.

It's a lot, eating prey. it's a big mission. You feel your unaccustomed stomach stretch many times past it's usual capacity, it's shocking to your mind, but it happens. You feel your whole being sigh and melt as the prey sinks into your tummy. Your observer isn't quick enough to help you as you fall to the ground, unused to the new weight

He kneels beside you, saying some kind of affirmation

Do you still want to eat him? You feel the exploding fullness of your stomach. You have to breathe shallowly, because the prey is squashed against your lungs. No, this is quite enough.

He helps you up onto the couch chair that you were seated on before all this started. Now the lunch you had earlier has been completely pushed aside by this new, finer meal.

Each breath you take is difficult. Inhaling causes your stomach to just feel even tighter. You give yourself a moment to try to adjust. You will, eventually.

He's watching you lying there, apprehension still fidgeting in his eyebrows. You reach out for his hand, and you put it on top of your stomach. He smooths his hand over your skin and you can't help but wheeze.

A belly massage feels much different now. Every bit of pressure causes electricity that courses through the entire shape of your stomach, and that flows into your whole body, flushing into your limbs, and sedating you.

It's relaxing, he knows what he's doing, you can tell, with the way he dances with the contours of your abdomen. You hear him sigh with relief as you relax, as he says, "there's a good pred, just relax and digest now."

Right, you forgot. You blink your eyes open and place your hands on each side of your middle. You do have a unique ability, which is that your stomach is happy to hold the prey inside it without digesting, for a few hours at least, until it gets restless, then it will start on it's own unless you specifically resist. It's kind of lucky for you, because although you aren't great at stopping yourself from consuming prey once you get it into your head that you should, you do at least have a window of opportunity where you can reverse the decision, which is not something everyone can say for themselves.

But anyway, since you want to get this prey digested sooner rather than later, you think you should get started now. You watch the gentle movements of the prey inside your stomach. You stroke back and forth gently, and then you sigh and give your stomach permission.

Nothing happens. You frown. You look up at the observer. He doesn't seem to be aware of the situation. He notices you looking at him and tilts his head.

"My stomach doesn't want to digest," you explain

"Oh! interesting," he says. "I guess you don't have to?"

"No," you say, "I want to."

He gives you a confused look. You sigh.

"I don't know, it's being stubborn. It might take a while."

"So your stomach can like, purposefully delay digesting?"

"Yeah, I mean, look, the prey isn't really moving around at all; if I was digesting them, there'd be a lot more wriggling - you know."

"yeah, you're right." he says inquisitively, "I've never heard of this happening before."

"It's fine, it'll happen eventually."

"Alright, you can just relax then, no need to digest," he pats your stomach supportively.

He goes back to massaging your stomach, which does feel good. Your eyelids become heavy, and you yawn. He asks you if you want to go to bed; he has a spare bedroom now, you can sleep in a proper bed if you need. No, you assure him, it's alright for now. You do ask him to dim the lights though, which he does.

He presses into your belly again, kneading into the solid form inside in a uniquely pleasing manner. You can't help but grin slightly. Your predator brain is chuffed. a good belly rub is something it enjoys very much. It likes to be fed, and it likes to be attended to. You scrunch your toes. You feel warm and fuzzy. He's treating you very well.

You put your attention on the specific place where his hand glides over your skin, you follow the movements and patterns, it's like listening to music. you feel his hand on your skin, the warmth, you feel the prey pressed against the taut walls of your stomach. you think about how he is in a way, really rubbing against the prey, and your skin is just the thing between. But the idea of him rubbing on the prey, to help encourage the stomach to digest - he's rubbing against the prey to help break it down, really. He's trying to get you to digest it. He's probably using techniques that he knows will be the most effective for digestion.

For some reason, this thought is what convinces your stomach. A glowing feeling of heat starts under your skin. You groan softly. You melt deeper into the chair. A few moments later and your prey starts to get agitated. you smile as you imagine your stomach acids being released with each desperate kick against the walls of your tummy. It's ironic really. You feel a funny tickle inside, and a bit pressure that turns into a careless belch.

You had a long road ahead of you, though, suddenly you were exhausted by the task ahead.

"Oh, good for you," your observer notes, "you've started digesting haven't you?"

You grunt an mhmm.

"I think I'll get you into bed if you don't mind, to get you more comfortable."

That sounds good now, so you agree. Carefully, he guides you to your feet. You lean on him heavily, but he does alright. You feel your belly sag against your legs, and it swags gently as you walk, gurgling as the liquids are now swished around. You get to the bed, and lie down like it's the first time you've ever known the comfort of a mattress.

The observer helps put the blankets over you. "I think you could use a nap," he noticed, "but I'll be here when you wake up."

He brings you a glass of water, and turns the lights off, leaving you with your prey, which you curl up around deviously, eager to break them down for nutrients.

A part of you wants to think about the implications of this situation, and what your relationship with the observer has now become. But your predator brain hushes you and urges you into sleep. Your stomach needs it's moment to digest. You'll deal with the rest later

[sevenrenny]

Recently a relative asked me why I'm 'suddenly' always sick and that I was so healthy as a kid.

I was never a healthy kid. I was always in pain, but nobody believed me. I complained I had moments of dizziness, momentary visual blurriness and blindness, moments where I couldn't balance myself, and intense migraines so bad I fantasized popping a hole in my skull hoping that would get whatever was hurting me out of my head. I had days where it was just brain fog, but I was too young to know the word 'brain fog'. I'd have days where I was in so much pain I'd vomit.

But I got scolded for 'faking it' for attention or to get out of school. I got punished for 'being lazy'. So little by little, I learned complaining about constant pain that made me suicidal would make things worse for me. People punished me for telling them I was hurting, so I shut up.

Even when I became quiet about it, there were things I couldn't hide and my family rug-swept them: I passed out at school a few times from intense pain. I had multiple intestinal issues my family told me were normal, that 'it happens to everyone', telling me that 'Your dad had that happen so many times' while chuckling like it was funny. Every time, they waited for me to 'stop being dramatic' until I started screaming and writhing on the floor and they finally got me to the ER, scolding me the whole time for 'not saying anything sooner'.

