#cw vomit

[jeangart]

Every time I see stuff with spamton taking tenna to cyber world, I always think of that one gravity falls credit scene with stan and goldie,

so here's whatever this shit is 😭

[rawme-price]

Ever since you brought ghost back to your apartment a week ago, he's refused to talk to you.

Not in that quiet, hesitant way he gets when he feels insecure or more like ghost than simon. No, this is...blatant refusal. Will look you dead in the eye when you try to talk to him and either completely ignore you or leave the room.

It's the scariest thing he's ever done to you.

You can fix anger, or guilt, or sadness. You can fix whatever sour mood he throws at you but you can't fix this. You can't fix the way his whole posture tightens when it used to melt, how he grimaces and turns away.

You can't fix how you blame yourself.

Because it's not a hard connection to make. You invite him over, sleep with the guy you thought you loved, and he just....shuts you out completely. What did you do wrong? He...you thought he enjoyed it. Did he lie? Does he think you're disgusting?

It's on the second week of complete silence, when you try to give ghost some reports you need signatures on, that you just....snap.

"Ghost! I swear to god–" your fist curls into the straps of his tac-vest before you can stop yourself, slamming him against the wall. "Stop! Fuckin– stop avoiding me! I know you're allergic to actually talking about your feelings but I can't handle this! I can't!"

Somewhere between you grabbing ghost to you getting in his face and shoving a finger into his chest the entire gym vacated, no one wanting to be witness to whatever would result from a stunt like that. For a long moment, ghost just...looks at you. Finally, he sighs, sounding more exhausted than you "why didn't you tell me?"

You furrow your brow, confused. You've combed through everything you've ever said to or about simon in the last two weeks, and nothing has been worthy of...this. "what? Simon. What didn't I tell you?"

At your obvious, blatant confusion, ghost tilts his head. Then, just as quickly, goes back to scowling under that stupid balaclava "about your boyfriend. Saw 'is shoes in yer apartment."

....

....surely not.

"Simon." You begin, deathly calm. Your first curls to tight into his tacvest that the fabric squeaks "You mean to tell me I've been throwing up from anxiety in the bathrooms for the past two weeks...because of a fucking pair of shoes."

"Those are to trick burglars, make them assume a man is home." You watch with intense satisfaction as the color slowly drains from ghosts face, adding "i don't have a boyfriend, simon. I had you."

"...there was cologne on your bathroom counter."

"For you! Your birthday is next month, asshole!" You hiss, anger truly setting in.

Ghost, in one of the rare moments he had a decent idea, pulls his mask off to apologize. His brows pinched, and he does look horribly guilty. "Love...i– I didn't–"

You pull him into a kiss before he can piss you off further. Ghost melts with it, making a pathetic sound into your mouth and hands grabbing at your hips.

You pull away to glare, heart pounding in excitement. "I'm still mad at you. We will be talking about this....after I ride you so hard I break your dick."

"Yes, love." Ghost mumbles into your neck, absolutely pathetic.

[raccootic]

spamtons habits

spamton bad habits (the friend comic there is me going home from a party in the middle of the night and having to stare down a fox to get it to leave me alone) TW// blood, habits like biting and picking at fingers and in this case feathers. vomit from drinking add more if ya want, just dont wanna throw stuff at people unwarned

[lotus-doodles-04]

CW: blot, slight vomit, melting, slight body horror!

Is it so wrong to want to live?

[normal-sane-era]

back to suffering

[wanologic]

reminder to take care of your loser human body

[thesparkledash]

Fallen Ancients AU [I do not care for the world, page 13-14]

And that was the end of this chapter! I promise it will eventually get better for poor Golden Cheese :,3. But we gotta check up on Hollyberry & Eternal Sugar first

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[snoozer-crow]

🐦‍⬛ Isn't this what you wished for? 👁️

< Intro | Chapter 1 Self aware Sylus x gn reader, hurt/comfort CW: vomit, derealization, general sickness wc: 1.7k

You slowly stir back into consciousness, a gooey exhaustion clinging to your entire body and weighing you down uncomfortably. A wave of motion sickness flows through you as you attempt to sit up, having to try multiple times in order to get your aching muscles to cooperate.

