#disorganized speech tw
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While at mom's enjoyed had fun make art she was nice.
Once got home mom-mode left realized very tired few minutes later realized uh oh uh oh big psychosis mom-mode stopped from realizing but pushed too far psychosis limits time
Now nothing makes sense all bright colors words so hard crying. But at least got art stuff home too
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I've been having an extremely difficult imte. Much psychosis esp catatonic synmptoms and convulsions an stuff. Bodya not working not listening fingers not listening as i type. Had fit this morning convulsions exhausting whole body so tired after freaking out like that. all limbs jerking and hitting and convulsing and screaming no fun no fun at all. took prn calmer now but soooo tired now. hate schizophrenia sick of so crazy so easily little tiny things make brain explode
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Psychotic episode are fucking terrifying so sorry if I don't like when you use the word "delulu" and sorry if I don't want to talk to you because you think I'm crazy or dangerous and sorry if you think I'm exaggerating BUT FUCK YOU BECAUSE I WAS TERRIFIED.
I WAS SCARED.
I WAS LIKE A KID SCARED OF THE DARK.
HOW DARE YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY.
I WAS AFRAID TO GET KILLED, I WAS TERRIFIED OF GOING OUTSIDE I WAS CONVINCED OF HORRIBLE THINGS I COULDN'T SPEAK I COULDN'T MOVE I WAS TRAPPED IN MY BRAIN SO FUCK YOU.
Fuck anyone who thinks psychotic episodes are funny. Fuck anyone who judges someone for being on the schizo spec. Fuck anyone who laughs at this.
#schizo spectrum#mental illness#schizophrenia#schizophrenic spectrum#schizotypal personality disorder#disorganized speech#psychosis#schizotypal#psychotic disorders#actually psychotic#paranoia#delusional#tw delusion#my disorder is not something to laugh at#try going through a psychotic episode before talking about it#transient psychotic episode
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Chapter 2 of Schizophrenia, Third Edition: The schizophrenia construct - symptomatic presentation
Most people with schizophrenia experience delusions and hallucinations, and many (but not all) experience disorganized thinking. There are also negative and cognitive symptoms.
For reality distortion, the delusions and hallucinations: A delusion is an unshakable, false idea or belief that cannot be attributed to the patient's educational, social, or cultural background, which is held with extraordinary conviction and subjective certainty, and is not amenable to logic. Delusions are divided into primary and secondary delusions: Primary delusions (more characteristic of schizophrenia) do not occur in response to something else such as a mood disorder or hallucination. Secondary delusions can be understood in relation to a person's background culture or emotional state.
Primary delusions include delusional perceptions and delusional intuitions. Delusional pereptions are normal perceptions that are interpreted with a delusonal meaning. Delusions are extremely variable in content. The most common delusions may be delusions of persecution, delusions of influence or control, thought withdrawal, thought insertion, thought broadcasting, morbid jealousy, erotomania, delusional misidentification, grandiose delusions, and religious delusions. In schizophrenia, the most common is delusions of persecution. The content of the delusion is often determined by the maturational, social, educational, and cultural background of the patient.
People with schizophrenia experience abnormal perceptions mainly in the form of sensory distortions - real objects are distorted - and false perceptions - where a new perception occurs. In false perceptions, there are illusions and hallucinations. Illusions are transformations of perceptions. Hallucinations are perceptions without object. Hallucinations can occur in any sense (auditory, visual, olfactory, gustatory and tactile, somatic or kinesthetic.) Around 50% of people with schizophrenia experience auditory hallucinations, 15% visual, and 5% tactile. The most common hallucinatory experience are hearing voices (also known as auditory verbal hallucinations.)
Now for disorganization: most people with schizophrenia have different degrees of impairment in their thought processes. These are called formal thought disorders. The ones most prominent in schizophrenia are called retardation (taking a long time to answer questions, in its extreme form, mutism occurs), circumstantiality (giving unnecesary details but eventually getting to the point), tangentiality (never getting to the point in the first place), derailment (breakdown in association with no logical connection between thoughts), thought blocking (sudden break in train of thought), and perseveration (repeating of an idea until it is inappropriate). There is also illogicality, offering bizarre explanations for things, neologisms, the creation of new words, and paraphasia, using a word with a new meaning.
In general negative symptoms are conceptualized as things that people do not do. The distinction between positive and negative symptoms was first introduced by Reynolds (1828-1896) and Jackson (1834-1911). Kraepelin (1919) also described a framework for distinguishing between positive and negative symptoms. In many cases negative symptoms are present before the onset of psychotic symptoms, present through the psychotic phase, and persist to varying degrees once the positive symptoms remit. Negative symptoms most often include alogia (poverty of speech), blunted affect (reduction in emotional expressiveness), anhedonia (inability to experience pleasure), asociality, avolition (lack of motivation), and apathy. Negative symptoms are more important for prognosis than positive symptoms.
Deficits in cognition have been considered core features of schizophrenia all the way back to Kraepelin and Bleuler. It's been consistently shown that people with schizophrenia have cognitive deficits right at the onset of psychotic symptoms, and even in the prodromal period or well before showing any kind of symptoms. There has been a lack of standard assessment scales for cognitive symptoms. Cognitive impairment is associated with poorer prognosis and functional outcome, negative symptoms, and disorganized symptoms, but not with positive symptoms.
Now on movement disorders: the two most common abnormal movements in schizophrenia are mannerisms (odd and stilted movements that seem to have a purpose) and stereotypy (constant repitition of meaningless movements.) People with schizophrenia may be stuporous, with an absence of movements and speech while being fully conscious. On the contrary, one might become hyperactive in an excited variety of catatonia. Sometimes there is abnormality in the execution of movements like in the form of negativism, automatic obedience, or ambitendency.
While those are the symptoms of schizophrenia, there are other aspects that are critical to evaluation and treatment. First of is the developmental history and prognostic indicators. Accurately diagnosing psychotic disorders is incredibly important at early stages of the disease because the importance of early treatment has been shown in different meaures. This variable is usually the level of social functioning prior to the onset of the illness, and it's been shown that it could be an important factor in diagnosis, diseae progression, and outcome.
All of feeling, mood, affect, and motivation can be abnormal in schizophrenia. The rate of depression in schizophrenia varies in studies, found more prevalent in women and patients with first-episode schizophrenia. People with comorbid schizophrenia and depression have poorer long term functional outcomes in terms of poorer quality of life. There is also "post schizophrenic depresson", which is depression following or in conjunction with psychotic symptoms (it's also a subtype in the ICD 10.) Depressive symptoms could also be confounded with antipsychotic side effects and negative symptoms. Suicide is unfortunately a leading cause of death in people with schizophrenia, with up to 40% of people with schizophrenia attempting suicide at least once. Between 5% and 13% die from their attempts. Risk factors for suicide in schizophrenia are comorbid depression and substance abuse, feelings of hopelessness and loss, fear of mental disintegration, a first episode (especially in previously high functioning patients), and periods of exacerbation of psychotic symptoms.
Substance abuse is common in schizophrenia. Half of patients are also substance abusers at some time during their illness. Substance use has been associated with poor social adjustment, more hospitalizations and relapses, medication and non-compliance, and poor treatment responses. Since acute intoxication and withdrawal of substances can mimick schizophrenic disorders, the overlap in symptoms can make diagnosis hard.
Now for physical health; the heightened health risks in schizophrenia (cardiovascular disease, metabolic syndrome, carbohydrate and lipid metabolid disorders, etc) are associated with the medications used in its treatment. Since people with schizophrenia show a higher rate of tobacco smoking than the general population, people with schizophrenia have more respiratory symptoms and poorer lung function compared to the general population. The presence of diabetes is between 9% and 14%, dyslipidemia 43%, and hypertension 30%. People with schizophrenia on antipsychotics are more prone to obesity, which has a big impact on both physical health and self-image and adherence to prescribed medication. Despite this vulnerability to different physical illnesses people with schizophrenia are at risk for failing to receive medical services. They should have routine physical examinations, and their physical symptoms should be explored no differently.
Extra tidbits: Sexual dysfunction, sleep problems, and eating disorders are also not uncommon in people with schizophrenia. Social functioning deficits are a hallmark of schizophrenia, and impairments in adaptive life skills are a major source of disability in people with schizophrenia. Quality of life is usually lower.
#nerdpost#graypost#psychology#psychosis#schizophrenia#history#long post#suicide tw#tw suicide#ed tw#tw ed#book: schizophrenia third edition#delusions#hallucinations#catatonia#disorganized speech#disorganized behavior
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our young nation
wilbur soot x gn! reader (note: pronouns are gn but reader is afab)
TWs: WAR, DEPICTIONS OF WOUNDS, BIRTH, PREGNANCY, ONE LINE ABT PERIODS, TALKS OF ILLNESS, MENTIONS OF DYING, SEMI-REALISTIC APPROACH TO WAR
word count: 10.7k
note: this has not been edited at all. i dont know a lot about war, but i do know hamilton and mockingjay, so. theres that. there's a playlist for this fic as well if you want to listen to what i listened to (also if this formats weirdly lmk and ill post it on ao3). have fun reading :)
title is taken from dear theodosia from hamilton
fic playlist
taglist: @l0veb0mb1ng / @core-queen / @zooone / @melunnek
Doing new things was never easy. There were always some hiccups, some strifes, some things that just kept new things from working out just as perfectly as you’d hoped. Not all these hiccups were bad per se, but they were there. Occam’s razor be damned, sometimes things are harder than they are easier.
Those hiccups might be the death of one Wilbur Soot. Mostly because, in this case, the things occurring lean far more toward the “strife” category than the “hiccup” category.
Literally.
The newness of his formed country was refreshing, L’Manburg was already growing to become a beautiful nation, just from the camaraderie seen within its walls. But the beauty of their forming country was contrasted by the growing issues of war and hardships afflicting his citizens.
So yes, war was hard. New things were hard, but they were often necessary and they often brought new, better things.
And then, of course, there was the flickering candle light in the middle of the destitute tunnel that categorized war: Love.
You weren’t originally planning to be involved in the war at all. When Wilbur had come to your door, asking about volunteering for the war, you’d politely turned him down. You made it very clear how much you supported the war efforts, and how, though you couldn’t fight, you’d be willing to help out the war efforts in any way you could.
Wilbur gave you a charming smile and let you know that your support was greatly appreciated.
Which was how you became his aid. For the leader of the rebellion, he was rather disorganized, in a literal sense, seen in the numerous papers and half-finished rations littering his desk, as well as a figurative sense, with the desk becoming a mirror image of his own mind. You helped clear the scatter, in both senses. When he’d pass out writing his pages and pages on new injustices committed by the Greater SMP, you’d be there to save his place and clear the desk.
Eventually, you were able to do far more than just clear the desk; you were able to clear his mind.
It started in conversations, when he’d ask questions aloud to himself without realizing you were in the room.
“… and the infractions pushed upon us by the members of the Greater SMP have found my people destitute, destroyed, and… deprived? No, not deprived-“
“Disregarded?” You spoke up from your place standing next to him, where you’d been carefully sorting through old unfinished drafts of his own works.
“Disregarded?” He looked up at you, giving you a flash of a smile, “Do you feel disregarded by the Greater SMP, Y/N?”
You flushed a bit under his gaze. You hadn’t actually meant to offer the word, but it had slipped out before you could stop it, “Yes.”
His smile underwent a simple change, one you’d noticed after observing his speeches and public appearances. His smile went from congressional — purely political and for show — to harboring a sense of community. It was the smile he used when he asked for volunteers. It was the smile he used when he asked people for their grievances. It was the smile he used when he listened to his citizens. It was a smile that could make you feel safe, make you feel heard. “How so? In what ways do you feel disregarded by the Greater SMP, Y/N?” He asked. It was subtle, the way he tried to say people’s names as often as possible when he spoke to them. There was something in it you recognized; a urge to get the person on your good side and the need to be liked.
You honestly couldn’t place the words that escaped you next. You had never been particularly political, but there was something about Wilbur Soot that demanded elegance and intelligence, and you felt yourself falling into line with easy compliance.