During one of those visits, a doctor found a large tumor I was choking on. He found it by accident when he was putting a tube down my throat. I'd been having trouble breathing, but my family accused me of lying, and I'd started to think I was imagining it. Upon discovering the tumor, my mom's reaction was to scold me for giving myself a tumor.

After the tumor removal, the doctor had told her something seemed odd, and he talked with my mom for a bit but I can't remember what they said. We never went back to this doctor. When I asked my mom about it later, she told me the doctor was stupid and he had no idea what he was doing. (It was in my 20s when I went to check on my intestinal issue that the doctor told me he suspected I had gastroparesis, which he later confirmed it was.)

I struggled with classes because of the combination of undiagnosed medical issues, undiagnosed ADHD, undiagnosed dyscalculia, and having panic attacks (later got diagnosed with c-PTSD). My mom threatened to marry me off or kick me out of the house for almost failing math. I was sworn at, told horrific things that still stick with me (and the rest of the family blamed me for 'being lazy' and making her angry with me). I was a kid and couldn't understand why existing hurt, why, if it was so 'normal' to be in consent agony, everyone else seemed to not be struggling like me. I couldn't wrap my head around why everything that seemed so easy for everyone else was almost impossible for me.

It wasn't until an online friend asked me if I had some sort of disease because I was constantly in the hospital. I told her, "No, not really. What's the average number of times someone's in the hospital?" She said, "Renny, I've never once been to the ER." She was older than me. It was then that it clicked for me. I'd been so convinced that all of this was normal, that I was behind everyone else in life because I must be just a weak person because I was so behind even when I gave it my hardest.

I wasn't behind because I was weak. I was behind because I was never given the assistance I needed.

As soon as I became an adult and financially independent, I started seeking medical help. Got diagnosed with severe chronic migraines and other illnesses typically comorbid with chronic migraines and gastroparesis. (There are some issues I can't get medical help for in my country, so those will have to wait). I'm on medications now. Because of gastroparesis, pills didn't work for me too well, so a friend taught me how to use autoinjectors. I have friends who actually help me, give me advice, drive me to my appointments, and just be there for me emotionally.

Being medicated has made being alive so much more bearable. I can actually live my life now. Yes, I still have days where I'm in pain (not just migraines, but my other conditions, most of which don't have any treatments to manage them) but it's such a massive improvement from where I was before. I'm happier. I go to therapy. I found people I can talk about my pains and conditions freely to without being told I'm faking it or lazy. I don't work myself to the bone anymore; I shouldn't be giving my 100% to a job that refuses me accommodations when I'd need most of that to manage my health.

I'm back to complaining about pain because, before my family trained me to shut up about it, I was doing it right from the beginning. I'm supposed to complain about pain. Just because I can talk about it freely now, doesn't mean I was never sick before. Just because I'm on medications now, doesn't mean I didn't need them years ago.

I'm happier now as an adult. You just don't like that I'm visible about my illnesses now. It makes you uncomfortable that I self-administer injections, that I talk about my health the way that I want to. The thought of chronic illness makes you uncomfortable; you liked it better when I was quiet. You'd rather I don't find diagnoses for my illnesses, because, in your logic, if I don't go get the diagnosis then I'm not sick.

I was never a healthy kid. You just don't want to admit you went along with the rest of the family to abuse a disabled kid for being disabled.

[wisedelusionalmarshmallow]

@rosekillermicrofic, July 31st - Organ, G, Word Count - 477

CW: mentions of body horror

Evan reached out a hand for Barty to grab onto as they climbed out of his bedroom window. “Don’t fall, okay? I don’t need to scrape you off my mom's driveway.”

He grabs Evan’s hand and laughs as he finds his footing on the roof. “You sure? I can’t interest you with a smeared intestine? An organ?”

“God, you really know how to sweet talk, don't you?” Evan lowers himself onto the roof, finding a comfortable position on the shingles.

“If that’s sweet talk, maybe you’ll just push me off instead,” Barty teases, finding a spot next to Evan.

The stars are out tonight, shining brightly over the two boys. Evan’s the first to lean back and look over the endless sky. Barty quickly follows, hitting his head a little harder than he meant to on the roof. The other boy stifles a laugh. “Maybe I should be worried about scraping you off the roof.”

Ignoring his comment with an eyeroll, Barty admires the stars. “Pretty out here tonight,” he mentions. Evan agrees with a nod. The raven-haired boy smiles before continuing, “Not as pretty as you, though.”

“You’re so cheesy, Bat,” Evan lightly smacks his arm, distracting the other boy from the blush that was spreading on his cheeks.

“What? Calling my beautiful, handsome boyfriend pretty is not cheesy. It’s romantic.”

Shaking his head, Evan mutters to himself, not out of Barty’s earshot, “Insufferable.”

“Romantic.”

“Cheesy.”

“Poetic.”

“Stupid.”

“Heartwarming.”

“Insufferable.”

“Ha! Already said that one!” Barty chides. “Thought a pretty boy like yourself would have a larger vocabulary.”

“Annoying.” 

Barty rolls over to face him and laughs. “So what? I find you pretty.”

“You compared me to the stars,” Evan corrects. It was not just a simple compliment.

“You shine brighter than any of them, Ev.”

“See! You did it again!” Evan' exclaims, exasperated.

Curious as to his reaction, Barty turns serious for a moment. “Does that bother you?”

The other boy looks away. “A little.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s just... so easy for you to compliment me. It’s natural for you. I’m not like that. Surely you want to be complimented too.”

“Evan. I could care less if you say I’m attractive. Not when I can feel it. For starters, you constantly have your hands on me or are leaning over my shoulders admiring my work, and you’ve got a massive staring issue.”

