#sleepwalker infection
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Sleepwalker Infection
Pinkie is absolutely devestated seeing the state Rarity is in, she's suffering and Pinkie hopes going against Twilight and letting her sleep will help her and be just what she needs.
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#sleepwalker infection#mlp infection au#mlp infection#infection au#digital art#mlp#pony#rarity#pinkie pie
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We’re so used to the sexual reading of the entire book of Dracula, which takes the sensuality of the early chapters and jams everything that follows it into the same metaphor no matter how poorly it fits, but I feel the segment we’re approaching works much better with a lens of chronic illness and disease.
Vampire legends are inextricably intertwined with disease. Many of them are said to have been birthed by burying victims of disease too soon, who later seem to rise from the dead. But what’s more is that Stoker and his family have deep-seated trauma over disease: his mother had to flee her hometown at the age of 14 because of a horrific cholera epidemic, and Stoker himself was bedridden as a child from an illness that no one could identify.
Found this quote from Irish Historian Mary McGarry:
Bram as an adult asked his mother to write down her memories of the epidemic for him, and he supplemented this using his own historic research of Sligo’s epidemic. Scratching beneath the surface (of this essay), I found parallels with Dracula. [For instance,] Charlotte says cholera enters port towns having traveled by ship, and can travel overland as a mist—just like Dracula, who infects people with his unknown contagion.
I bring this up because a lot of academic analysis insists that Lucy sleepwalking is proof of her being the Slutty Woman archetype that needs to be punished. This suggested symbolism is hilarious when put next to the text saying she inherited it from her father, but I’d like to suggest a different angle from the lens of disease suggested earlier:
Lucy’s sleepwalking is a condition that predates Dracula but makes her an easy target for him to prey on. Through the lens of disease symbolism, she now is someone with chronic illness or disability who is especially vulnerable to infectious disease. This becomes a cross-section of Stoker’s trauma regarding disease: his own mystery illness and his mother fleeing a plague.
To wind down my rambles with a bit of a soapbox, I feel this adds a very poignant layer to the struggle to keep Lucy alive. The COVID pandemic showed a horrifying level of casual ableism vs disabled and immunodeficient individuals, shrugging off their vulnerability and even their deaths with “well COVID only kills them.” There’s something deeply gratifying at seeing the way everyone around Lucy fights to the bitter end to protect her and refuses to just give her up to Dracula, whether it’s Mina physically chasing him away or the suitor squad pouring their blood into her veins or Van Helsing desperately searching for cures. The vulnerable deserve no less than this. They’re not acceptable casualties.
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The push for legal prohibitions against AI training on public data via copyright law feels like it's going to have one of two outcomes, and I don't like either of them.
The law enforces a legal distinction between mechanically indistinguishable actions performed by a computer system and by the human brain, enshrining a double standard where what is doing a thing matters more than what the thing is.
Subjective art attributes like "style" and "influence", currently seen as so nebulous that fair use need not even be applied to them, become acceptable points of contention under copyright law, such that human artists can get sued for perceived infractions (e.g. you saw this artwork and "stole" the style of it in your work that looks similar).
Both of these concentrate power to corporations who already hold large corpuses of licensed artwork. It makes me so uncomfortable. Are we heading for a scenario where only corporations can meaningfully monetize "authorized" art, where they can prove that they have ownership of either the training data for an AI model or any nebulous artistic influences that could otherwise be targeted for suppression?
It's not like the latter case is even enforceable but it could be used to intimidate. Honestly, I think art style copyright would be so obviously absurd that the "codified double standard between human and machine actions" option is more likely to be what becomes law, but even that is... very bad, it ensures that AI systems can only be deployed by those with the most money and influence, in service of that money and influence.
I honestly thought that fair use and similar legal concepts were strong enough to withstand the push for this sort of regulation, but this has become such a hot button issue that I'm not sure. We are maybe sleepwalking into some very foreseeably unpleasant consequences here due to artist anxiety which, while valid in especially an economic sense, hasn't actually been thought through, is often not really validated by the reality of the situation or checked against the consequences of being asked for.