“Well, I feel disregarded in the way they command us. They have hurt our people numerous times without giving a second thought, yet they praise kindness and claim to want a peaceful end to this fighting. I feel disregarded in the fact that they claim to understand us, yet they have never spoken to me, let alone the majority of our citizens. I feel disregarded because they don’t even know my name, yet they have burned down my land. I feel disregarded because they refuse to listen to our grievances,” you took a breath as you continued, setting down the pages you’d been shuffling through. “I feel disregarded because even before the war, they did not respect us. I feel disregarded in the ways that they would bring us into their conflicts while they sat there. And most of all, I feel disregarded in the ways they have hurt my people without a care in the world, as if our lives do not matter.”
There was a moment of silence when you’d finished, and you looked back to see the leader of the rebellion giving you a look that you had never seen before upon his face: adoration. His smile fell into something softer, one that you’d seen only in short bursts, reserved for quiet moments Wilbur shared with himself in dark nights alone when he’d finished a piece he was proud of.
“Well, then,” he smiled at you genuinely, and it was the most gorgeous thing you’d ever seen. “Disregarded, it is.”
From there, you went from being his aid to his advisor, helping him hone his perfectly crafted speeches. You helped clear his mind. His air of regality as leader of the rebellion kept people from feeling comfortable reaching him, yet you shared none of that sense of bravado. You didn’t want to. People came to you, told you about how they felt as citizens, and it was the biggest help to Wilbur, who no longer felt like he was grasping at straws to make sure his citizens were being heard.
Throughout it all, the best thing you offered Wilbur was not your mind, but rather your company.
There were a lot of long nights that Wilbur was used to braving alone, and yet now, you were there to provide him companionship and cure the thoughts that plagued his mind about the future of the war. Wilbur loved watching your mind work on these nights. He would throw up a question into the air, something simple and philosophical, and he would watch as you’d chip away at the question and his subsequent arguments to your own positions. In any other case, it’d have been annoying, but for the both of you, it was akin to mental exercises, a game the two of you shared to keep sharp. It made for a kind distraction over the sounds of silence that plagued empty battlefields still wet with blood.
These nights were also some of the only nights you’d be able to get Wilbur to take care of himself. Usually, it was after a glass of wine softened him up enough for you to convince him to finish his rations. He had a habit of leaving half, just in case someone else needed something, and he’d been hungrier before so he was sure he could brave it. These were the nights when he’d finally let his wounds show.
Every battle, regardless of how bad off he was, he would hide any wounds that he couldn’t personally classify as fatal. And he would continue hiding them until they faded, though they never fully did. He always cared so much about appearances, how he needed to look pristine and confident to keep morales high.
But he didn’t care about that with you. With you, he cared about wit and vulnerability, despite the two having always fallen on opposite doorsteps in his persona. So he’d take off his uniform, leaving him in a simple white undershirt and the slightly baggy black pants he wore underneath. It was the biggest form of physical vulnerability he’d allowed himself in years, and you never overstepped. You’d ignore the bruises and scars littering his arms and faintly poking out from the collar of his undershirt.
But veiled ignorance could only last so long, and your own care for the man overtook any sense of social conventions.
“Wilbur,” you looked at him abruptly. You’d been sharing a bottle of wine like you often ended up doing these nights that neither of you could sleep. With each sip, you feel your mind grow anxious at what you’d noticed. Right when he’d taken this uniform shirt off, you quickly noticed the slash in his bicep, crusted with blood and dirt. And while you planned to ignore it like usual, usually he’d at least have cleaned the wound before, and you couldn’t ignore how clearly unattended this wound was. “Did you visit the medic after today’s battle?”
Wilbur snorted into his glass of wine as he took another sip, “No. No, I did not.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he started simply, “they had far more pressing matters.”
You didn’t see the battles. You’d be on the sidelines, with prepared speeches for Wilbur to give in case of any major developments. You always had to be ready, but it came at the consequence of never knowing what truly happened on the battlefield. Wilbur never liked to recount it either, only sharing essential information to save you from hearing about the ways your people were injured.
But tonight, you wanted to know. His safety was something that concerned you, and if it was so bad that he would threaten his safety, you needed to know. “What was it like today?” You asked quietly, standing as you spoke.
He watched you as you flitted around the room, pacing the floorboards languidly. “I told you. We lost, but we were able to leave a-“
“No, I know what you told me. ‘The battle was lost, but there were effects put into motion that will be able to help us in the long run.’ I know that. I meant- the- the other stuff, those ‘more pressing matters’ that the nurses had. Stuff like that.” You couldn’t bring yourself to say the word ‘casualties’ so casually, as if it was not one of your neighbor’s lives your were pushing into a single word.
He frowned, “I don’t- I really don’t think-“
“Tell me, Wilbur. I need to know.”
Wilbur sighed slowly, nodding, “Everyone was injured. Some of us less so than others. It… it was Eret. Eret betrayed us, so they knew where we were, they knew we’d be unprepared. It’s better that it’s now, so early in the war, that the traitor is gone now, but… it was at a heavy expense. All of my friends, the ones I dragged into this, they- some of them are still there, in the infirmary. Tubbo nearly died. He-“ Wilbur took in a breath, shuddering, “They said he’ll be okay, but if he was hit any higher, they would’ve punctured his rib, and we would’ve lost him. And- I- We almost lost my brother. Tommy, he-“ there were tears in Wilbur’s eyes as he recounted it, “he took a knife straight to the shoulder. For me. He pushed me out of the way. And it was so close, if he’d been a second earlier, it would’ve gone through his heart.” Wilbur was crying now. It was the first time you’d seen him this vulnerable, this affected by what he’d seen. The horrors that plagued his vision every time he’d close his eyes, yet he closes his eyes now, as he speaks, as if he would find some epiphany lying behind them and not the images of his brother and his brother’s best friend clinging to life.
“I- I couldn’t visit the medic after that. For this?” He gestured to the slash on his arm, “It felt unworthy of their attention when so many had nearly lost it all.”
He was still crying, his eyes pressed tightly together as if doing so would click some button to erase the memories of what he’d seen on the battlefield. You moved forward, pressing his head into your stomach and wrapping your arms around him gently. He cried against you, soft and shuddering as if his body was still afraid to acknowledge or speak about what he’d seen.
“I- I watched someone die. Someone on our side, I-“ he sobbed softly, “I held him as his breathing faded. His last words, he-“ Wilbur buried his face further against you, “He told me ‘Wilbur, make it worth it. If this is it for me, do not let it be in vain. Free our country and win.’” Wilbur panted quietly as he let the final words of a fellow solider fade into the quiet of the night. “I just- I can’t let him down. I let a man die for my cause. His blood is on my hands. And Y/N… it doesn’t look good right now. I know I said Eret’s betrayal is good for the future since the traitor is gone, but I- I don’t know what he knows. He could guide them back here tomorrow and slaughter us all in our sleep. So I- I don’t know what to do. I can’t let our people down, they- they didn’t ask for this. I keep- I keep wondering if I just should’ve kept quiet. If we could’ve been happy just living under SMP’s rule.” His admission did not escape him easily, echos of gasping sobs filling the room as he clung onto the fabric of your shirt. Neither of you spoke at first, letting his tears slow to a near stop in order to help him preserve the fragility of his mind.
“Wilbur,” you spoke softly once you felt the moment was right, “No one was happy before. You cannot fault yourself for giving us a chance. I know you feel responsible for the bloodshed, and I know how it makes you feel like you’re clinging onto some shadow of death that follows you. But if you were the only one who wanted freedom for our country, there would be no rebellion. You’d just be another man standing on the end of a street, searching for someone to listen to you. We support this cause because we not only believe in the importance of our freedom, but because we believe in you, Wilbur. We cannot have our leader be made a martyr because where would that leave us? This cause would fall apart without you. And I know you are afraid, but we are all afraid. You are allowed to be afraid of uncertainty. Your people are putting their lives on the line’s because the believe the end, even their ends, will justify the means. You cannot consider falling back onto your fears now. I’m so sorry for what you saw. I know how horrifying it must’ve been. But that man let you hold him as he died, you brought him comfort in those final moments because you promised a better future for his family, his people. You have inspired people, Wilbur. You inspired me. You took a single thought, an idea, and you turned it into something real, something tangible, a cause that we not only believe in, but one that we fight for, and we will continue to fight for.” You let out a soft sigh, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the crown of his head, “Wilbur, I know you feel like the world is crumbling around you because of how scary everything is right now. But you are not alone. If your world is crumbling, it is crumbling for me too?” you sighed once more, “this is all just a long winded way for me to ask, Wilbur, please, will you let me patch your wound?”
He didn’t reply to any specific part of your response, just giving a curt nod and lowering his arms. You both knew that you didn’t just mean the wound on his arm, but that you were attempting to reach out and help him patch the rifts in his mind.
You grabbed the spare first aid kit, returning to your place in front of him as you set down the kit.
“It’s really not that bad,” he sighed, and you rolled your eyes.
“Wilbur, I have always trusted your judgement for everything, but I think we have finally found the exception,” you chuckled softly, gently taking his arm in your hands to inspect the wound. It definitely wasn’t a pretty sight, but it could certainly be worse.
“Really? This marks the exception? Not the hundreds of times I’ve asked you if something sounds right or if people would agree with something I’ve said?”
You nodded, taking a cotton ball and soaking it in alcohol, “Yep, this is it. Uncertainty is not having bad judgement, it’s just the acknowledgement that you can’t do things alone. Which is true, none of us can.” You smiled lightly, pressing the cotton to his arm to clean the wound.
He hissed softly in pain as you cleaned the wound, speaking only once you’d finished, “I can’t,” he spoke quietly. “I can’t do things alone. I’m very grateful to have you.”
You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as you reached for a salve to spread onto his wound. “I’m grateful as well. You keep me stable with all this craziness going on.”
He watched as you opened the salve, getting a generous amount onto your fingers to lightly spread over the slash, “I can say the same. I would’ve fallen into disarray by now without you.”
Your flush darkened, and you started to wrap his arm quietly. You didn’t speak until you’d finished wrapping his arm completely.
“There,” you spoke softly, tying off the bandage, “Now, you won’t get an infection and fall ill. Goodness knows we don’t have the medicine for preventable illness anyways,” you chuckled, trying to make light of things.
Wilbur smiled as well, but he seemed a bit further in thought. You grabbed the kit once more and went to return it to its place, but Wilbur’s hand wrapped lightly around your wrist and kept you from turning.
“Wilbur?” you asked softly.
“I-” he had a flush on his cheek, and there was a beat of waiting before he finally looked up at you. He had a look filled with adoration and appreciation. But there was something else in his gaze, something softer. More warm. Something you would come to know as love.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked softly, his thumb lightly caressing where it rested on your wrist.
You had to refrain from gaping at him as you processed his question. You had always found the rebel attractive, but you’d never considered the legitimacy of pursuing a relationship with a man who seemed far out of your league. With bated breath you nodded, and he leaned up to pull you into him.
The kiss felt far more gentle than it should have. For all the desperation and wanting that lived within it, the kiss was soft and slow, familiarizing one another with each crack in our lips. It didn’t develop further, there was no rapid increasing of intensity, the kiss remained as gentle as the glow from the candles around the room until you pulled away slowly.
You both stared at one another for a long moment, attempting to memorize each freckle and blemish that adored war-torn faces. He was the one to speak up first.
“Y/N? Would you stay with me? Just for tonight?”
You nodded your agreement, and you both shared a mutual understanding in the lie he allowed spill from his lips.
As the war continued, you found yourself making a permanent residence in Wilbur’s bed and home. The war was taking longer than anyone expected, a double-edged sword in the how our troops still lived, yet so did Greater SMP’s. Morale was low for everyone, but you kept your spirits high in fire-warmed rooms in Wilbur’s arms.
“Do you think our people need something to boost their spirits?” He’d asked one day, your head resting on his chest and a hand loosely playing with your hair.
“Hm,” you thought, looking up at him, “I think it would be good, yeah. What are you thinking? A festival?”