Your vision spins as you try to reorient yourself. Everything feels just slightly wrong, like a space you were once familiar with has been tampered with, all your belongings moved an inch out of place, causing your body's instinctual memory to falter and stumble over what once felt natural.

But, by far, the greatest discomfort comes from your heart. It aches, a deep, pulsing pain; and it thumps harder than it ever has in your life. Each beat jostles your whole body, and you slump over, your hands clasped over your chest as you tremble.

After a couple of deep breaths to hold the nausea at bay and attempt to calm yourself, you sit upright again, and your vision clears enough to be able to make out your surroundings.

You're in a large, intimidating room with gothic-style decor, dimly lit by flickering firelight that's dampened by walls painted completely black. Your aching body is gently cradled by silk sheets with the highest thread count you've ever felt. Something about this room tugs at the edges of your memory, but it slips away whenever you attempt to grasp at it. A canopy drapes above you, framing the view of a shadowy-looking city outside the large floor-to-ceiling windows, and…

You startle as your somewhat delirious mind finally takes notice of the figure seated in front of you. There's a pitcher of water with two expensive-looking glasses set on a table behind him, as well as a bowl of fresh fruit. He's slumped over in a luxurious armchair, his head resting on his knuckles as he breathes deeply, fast asleep. That's- no way, this can't be right.

You check your hands — five fingers on both, no abnormalities. You're wearing your usual pajamas, and the details are all there, down to the smallest stain. This is too clear to be a dream. This hurts too much to be a dream. So what, a psychotic break? Are you going insane?

Intense pain blooms deep in your skull, and you cover your face, holding back a shuddering sob. Chills and shivers wrack your body, and it takes everything you have to keep yourself from crying out and waking the stranger in front of you. The stranger, because there's no way that's who you think it is. He's not real. You must be going insane; it hurts so badly. You bite down on your palm to keep yourself quiet, tasting iron as your unease builds even further.

You have to get out of here. You have to get out of here. Dizzy and delirious, you climb out of bed, nearly collapsing to the floor just from trying to stay standing. You unsteadily stumble forward on legs shaking from the effort of holding up your own body weight, singularly focused on moving forward. You've never felt this weak before.

With a great amount of effort, you reach the door to the bedroom, and luckily, the door's hinges don't squeak as you push it open. You're relieved to have something to lean on, bracing your shoulder against the wall as you force yourself to keep moving forward.

You're unsure of your goal as you mindlessly limp down the hallway, peeking past the open doors in hopes of finding something, anything. No luck. Not even a promising-looking potential hiding place. Acid bubbles up in your throat, and you choke on a cough, just barely swallowing it back down. Your throat burns as the liquid retreats, but you know it likely won't be gone for long.

A bathroom. You need a bathroom. Shivering as another wave of chills rolls through you, you keep moving forward. There would have likely been one attached to the bedroom you woke up in, but you're not going to risk heading back in there, not when there's some sort of doppelganger at your bedside.

A wave of pain originating from your heart forces you to your knees, and you gasp, your vision blurring with tears. You struggle back up to your feet, and you think you catch a glimpse of red, beady eyes glowing in your direction from a vantage point up above. But when you try for a second glance, they're gone.

The nausea in the back of your throat is rapidly worsening, and it's looking like you won't get to a bathroom in time. You stumble into a random room, looking for a garbage can, but there's none in your limited field of vision. Acting on instinct, you crawl under a table in the corner like a defeated dog, curling up as you try to hold back the inevitable.

The ringing in your ears grows louder as tears drip down your nose, hand pressed to your mouth. You're too drained to flinch when you feel cool fingers brushing your neck as they carefully gather up your hair, holding it out of the way as another hand gently pries yours from your mouth, nearly engulfing it as a thumb rubs slow circles on the back.