Artists want their work posted publicly by untouchable by what they see as some sort of infecting monster, perverting what they made with their own two hands, and that emotion is so strong that it feels like it's going to push us into an objectively worse regulatory future for AI and/or art than anything we have now.
😬
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Eye for an Eye - teaser!
MASTERLIST (and information about Palestine) Please read!
The walk was long, not physically but figuratively. Your feet dragged from exhaustion and hunger but every time you tripped or stumbled or faltered in your pace even slightly, you were pushed forward or prodded in the back with the gun that had been trained on you since you were marched out of your cell.
The closer you got to the podium, the clearer the commotion was. You had always been popular, so the crowd didn’t surprise you in the slightest. The execution of the crown jewel of the WLF, executed for treason no less, that’s a show they’d never miss. It almost flatters you, the grin on your face appearing subconsciously. You felt like you were sleepwalking, floating even but the drag of your feet reminded you of the reality.
The corridor was dark, dingy, it had never felt like this before but then again, the double doors at the end were never closed. Maybe that’s the point, hide the darkness that infects the prison you had once called home, hide it and convince everyone that they themselves weren’t the darkness, that the whole mission of the WLF wasn’t darkness. Washington Liberation Front, but there was no liberation, only further oppression and further violence. It infected its soldiers, festered inside of them until they weren’t people anymore, machines designed to kill and destroy without mercy, without reason, without guilt. Guilt was part of what kept people human, and you knew now the soldiers here, they were devoid of guilt, they weren’t human. But then again, were you?
That question loomed over your head and the closer you walked to your death, to be slaughtered like an animal, the clearer the answer became, not because you thought you were an animal, you were above these people, if you could call them that, a fallen angel. The darkness infected those waiting to watch your demise but not you, the darkness bathed you in its glory and you became a vessel for it, you were a soldier for the darkness, not the WLF and that’s why there was no fear, not an ounce, even a shred in your body. You had done its bidding and it had done yours so there was no fear, no panic, no regret.
She was the blood that ran through your veins, the breath that inflated your lungs, the muscle that pumped your heart, you knew it was the same for her and now your paths would cross again, over and over again. You’d make the last thing you said to her a reality, she knew that, she always knew.
The doors opened and the muffled commotion became a deafening ringing in your ears as the sun blinded you, the light blinded you. The crowd only got louder as you walked up the steps of the podium, louder as you halted and turned to the crowd, hundreds, maybe thousands, livid faces screaming obsenities at your smiling one. Louder and louder as you’re pushed down, your knees hitting the ground beneath you, sending shocks up through your body. You don’t bow your head, you don’t make eye contact, your chin remains lifted to the sky, you’re above them all, you know that, even now, you know that even more.
Cool metal, the barrel of a gun, pressed into the side of your head, it was refreshing somehow.
“Any last words you traiterous bitch?” You scoff before turning your head slowly to face him, he was faceless in your eyes, a means to an end, your smile grew, sickeningly twisting on your face.
psa: just stay with me on this one guys, I swear, this is the most excited I've been to write a fic yet so just stay with me <3
@emiliabby
#ellie the last of us#ellie tlou#ellie williams#ellie williams tlou#ellie x reader#abby the last of us#abby anderson x reader#ellie x fem reader#tlou ellie#abby anderson x female reader#ellie williams angst#ellie williams fanfic#ellie williams imagine#ellie williams the last of us#ellie williams x reader#ellie williams x you#ellie x you#abby tlou#abby anderson#abby and ellie#abby anderson fanfic#abby anderson fic#abby anderson tlou#abby anderson tlou2#abby anderson x fem!reader#abby anderson x you#abby x reader#abby x you#tlou abby
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Welcome to the Horse Center for Disease Control and Prevention, Equestria's leading group of infectiologists, pathologists, and curse researchers. Please find enclosed below an excerpt of our extensive case files on various infectious diseases that can be found around the country.