“Real kind Barty,” he responds sarcastically. Evan can’t deny that his words soothed him; he was worried that Barty thought that he didn’t like him as much because he never really complimented the boy, never told him how smart he was or how pretty he was. Learning that Barty still saw Evan’s love calmed him. He didn’t have to be good with words to show his love.

“See! You’re getting there! A little more genuine next time, though.” Barty teases.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 12

Part 1 Part 11

Steve’s starting to like Eddie the Freak Munson. It would be a problem if he thought they’d ever get out of here. He can almost hear Carol’s derision and Tommy’s violence should Eddie deign to speak to him in front of witnesses. They’d snicker into their milk cartons about torrid love affairs and queerness being communicable, as if there was no other reason for Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson to be seen together. 

It would take minutes for Carol’s whispers to grow sharp, teeth bared into listening ears until Steve joins Eddie as person non grata to the Hawkins populace. Tommy would find Eddie opening his locker and slam his head into it, using fists and nails and slurs to make his opinion known. 

Steve misses them. 

But, he has Eddie now. Eddie, who says what he means. Who’s bandaged Steve up, pulled him off bathroom floors and grocery store aisles, and vine-filled alleyways. And he’s so goddamn distracting, Steve sometimes forgets how scared he is.

“Dungeons and dragons is like, for the creme de le creme, Harrington,” he says, pacing the length of his shoebox living room, gesturing wildly with one hand while the other throws his fucked-up dice up and down with surprising dexterity. “While you jocks are playing your sports ball, the rest of us are learning the ways of the blade.”

Steve laughs. “No, fucking way, man.”

Eddie spins, waggling his finger condescendingly in Steve’s face, towering over him where he’s seated on the Munson’s springy couch. “The blade is metaphorical, my liege, but the mettle we test and the bonds we strengthen are not!”

Steve leans back in his seat, slouching away from Eddie’s closeness. “You’re such a nerd.” He means it as a joke, but the way Eddie’s mouth twists makes regret curdle in his intestines. “So how does this work?” he asks, gesturing to the die now clutched in Eddie’s palm.

Eddie smiles, still leaning over him, dimples popping, before dropping to sit crisscross in front of Steve with alarming speed. He holds his hand out, throwing the die into Steve’s lap.

“Now, we’re talking Stevie,” Eddie says, flapping his hands, before shoving them beneath his butt and letting his bent knees flap instead. “It’s easy.”

Steve looks down at the die. It’s white and translucent, the red of the light from the windows turning it a soft pink. The edges feel almost sharp as he turns it over in his fingers, counting the sides. The numbers aren’t like normal dice, with the dots. They’re just numbers, slowly counting up, 1, 2, 3, all the way to twenty. 

“There’s a dungeon master, moi,” he says, gesturing with grandiosity toward himself, “who spins a tale for the rest of the party.” Steve nods along, like he knows what a party means, or what a dungeon master is. “Alright, you ready, Stevie?”

“What? Munson, I didn’t agree to–”

Eddie jumps up, making Steve startle back, barely keeping hold of the die. “Sir Steven, arrives at the front of a castle. It’s covered in vines, they’re trailing up the windows, making it impossible to see the glass that covers them.” 

Steve glances at the windows of the Munson trailer, the way the vines have blocked out more of the light, leaving trailing shadows like vines to cast shapes across the stained carpet. 

“Sir Steven unmounts his horse,” Eddie says, miming lifting his leg off an imaginary beast and jumping down to the ground. Steve can almost picture it. “What do you do?”

Eddie’s making an almost uncomfortable amount of eye contact, eye’s shining with more life than he’s shown in what has to be days. “I go into the castle,” Steve replies, voice lilting in question. Is there a right answer?

Eddie claps his hands three times, quick and quiet, grinning as he drops back down, this time on the coffee table,  leaning toward Steve. “Roll the die.”

Steve looks down at the die in his hand. He leans to the side, rolling it on the table by Eddie’s side. The clatter it makes as it bounces sounds loud in the absence of this world. It stops. Steve leans over at the same time as Eddie, Eddie’s hair tickling the back of his neck with the way it trails down. 

“A nineteen!” Eddie says excitedly. “The door knob turns easily, both unlocked and well-oiled enough not to make a sound despite its apparent age. You walk into the castle. It’s dark in the foyer, but there’s a candle inexplicably lit, beckoning you up the stairs. Your armored feet clack loudly on the worn-down wooden floors as you walk up them. You reach the candle, what do you do?”

“I pick up the candle?” Steve asks. 

Eddie picks up the die, putting it back into Steve’s hands. He rolls it. “Three?”

Eddie clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Just as you pick up the candle, it’s as if a breeze rolls through the whole castle. You keep a hold on the candlestick, but the flame goes out. You freeze. Sir Steven, you’re practically shaking in your boots! And then, a voice, dark and grating snarls out of the darkness in front of you, ‘who dares disturb my slumber??”

Steve looks down at the die, that damning three staring back at him. “So, low numbers make bad things happen, and high numbers make something good?” he asks. 

Eddie waffles his hand back and forth, “sorta,” he says, pickup the die up off the coffee table and throwing it in the air again. “It’s more like, whether or not you complete that one action you list correctly. Like, a one is going to make you miss your target if you’re firing at something, yeah, but it doesn’t say anything about whether you should’ve been firing the gun in the first place.”

Steve digests this. “It’s kind of like sports stats,” he says, thinking aloud. “A high number of assists means you’re helping get the ball in the hoop, but it doesn’t say anything about how the game’s gonna go.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Eddie replies. 

SIlence falls between them, the only sound the quiet slap of the die hitting Eddie’s palm. Steve waits. And waits. And waits. His impatience grows, “Well?”

Eddie snaps his eyes to Steve’s face, brow furrowed. “Well, what?”

“What happens with the sleeping dude?”

Eddie’s eyes open wide, more whites than pupil, as his mouth drops open, seemingly shocked by something Steve doesn’t understand. It takes him a second to continue, but he does.

Steve fights off some old magical wizard dude, destroying the castle and breaking the wizard’s curse in the process. He crumbles to dust. It’s kind of sad. He tells Eddie as much, only to get laughed at.