He hummed, and as you inspected his face, you noticed the nerves lining his expression. It wasn’t an uncommon sight these days, his worries about the war leeching into every moment of the day. But usually, the anxiousness was far more faded by this time of night, even if it never fully left his gaze.
“Not a festival,” he spoke, shifting and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small black box, speaking softer, “I was thinking a wedding.”
You sat up, gasping softly, “Will-”
“I was going to wait until after the war,” he spoke, sitting up across from you. “But I’m terrified that I won’t get to. I’d rather die knowing you were mine than knowing I never got to at least ask you.”
“Wilbur,” you grabbed onto both of his cheeks, pulling him into a deep and loving kiss. You understood where his fears came from, and you would be lying if you didn’t admit that you shared in the same sentiment. Every day that the troops returned, your heart waited to beat in fear until you saw his face. You didn’t want to wait either.
You pulled away, wrapping arms tightly around his neck as you rested your forehead against his.
“Is that a yes, then?” He asked, a grin ghosting over his lips.
You laughed, holding onto him tighter, “Yes, Wilbur, absolutely.”
He laughed as well, his arms coming to wrap tightly around you. He kissed the side of your head as he spoke, “We- it probably won’t get to be a big wedding because we’re so low on resources, but if you want something big, we can absolutely have a second ceremony after, and-”
“Wilbur, our wedding could be in a mud field in our pajamas with a chicken, and I would still be satisfied. All that matters to me is being able to call you mine forever.”
He gave you a grin like you hung the stars in the sky before pulling you in for a loving kiss and putting a small ring onto your finger.
The wedding planning went over quickly. You weren’t planning anything fancy whatsoever, but it still needed to be enough of an event for your people to have time to relax. Everyone wanted to help out as well. Once you woke up the next morning after Wilbur’s proposal, it seemed as if the whole country knew already, with people coming to congratulate you and Wilbur as you both walked through town. Just the sense of community in everyone’s offering to help out with the wedding seemed to brighten everyone throughout the country.
You and Wilbur actually had two ceremonies. The first one was for the two of you and your families, a small dinner and ceremony to allow you to have an intimate and private wedding. It was gorgeous, and so incredibly worth it. The second one was the ceremony for the people. It wasn’t a lavish affair, though your wedding attire was some of the most beautiful things either of you had seen in months. It was a subdued wedding, but it was making the most out of what you had. Lots of fresh cut flowers from the countryside, Niki baked a cake, and a real, full meal made for everyone.
You felt tense in your fancy wedding outfit. Even if it wasn’t the height of luxury, it felt more stiff than anything else you’d worn in months. But there was a point to all of it. It was an event, something for people to care about. Something to get on their minds instead of residual fear about the next battle. You were glad for private affair you’d been able to have the night before, because this felt more like playing the role of the Leader’s Partner rather than actually being his partner.
“Hey,” you heard softly from behind you, turning as you watched Wilbur sneak in. He paused when he saw you, staring in awe. “You look so lovely,” he smiled, walking over to you and taking your hands in his.
“I could say the same about you,” you smiled, pulling him forward for a short kiss. “You ready to get betrothed a second time?”
He laughed, holding you a bit closer, “I am. I’d marry you every day if I could.”
You smiled shyly up at him, moving to wrap your arms around him and hug him tightly, “I love you so much.”
He kissed the top of your head, smiling, “I love you too, darling.”
You sighed and relaxed into the hug, letting your eyes slip shut. You moved your hands down to his sides, frowning when you felt a small box in his pocket.
“Wilbur,” you started, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the small box of cigarettes, “What are you doing with these?”
He frowned, a shameful look on his face, “I haven’t smoked any, don’t worry. I’m just- I’m anxious, so I got them in case.”
You nodded, biting your lip with a frown, “If you’re anxious, you know you can come to me.”
“I know, I know, I just-” he sighed, “I’m anxious about you, is the thing.”
You frowned, setting the cigarettes down on the table behind you, “What do you mean?”
He sighed, sitting down on a small stool across from you, “I’m nervous that when word travels about the marriage, they’ll look down on the legitimacy of our country. I think it’s good, I think they’ll think we’re less concerned than we really are, however… I’m worried I’m placing a target on your back.”
You nodded softly, “Wilbur, I’ve had a target on my back since I chose to stand with our country,” you moved forward, giving him a gentle kiss, “I understand the concern, and I know the risks. But I’m not letting those risks outweigh the joy of being married to you. If they go for me, I can handle it. I know I’m not much of a fighter, but I can hold my own. Plus, they won’t kill me. If I’m valuable to you, they wouldn’t dare.”
He took your hand in his again, squeezing it gently, “thank you, darling,” he sighed, holding you close. “I won’t let them take you anyways. You’re too precious to me.”
You chuckled softly, lightly pressing your forehead against his. “Let’s go get married, then. The best fuck you we can give them is our love.”
He grinned and chuckled, nodding softly, “Let’s go get married.”
The wedding was a bright affair. The actual marriage part was quick and sweet, vows that you had both prepared together, nothing as genuine as the words spoken the night before. It was sweet regardless, promises of loving each other in the darkest of times that rang true in an audience of war-stricken dreamers. The best part of the wedding was the reception. Everyone was up, dancing and singing along to the music being shared, and the entire tarp over the field was covered in the most beautiful lights and flowers. You had a proper first dance with Wilbur before the dancing became more lively. You spent most of the night sitting with Wilbur and watching your people dance and laugh and drink.
“It’s gorgeous, don’t you think?” You smiled, looking over at him.
He nodded, “It is. I’m glad to see everyone smiling and happy.”
“And drunk.”
He laughed, leaning his head on your shoulder, “Yeah, that too.”
You smiled, holding his hand quietly. You stared at the ring on your finger. It was simple, but it was absolutely gorgeous. A simple gold band with a small chiselled diamond in the centre. The diamond was crafted from a piece that had chipped off of Wilbur’s sword when he taught you the basics of parrying hits. The engagement ring lay below it, a thinner silver ring with a small emerald that you recognized as coming from one of Wilbur’s ventures to a further village. The rings weren’t lavish, but you preferred them more like this. They were far more meaningful like this. Symbols of your love both in their meaning and their crafting.
“Can I ask you something?” You asked him softly.
“Of course, darling.”
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “In our vows, we both mentioned honesty, so I want you to be honest with me right now. I know this isn’t the place to ask, but… what do you think our chances of winning are?”
He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb caressing the back of your hand, “I don’t think it matters how big or small our chances are. I think what matters is that we have a chance. If we didn’t, we would’ve failed a long time ago.”
You nodded softly, “You see it, though? The future where we win?”
He looked over at you, a wide smile on his face, “I see it as clearly as I see you now. I see our fields free from the blood they currently harbor. Instead, they’re filled with flowers that grew up from the bloodshed. Crimson turned crimson. The kids run around, free of fear of an incoming bomb. My brother runs with them, and he no longer acts so grown up; he’s allowed to be a kid again. I see a memorial for those we lost, for all that was sacrificed. I see our citizens in parades, every year for our independence, they sing and dance, just like this. It’s like… the war is the night, the cold and harsh conditions that brutalize us and break us down into nothing more than human. But independence? It’s warm. It’s laying in the sun in a field with you. It’s our flag waving high on a summer day. It’s the laughter of children, it’s the joy of the future. It’s us. Our future. A memory garden adorned with flowers and the knowledge that we will never return to the Great War because we not only survived, but we persisted.”
“It’s daylight,” you smiled, and he gave you a grin so bright it felt like basking in it.
“It’s daylight.”
The weeks after the wedding remained lively for the most part. The morale boost helped the troops improve, and the battles didn’t seem as tough. There was an underlying fear that the SMP troops were holding back for some reason, but for the most part, everything seemed to be going good.
Until one morning.
Winter had begun, and with it, hardships improved. Illness was rampant, and while no one had fallen fatally ill yet, everyone was afraid.
Wilbur didn’t expect you to be next on the list of ill.
He was in the living room when you woke up that day. You stood slowly, but as you stood, you were hit with a wave of nausea and vertigo. You nearly collapsed before making it to the trash to throw up the contents of your empty stomach. You leaned over the trash and within moments, Wilbur was at your side, keeping your hair out of your face and rubbing your back.
“Darling? Are you alright?”
You coughed weakly, spitting into the trash, “Do I seem okay, Wilbur?” You huffed, before sighing. “Sorry, I just- I hate throwing up.”
He nodded softly, “It’s alright, I get it, here,” he carefully helped you up back into bed before rushing to grab some water. He handed you the glass, and you drank it quickly, sighing softly.
“Did something happen?” He asked, moving to your side to wrap an arm around you.
“No, I just stood up and- yeah,” you sighed, leaning your head against him, “You shouldn’t be close, I may be sick.”
He frowned, kissing the top of your head, “I’ll be alright. I’m going to call for the doctor, okay?”
You nodded softly, and he was rushing to get the doctor within seconds. They came back a few minutes later, and the doctor was quick to check over you.
“Your temperature is a bit high,” they hummed, “But other than that and the throwing up, I’m not seeing any other major symptoms. It could be stress. I would take it easy for the next few days, see if it improves. If nothing’s changed in a week, we can check for more, alright?”
You nodded softly, sighing quietly. Wilbur grabbed your hand gently before walking the doctor out, sharing hushed words.
When he returned, he got back into bed next to you, “They don’t think it’s anything serious. They said it’s likely just a mild fever, not like the flu going around out there.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder, “I’ll be alright.”
“You will be,” he nodded, kissing the top of your head. “I can’t stay to watch you too much this week, but I can get Niki, if you want.”
“Wilbur, I don’t think I need to be watched,” you chuckled.
“I know you don’t need it,” he hummed, “but I want someone to be here with you. I don’t want you to collapse and have no one be here for you.”
You sighed softly, nodding, “Okay. If you don’t need her for anything this week, then I don’t mind. I like spending time with Niki.”
He smiled, squeezing your hand gently, “Alright. I’ll let her know.”
The same thing happened throughout the week. Wilbur would help you in the morning when the nausea hit, and then Niki would swap out with him when he had to go help out his people. The nausea usually lasted the whole day, but the vertigo and lightheadedness only seemed to last in the morning. You managed to eat small meals, and with Niki’s baking, she brought you a lot of small snacks.
It was one of these days that you had a theory. The final day of the week, there was a major battle, so Niki would spend the whole day with you while Wilbur went out to fight. It was nerve wracking knowing that he would be out there and you were stuck in your bedroom, but you figured it wasn’t that much different from the other days, you supposed.
“Niki,” you spoke up from your place on the bed. She was sat across from you, working on a small knitting project. The troops had just head out for the battle.
“Yeah, Y/N?” she asked, looking up at you.
“Did a doctor stay behind? Or did all of them head out?”
She thought for a moment, “There’s two here with us. One for the ill, and one preparing things for when the others return.”
You nodded, staying quiet for a moment, “Could you call one of them here for a moment?”
She frowned, concern lacing her brow, “Yeah, of course, but, why? Are you not feeling well again?”
“It’s not that,” you bit your lip quietly, looking away for a moment, “Can you keep a secret, Niki?”
She nodded, “Of course.”
You fiddled with your fingers for a moment, trying to think of the best way to phrase your next statement, “I… skipped this month.”
She gave you a look of confusion, before her eyes widened as realization hit, “Oh. Oh! Do you think-?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to get my hopes up yet. And I don’t want to get Wilbur’s hopes up either, just in case. But… I think so.”
She gave you a grin, nodding quickly as she stood, “I’ll go grab one of the doctors, I’ll be right back!”
She rushed out, leaving you alone with your thoughts for a moment. You were nervous about the implications. You wanted to start a family with Wilbur, of course, but neither of you were planning for it to happen yet. You’d agreed to wait until after the war. War is no place to raise a child.
The doctor came in, and she gave you a gentle smile. Niki waited outside as you spoke with the doctor, and you did a quick exam.
“Well,” the doctor gave you a soft smile, “I think your theory may be correct, Y/N.”
“You think?”
“Well, I know. You’re correct. You’re pregnant.”