GENERAL ADMISSIONS
Rainbow Factory Infection
Moondust
Sleepwalker Infection
Chaos Infection
Chronic Wasting Disease
Variant Chronic Wasting Disease
Ruinous Vine Epidemic
Chronic Wasting Files
Everfree Infection
Magic Fever
Rainbow Rabies
Equinedemic
Uncanny Valley
my little paranoia
my little toothache
my little apocalypse
my little corruption
stuck-in-ponyville
mlpgr0undzer0
yumkandie
kingzombear
eggmilky
pinkarmadillodesigns
phoenixdoesartstuff
sundaebite
ruusukultakruunu
lagoartzs-blog
firbolgfriend
rubykingua
pina-repsi
shado-cant-sleep
shyface1004
bunnyrebzx
windywhistler
azaani-art
wyyrmwood
cosmic-nopedog
BIOLOGICAL INFECTIONS
Bubblegum Virus
Olden Virus
Dream Fever
Polychanging Virus
Blood Loss
Dreadbite Syndrome
Inanis Folliculi Syndrome
Everfree Fever
Mutated Rabies
Summer Night Mare
my little fortress
dabbingintoart
decrepitdeer
finnstati0n
mxnt-ie
PARASITES
Smile Worms
Pinkie's Senses
Banyan Parasite
Head Loss
My Little Worms
lilgoatgal
BOTANY
Rigor Root Rot
Chaos Virus
Florial Infection
Blue Flu
Rainbow Blossoms
Marrow Bloom Infection
Condren Contagion
Toxic Joke
Wandering Tree Swamp Fever
Divine Swamp Fever
Audle Posk
Variant Swamp Fever
Swamp Fever
mouschiii
ruttama-art
scarlet-wish-draws
lily-iguess
vitiligorakebaby
afishwithmanylegs
MYCOLOGY
Rainbow Cordyceps
eclipsedoodler
hardlylaced
vultureart
flitterjitters
lonelyponee
MAGIC AND CURSES
Mutant Imposter Infection
Nightmare Virus
Infection Of More
Enantiodromia
Ultionem Lunae
Night's Curse
Parabite Virus
Magic Rot
Changeling Virus
Doll Virus
Nopony Curse
Rot
Voidmatter Virus
cubecrow
CUTIE MARK DISORDERS
Mystic Corruption
Cutie Mark Contagion
Cutie Pox
Variant Cutie Pox
Cutie Fade
bootoon
CRYSTALLOLOGY
Geode Disorder
Cockatrice Disease
Crystal Contagion
Crystallovirus
swiggyswoon00
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Debunk of the "fetus is a parasite" argument
bad pro-abort argument: "prenatal humans are in a parasitic relationship to their pregnant host so abortion is self-defense"
This ideological framework for pregnancy requires sooo much equivocation it's unbearable.
*exasperated sigh* but let's break it down:
1) let's start by acknowledging how dehumanizing it is to posit that pregnant people/mothers are just hosts to parasites. And the sheer misogyny of framing a healthy, ordinary function of the fertile female body as a medical ailment. Females are not inherently diseased! The fuck!
2) the parastic posit assumes that the female body does not want to be pregnant and actively fights pregnancy, but that makes no sense considering the mechanisms that female bodies have deliberately evolved to encourage, stabilize, and sustain reproduction. That is not parasitic.
3a) the self-defense posit implies that the prenate is an aggressor that uses force to violate their mother. But this requires that the prenate have power over the situation. A prenate has no volition & also isn't an agent in pregnancy. A baby shouldn't be held to adult standards.
3b) I've recently seen a the rebuttal that "a sleepwalker also doesn't have volition", and that is true, but a sleepwalker is an agent who exerts power if they actively commit assault. Again, false equivalence. A baby's existence is passive, not an aggression, and not a threat.
4a) another implication of these posits is that the prenate is invasive. This is predicated upon that the location of a human (in this case, the womb — where else does a prenate belong?) has an impact on their moral status, meanwhile dismissing place of origin and safe shelter.
4b) The complaint is then that female bodies are not merely "locations" or "shelters"; this is an oversimplistic extrapolation. The pregnant female body is an individual person & home to another person simultaneously. That is dynamic self-other transcendence, not objectification!
5) "the fetus is a parasite" is a thinly-veiled dehumanization strategy as outlined in stage 4 of The Ten Stages of Genocide. By equating prenatal humans to vermin & disease, such as parasitic infections, the normal revulsion against the "eradication" of human beings is overcome.