“He was tired, man,” he says. “All he wanted was for his nightmare to end, and someone to help him rest.”

Steve looks back at the vines crawling up the windows, and can’t help but empathize. 

“I don’t know man,” he says. “Sports seem easier.”

Eddie laughs. “Sports are boring, Harrington. What’s there even to like about throwing a ball through a hoop like a bunch of cavemen?”

“It’s like,” Steve starts, before stalling out. Staring down at his knees. He’s still thinking about the wizard and how sad and tired he must’ve been. There’s something to be said about a game that doesn’t leave you in a moral quandary, wondering if assisted suicide is okay if the dude is tired and old enough. 

“It’s like, when I’m swimming, or running the ball up the court, I’m so in my body that I’m out of it, you know?” Steve asks. “I don’t have to think about anything but the next step. Does that make sense?”

When he looks up from his knees, Eddie’s cheeks are rosy, and he’s holding a piece of hair in front of his mouth again. “Sure,” he says, voice almost squeaking out before he clears it, dropping it past his normal register, “That makes sense.”

Steve laughs. “Whatever, man.”

There are two feelings warring in Steve’s stomach. He’s more comfortable, here on a ratty couch playing a nerd game with Eddie Munson than he can ever remember being. He’s terrified of getting out, terrified of staying here, terrified of what waits for them outside these walls.

The feelings coalesce in his stomach, making him queasy. Or maybe he’s just hungry. He can almost smell the bacon frying on the griddle, can almost see Eddie in the booth across from him. 

Maybe they can play his nerd game while they wait for a coffee refill. Steve sighs, not thinking of Tommy and Carol at all. 

Part 13

[coeurify]

ellie realising shes in love w you for the first time

Love had never been a kind feeling for Ellie. The butterflies explained by hushed teenage voices over a bonfire never exactly captured what Ellie felt in her stomach when she felt that sensation creeping into her bones. What she felt about the four-letter word was a little more dangerous than the soft wings of a monarch butterfly. It was more barbed wire squeezing her intestines, a frantic sort of feeling that overwhelmed her, a surefire sign of the doom that would follow. It only got worse as she aged.

That feeling, one she swore she didn’t feel easy, that she didn't like to feel, returned one night.

A night that had been the first quiet one in weeks, her head pressed onto an old stitched blanket that was a little rough against her hair. Jackson was warm that night, a short sleeve pressed onto her skin as she sighed.

“Do you think the stars were this bright before the outbreak?” a voice had asked beside her. Eyes that were focused up on the night above them. Ellie’s arms crossed over her stomach lazily, the blanket you two laid on acting as a home for your bodies as you looked at the stars above.

Well, you looked up, and Ellie looked at you. “Not everywhere, in big cities you could barely see them. All the light pollution, but out in places like this? I bet so.”

You turn your head, looking at her with a slight grin. “Nah, I don’t think so,” you shrug, pursing your lips.

Ellie’s eyebrows furrowed, hoping you would continue.

“I have to believe something is better nowadays, so I think the stars are brighter now.”

Ellie lets a soft chuckle fall from her lips. So optimistic, even when you lived in a place like this— a time like this. Ellie admired that. She thinks she lost all sense of optimism the moment she woke up in a car, the blue-tinged hospital gown scratching against her skin. But the way you said it so simply, like you believed it so much, made her want to believe it too.

“Maybe,” Ellie concludes, though she knows the real answer.

“You have to teach me how to find constellations sometime,” you add softly, staring up again.

“It’s not too hard; i’ll help you trace them with your finger,” Ellie hums, hand reaching up, squeezing one eye closed.

When you laugh, she feels a slight tug in her stomach, but it's soft enough to ignore.

Until your finger reaches forward. You had turned your head again, staying focused on the apples of her cheeks. Your finger came forward to brush against the freckles Ellie doubted you could see in this much darkness. That’s when she felt the wires wrap around her stomach.

“Can I say something really cheesy?” you question.

“If it’s about my freckles, I’ll stab you right here,” Ellie threatens with no bite.

“Oh c’mon!” you whine, tapping her cheek with your finger. “You totally ruined my line!”

“That line was gonna be awful,” Ellie retorts, shaking her head.

The blanket shifts lightly with the wind when you move, a huff coming from Ellie’s lips as you straddle her, staring down with a pout.

“You are such a mood killer,” you chastise, staring down at Ellie.

That’s when she knows she's fucked. That’s when the sharp points of the wires press into her chest and lungs, sucking a deep breath from her.

When you stare down at her, prettier than the stars that frame behind your head, Ellie thinks she may be in love.

But when you press a kiss to her cheek, and then another, Ellie begins to believe the stories of butterflies in her stomach.

When your lips find the corner of her mouth, the barbed wire started to feel more like wings.

[julieverne]

"I will dig my fingers into your scar tissue," Maura hisses, and she sees how Jane perks up at that. Sees how Jane's eyes widen, how her nostrils and pupils flare, how her lips fall open as though waiting to form a rebuttal that never comes.

Jane whimpers. You'd been worried that she was still in pain. She hasn't even taken the low-hanging bait of Maura's relationship with Stucky - a man who'd been inside Jane. It was the closest she could come.

Or was it?

They were already close but Maura got closer, seeing Jane's startled expression at their proximity, then a slight flinch as Maura's fingers and thumb grip Jane over the gunshot wound.

Jane whimpers again and the sound does something to Maura, awakens something she hasn't tried very hard to leave in her subconscious. It's been there since Hoyt, since Hoyt mistook her for Jane, since Jane promised Paddy anything he wanted for Maura. It's been there since she woke in Jane's bed, since she went to the Rizzoli home for dinner, since the first time Jane smiled at her.

Jane watches her carefully and Maura can smell her. Lavender and fear.

She's so scared.

Not that Maura might hurt her; she knows Maura would never hurt her without a medical reason, like holding Jane's intestines in while waiting for an ambulance.