She had a soft grin on her face as she confirmed your theory, as if it was not news that changed the entire trajectory of your future.
“Thank you, Doctor,” you gave her a soft smile right back, trying to let your worries ease into the back of your mind until Wilbur returned.
“Of course. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. For the next few months, just try to relax. I know it’ll be tough given our circumstances, but you have the support of the entire country holding you up, alright?”
You nodded silently.
“I’ll do another exam in a month to make sure everything is going well, and we can arrange for monthly visits. If you have any questions just let me know, and so other than that, congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you smiled softly, and she left soon after.
Niki returned, a subdued smile on her face, “So?”
You bit your lip and nodded.
She grinned, rushing to your side and taking your hand in hers, “Oh, that’s lovely! Wilbur’s going to be so excited, are you going to tell him tonight?”
“I think so,” you smiled softly, “I imagine it’d be hard to keep it from him.”
It was hard to keep it from him. But not through your own admission, rather because news of the doctor visiting your home traveled quick among those who’d stayed behind. That night, Wilbur rushed in to see you.
“Y/N! Are you okay?” He called out, rushing up to see you and hold you in a tight hug. He looked worse for wear, his hair a ruffled mess and his cheeks stained with dirt.
“Yes, love, I’m alright, why?” You hugged him back tightly, nerves and knowledge filling your chest.
“I- I heard a doctor came in today,” he pulled away to inspect your face, holding your cheeks gently, “Did something happen?”
“No, no,” you smiled softly, “I’m okay, I’m good, actually. We figured everything out, and I’m going to be okay.”
He let out a breath of relief, pressing his forehead to yours gently, “Darling, you scared me.”
“I’m sorry,” you chuckled softly, “How was the fight?”
He tensed, and you frowned.
“It was… it wasn’t good,” he sighed, and your heart dropped, “We ambushed them like we planned, but they were stronger. We didn’t get to take out as many of them as we wanted to before they noticed us, so we were outnumbered.”
You nodded softly, “Were you successful in stealing supplies, though?”
He nodded, and the smile on his face didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Not as much as we wanted to, but enough to make it hurt.”
“That’s good,” you smiled back at him, “Are you injured? Did you see the medic?”
He shook his head, “a few scratches and a burn from a flaming arrow, but it’s not bad. It’s on my shoulder.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, “Go take a bath, and I’ll wrap it. And then, I have something important to talk to you about.”
He tilted his head, “What is it?”
“Nope, not yet. Go clean up first,” you chuckled softly, “That takes priority.”
He rolled his eyes, grin falling on his face easily, “Alright, alright. I’ll be right back.”
You nodded and watched as he went to go clean up. You could have told him then, but it was more for your sake than his that you wanted to wait. You had to get your mind together first, especially now knowing he was okay.
He returned not long after, face and hands scrubbed clean of dirt and soot. He was wearing a white tank top with his sleep pants, and he had the med kit in his hand as he sat down next to you.
You hissed softly as you saw the burn, gently taking his arm in your hand, “Wilbur, this is worse than you described.”
He waved it off, sighing, “It just got irritated from the water. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
You gave him a look of disbelief as you stared at the burn. It was bright red and angry, skin slightly charred and bubbled. There was a slight cut in the middle of it from where the arrow must’ve passed through. You sighed sofly, grabbing the disinfectant.
“Hold onto my arm, this is going to sting,” you told him softly, and he did as you said. Once you passed the disinfectant over the burn, he hissed in pain, squeezing your shoulder. You continued cleaning the wound until it was satisfactory, You grabbed the burn cream and delicately spread it over the wound, and slowly, his pained noises lessened.
“I’m not going to wrap it just yet, it needs to breathe for a while, okay?”
He nodded, sighing and pulling his hand away, “Will I be able to cover it tomorrow?”
You frowned, “You shouldn’t. But I know you will, so I’ll wrap it tomorrow.”
He nodded again, grabbing the med kit and returning it to its space in your bathroom.
“So,” he said, sitting down in front of you, “You said you have something important to share?”
“Yeah, so,” you sighed softly, taking his hand gently, “It’s about the doctor visit. I had the doctor come over today because I wanted to talk to her about us starting a family.”
He nodded, eyebrows furrowing slightly, “Okay. I thought we were planning to wait, though?”
You nodded, “I know, but… would you… be upset if we didn’t?”
He chuckled, “Not at all, darling,” he smiled, “it wouldn’t be ideal, but that’s more due to my own selfishness. I want to be here for every second of it, and I don’t know if I can right now. But I wouldn’t be upset about it. Do you… want to?”
You bit your lip, taking his hand and placing it over your stomach. “Wilbur,” you looked up at him, “I don’t know if we have much of a choice anymore.”
He gave you a concerned look, frowning, “Why not? Did- did something happen? If you’re not able to, we could always look into adoption, or-”
“No, Will,” you chuckled softly, shaking your head, “It’s not like that. It’s, uh, it’s the opposite, actually.” You gave him a soft grin.
He looked confused for a moment longer before a wide grin crossed his face, “Wait. Do you- do you mean?”
You nodded, “Yeah. I had a theory with all the sickness in the morning. So, I talked to the doctor, and… I think our family will be coming a lot sooner than we’d planned for.”
He grinned, tears springing to his eyes, “You’re serious? You’re-”
“Pregnant. Yeah.” You were grinning as well, and finally getting to tell him felt like the first breath of air after diving into the deep end.
“Oh, darling,” he spoke, pulling you into a tight hug, “Oh, I- we’re going to have a kid.”
You nodded, chuckling through the tears of joy that hit your cheeks. “Yeah, we’re going to have a kid.”
He grinned, holding you tightly, “Fundy’s going to have a sibling! Darling, this is amazing. I know we wanted to wait, but I don’t care. I have so much more to fight for now. So much more to come home for.”
You kissed him, holding onto him like a lifeline, “The war’s not done. But this. This is why we fight. As long as you’re home at the end of the day, that’s all that matters to me.”
He grinned at you, “I love you so much. I am so lucky to have you. We’re so lucky, even if it’s just being alive right now. This is all we need.”
You smiled lovingly at him, “We are so fucking lucky. And I am so excited for this. They’re blessed to have you as their father.”
“They’re blessed to have you as well,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
That night, neither of you went to sleep concerned over a failed fight. Instead, you dreamt of the bright future you’d be bringing your child into.
Family and close friends were the first to know. You told them two days later, during an impromptu family meeting that Wilbur had called. Everyone was incredibly elated, though Tommy’s excitement probably took the cake, as he was practically screaming his congratulations.
The rest of country learned fairly soon after. About a month later, even though you’d only slightly began showing and could certain continue to hide it for a while, neither of you wanted to. It was a joy to share with the country, and the celebration that followed was bright and lively, a night-long glimpse into a wonderful future.
It wasn’t always easy, though. Wilbur hated how he couldn’t stay by your side, taking care of your every need. You hated how lonely some nights were, when the battles lasted longer than usual or they had to prepare for a midnight ambush. The worst part of those nights was the fear, overwhelming and keeping you stationary in Wilbur’s office or your bedroom. Not knowing if your husband would return hurt more than anything else in the world.
You were six months in when he came home exhausted in early morning light. He didn’t speak to you at first, giving you a kiss before going to wash up. You waited anxiously for him to return, and when he did, he returned shirtless with a med kit in hand. He sat down in front of you with a sigh, turning around so you could see the large gash running down his shoulder.
“Wilbur,” you gasped softly, “this is really long.”
“It’s not that deep. Didn’t even realize it was there until I went to wash up.” He sighed.
You frowned, starting to patch him up quickly.
He spoke to distract himself, “Do you think we’re going to have a girl or a boy?”
You shrugged softly, “I’m not sure. They could be nonbinary as well.”
“True,” he hummed, “if they do come out as nonbinary, we’ll let them choose their own name. But we do still need to choose a name.”
“That’s true,” you hummed, carefully disinfecting his wound, “We should prepare for both.”
“I agree,” he responded, though his words came out through a clenched jaw.
“So what are you thinking, then?”
“Hm, I’m not sure about for a boy. But I do have a name picked out for a girl.”
“Oh, yeah?” you smiled, starting to carefully apply the salve to the wound, “What is it?”
“Tallulah,” he smiled softly, “What do you think?”
“That’s gorgeous. I love it.” You set the rest of the salve down, picking up the bandages.
“I’ve always loved it. I’m really glad you like it as well.”
You directed him to hold his arm up so you could wrap his wound, “It’s beautiful. What about a boy?”
He hummed, “I’m not sure.”
“We could always do Wilbur Jr.”
He snorted, shaking his head, “God, no. I’d sooner name them after Tommy.”
You laughed, shaking your head, “I mean, Thomas would be a good middle name.”
“It would, actually,” he smiled softly. “For a boy, though… Julius could be nice. Or maybe Cornelius.”
You hummed, “Those have a good ring to it. Julius Thomas Soot. Cornelius Thomas Soot.”
“They do. We can think more about it, I suppose. We have time.”
“We do have time,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to the top of his shoulder as you finished the bandage.
He turned, wrapping his arms around you and laying his head on your chest, pressing a kiss to the baby bump. You moved a hand to gently play with his hair.
“It was bad today?” You asked softly.
He sighed, “Bad would be an understatement.”
You nodded softly, kissing the top of his head.
“Do you think we’re bad people? For bringing a kid into this?” He asked softly.
You frowned, “No. I don’t.”
He nodded, holding you a bit tighter. After a moment, he spoke softly, “I’m really scared for them.”
You brushed through his hair with your hand, “Why?”
“I’m going to be honest, it… it doesn’t look good right now. They keep getting stronger and smarter, and I don’t know how to fight them. I’m scared we’re bringing our child into a failing country, and I’m scared I can’t protect you or them if worse comes to worse.”
“I understand. I’m scared too. But, love… we can’t really do anything now. We just have to try to give this child the best life we can, no matter the circumstances. Even if they’re the worst case scenario.”
He sighed, nodding, “I know. I just… I feel like I fucked up with Fundy. I was too young at the time, and I don’t want to make the same mistakes. And if I’m focused on fighting a war, I won’t be able to be there for them, the same way I wasn’t there for Fundy. I’m scared of being a bad father again.”
“I don’t think you will be,” you spoke softly, “and you’re not alone this time. You have me. They won’t be alone if you’re not there. I’ll be here.”
He nodded softly, looking up at you, “Thank you. I’m sorry, I’m just…” He trailed off.
“I get it. I’m scared too. I’ve never done this before. I have no clue what I’m doing. Not to mention I’m terrified of giving birth. But I’m scared of making mistakes because I didn’t know until I met you if I would ever have a kid. I’m glad I am, don’t get me wrong, but I never expected to be ready for something like this. Honestly, I still don’t know if I’m ready. I’m terrified, Wilbur. But I have you. I’m not alone.”
He smiled, leaning up to kiss you gently, “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, darling,” you spoke softly, kissing him back gently, “Let’s get some rest, now, okay?”
“Okay,” he nodded softly. With how exhausted he was, it didn’t take long before he fell asleep, leaving you alone with thoughts of uncertainty until sleep took over.
As you entered the last month of the pregnancy, things were starting to look up.
Kind of.
While the recent battles had been lost, Wilbur had a plan.
“Darling, I think I’ve figured it out,” he grinned, standing from his desk and walking to the couch you sat on.
“What is it?” You smiled, looking up at him.
“I’ve figured out how we win. Tubbo’s been spying for us, as you know, and he brought me this document yesterday, and I couldn’t see the significance! I was being an idiot, but I knew it didn’t make sense for them to have an entire document detailing how they make their uniforms.” He grinned, and you tilted your head.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a cypher. Darling, it was a code! And I- I figured it out. I know their plans.” He had a manic look in his eye, and you couldn’t help but perk up at the excitement in his tone.
“Love, have you slept?”
“Barely, I couldn’t sleep much because I kept thinking about this stupid fucking document. But darling, we know everything now. We know exactly where they’re going to be and when. We can win, we- we can do this.”