6a) the parasitic pregnancy framework is a fetal non-personhood argument pretending to be a bodily autonomy argument. On a gut level we know it's cruel injustice to deliberately harm a helpless child, so we must construe either "child", "helpless", or "harm" as false in abortion.
The parasitic frame does all 3. If the prenate is a parasite, then she is not a child, she is not helpess, & she can't be harmed. The argument is that something about being a fetus justifies her extermination; that autonomy takes precedence over dependence is just pretense.
6b) This logic often reduces down to "the fetus is a parasite so it's parasitic; the fetus is parasitic so it's a parasite", which is invalid circular reasoning AND founded in unsound premises. It's discrimination against an entire class of human beings for their age & ability.
Fetuses are not parasitic. Fetuses are not potential people. Fetuses are existing people. Preborn humans are powerless people. Elective abortion is abuse of power. Abortion is predatory. Abortion is a human rights violation. Abortion is mass genocide.
Abortion is literal murder.
Further reading:
Deconstruction of the bodily autonomy argument.
Refutation of the right to refuse argument.
Construction of fetal personhood.
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𝘼-𝙕 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝙄𝙉𝙅𝙐𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎/𝘼𝘾𝘾𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙎 𝙁𝙊𝙍 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙎𝙄𝘾𝙆𝙁𝙄𝘾𝙎/𝙒𝙃𝙐𝙈𝙋𝙎
A
Achilles tendon rupture.
Airsickness.
Aerosol burn.
Aftercare.
Appendicitis.
Asthma attack.
Abuse.
Amputation.
Abdominal pain.
Ankle sprain.
Adrenaline crash.
Aortic disruption.
Anaphylactic shock.
B
Bear trap.
Blunt kidney trauma.
Broken bone.
Buried alive.
Blood poisoning.
Backache.
Blunt cardiac injury.
Bullying.
Burn out.
Burns.
Blood sugar crash.
Black eye.
C
Concussion.
Cat bite.
Cut.
Crossfire.
Collapsing.
Coping mechanisms.
Car crash.
Carbon monoxide poisoning.
Confusion.
Carsickness.
Cavity.
Coma.
Cramps.
Carpal tunnel syndrome.
Chemical burn.
Chilli burn.
Cardiac arrest.
Corneal abrasion.
Choking.
D
Drowning.
Dehydration.
Delirium.
Dangerous diet.
Diffuse axonal injury.
Dizziness.
Diarrhoea.
Dog bite.
Deafness.
Dislocations.
Diaphragmatic rupture.
E
Electric shock.
Exhaustion.
Electric burn.
Edema.
Emergency surgery.
Ear infection.
F
First-degree burn.
Flail chest.
Flash burn.
Fighting.
Fire.
Food poisoning.
Frostbite.
Fainting.
Falling from height.
Falling over.
Fear.
Friction burn.
G
Groin pull/strain.
Gunshot wound.
H
Heart attack.
Herniated disc.
Human bite.
High fever.
Home invasion.
Hypoxia.
Hyper/hypothermia.
Hernia.
Hemothorax.
Hematoma.
Heat exhaustion.
Hay fever.
Hemorrhage.
Hidden injury.
Homesickness.
Heart palpitations.
I
Infections.
Ice (slipping, falling through, etc).
Impalement.
Internal bleeding.
Indigestion.
J
Jet lag.
K
Knee dislocation.
Kidnapping.
Ketosis.
Kidney stones.
L
Laryngitis.
M
Memory loss.
Migraine.
Mutism.
Muscular atrophy.
Muscle bruise.
Muscle overuse.
Missing.
Manhandling.
Mono.
Menstrual cramps.
N
Nightmares.
Neck sprain.
Nosebleeds.
O
Open fractures.
Overdose.
Over-stimulation.
Overeating.
P
Penile fracture.
Perforated eardrum.
Poisoning.
Pulled muscle.
Psoriasis.
Pinched nerve.
Pinned.
Paralysis.
Puncture wound.
Pregnancy.
Pneumothorax.
R
Rotator cuff tear.
Rashes.
Ransom.
Rib fracture.
S
Shoulder dislocation.
Shock.
Subdrop.
Shark attack.