She's scared of how close they are. She's scared Maura wants to get closer. She's scared of wanting Maura to get closer. She's scared of Maura finding out Jane wants Maura to get closer. She's scared of what it makes her.

Jane calls herself a monster. She's killed before. Killing bothers her, but not as much as being attracted to Maura does.

Maura almost gives in. She almost has mercy. But Jane's breath is little more than a thready gasp, her eyes all pupil, her shirt pulled tight across her chest showing Maura how much she's enjoying this moment.

And underneath the lavender?

Maura is what's known as a supertaster. It accounts for smell as well, and Maura can smell Jane's arousal through her sweatpants.

It's now or never, and suddenly Maura is scared too.

Scared of losing the best friend she's ever had.

But then Jane's tongue flicks out over her bottom lips and Maura is unable to resist tasting it with her own. Fingers still poised over Jane's healed wound, she lifts her head and drags her tongue over Jane's bottom lip.

Jane makes a noise that shouldn't be humanly possible; it's high-pitched and incredible, and Jane pulls away with wary eyes, holding out one hand to fend Maura off.

But Maura has tasted Jane now and like a shark she smells chum in the water and closes in, her teeth exposed.

It's not a threat; it's not a smile either.

"Stu-Stucky," Jane stammers, and Maura reaches into her purse to retrieve her phone.

"We're done," Maura says, and hangs up even as he tries to protest.

She closes the tiny gap Jane has managed to put between them.

"No more Stucky." She wonders if this will hurt her later, if Jane will believe she is disposable as well.

The only reason Maura entertained that odious man was for Jane's care. He was the top surgeon for a reason, and so eager for a pretty face that he'd taken the case with minimal fuss.

Jane's breathing hasn't stabilised and Maura watches her with slight concern. If Jane passes out, that defeats the purpose.

"I..." Jane looks terrified and mortified and full of regret. She's going to turn Maura down. Unwarranted, Maura's fingers dig in and Jane hisses through her teeth.

Her pelvis shifts and presses against Maura, and Maura grins knowingly.

"Unless you have somewhere better for me to dig my fingers into," Maura suggests, almost casually.

Jane is flushed. She's warm where she rests against Maura. Maura leans in.

"You could just get dressed the easy way."

And then Jane's mouth is on hers, possessive and languid and tasting of the cereal she'd been eating when Maura came in.

Jane was making everyone late, but they could wait a little longer.

It wasn't every day Maura got to be with a hero.

Regardless, they have an event to attend. Maura uses Jane's distraction to discard her clothes, Jane helping her, Jane moaning into Maura's mouth, panting damply against Maura's temple as Maura finds her oh so ready and waiting for her, pressing into her, claiming her and keeping her word at the same moment.

Jane's eyes meet hers as she falls apart, biting her own lip, then Maura's as she kisses her too hard, unbalanced.

Maura runs soothing hands over Jane, who doesn't notice she's dressed in uniform until far too late, trembling in Maura's arms.

"That was a dirty trick," Jane says, but she doesn't sound displeased.

"If we leave now..." Maura consults her watch "... I'll show you how dirty I can be when we get home."

Jane grabs her by the arms and pulls her out the door, down the stairs and onto the street in such a blur that Maura can't be sure Jane didn't carry her most of the way with her enthusiasm and heart between her teeth.

The way to a Rizzoli's heart really was through their stomach, and Maura was going to have to send Angela a thank you bouquet for that tip.

[mostly-mundane-atla]

Hi! Your blog is awesome. I don't know if I'm allowed to ask non-atla questions, so I hope this is okay. I'm working on a non-avatar ttrpg campaign that takes place both in a (fictional/fantasy) northern tundra region AND during a magical endless winter. The people in it aren't based on any specific culture but, given that they're successfully living in similar environments & have for countless generations, I want to draw as much inspiration & knowledge from real-life circumpolar cultures & native science as much as possible. Do you have any advice or even just fun, underappreciated ideas for winter tundra survival, things someone who grew up in a desert like me wouldn't think of on my own? If you need/want more direction: I'm particularly looking for clothing, shelters, resource gathering-practices for non-food (esp what kinds of resources would be valuable), as well as like, any fun details that evolve naturally in a culture that formed in the tundra that you'd want to see represented. I hope that makes sense ^^; Thanks so much if you decide to answer, have a good day either way <3

[I am SOOO sorry this took so long! Tumblr kept not saving my progress when i tapped "save draft" so i had to rewrite a few of these passages a few different times]

Don't worry about asking, friend, i get cultural questions all the time and i'm happy to share.

Note: my knowledge is almost entirely based on coastal tundra peoples with access to marine mammals. That's not to say it's impossible for people to live farther inland, just that it's not my area of expertise.

Clothing

Just about everything you wear is going to come off of a dead animal. This doesn't necessarily need to be the case if your fictional culture has a means of raising hardy livestock for fiber and a history of woven textiles, but even then skin clothes are warm and generally quite hard-wearing and are a good fit for living in these circumstances.

This amount of fur means lice are a perpetual problem. If you want to make that an immersive part of the game, you can work in a mechanic for checking scalps and clothing and bedding for lice.

Bird skins can also be used for clothing and waterfowl specifically has the benefit of water resistance. Fish skin can also be used for similar properties. Animal intestines can be made into a waterproof material if sewn with sinew and soaked before finishing.

On that note i'd recommend making a list of available animals and what qualities and textures their skins and furs have. Even if you don't intend on being incredibly descriptive with clothing, it's something better to have and not need than need and not have. And if you do anything else creative in a similar setting you have your nifty little source to consult.

When it comes to the actual construction of the clothes, you want a loose fit. Trapped air ia a great insulator and you want clothes to be easy to move in. Another benefit for loose-fitting upper body garments in cold weather is you can pull your arms in and keep them by your much warmer core. Not only will this option keep you comfortable, it can also prevent muscle injury or getting frostbite

Mittens can be worn on a string yoke. This doesn't have to be exclusive to children either. Wind can pick up out of nowhere and lost mittens means fingers exposed to arctic cold which can mean gangreen and amputations down the line.