You grinned, but the anxiety still filled your chest at the idea, “You’re sure about this?”
“I- I mean, I think. I figured out the code, and it all makes sense.”
You bit your lip. You didn’t want to think of the most likely possibility. That they knew. That this was a fake document.
“Darling, I thought you’d be more excited,” he frowned, catching onto your anxiety.
“No, no, I am, just… Wilbur, what if they did it on purpose? What if they let him get a document planted just to feed you incorrect information?”
He nodded, thinking quietly. “I trust in it. And I think it may be a risk we have to take.”
You gaped at him, “Wilbur, you could be marching our troops directly into a trap.”
“I know, I know, but,” he sighed, “I have a good feeling about this, I promise. Honestly, I don’t think we have any other choice. Without this, we have nothing.”
You nodded softly, “... you trust it? That- that this isn’t a plant?”
“Yes.”
“And how certain are you?”
He bit his lip, “Mostly certain. It’s the best chance we’ll have, and we have to move fast, their plans start tomorrow.”
You nodded, pulling him in for a tight hug, “Okay. If-if you’re sure. I trust you.”
He hugged you back tightly, and you tried not to think about the fact that he hugged you like it may be the last time, “I love you so much, darling. Don’t worry, okay? This time tomorrow, we’ll be free people.”
You nodded, closing your eyes to focus on the feeling of his arms around you, “I love you too.” You pulled him in for a loving kiss, sighing softly.
“Go rally your troops.”
Wilbur did just that. He left shortly and brought the plan to all the generals, all the soldiers, everyone he could. He was buzzing with excitement when he returned that night, holding you close as he lied with you in bed, one hand gently resting over your belly.
“We’re leaving before the sun is up,” he told you softly.
“Will you be back when I wake up?”
He shook his head, “No. But we’ll be back for dinner for sure.”
You smiled softly, holding him closer, “We’ll have a celebratory dinner. Extra special.”
“Oh?” He chuckled, “Extra special?”
“Absolutely. Because we won’t just be celebrating the win. We’ll be celebrating your new role as President.”
He flushed softly, “You think?”
You nodded, “I’ve heard the people speak. They trust you, Wilbur. And I know you’ll make a great president. You’ll create a great place for our child to grow up in.”
“Thank you,” he smiled softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your belly, then your cheek.
“Plus,” you hummed, “President Soot does have a good ring to it.”
He smirked, blushing once more, “Oh? You think so?”
“I know so, Mr. President,” you grinned as he leaned up, lips hovering above yours.
“That does sound nice. Though I may be biased,” he pecked your lips gently, a smirk still ghosting on his lips.
“How so?”
“Well, I think any words that escape your lips are just as gorgeous as the lips they escape from,” he spoke softly, pulling you into a languid and loving kiss. You kissed him back just as passionately, letting the intensity quell your fears about his return tomorrow.
Wilbur was gone when you woke up the next morning, which you expected. What you didn’t expect was for lunchtime to have been such a bleak affair. You expected much more liveliness from your people, especially given how much Wilbur believed in the plan. But the streets were quiet. There were only hushed words as you walked through town to find a meal, and it seemed as if many people were directing those hushed words towards you.
“Did something happen?” You asked the merchant after you finished your meal.
She gave you a frown, a tense look appearing on her brow, “You haven’t heard?”
You felt your heart sinking as you shook your head.
She sighed, looking down for a moment before looking back up at you, “I’m sorry, uh…” she took a deep breath before speaking, “one of the generals was supposed to come back to check in at noon. They haven’t returned.”
Your eyes widened slightly, but you nodded quietly, “Well, that- that doesn’t mean anything specific yet. Have we heard anything at all from the battlefield?”
She shook her head solemnly, and you nodded once more.
“Alright, well, ah, thank- thank you,” you stuttered out, before rushing away to find the basecamp quarters. You started feeling a pain as you walked, but you didn’t allow yourself to focus on it as you ripped open the tarp to the camp, finding the entire place… empty. It felt like a ghosttown.
You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat, rushing back home. The pain continued as you walked, and your legs shook stubbornly as you trekked home. You couldn’t tell if the pain was even real, or if it was a side effect of the desperation and doom that filled your heart. As you reached your home, you collapsed against the front door, holding onto the door frame as a groan of pain escaped you. Before you knew it, the ground was rushing up to meet you.
When you woke, you weren’t on the ground. You found yourself in an uncomfortable cot, pain wracking through your body as you failed to sit up.
“Hey, take it easy, it’s okay, you’re okay,” the doctor spoke, coming to help you sit up. You were sweating, and she carefully placed a cold wet cloth to the top of your forehead.
“What’s- what’s going on? Where’s Wilbur?” You stifled a groan as you spoke.
“He’s not back yet, none of the troops are. And you’re okay, you passed out when your water broke. You’re going into labor.”
“Fuck,” you hissed out, panting softly. You noticed now the dressing gown you wore, your original clothes laying folded in a pile in the corner.
“Take some deep breaths for me, you’re doing great, okay?” She instructed, and you nodded, taking a moment to just focus on your breathing.
“What- what time is it?” You asked in between breaths.
“It’s about to be seven.” She told you, turning as she sorted through medical supplies.
Wilbur should’ve been back by now. You didn’t know if you could do this without him.
“Your contractions are coming in about every five minutes, and they’re lasting about a minute. You’re not quite there yet, so you have time, alright?”
You bit your lip and nodded, placing a hand over your belly as you prayed to any god that would listen that your husband would be returning to you in one piece, in time for him to meet his child. You’d never felt so alone at such a worse time. You had no midwife, no friends, no husband, just your doctor to guide you through this.
It was another hour before it was time. You didn’t want it to be, you wanted Wilbur.
“You’re dilated,” the doctor informed you, grim as you shared a thought on the lack of troops returning, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to start pushing.”
You shook your head, “No, I- I need to wait, please.”
“I’m sorry, I know.” She took your hand in hers, “We still have time, but you need to start.”
As much as you wanted to argue, you knew you couldn’t.
The sound of you yelling in pain during the next contraction was masked with another sound.
Yelling, first.
Then, the singing.
And finally, cheering.
It was only a minute later when heard the sound grow, of your people, cheering and singing in the streets outside. It was two minutes later when a medic rushed in, a smile on their face.
“They’re back!” They announced, before rushing to tell whoever they could.
You fought through another contraction as your heart lifted, panic filling you.
“Wilbur,” you spoke weakly, “Wilbur, please, please, find- find Wilbur.”
The doctor looked at you in concern, biting her lip for a moment.
“Okay. Okay, yes, hold on, let me- I’ll go try to find him, just hold on.”
You nodded rapidly as the doctor rushed out, going to find Wilbur. You gripped the sides of the cot as you groaned in pain, trying desperately to focus on your breathing.
When she returned, she was alone, “I-I couldn’t find him, but they’re saying he’s alive, don’t worry, okay?”
You let out a breath of relief, head falling back for a moment as you relaxed just as much as you could. She guided you through a few more contractions before you heard the most beautiful sound.
“Darling?!” You heard Wilbur yell, and you heard his voice get closer with each word, “Excuse me, please, hold on, Y/N!” He ripped open the door, gasping in relief once he saw you.
“Darling, oh my god,” he rushed in, coming in quickly to hold your hand tightly and place his other hand on your cheek. You leaned into his touch as he turned to the doctor, “How far along are they?”
“Breached,” the doctor informed, “Should be any minute now.”
He nodded, and you looked at him, “Will, I was so- fuck- I was so worried.”
He cooed, brushing your hair back, “It’s okay, I’m alright, I’m here now. Darling,” he grinned, eyes filled with tears as you squeezed his hand and groaned in pain.
“Darling,” he spoke again once the moment had passed, “We- we did it. We won. We’re free.”
You gasped, pulling him into you, “Oh, my god,” you couldn’t fight the tears that fell from your cheeks, “We won?”
He nodded quickly, kissing the top of your head, “We won.”
You let out a sob of relief and joy, but it was quickly masked by another yell of pain.
“You’ve got this, darling, I’m here, we’re free, you can do this,” he told you, holding you close.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor spoke softly. Wilbur was with you on the cot now, and you both were exhausted for different reasons, but both with joyous outcomes. She brought your daughter over to you, the newborn swaddled carefully.
You gasped quietly when you saw her, taking her gently in your arms as you leaned against Wilbur. You looked up at him, tears in both of your eyes. He kissed you gently before looking back down at your daughter.
“Tallulah Soot,” he spoke softly, “Welcome to the free nation of L’Manburg.”
You chuckled, though it was slightly muffled from your tears. “The first citizen to be born under a free rule,” you spoke softly, a finger gently stroking her cheek, “Because we won.”
“We won,” Wilbur parroted, disbelief clouding his voice.
She woke both of you up early with her cries. You held her in your arms as the early morning light poured in slowly, and as you rocked her, Wilbur sat next to you, an arm around your shoulder.
Her cries softened, and as her big eyes stared up at you, you decided to tell her a story.
“Now, Ms. Lulah,” you spoke softly, “You won’t know this for a few years. But you were born during a very special time. Your father was amazing, he commanded a whole army of people.”
Wilbur chuckled softly, kissing your head, “You were born to two amazing people. One a commander, and one his political advisor who won his heart with their wit and brevity behind closed doors.”
You chuckled, smiling warmly, “Yes, even though he was a disorganized wreck when I met him. Every year, Ms. Lulah, there will be a parade on your birthday. Do you know why?”
Wilbur smiled fondly, “I don’t think she does.”
“Well, then I’ll tell her,” you hummed softly. You looked up, staring out in an empty field, filled with beautiful red flowers as the morning light softly reflected on dew drops that slept on grass. “Because, you, Ms. Lulah, were born on the day your father and our people fought to ensure your freedom. More importantly, you were born on the day they won.”
She let out a soft giggle – the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard – and you grinned lovingly, staring out at that field once more, that never again, would harbor the same bloodshed. As the sun poured in, you could see in your mind, her running in that field, picking those red flowers, and never once knowing of the same hardships that allowed crimson blood to pour on your land.
All she would know is the daylight.
#mar writes#wilbur soot x reader#mcyt x reader#lovejoy#dsmp x reader#wilbur x reader#wilbur soot#mcyt x you#wilbur soot x you#wilbur soot fanfiction#mcytumblr#mcyt wilbur#dsmp#dsmp fanfic#lmanbur#lmanbur x reader#lmanburg#our young nation#oyn au
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Oooo look a shiny new artwork that’s actually a digital version of one I made a while ago oooooo
Okay great now that you’re here I’m gonna tell you about all the TRAUMA I gave this little guy. (Uhh TW for death and SH) First of all he’s schizophrenic (hallucinations, delusions, disorganized speech) and has anxietyyyyy. Who’s he apologizing to in that drawing you ask? His boyfriend. Who was shot right in front of him. And died in his arms. ANYWAY! I felt a little silly so I gave him slave coding too! He’ll carry out the orders from anyone of a higher rank.
Also the war started when he was like 5 and the Decepticons aren’t the best to teach you how to deal with emotions so uh yeah he resorted to self harm. Not yay.
Anyway thanks for taking the time out of your day to read about my OC Chainlink.
#so much trauma#whoops#Chainlink#Chainlink my boy I’m so sorry#transformers oc#transformers#tfp#artists on tumblr
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on growing up with "intensive intervention" and abuse as a young autistic trans kid.