Stubbed toe.
Skull fracture.
Sunburn.
Sting (wasp, jellyfish, etc).
Smoke inhalation.
Self-harm.
Slipped rib.
Smoke inhalation.
Stalking.
Second-degree burn.
Stomach ulcers.
Seizures.
Starvation.
Spiked drink.
Sleepwalking.
Stab wound.
Snake bite.
Skinned flesh.
Scraped flesh.
Sleep deprivation.
Sleep paralysis.
Stitches.
Subconjunctival hemorrhages.
Stroke.
T
Traumatic aortic rupture.
Torn muscle.
Trapped.
Third-degree burn.
Touch-starved.
Torture.
Toothache.
Tuberculosis.
Traumatic asphyxia.
U
Uterine perforation.
V
Vomiting blood.
Vertigo.
W
Wisdom teeth.
Whipping.
Worked to exhaustion.
Whiplash.
Waterboarding.
Water infection.
Y
Yeast infection.
Z
Zombie apocalypse.
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JADE HAPPY NEW YEAR ILY ILY ILY!!! ♡♡♡ can i pretty please request some new years eve hurt/comfort with fred weasley from the a special friend universe? maybe r is struggling a lot so they just spend new years eve bundled up in blankets on the couch (up to you if george and angelina make an appearance)
Happy New Year! ILY, thank you for your request! Fred and his poor ghost girl :( fem!reader ♥︎
Fred's already awake when you rouse. If he could have, he would've let you sleep where you'd been all day, your face buried in the space between his arm and his chest and your hand held over his ribs, but he'd had to help Bill with their rogue niffler situation again.
He turns to smile at your tired face, setting his mug of tea down on the kitchen table.
"Hey," he says. "You okay?"
He's an expert in you, or so he'd like to think, and your expression is worrying. You look as you had when you'd first met, face clouded with despondency, eyebrows pinched up just a touch.
"Just tired," you murmur. Your voice is quiet and scratchy and worn, like you've been talking for a hundred years, all by yourself.
He gestures for you to come into the kitchen.
When you're standing close enough to touch, he tilts his head up and gives you his warmest, slowest smile. He hopes it says, You're alright, and if you aren't there's no need to worry.
"Do you want to sit on my lap?" he asks quietly.
"'M heavy," you mumble.
He loves how, despite your grumbling, he only needs to sit back for you to take him up on his offer. You move very carefully and you refuse to put all of your weight on him, but Fred doesn't mind at all as your thighs press into his, and you work your arm behind his back for security.
"There's tea," he says.
His body reacts to you without intention, cheek dipping to your temple and arms curling around you. You take a little sip of his tea though you don't like it the way he does.
"What's the matter, my love?" he says, again, so quiet.
"Not sure," you say, your pitch creeping upward, a first sign of internal distress.
He lifts his head and pulls you in closer. Your side is soft against his stomach, your face hot as it slips into the crook of his neck. Hopefully you know by now that it's okay, but still he wants to tell you, making sure with absolute surety that you understand how much he doesn't mind.
"That's okay…" His hand closes over your arm, squeezing and massaging the dough at the crease of your elbow. "You'll tell me when you figure it out?"
You exhale into his skin. "Yeah."
While he doesn't care, you aren't light, and the kitchen chair is uncomfortable. His leg aches in the odd position it's held at. He doesn't tell you because while he loves you no matter what weight you are, he knows you'll internalise it, and that isn't something you need today.
"Lie on the settee with me," he says.
You nod like you're sleepwalking and climb out of his lap. He gets you on the settee, film on, quilt over your legs. You watch him. You aren't hostile in any way, but he does think there's something unhappy about the way you're looking at him.
"You aren't mad at me, are you, doll?" he asks.
"Do I look mad?"
There's his girl. Depressed, unhappy, panicked, you're still reaching out. He pulls the quilt up to slip in beside you, hand reaching not quite gently for your face. He pushes the corner of your lips up into a half smile.
"No," he says, grinning.
You're infected with a smile of your own.