"It's alright. Just let it out, sweetheart. I've got you."

You sob, a hiccup quickly followed by a cough, then a violent retch as your body expels a thick, viscous, black goo onto the ground in front of you. You don't even have enough time to be horrified before more quickly follows, this time mixed with the contents of your stomach.

It tastes awful, leaving a lingering burn in your throat and your mouth, and the taste of what you can only imagine as rotten flesh. You cough up a few more mouthfuls before slumping forward, easily caught by the large hands that have handled you so delicately.

Your vision is spotty as your body is pulled forward, retrieving you from your hiding spot with the utmost care. Your mouth is carefully wiped with a silk handkerchief before you feel the figure lifting you with incredible ease, guiding your chest to lean against his own as he stands up. He must be very tall, you muse, as you're quite far off the ground.

He walks slowly, one arm beneath your thighs and the other rubbing circles into your back to keep you steady and attempt to mitigate the effects of motion sickness. You appreciate his efforts to keep you comfortable. Your throat still burns; you think it got into your sinuses, too. You sob softly into his shoulder. You can't stop shaking.

You lose focus for a little while, almost dozing off, but you're brought back by the soothing sensation of a warm washcloth gently cleaning your face, wiping away your dried tears and the leftover black residue around your lips and nose. You're sitting on the edge of a cold bathtub, with the man's hand still pressed to your back to keep you from toppling over.

A plastic cup is tapped to your mouth, accompanied by a soft command.

"Swish."

You do as he says, opening up for the liquid and swishing it around in your mouth. Once you're done, he guides you to lean over and spit it out into the tub, bringing you back to wipe your lips again. How did he know your favorite mouthwash…? Lucky guess?

You're lifted again, and you lean into the man, burying your face in his chest for comfort. He smells nice; a small but very welcome distraction from your poor condition. You don't think you've ever felt closer to death than you do now. The deep, burning agony in your heart has begun to spread slowly through your veins, and your muscles now protest with a throbbing pain left from overexertion.

You're pulled from the grounding warmth of his chest yet again and delicately placed in the bed where you woke up, back in the embrace of its silken sheets, now soothingly cool against your feverish skin. You're propped up like a doll against slanted pillows, and the man sits in front of you, dipping the mattress. His hands press another cup to your lips, this one made of glass.

"Drink."

You doubt you could gather enough energy to raise your arms to grip his wrist, so you thoughtlessly comply, the water feeling heavenly against your irritated throat, clearing much of the remnants of black goop still clinging to the inside. You drain the whole glass in no time, and after he refills it, you drain another. You're about to ask for a third, but the man places the cup aside, opting to press the back of his hand to your forehead instead.

"You have an incredibly high fever…" He murmurs, concern laced in his tone. "We need to see how that water settles first, then I can give you some more."

You turn away from him, your gaze fixing instead on your hands. Your skin looks much greyer than it should. But you can't bring yourself to care as exhaustion begins to tug insistently at your mind, urging you to relinquish your feeble grip on consciousness. You almost do, but you're interrupted again by the man's voice.

"Do you remember who I am?"

You blink a few times, forcing your eyes to focus in order to make contact with the stranger's ruby-red ones. There's a hint of desperation and vulnerability in them that you hadn't spotted before.

"… Sylus?" you rasp, your throat feeling like it's filled with shards of broken glass. Though, the pain is worth it when you get to catch the surprised relief on the man's face. Maybe it is really him.

Instead of confirming or denying your assumption, he gently lifts one of your hands, leaning down and pressing his lips to your knuckles. There's a new tenderness when he speaks now, as if your existence itself is as fragile as glass and he's afraid to shatter reality.

"Rest. I'll be by your side until you wake."

Some part of you deep inside feels comforted by that, so you let go, falling into the cavernous abyss of sleep.

. . . . .

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