Swimming or running to deliver a message may involve stripping nude, even in cold. Clothes soaked in water or sweat are deadly in the cold.

Clothes may be stored in bags outside when not in use. The low temperatures can kill bugs and bacteria. On a similar note, boots and coats are best to be hung to dry as soon as one is indoors for the day. This may mean it's normal for people to be topless indoors.

Boots should never have holes or tears. Frostbite and resulting gangreen is already bad enough but you especially do not want it on your feet

Shelter

You're going to want dwellings to have as few rooms and windows as possible and small doors. The fewer walls you have, the easier it is for heat to circulate throughout the whole dwelling. You'll probably want one room separating the door and where you sleep. Remember: trapped air is a great insulator.

The culture I've reconnected with is semi-nomadic so the permanent houses are not always occupied and a village can seem abandoned when it's just on its "off season". You can take that or leave it depending on what you're going for.

Even if the dwelling is not a tent, you're probably still going to have poles serving as a supporting frame.

Sod houses are common due to the availability of sod (the grass and the dirt its roots are tangled in). Tents made of warm, waterproof skins (like walrus skin) are also an option.

An easy way to insulate such a dwelling is to build a wall of packed snow around and fill the gaps with loose, airy snow. This traps air the same way down feathers do.

Non-Food Resource Gathering

While I imagine you meant obtaining resources outside of hunting, in a tundra or tundra-like setting, a lot of your resources are going to come from dead animals. Your garments and shelters and bedding are likely to be made of animal skins, with hollow and/or fluffy fur for warmth, or smoked intestine or fish skin, sewn with tiny stitches and soaked to keep everything flush, for waterproof boots and overlayers. Antlers and tusks are good carving materials for things like spoons and closures and slabs for armor and handles and also talismans and smoking pipes and beads and art. Baleen is good for art too, as well as boot soles and smaller sleds and beautiful baskets. Sinew and rawhide are good for thread, ties, and rope. Bones have a near infinite amount of uses from tiny wing bones to make sewing needles to huge whale bones used to build houses.

For the purposes of working this into a roleplaying game, i'd second the recommendation of keeping a list of animals in your universe and their properties, as well as the things that can be gathered from or made of them. A sort of crafting recipe guide would allow all kinds of quests and sidequests.

There are, of course, non-animal resources to gather for non-eating purposes. Soapstone is the traditional material for oil lamps. Grasses can be woven into baskets for any number of purposes, including supports to give the uppers of one's boots more structure. Wood, in the form of slices of tree trunks, can be hollowed out into bowls and small tubs and buckets or, as logs or slats, can make up flooring. Sturdy branches can be used for frames in houses, boats, and drums, and tree resin makes both good glue and antibiotic salve for closed wounds. Sod, also called turf, makes a good building material and moss is exellent insulation in boots. You can make a list of these too, if it helps.

If your fictional culture has a strong tradition of metallurgy, then they'd also mine for metal that can be used for knives. If not, slate is another option that requires significantly less fire. You could even have both and make the metal a status symbol.

Fun Details to Represent

There are so many lovely little things that show up in arctic cultures

First, a gift economy. Where a cash economy relies on a fairly individualistic culture where you work for someone else to earn capital and exchange that capital for goods and services, a more collectivist and interdependent culture natural to the harsh conditions of the tundra tends to result in a gift economy. The currency in a gift economy, to perhaps oversimplify, is favors. Someone does you a good turn, you remember that, and when you're in a position to help, you return the favor. Usually this means basic material things like hospitality and food, but the "gifts" exchanged can also be luck! King Islander boys would often wish hunters setting out at dawn good luck, with a slab of driftwood as a token of that luck, and if the hunters were successful, they'd give the boys who wished them luck a share of their catch. I believe it was Frank Ellana who remenised that this was what the world was like before money.

Another thing that would be nice to include is parenting practices considered fairly gentle to a Euro-American perspective. Physical punishments are traditionally treated as abuse and scolding a child is not only seen as wrong but something an adult ought to be ashamed of. Discipline is instead a series of moral lessons, teaching children why what they did was wrong and using stories as examples of the consequences. Given the amount of stories about the dangers of abusing a spouse or child, i'd say a lot of these lessons were proactive and preventative. Knowing someone will be hurt by it is considered enough of a deterrence to stop bad behaviors. Traditional potty training, for example, is also gentler in comparison; starting at a younger age (about six months) with more emphasis on praise and encouragment than routine. The goal here is to teach the baby to signal when they need to go so they can be taken out of mama's atigi and relieve themself in a hygenic manner instead of holding it until they get permission. Even our take on kissing is based on inhaling instead of pecking with the lips. This kind of gentleness is usually overlooked to instead focus on the badass hunter image or overall "cuteness" so it would be nice for it to be referenced.

Oral histories would be pretty neat too. I think the idea of learning to be a historian of oral histories is an interesting one and i think it has a lot of potential plot hooks for an rpg.

That's all i have for now. Sorry for the delayed response time. Happy gaming, and i'm always up for further discussion if you would like ^-^

[bonefall]

How would the cats get rid of the bile to prepare a prey item for food? The liver is one of the best items to use for gravy--my family uses our roasted Turkey's liver as a gravy base every year and to have to throw it out cause someone fucked up while on kitchen duty would suck.

Not all animals will actually have gallbladders, but removing one from the liver is as easy as just chopping it off when you get to the processing part. It'll be down on the bottom of the liver, usually pear-shaped, and a dark greenish color. Sorreltail, a sapient cat with her great sense of smell, could tell it apart from the surrounding meat with her eyes closed.

I do have to stress, though, you CAN eat bile. You don't have to have the cats toss that, that is a thing they can eat. Again it's not nail polish remover like the Erins think it is. It's bitter, but it's used in human food. You just balance out the bitterness with spice and sweetness.