It doesn't last. You sink into his side and watch the film in near silence, the only sound your sluggish breathing. He plays with your fingers for an hour, but eventually he starts to feel rather upset too. He doesn't show it, ever, that your sadness gets to him. He knows he should — honesty is important to him between the two of you, is conducive to your continued success as the best, warmest couple he knows. But he doesn't. It's one of those sacrifices of love, and it doesn't feel like a sacrifice at all. Your unhappiness makes him unhappy, and neither of you can help it.
He steals his hand back, arm over your shoulder, behind your neck, and waves his fingers behind your ear, encouraging your neck to be bared to him. He kisses you very, very softly until he gets to your jaw, where he bestows a fiercer kiss.
"I love you," he says, rubbing a short line into your cheek with his nose.
"I love you too, Freddie." You clear your throat. "You mean everything to me."
He grins like a fool. "Everything…"
He can't get as sticky as he wants to, dissuaded by the sharp cracking sound of an disapparation near the front door.
"Guys?" George calls.
Fred puts some space between the two of you but not much, hand falling back to your collar, face turned to the doorway.
George appears smartly dressed.
"Hey," he says, more to you than Fred, as they've already seen each other today, "we missed you at breakfast. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"Well, you look snug. I'll take it you aren't coming tonight?"
Somebody is throwing a New Year's Eve party. Fred and George have been invited, popular still despite years tormenting their fellow classmates, and so you're invited by extension as the love of Fred's life. He hadn't thought about it since you came out this morning.
"No, we're coming," you say, sounding like you'd secretly rather die.
"We definitely aren't," Fred says, twisting so he can lay in your lap. You receive him without complaint, though your lips have parted in surprise. "I'm knackered from all the strenuous activity this morning."
"Ew," George says.
"The niffler!" Fred shouts with a laugh. "How dare you. And while my girl's here."
"Christ," George mutters. "Has he been like this all day?"
You dip your face down to Fred's and look him in the eye, your gentle hands framing either side of his face. The heat of your palms seeps into his skin. "George, I love you, but this is never going to work. I'm on Fred's team," you say, fingertips threading into the start of his hairline and raking it away. "Always am," you say, lips barely parted.
"Disgusting," George says. "Alright, well. Happy New Years for tonight. Love you both, anything gross should occur in your room and not on the shared sofa."
Fred lifts his head and thankfully you lower your own for a kiss. He holds your face in one hand.
"Wait until I've gone, at least! Merlin."
Fred sits up properly and turns, a pretzel, trying to kiss you more while you're up for it. "Love you," he says again, lips pressed to yours, the words half-lost in the action.
You pull apart.
You spend a quiet night together like that. You're not better, kisses don't ever magically fix anything, but you hold his hand and stroke his fingernails with the pad of your index finger, and you fall asleep before the countdown for the new year's begun.
Fireworks crack over the sky outside, colours bursting in through the thin curtains.
You shift in your sleep.
"Happy New Year, sweetheart," he whispers, and kisses the corner of your lips. He lingers there for a moment, both your hands in his.
As long as he's got you, he reckons it's going to be a good year.
#fred weasley imagine#fred weasley fanfic#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley fluff#fred weasley#fred weasley fanfiction#fred weasley x fem!reader#a special friend universe
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hi it's me again im the anon who dropped about 800 words about ocd hamlet a couple weeks ago (maybe longer, time has been weird for me lately).. it made me soo happy to see it resonated with you and with some other people who reblogged it as well!! i've been projecting on hamlet ever since i read it and it feels like every time i read it i learn more about him AND me... and ever since Symptoms showed up he's been even dearer to me and im just so glad people like my interpretation as well :)
i hope it's ok for me to do this again because i want to talk about what if lady macbeth has ocd also. and i know this is sort of well. dangerous if that's the right word because 1) lady macbeth IS the villain in her play even if i love her from the bottom of my heart and i support everything she does and ocd is already an incredibly stigmatised and misunderstood 2) hand washing is possibly THE most stereotyped compulsion that sort of epitomises this really warped view of ocd in the public consciousness. i personally do not have handwashing as a compulsion or really any physical compulsions that are direct responses to my intrusive thoughts so i will try to be really really careful when im talking about this. + other disclaimers: again while i have definitely experienced symptoms of ocd i do not know if i have it and i am NOT diagnosed + ocd experiences are different for everyone + you cannot diagnose a character because they are not real + this one is mostly projection and is more a frame of reading than it is an interpretation grounded in textual evidence (esp since i will be talking about the sleepwalking asleep a LOT and she is technically, well. sleeping.) so just. take everything with a pinch of salt and please let me know if i ever overstep!!