(quotes are from neuropsychs and reports, things said to me verbally, my own words/thought processes at different times. tw ABA, dehumanizing clinical language, stim suppression, some transphobia toward the end)
february 6th 2012.
an appealing child
with many areas of precocious development
alongside areas
of definite developmental lag.
diagnostically
meets the following criteria
for a pervasive developmental disorder.
you want more water
pronominal reversal
Alligator alligator alligator
intense and restricted interests.
immediate echolalia.
its too hard to be a girl
too hard to be (deadname)
call me pangoo the penguin
because i'm scared of (deadname).
i like it when it’s cold
i hate it when it’s hot
appears overstimulated by environment
i am never tired
scripted language
i never like to smile when people tell me to
facial expression is usually flat
too soft too tight hurt hurt no touch
extremely opposed to imposed touch
it doesn’t hurt you
it just bothers you
need to control every aspect of environment
but i like it when it’s messy
do you like bedtime? is it bedtime? is it bedtime? bed bed bed
perseverative speech
i’m not good at saying what i mean
severe communication disorder
no is my monster
i only want to point to zoo animals
extremely self directed in play
i don’t want to say that
significant conversational rigidities
(the message is wrong
it’s okay to be sad
but you have to get over it.)
the words stab into the report with grisly black ink
began to behave in a silly manner
primal defense mechanisms
unhealthy involvement with reading
atypical prosody
symbol oriented cognition
disordered phonological processes
appears uninterested in others
needed maximum verbal cues
very spontaneous and overly enthusiastic
and also withdrawn and hyper focused on her own ideas.
my hands fold into my palms in the speech therapist’s office
ripple flutter in a dance with the air
motor stereotypy
often loses focus and becomes squirmy
stilled by a dead end voice
quiet hands
‘physically disorganized’
body messy
they think it’s weird
after all
it’s hard for you to know what other people are thinking
impaired theory of mind
everybody noticed
but they were being polite
and would never have said anything
to you
responds well to a behavioral approach.
may 5, 2018.
acute awareness of needs and vulnerabilities
too old to trick into being compliant
self appointed position as autism champion
i asked her if
when she was little and only read books about alligators
if we should have expected her teachers to respect that.
she said yes
failing of course to consider
that she was in a class with people who had various interests
not obsessions.
insisted that people who are cognitively impaired should not be changed.
having a vagina does not define biological sex????
i am going to have a hard time keeping up with her thought process.
extremely hypersensitive to what is perceived
as non-acceptance or rejection.
i thought you were just one type of weird
but now you have all these different types
i’m so sorry to hear that she
(forgive the pronoun, please)
is miserable right now.
the test was not developed for use
with individuals who are gender non-conforming.
steady growth in mastery of pragmatic language skills
improved social functioning
i am so happy to hear
that she’s acknowledging she needs help
rather than continuing down the path
of “i’m perfect.”
progress intervention treatment success.
barely even autistic.
#actually autistic#actuallyautistic#poetry#writing#traumacore i guess??#aba#developmental disability#trans#autistic#ableism#mushroom.txt
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tw for unreality mentions and vauge descriptions of trauma also general venty stuff
im actually pretty ok mentally i just started typing and kept going ig
i hate not having insight i hate being 100% sure people i love and trust are out to get me
i hate how no matter how many times it turns out to have been an episode i don't know the next time
i hate reality checks i hate how they make my episodes worse i hate how everyone needs to be told like 5 times not to try them before they catch on i hate how that's the default response
i hate that every online space about psychosis seems to be full of people who know when they're delusional
i hate how episodes make my cfc so much worse i hate how they exhaust me i hate it
i hate how the only time im 100% sure im not in an episode is when im in one and im wrong about it
i hate how i don't have any label more specific than "psychosis" or "delusion" or "anxiety" because i only have delusions. i don't have hallucinations or disorganized speech or thoughts or any of the stuff that comes with schizospec disorders. i know having them would make my life a lot worse but i don't like not having labels to easily explain.
i hate how much shit ive been through because no one knew what to do with my episodes i hate how im traumatized and have no one person to blame
i hate how my parents are partly to blame
because i love my parents
they're amazing
Hi anon, I'm sending you good vibes, it sounds like a lot is weighing on you, and I'm glad you got to write it out!
Reality checks can do so much harm and it sucks that random people think it's their duty to reality check people who they should in fact be leaving alone.
And I feel you on the "I only ever know I'm not in an episode when I am in one and balieving it falsely", that level of self-doubt and inability to trust your own understanding of the world is incredibly hard to live with, and my heart goes out to you and others.
I hope you are receiving some kind of help now, that is actually helpful to you, regardless of what the official diagnosis is.
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hell week for my job starts this week so take some good ol enmu headcanons (teacher au)
~brain empty. nothing going on in there half the time
~absolutely loves a good tea. lavender almond green tea is their favorite flavor
~he has a nephew and its Rui. Rui does not care for him but they'll wave at each other if they pass each other in the hall
~can't cook for shit and more often than not just gets store bought meals
~Close friends with Akaza, who he formed a friendship with after being forced to sit together on the train to work multiple times. Akaza works down the road from the school so they often have lunch together.
~knows how to care for spider lilies and spider lilies only. that's their only expertise in plants
~has a few train model setups around their house and will get very upset if you touch them
~He doesn't play ttrpgs but boy he likes dice. he gets the high quality resin and metal ones to just clink around for fun
~loves twin peaks so much. so much. its his favorite show and if youre wondering yes fire walk with me is also his favorite movie. just a big ol david lynch fan
-More serious ones ahead so TW-
~has issues with disassociation, which often will lead into hallucinations if moderate. Signs they're in a dissociative episode will often be that they're trying to look at clocks, into mirrors, and read things, trying to figure out whether or not they're in a dream.
~If very stressed/anxious, he'll start showing catatonic behavior and start shutting down. Most often when he's catatonic he'll start repeating words or sounds and pace.
~Due to his residual schizophrenia, he knows a decent amount of sign language to communicate with when he's having troubles with disorganized speech.
~Only a few of the other teachers know about this in full, Rengoku and Akaza however are the only ones who know how to properly react to it and can help ground him.
~Struggled with finding a good sleep medication for the first half of the school year, so much so that they only had class half the time due to them not being able to work because of sleep deprivation and the increased hallucinatory episodes it was causing them.
#demon slayer#enmu tamio#enmu#kimetsu no yaiba#mossy's rambles#demon slayer enmu#headcanon#kny enmu#text post#au#mossy's teacher au
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could it have been better?
“i just wish i had known it all”
...
tw: mentions of mental abuse, mentions of suicide, mention of homophobia
she cries, and it’s not just a small cry, it’s a full out sob. she cried for three months straight after her eighteenth birthday, but since then she’s barely shed a tear. she’s smiles, she’s been smiles always, why would she cry without no proper reason? she’s happy with life, she’s thankful to have gotten the chance to live, and though some changes in her life have been difficult, chance isn’t bad, it’s a step forward.
it’s been at least three years since she cried this hard, mascara not only on her eyelashes, but on her cheeks, on her hands, on her sleeves. and the snot is running down her nose, and she has enough tears to create a whole new ocean. and she wants to hold back, in all way she wishes to just stop crying, to continue smiling as she always does, she’s never needed to cry, crying has never brought her anywhere. and yet she can’t stop crying, and for some reason she doesn’t really want to stop crying, for once, she wants to just let it all out, to let the waterfall down her cheeks flow. “i-- i--” she wants to talk, but how can she? cherry, the girl who never shuts up, who talks all the time, she can’t get words out through the many tears. for once she dislikes her life, for once she wants to run away from everything, but then again, she wants to stay in the arms of this man.
‘cherry, the meaning behind it being dear one, because you’re my dear one’
how could she ever, how could she ever tell that to her. “she’s a monster, she’s a liar, and she’s everything terrible” she’s never been angry like this, has she even ever properly been angry? “cherry she’s your mo--” “no she’s everything evil” and the tears continue, and she just wants to disappear, she wishes she was never born. “do you know what she was? she was supposed to be a mother, to be a friend, a wife, and all she was, was abusive, a liar, and, and” and she can’t even properly speak, she doesn’t even know what to say, and she keeps him close, she lets him hold her tight, when this is only their second meeting after three whole years. “does she know? does she know i struggle with disorganized speech now?” he looks at her, comforting eyes who obviously don’t know what to tell her. “she always told me to love myself, but when i came out as myself she despised me, and she made me despise myself. i kept telling myself i was bisexual, that there was a chance i could date a guy!” anger “and i felt so terrible that i was scared of liking a girl, but she’s amazing, and she makes me feel like it’s okay to be me, she makes me feel like i can love myself and” deep breath. “now i’m scared, now i’m scared anyone will turn out to be like her, a liar, someone hiding so very well in a disguise”.
she’d grown up loving her mother, believing her mother to love her more than anything, trust her mother, and how had she never noticed anything? they never had contact to her father’s family, because his family was ‘unsupportive’ of their marriage, ‘angry’ and ‘felt like she had forced midam to move to the us’. and she believed her parents’ marriage to have been perfect when her mother had forced her father to starve, to vomit, to exercise all the time, forced him to become a bodybuilder when he never wanted to. her mother had been lying to her own parents, telling them that her daughter, cherry has sickness after sickness, convinced them to send money for ‘cherry’s treatment’, at last basically forced money out of her own family to get treatment to sicknesses cherry had never had. there was a reason cherry had never met her mother’s family, because apparently cherry was ‘too sick’ to see them. and there went four years before her mother’s family knew they lived in korea, and they only learned through her mother becoming a social media influencer, and then she lied and told them that cherry was dead. when cherry was kicked out her father wanted to walk after her, but her mother forced him not to, promised she’d contact cherry herself. she was telling him she was sending cherry money every month, and this year he’d realized those ‘money she were sending’ was money she actually were using on designer clothes.
he tried to keep loving her, to forgive this woman he’d been together with for such a big part of his life, and then he found out, he found his brother’s suicide letter, listing the many things cherry’s mother had done to him, how she had ruined his life. he finally left her. he left her in may, using two months to get the courage to text his daughter again.
and cherry just doesn’t understand, how did she never know any of this?
“when i came out” deep breath “she told me she was no longer my mother, i suppose, now, i can agree with her, she’s no longer my mother” he tries smiling, though she’s very well aware of that he’s holding back tears. “i’m sorry cherry, i should’ve left her before, i should’ve taken you from her, i should’ve stopped her from ruining so many lives, but it took me more than twenty-five years to leave her, i believed she loved me, i kept convincing myself she was a good thing in my life… she wasn’t a good person in anyone’s life, and i can only hope she won’t ruin anyone else’s life” he takes a deep breath too. “what is this disorganized speech you spoke of?” he tries sending a smile. she leans a bit back, finally lets go from his tight hold. “my friends got together and managed to pay for therapy for me for three month, i didn’t want it, but they insisted. my therapist noticed speech problems, it’s not as bad anymore but… i quickly switch topics, i create my own words, i use words wrongly, i speak very fast then very slowly, i speak very loud then very quietly, it takes me some time to process what people say, i stutter, i keep repeating myself… it’s annoying, but i’ve learned to not hate it” she smiles to him, though for once it’s difficult to smile.
“i’d love to meet your girlfriend if you ever let me” he runs a hand through her hair. “i’d like to meet yunjin’s family, and yours too, if i can” he puts a tot of her hair behind her ear “i’ll make sure of that”.
- “dad can i ask something?”
- “of course”
- “it was yunjin who wanted me to be named cherry, what did you want to call me?”
- “kim mija”
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idk gore tw? Horror tw? dirsoganized speech and yucky imagery stuff
I'm sitting being good being good writing. writing instead of biting writing instead of biting they say it's bad to bite write insetad of bite we type type type the feelings but they fill me soo many make me too full want to cut it open explode at the seams come pouring out of me in filthy rivers pustule and pestilence garbage infested violence fuck
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Vent post, TW mental illness, hospitalization, being fucking poor, speculation of symptoms
So I have a problem with disorganized speech, right? I kind of noticed it a few months ago but now it's impossibly to ignore. Or I'll just stop talking when i thought i already made my point but i actually only said half a sentence? I don't have health care, so I can't figure out right now if it's a mental illness symptom or a physical illness symptom, both of which I have several diagnosed.
But I also developed a stutter? Which makes me think it's gotta be mental illness. But also I've had like a good 10 concussions in my life, 4 of them were in 2019, so maybe just got a bruised melon.
And I've found myself fencesitting between reality and delusion. And I've caught myself hallucinating. Birds, music, people taking muffled outside my window where I can't make out any of the words, bugs in my food and spiders in my shower.