This is papaitan, from the Philippines, made with tripe and bile,

Bile is also said to have anti-inflammatory effects and be a generally healthy food, too. I can see ShadowClan in particular really liking to cook with this, especially for a sick cat. They like bitter and spicy tastes a lot more than other Clans. Their version of chicken noodle soup.

Also; a lot of animals do not have gallbladders. Here's a short list of common prey animals and their gallbladder status;

Rabbits = No

Rats = No

Mouse = Yes

Shrew = Yes

Deer = No

Pigeon = No

Quail = Yes

Carp = Yes BUT DO NOT EAT THESE CARP GALL BLADDERS CAUSE FOOD POISONING. ALL species, everywhere. This includes goldfish. Your cat will live if they swallow a goldfish or eat a gallbladder once or twice, but it will make them sick. Process this fish before a Clan cat eats it.

(Side note: It's actually kind of funny how carp keeps coming up as The "Fuck You" Animal in all of these. They're full of seizure-causing anti-nutrients, their gallbladders are poison, what am I going to find next?)

The gallbladder in fish is really easy to find btw, they're usually massive, round, and dark green. If you gut fish regularly it's like... right in the "chest." Also you can poke it open and soak little paper squares in it and then they spin around in water, it's very cool

Bile is for the breakdown of fats, and a gallbladder is for the storage and concentration of bile. Generally, herbivores are more likely to lack gallbladders, because their liver just dumps the weak bile they have directly into their intestines. The mystery of why rats don't have gallbladders has actually vexxed scientists for like 100 years, btw.

Some herbivores (deer especially) have a very tiny "pouch" for bile called a diverticulum. But unlike the gallbladder, it doesn't concentrate it, just stores a little extra. Some hunters will nick this and think they tore open a gallbladder, but they did not.

[tkingfisher]

Following the monk seals snorting eels post, I’d said that it wouldn’t be the tenth weirdest thing I’d heard about mammals. And then someone in the tags asked what the ten weirdest WOULD be.

Okay, I’ll confess there was some hyperbole there, because I didn’t have ten off the top of my head, but here’s three that strike me as A Thing:

CW: Animal injury and death! Also it’s disgusting! Read at own risk!

We all mostly know about hyena genitals by now, which is pretty wild in and of itself, but it gets weirder. Given that they have to give birth through the pseudo-penis, you’d think they’d be better at it, but the umbilical cord isn’t as long as the lady hyena’s junk, AND there’s a weird elbow turn, so cubs often suffocate on the way out. This may explain why they’re born so goddamn angry that siblings have been observed fighting *while still inside the amniotic sac.*

(I once peed while surrounded by hyenas. The African bush is not an easy place for a woman with a small bladder.)

(That’s not a weird mammal fact, except insomuch as I am a weird mammal.)

Lemurs will take giant millipedes, nip them to make them secrete toxins, then rub the millipede on their fur as insect repellent. But the millipede toxins also make them High As Fuck and cause them to salivate, so you end up with a bunch of stoned, drooling lemurs passing around a millipede that probably had other stuff to do today, dammit.

Ambergris is a weird waxy mass that stinks like the devil eating sardines in hell, and so of course is used in perfume. (It mellows.) For centuries nobody actually knew where it came from, just that it would sometimes wash up on shore. Eventually it was discovered in the guts of sperm whales and some clever soul figured out that it involved the indigestible bits of squid, like beaks. “Aha!” said humanity, “it must be whale vomit!”

Humanity, alas, was unduly optimistic. See, the whales regurgitate most of the squid beaks normally—they’ve got four stomachs, like a ruminant, and since they can’t chew, the first stomach is super tough and muscular to crush their food and to resist the assault of the squid, which is often still alive at this point—and so if they barfed up the beaks, there would be no ambergris. But sometimes they swallow the beaks instead and it lodges in the softer bits of the whale intestines. And then more beaks get hung up on it and more and basically it’s like a whale bezoar, and since this is of course moderately painful, the body secrete a mucusy goo to cover the sharp edges so it doesn’t poke the soft bits, the way an oyster coats sand to make a pearl.

Except, of course, it’s a whale intestine, not an oyster, and instead of a grain of sand, it’s like the world’s most disgusting Katamari. (Okay, technically it’s called a coprolith, aka “shit rock” but it’s just sitting there hooking any indigestible bits that get hung up on it, as well as a bunch of whale poop, and getting bigger and bigger, so I stand by my simile, dammit.)

Now, if you get a whale who keeps swallowing their beaks, over time, the coprolith gets so big that it creates an intestinal blockage. And at that point, one of two things happens. Either the sheer force of liquid whale poo trying to come out dislodges the coprolith and the whale takes the sort of crap that songs are written about…

…or the whale’s gut explodes. (Well, ruptures.) And the whale expires, bloats, pops, goes through the process of whale fall (which is amazing in and of itself) and the ambergris floats to the surface and marinates in seawater for a decade or so, casts up on a beach, and gets sold for a whopping $10k a pound.

Interestingly enough, making ambergris is a very rare condition, found in less than 5% of male sperm whales. (It only happens in males. Don’t ask me why.) Hunting sperm whales for ambergris would be ludicrously inefficient, and it’s classed as a “found” object under international treaties, which means that you can sell it if you find it cast up on a beach, unless you’re in the US, which classes it as a by-product of an endangered species, although enforcement is usually a little more concerned with the people smuggling live parrots in their socks and not with your disgusting lump of found whale poop.

So, yeah. Mammals. We’re a thing.

[shunchitaro]

AIB Incorrect Quotes

TW: blood, amputation Chishiya: Not to pressure you but I’m about to kill you for the umpteenth time today Niragi: You know what you do you I don’t know why you even bother. Kuina: Don’t be flattered Niragi he just wants to test his new DIY weapon on you Niragi: Yeah I figured

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Tatta: If you were to meet a face card, what would you do? Mira: Drive them crazy until they kill themselves Ann: Dissect them. Alive. Chishiya: DIY, easy Kuina: Drop kick them and twist their neck Niragi: empty my bullets down their intestine Ann: How about you Tatta? Tatta: Tatta: ..hit them with a mop? Are you guys okay? Do I need to get you therapy?