And I want so fucking bad to just voluntarily admit myself. I'm not a DANGER to myself, but I just can't function. I can't hold down a job, I spiral and bounce between panic attacks to disassociation. I feel fractured, like multiple people are living my life, like half the day is a dream or I'm in the passenger seat of my life.
I've been on antipsychotics since I was like 13 or 14, but I haven't had healthcare in years. And I just want to take a month or two and admit myself to get everything fixed. And it sucks that for YEARS I was repeatedly 5150'd and got thrown in residential for 4 months as a kid against my will but now I actually want the help and I can't AFFORD IT?!?!?!?!?!?!?! Like I'm not suicidal in the slightest. My husband and I are happy and living a good life, we never fight and it genuinely feels like a sleepover with my best friend every night-- depression is near non-existant. But I just want to not be crazy anymore so I can take a shower without thinking I can talk to the ghosts in the walls!!!!!
I literally just want the hallucinations to stop and the delusions and the rabbit holing to stop. I want to be able to think straight and speak clearly. I want to stop having episodes where I'm laughing and crying and pulling my hair out. And it's for no reason. The trigger will be like "thought about that one embarrassing thing you said" and I just can't breathe and then I'm gone. Like it's someone else and I can't think and then like I'm in the shower and I've calmed down and im singing to music that's playing on my phone.
Like how am I supposed to tackle this in weekly therapy. It's gotten bad enough I'm BEGGING to go back on meds.
Do you know how long this fucking took me to write? I feel so small and incapable of simple tasks like writing a paragraph-- things I used to do for fun with fanfiction and random essays on topics I'll never post. But I keep misspelling and starting with one sentence and writing the ending of another. I kept misspelling symptoms as mysomptms and that's the clearest example of how jumbled things get. Like everything is there it's just a mess. It's not like a typo, it's genuinely my brain tells me every letter at once and I can't remember what comes first. I'll tell a story about my day and I'll tell the middle then the first then the last, or in reverse and I know it's mixed up but I can't remember what came first. And my grammar is so absolutely fucked. Like I almost majored in English and my essays were the ONLY reason I got into some colleges because I absolutely bombed my SATs because I had just gotten out of the hospital. Not my point, but demonstrates that I used to have such a tight grasp of the English language and its mechanics and now for months it's felt like I'm struggling in a 3rd or 4th language, buffering and lagging like a 2006 Dell.
And im AWARE that none of this makes sense, I've got pinball brain and im trying to say too much with too few words but this is an exercise to at least push through and get as much as I can out. At least to document. I feel like I have to apologize for how hard it is to understand me. This feels like such a burden to everyone around me and that makes it harder to think and speak. I hate this and I just want to get better.
Idk just had to get this out, hopefully I'll be able tks how a doctor when I'm able to get help. This makes me feel so stupid. I can fucking write, I'm an articulate fucking human being. I've got so much going for me, why does my first language feel like I'm only conversational? I can't communicate, I've lost half my vocabulary and I used to pride myself on my intelligence. I was always the smart friend, the one who's good at everything and would write your papers and give advice and I was going to do great things. And now I'm just a college dropout lunatic housewife that needs help with everything.
And im not... sad? It's just anxiety and then a detachment of reality. And I've tried to write this more like I would say it, it feels like either my brain goes too fast for my mouth or fingers or that it's so slow I cant think there is no in-between.
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me, smoking weed that i know makes my delusions and disorganized speech/thinking worse but helps with my executive functioning: haha wow why am i so delusional and disorganized lately!
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Lie There and Breathe
A Horde Clone OC story
(Tw: gore, injury) (part two here, part three here, part four here)
The Etherian relief workers found him lying prone on the hard ground beside the cliff where Horde Prime had made his last mad play. Jagged rocks lay all around the clone's body, his abdomen and shoulders riddled with long thorns that could only have come from Perfuma's vines.
His arms were pinned under his torso, the white of his tabard and tunic stained phosphorescent green. But what had truly frightened the workers was the state of the clone's face.
The clone lay with his head resting in a pool of neon blood, half his left ear was missing entirely as the flesh of his cheek and brow hung from the bone, separated across the socket of his eye by a gash that had gouged a trail into his very skull.
Ethera had abandoned the more violent practices of war nearly a century ago, and while there had been countless conflicts since then the average citizen was unused to the brutality that Prime had brought.
Through all the years of fighting between the rebellion and the Etherian Horde both sides had utilized non-lethal methods whenever possible as a matter of both basic morality and resource consumption. Anything less would have been viewed as a war crime.
But the Galactic Horde was held to no such standard. Their way was victory by any means necessary, and the streamlined process of creating clones meant that they never had to worry about running out of cannon fodder.
When Horde Prime arrived and Hordak disappeared, war on Etheria had changed drastically.
The princesses could not be blamed for fighting back.
But as relief workers picked their way across the battlefield, pulling living soldiers from both sides into the hastily constructed healers' tents there was an aura of revulsion and regret to them. The days of mindless bloodshed should have been over, but the newly verdant landscape was still soaked with red and green blood.
The workers wrapped the clone's face with a cloth, and dragged his unconscious form into the tent.
........
The clone awoke to searing pain and blindness.
Agony left him breathless, and he tried to curl into himself only to find that he lacked the strength to move his limbs. Although his head was thickly wrapped in bandages his senses were inundated by unfamiliar sounds and smells. Beside him someone breathed heavily, each intake rattling wetly.
Immediately he sought out the hivemind, disoriented and pained.
He found only empty silence.
Panicked the clone tried again, reaching out and physically grasping at the air with a trembling hand as he searched in vain for the warm minds of his Brothers, connected by the light of Horde Prime.
Horde Prime
Horde Prime was dead.
And so was the hivemind.
His breath sped up as the clone's lonely mind raced, reaching back to his last moment of consciousness.
He remembered his injury, and laying prone beneath the cliff as through the echoes of the hivemind he witnessed the end of Prime’s Glorious Vessel. Killed at the hands of the traitorous defect.
The clone remembered Horde Prime’s short glorious return in the body of the traitor, and he remembered the triumphant final speech in the voice that had seemed to echo from the top of the cliff and through the hivemind. He remembered letting his eyes slip shut as he prepared to die as Prime willed.
And he remembered how the voice had suddenly stopped.
The cold emptiness that had gripped him then came again as he lay blind and lost. He knew as surely as he knew anything that the hivemind had died along with Prime, and that he was alone. As if he were a cloud of space dust after a supernova, a corpse teeming with rot after death.
The clone shuddered, fighting the panic that threatened to engulf him. Through everything else that inundated his mind something new and profound shined from his core.
A desire to stay alive.
And the first thing that the clone knew about staying alive was that if he was to do so then he couldn't continue to panic.
Brothers who panicked on the field died, those who remained calm and kept their faith in Prime lived to fight another day.
Prime was dead, and so all he could do was try to remain calm.
Beyond the horror within his own head the clone found that he could not block out the pervasive sound of wheezing from beside him. From further away the noise was yet more chaotic. Bustling and clattering were overshadowed by moans and gasps of pain and the smells of blood and fear hung heavy in the air.
The clone turned his head slowly, listening for anything familiar, but heard no comforting mechanical beeps, or low reassuring prayers.
Indeed the only prayers that he heard were being gasped desperately from some distance.
He focused of the wheezing beside him.
The sound was steady even as each breath seemed to rattle wetly. The clone matched each wheeze to his own breaths and focused his entire self on it, blocking out the chaos of the unknown location where he and the breather lay.
........
The clone did not know how much time had passed.
He had eventually lost consciousness, and when he awoke he spent a moment seeking out the rasping breathing of one who lay beside him. He had been relieved to hear the breather immediately, the rest of the surrounding area had quieted substantially while he slept, but the steady rattling continued on as though nothing had changed.
The clone clung to it.
He was still heavily bandaged, and agony throbbed through his very being. The clone now knew that his pain was centralized to one side of his head. His left eye socket felt like a black hole, hungrily sucking every joule of energy from his body.
He was too exhausted to even seek out comfort, and the all encompassing agony made it impossible to concentrate on anything but The Breather beside him.
He lay there, helpless and exhausted and did the only thing that he could do.
He listened.
And he heard.
The clone counted the breaths of his companion constantly, eventually allowing surrounding noises to trickle in but never giving up his concentration on The Breather.
He deduced, as he lay there, that he was surrounded by the injured. Many of the cries, gasps, and prayers, were the voices of his brothers. Terror and pain gripped those voices, and he spared a moment of grief for those brothers. The panic that they were experiencing was dangerous, and the clone refused to let himself fall into it's trap.
He needed to remain calm because he wanted to survive.
He wanted to survive and hear the rattling breaths beside him.
The Breather slept on, constant and steady despite the wheezing.
There were likely Etherians surrounding him as well. Some of the pained voices were unfamiliar, and those who bustled around were certainly not members of The Horde. Their alien voices were filled with emotion, and their hurried steps too disorganized to be anything but alien.
It made sense. Prime was dead.
What didn't make sense was that these Etherians were keeping him and his brothers alive. Perhaps they planned to have the surviving clones serve them as the people of conquered planets had had the choice to peacefully serve Horde Prime.
But why not cull the damaged ones?
The clone knew, as surely as he knew that Prime was dead, that he was too damaged to avoid culling. The vine that had whipped across his face had obviously left a path of carnage in its wake. He did not know the state of his eyes, but the pain radiating from his left socket was telling, as was the uncomfortable wetness that soaked the bandages surrounding his head.
But he didn't want to die. The desire to live still burned strongly with him, new and profound. The clone tied his survival to remaining calm, which in turn had thus far turned him to rely upon The Breather beside him.
As long as he could hear his companion, then he could remain calm. As long as he remained calm then he had a chance of survival.
Beside him The Breather slept on, and the clone listened.
After some time of this the chaos of their surroundings picked back up, less frantic than it had been before but still busy. A host of voices and various organic smells rose to meet him; some were medicinal some were not. For his part the clone continued to take it all in from his stationary supine position.
He deduced that he was laying on a sort of rough canvas cot some unknown distance from the ground. Unfamiliar clothing and a thin sheet covered him. Around him there was little airflow, but there was also no echo that would have indicated that they were indoors. If anything he heard wind, and the sound of cloth flapping but did not feel a breeze, perhaps they were in a tent.��
On his aching left side The Breather slept on but to his right he heard only wind and cloth, curiously he reached out a hand and met more sturdy cloth. He must have been lying along the wall of some kind of hospital tent.
Cautiously he continued to explore his surroundings with his fingers, reaching out blindly for anything within his reach. The wall, the cot, the strange loose clothes that covered him.
After a moment's hesitation the clone reached out into open air, searching for The Breather. The rasping continued on as it had since he’d first regained consciousness.
The clone felt his arm shake as he reached towards the lifeline that he'd been clinging too since he’d first regained consciousness.
And he found them.
A long arm, a muscular shoulder, the familiar texture and musculature. A fellow clone. A Brother.
Something that had been wrapped up tight in the clone's chest slowly unfurled, and tears welled up in his covered eyes as he traced his companion's arm downward to grasp his hand.
Relief and fear bloomed within him as he cried. Beside him his brother breathed on.
..................................................................................
Congratulations on finishing this somewhat maudlin little fic, I've wanted to write it for a while.
Since the two characters currently known as The Clone (our protagonist) and The Breather (the unconscious one) aren't very developed in this first part I thought I'd tell you a little about them
The Clone (pictured on top (someday I may draw his scars more closely to how I imagine them)) will eventually go on to be known as Chamomile. After spending some time in the healing tent he will learn that he still has perfect sight in the right eye, and partial sight in his left. Observing the Etherian healers as they work will inspire him to study healing under their tutelage specializing in wound care.
This will be a fairly new concept to the Horde Clones as under Prime most clones who had received a major wound that needed extensive care or caused major scarring would likely have been culled or sent to the front lines.
His companion The Breather (pictured below) will later be called Calamine. He is currently suffering from pneumonia due to a chest injury that resulted in a collapsed lung as well as substantial internal bleeding, he'll wake up eventually but for now the boy needs rest. He is a kindred spirit to Chamomile and the two cling to one another as they recover.
Calamine had previously worked within The Horde to create amniotic fluid, and will eventually become a cook.
The extremely awesome and very inspiring clone creator piccrew was made by @strawberryoverlordart
#horde clones#spacebats#hordak#horde clone oc#spop#she ra and the princesses of power#Chamomile the Clone#Calamine the Clone#tw: gore#gore#injury#death mention#spop oc#ask to tag#my fic#fic rec#original#i contributed#piccrew#Lie There and Breathe
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so some problems I routinely have with drs is (tw for ?? self harm??????? I guess???? and uh some RA implications I suppose but not detailed at all)
1) I am generally very dissociated for Reasons whenever I enter a hospital and so I often have a hard time with words (either contradicting because of rapid switching or having very disorganized and unclear speech)
2) I am an asshole with a bunch of comorbidities that drs do not like and so it is way easier for them to disbelieve me than it is to believe me
3) I have been trained to withstand pain especially during tests so whenever medical tests (which are perceived internally as the same as the other kind of tests) are done I simply do not react and maintain a straight face. when I'm being tested I physically cannot: throw up, scream, cry, move, talk, try to shift away from the person or protect any body parts, or do pretty much anything besides standing or sitting there with a blank expression and a very tense body. which uh. makes it difficult for drs to find anything and I remember when I was going through the process of getting diagnosed with the slew of pain shit I have, the Dr said that I didn't seem to be in pain at all and I had to explain that actually I am in so many pain but I just don't react and then promptly punched myself to show her. she was a bit horrified and that was a pretty bad move on my part, this was just years ago and I am always rapid switching at drs so I didn't have nearly as much control over anything as I do now.
4) I'm not white and this makes drs very annoying. in fact my fibro dx took over a year of VERY frequent appts and referrals and my POTS dx was contested a few times over the years, plus accusations of me diagnosis seeking, and meanwhile the white people I know walk in and walk out with the same dxs without having to raise hell to some degree
#me having to explain to drs that i literally do not care what i have as long as they fix it and them still not believing me#vs some white people i know walking in saying they think they have x thing and then the dr going 'yeah sure seems like it!' no q's asked#to be clear i am not jealous of them or saying it's bad they got dx'd i am just 🙃 the extra and annoying hoops i have to go thru#just because drs have racial biases#.log
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Hold Onto the Faith as I Dig Another Grave
By Hale13
For the Summer of Whump Day 6 - Buried Alive
He can’t do it.
There’s just no way he can do it.
He can feel the air thinning, his eyesight gets steadily darker, he can almost smell fresh tilled earth (a rarity in the middle of New York City) and this is it.
He’s going to die.
Words: 2031, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English
Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Rating: Gen
Relationships: Peter Parker & Ned Leeds, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, Tony Stark, Happy Hogan
TW: Absolutely none.
Read on AO3 or below the line break.
He can’t do it.
There’s just no way he can do it.
He can feel the air thinning, his eyesight gets steadily darker, he can almost smell fresh tilled earth (a rarity in the middle of New York City) and this is it.
He’s going to die.
“Could you be any more dramatic?” MJ asks from where she’s furiously typing into her laptop, he hair more frizzy than normal and her eyes pinched. Her usually unaffected demeanor is cracking a little at the edges and Peter has never seen her so frantic and disorganized – he feels a little bad about it.
“Seriously Peter,” Ned agrees from his section of the table where multi-colored index cards are scattered in a disorganized mess – he, too, looks on the verge of a breakdown but he’s not able to hide it as easily as Michelle – Ned always has worn his heart on his sleeve. “It’s your fault we waited until the last minute anyway,” his (now former – seriously Ned what the hell, how dare you) best friend accuses.
Peter just lets out a wounded animal noise as he edits his section of their PowerPoint, eyes nearly crossed he’s so close to the screen. Like that would help him edit any faster he thinks sardonically. “It’s not totally my fault,” he tried to rationalize.
“Yes it is,” MJ tells him bluntly, face buried in her over-highlighted notes on the vaccine apartheid in India and Africa for the comparative section of their presentation. “We could have been done weeks ago if you had actually come to the meetings we scheduled.”
“I came to the first one,” Peter protested, looking through his image folder for the proper photo for his slide – he had, at least, cropped and edited them all already so he had one less thing to do. “And besides, we divided the work up evenly – you didn’t even need me around to do your part.” He immediately flinched at the very clear ‘eat shit and die’ look Michelle gave him and murmured out a quick apology before ducking his head back into his work. Ned gave him a look of pity and a sad head shake, Peter just glared in response.
Ned bangs his head onto the table softly and moans. “Why do we always wait until the last minute? I hate waiting until the last minute.”
“Less whining, more writing,” Michelle says bluntly, adding a slide to the PowerPoint on their Google docs and making Peter groan. His job is to outline and find pictures, Michelle’s is to clean everything up and organize their presentation and Ned’s is to make sure that their presentation is cohesive and write out their speech. It’s a system that has, traditionally, worked well for them but this time may as well be a disaster. The only thing keeping them together at this point is MJ’s ruthless efficiency and Ned and Peter’s intense fear of failure.
“We were supposed to do this last week,” Ned continued, ignoring MJ’s order and then the kick she aimed as his shin; not even flinching at what was surely decent pain considering their friend had worn her Doc Marten’s to their meeting. “Why the hell did we let you cancel?”
“Because of that bank robbery remember?” Peter says, ignoring his own work for a second and risking MJ’s (well deserved not that he would admit it) wrath. “And then I got caught on patrol for a couple hours and then it was curfew.” He may have also been in the MedBay that night for a (minor) stab wound but he wasn’t telling them that – his friends worried enough about him as it was.
“Not that I necessarily support the police and the clear and rampant systemic racism of the entire system,” Michelle began, forcefully picking Ned’s head off the table and shoving a pen into his hands so he would continue working, “but that is their job. If we aren’t going to defund them the least they could do is handle a bank robbery.” This had been a frequent disagreement between the two of them for a while – MJ was one hundred percent correct in her viewpoint but Peter was a closet control freak who couldn’t leave well enough alone. They tried not to talk about it in polite conversation anymore.
“But there were hostages,” Peter whined, and there were. About twelve of them who all seemed more bored and annoyed than scared but that was the city for ya.
“And?” Michelle accused. “What do you think happened before you started running around in tights?”
“She has a point,” Ned said gently, organizing the index cards to be less chaotic.
Peter gave them both an irritated huff and muttered “They aren’t tights.”
“Spandex then,” Michelle said flippantly, waving her hand in his direction without looking up from her screen. Peter rolled his eyes.
“Well the next time we have a group project I’ll just send out a nice tweet asking all the criminals and muggers to put their crime on hold so I can do my homework,” Peter huffed sarcastically but without any real heat.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Ned said, sounding relieved and Peter rolled his eyes again but got back to work. He was only on slide thirteen of twenty-five and, at the rate MJ was adding pages, he’d never finish. They worked in silence for a while, only breaking it to ask murmured questions before, finally, MJ snapped her laptop shut.
“Well if its not done at this point its not ever going to be,” she stated causing Ned to drop his pen and massage his cramping hand and Peter to let his head fall to the table in relief with a moan – his head was starting to throb and the words on his computer were swimming in front of his eyes. “Let’s try to get to school early tomorrow to do a couple run throughs before the presentation.” Peter glanced at the clock on the library wall and groaned, receiving a conciliatory pat on the back from Ned – he still had a ton of homework to get through before he could even think about sleeping.
“Want a ride home?” Ned asked a few minutes later when they were standing on the steps in front of the library. MJ’s mom had already been waiting when they stepped outside leaving just Ned and Peter to wait on Ned’s older sister.
“Nah,” Peter said, adjusting his too heavy backpack and rocking back on his heels. “Think I might swing home, just a quick patrol you know?”
The look Ned gave him was skeptical and disapproving but Peter chose to ignore it. He wouldn’t be out long anyway – just a quick run through the areas he knew were a problem and then home. Faster than the subway for sure. “Fine,” Ned grunted, thankfully holding in his opinion. “But you should go ahead and go before my sister gets here and insists on driving you,” Ned indicated to his tracking app, showing his sister only a few minutes away.
“Thanks man,” Peter said, initiating their handshake and trotting off around the corner to find a suitable alley to change in.
—————————————————
Three hours later, Peter fell through the window of his bedroom, collapsing on the floor and pulling his mask off. His hair was limp and sweaty where it clung to his head and his headache from earlier had gotten worse – the throbbing elevating up to a stabbing behind his eyes.
“One minute,” he told himself, panting and draping his elbow over his eyes. “You can have one minute and then you have work to do.”
“Talking to yourself?”
Peter jumped up, banging his head on the side of his bed with a wince, causing his vision to grey out a little and falling back on the floor to stare dazedly at the ceiling. Tony leaned over him to block his view, his expression mixed between humor and pity as Peter groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t scare me like that!”
“Thought you had a tingle?” Tony teased, grabbing Peter’s hand and pulling him up to sit propped against the wall, ignoring the glare Peter shot him. “You’re lucky May’s working tonight.”
“Yeah I know,” Peter admitted. He was over two hours late for his midnight curfew and, if May had been home and not working in the ER, she would have skinned him alive and then grounded him for the foreseeable future.
“You’re even more lucky I covered for your scrawny spider ass and told her you were staying at the Tower tonight,” Tony said smugly, gesturing to the overnight bag that he had clearly packed for Peter. “Go ahead and change, you can shower once we get back to the Penthouse. You got everything you need for school?”
“Yeah,” Peter confirmed, stripping off the suit and pulling on an old pair of sweats and the t-shirt he had worn to school earlier. Changed and stumbling, he followed his mentor down to the town car that was waiting in front of the door to his apartment, crawling into the back seat and resting his aching head against the window; ignoring Happy’s tired look of disapproval in the rear view mirror.
“So,” Tony began, sitting across from him to make better eye contact. “Want to tell me why you’re out so late?”
“Well I was at the library with Ned and MJ working on a project for biology until about eleven-,”
“Why so late?” Tony interrupted, brows furrowed in thought. Peter bit his lip and averted his eyes and Tony nodded in understanding. “So you procrastinated until the last minute.”
“Maybe,” Peter conceded, eyes darting over to his bag and lingering for a second. Tony clocked the movement and let out a long suffering sigh, massaging his eyes with the thumb and forefinger on his right hand and grimacing .
“How much more do you have?”
“Uh…,” Peter squeaked out. “Just… just two problem sets in physics, one in calculus and five chapters of Jane Eyre to read.” Easily three to four hours of work and Peter was starting to feel buried and suffocated under the course load, his muscles started to tremble at the impending exhaustion he would be feeling the next day on little to no sleep.
Tony gave him a look of commiseration before asking “And when is all of this due?”
“The presentation is my last period of the day, right after lunch,” Peter answered. “Everything else is due in the morning.” Tony studied him for a moment before sighing.
“Here’s the offer: you go back to the Penthouse, take a shower and go to bed,” he held up a hand to halt Peter’s protest, “and I’ll tell May you have, what I assume to be, the start of a migraine,” Peter’s hand reached up subconsciously to rub his temple under his mentor’s knowing look. “She can call you out of school and I’ll take you at lunch so you don’t miss your presentation then you have all weekend to stick your nose in a book while I do some suit modifications. Square deal?”
Peter let out a sigh of relief and melted into the soft leather, nodding. “Deal.”
The rest of the ride was silent and Peter dozed until he was urged out of the car and into the elevator. Once they reached the Penthouse, Tony relieved him of his book bag and passed over the duffle he had packed, Peter not even bothering to put up a token protest as he was shoo’ed in the direction of his room. He pulled out his phone to text his group chat with Ned and MJ and saw that he already had a message waiting.
About thirty minutes before, MJ had sent a screenshot of the SpideyWatch twitter page that had a clear picture of him stopping a mugging just before he got home. The text under it said ‘see you at lunch for a practice run’ and Peter smiled a little, chest warm, as he sent the thumbs up emoji and tossed his phone onto his bed; he was looking forward to a scalding shower and eight hours of uninterrupted blissful sleep.
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