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*Tatta leaning on a shipping container, holding his bleeding amputated wrist* Arisu, panicking: T-tatta! I- uh, do you need a hand? Tatta, half offended: I could really use one, yeah.

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Usagi, frustrated with Niragi: Imagine being unable to die. Even hell doesn’t want you Niragi, also annoyed: Imagine falling in love with someone that has a girl’s name when translated to English Arisu, overhearing: Say that one more time and I’ll shove you down a rabbit hole myself. Niragi: Oh I’m sorry Alice, did I offend you?

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*Niragi standing awkwardly outside the hotel after being burnt to a crisp more than once* Aguni: What are you doing here Niragi: Resignation Chishiya: What, hell got too overwhelming for you? Niragi: Actually no hell sent me here, they couldn’t handle me.

[tinynightmarewoman]

It still rattles my fucking mind that Dar Basri was underutilised in House Of Ashes!!

Like yes, I am well aware he is an NPC in these games as written in the rule book by our almighty leaders SuperMassive Games: NPCs gotta die!

BBBUUUUUTTTT have you considered that, and hear me out, he could have been an excellent addition to the story if he was used just that extra bit more.

He could've really been something if used, like further straining the very thin team up that Salim had with the Americans! Because, despite now being fully aware that yes there is a bigger threat that the theatre troupe with a glock, him being so deeply stuck in his ways that while okay he'll follow along he would always butt in when formulating plans or getting in to disputes with other members because they did something he finds wrong or flat out stupid (its your fault its stupid but hey you're doing your best)

He's a captain and has probably got some half decent experience under his belt, he's headstrong, tactical, a force to be fucking reckoned with if you let the bastard run rampant (Killing and wounding members of the main cast) And yet he dies too quickly in my opinion. Dar does not give up, even when his large intestine is being dragged behind him before he gets jumped by the vampires and is ripped to shreds. Killing him was too easy, I think he should have been give the chance to show off as an actual character, the warrior he is supposed to be!!! Watching him reluctantly alongside the others showing off how much of a menace he actually is, that would have been awesome!

Also it could be fun to see the extent of him and Salim's respected but strained relationship. Salim and Dar can butt heads significantly or they can work in tandem as a double act if you're more obedient and less argumentative as Salim. It's possible to see that Dar has respect and some amount of care for Salim so allowing the dynamic to go further and allowing it to get more complex could be a perfect foil to that buddy buddy relationship Salim develops with Jason.

Having Salim walk this glory hound on a tight leash while also having enough respect to actually listen to what the guy has to say would prove to be really interesting. Having that constant whisper of suspicion or opposition in Salim's ear would have made the relationships you build with Jason and the like a lot more fun to work for and hey, maybe in the end Dar learns to at the very least respect the tenacity and determination of the Americans. He doesn't have to be as all lovey dovey as Salim is by the end but having that "Okay, I can respect that" moment would be really cool!!

I think a lot of NPC characters in these games could make the plot better if they are given just that bit extra attention and especially Dar because of how much of balancing act he could be for the plot!!

Okay rambling over now you can return to your regular scheduled programming.

[flasw79]

Danny was my boyfriend, a slender young man with a skinny belly and an outtie navel that always drew my affection. His laughter was infectious, and his dreams of a better life filled our conversations. But beneath his charming exterior lay a growing desperation, one that led him down a dark path.

One fateful afternoon, his work friends approached him with an enticing offer—a substantial amount of cash to transport an unknown substance. They promised it would be a one-time deal, a quick way to make easy money. Against my better judgment, I watched him accept the offer, a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling in my chest.

When Danny arrived at the meeting point, he was greeted with a sinister smile. They handed him a painkiller, and before he could comprehend what was happening, they forced a funnel into his mouth. Five gallons of slippery eggs poured down his throat, and I can still hear the gurgling of his stomach as it bloated painfully, like a watermelon swelling inside him.

The sounds of his agony haunted me as he returned home. His face was pale, and he winced with each movement. For a week, he was in pain, promising me that he would never do it again. But desperation clings tightly, and soon, a few days later, he found himself entangled in another offer—this time, a staggering ten gallons of slimy eggs.

I could see the toll it took on him. His belly swelled grotesquely, stretching his skin tight, and it looked as if he were nine months pregnant. The laughter of his friends masked the danger that lurked beneath the surface. One evening, in a moment of misguided humor, one of them punched him in the stomach.

Danny screamed, a sound that pierced through the laughter. He doubled over, clutching his swollen belly, which gurgled ominously. I rushed to his side, panic rising in my throat as he stumbled home, tears streaming down his face. He crawled into bed with me, his body trembling, refusing to seek medical help.

His belly was a nightmare—a grotesque sight, with his outtie belly button dripping blood as it struggled to contain the pressure. I held him close, trying to soothe his pain, but the agony only intensified. He cried for hours, his stomach churning as if something malevolent was writhing inside him. He kept muttering that he felt like he might burst, and each burp was accompanied by grimaces of pain.

In a desperate attempt to ease his suffering, Danny began to push on his stomach. For a brief moment, the pressure seemed to subside, but then he felt a sharp pain. His eyes widened with terror as he looked at me, whispering, “Oh my god, I’m not going to make it.”

Before I could react, his stomach exploded. It was a horrific sight—guts and intestines spewing everywhere, a gruesome testament to the choices he had made. The room was filled with a chilling silence, broken only by the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

As I knelt there, paralyzed by shock and horror, I knew he was gone. The vibrant young man I loved had succumbed to the darkness that had enveloped him. I was left with nothing but the echoes of his laughter and the memories of a life that could have been.

In the aftermath, I vowed to remember him not for the choices that led to his demise, but for the dreams he once spoke of, the love we shared, and the lessons learned in the wake of tragedy.