im mainly going to be drawing on experiences close to real event ocd even though i know that typically real event ocd is defined by the fact that the sufferer blows their past mistakes way out of proportion and/or question their memories, and i guess i cannot say that lady macbeth’s guilt is completely unjustified because uh. she did kill a man.! but i do think her behaviours after the murder reflects what i’ve seen people speak about online as well as some of the experiences i’ve had.
guilt as illness
this is more general to the whole play i guess but i wanted to point out how the consequences of the macbeths’ regicide is absolutely portrayed as a disease. there’s a LOT of foreshadowing in lady macbeth’s advice to her husband in the immediate aftermath of their murder: she tells him not to “think / so brain sickly of things”, and says, “these deeds must not be thought / after these ways so, it will make us mad”. (2.ii) the doctor later alludes to “infected minds” (5.i) in relation to lady macbeth’s madness. the fact that the fixation on guilt is seen as an illness i think fits so well with ocd: whenever im having a bad day with intrusive thoughts and mental spirals it genuinely feels like there is something festering in my brain like a parasite feeding on anxiety.
guilt is also so intrinsically linked to sleep in macbeth: famously macbeth comes out of the king’s chamber ranting about how he may “sleep no more; macbeth doth murder sleep”, and lady macbeth’s obsession pours out of her when she is sleeping (and this is exactly why a doctor is called). i would argue that fucked up sleep is somewhat presented as an illness in ‘macbeth’ too; or if not, at least unnatural. this idea is all over act 2 scene ii (right after macbeth commits the murder) but i think it’s best epitomised in act 3 scene iv: “you lack the season of all natures, sleep.” (lady macbeth) season as in both night-season and seasoning/preservative. so sleep is both a natural part of life, and something that keeps things the way nature or god intended. the doctor says too that disturbed sleep is “a great perturbation in nature” (5.i). nightmares are DEFINITELY depicted as illness: macbeth says that they “sleep / in the affliction of these terrible dreams / that shake us nightly” (3.ii)
insomnia is highly associated with ocd since the obsessions/compulsions prevent sleep and sleep deprivation increases the commonality AND duration of obsession. if a significant portion of your day is spent devoted to obsessions/compulsions, there’s a chance they may become assimilated into intrusive dreams, since dreams are generally regarded as a way that the brain processes memories. thus, we can see that the way guilt in ‘macbeth’ is linked to disturbed sleep parallels how ocd is linked to sleep disorders. so not only is guilt itself an illness in ‘macbeth’, it links to other disorders too
2. withdrawal from dialogue
lady macbeth stops being on equal footing in terms of number of lines with macbeth after the murder. from act 3 she really only responds briefly to what macbeth says, and she’s not even in act 4. i sort of see that as her being dragged under her spiralling thoughts and retreating further and further back into her mind. i know i definitely zone out a LOT more on days where im being absolutely bombarded by intrusive thoughts. she’s definitely disoriented by the begining of act 3:
nought’s had, all's spent,
where our desire is got without content.
’tis safer to be that which we destroy,
than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
(3.ii)
the whole soliloquy (if you can even call it that—it’s only 2 couplets) is riddled with paradoxes and confusing wording. her mind is completely scattered and it feels to me as if she’s just been arguing with herself. this might be reaching slightly (as if this entire post isnt kind of reaching already. sorry) but to me it kind of mirrors the absurd leaps of logic my intrusive thoughts and rumination can sometimes take: how can it be “safer” to be destroyed? how can “joy” be doubtful? it doesn’t make sense, and it’s confusing and frightening, but it feels absolutely real. (also note: as you’ve said before ocd is sometimes called the doubting disease. and lady macbeth calls her experience “doubtful”….
3. the mad scene
(disclaimer again i KNOW she is supposed to be asleep the entire time BUT i am going to. sort of. ignore that. sorry</3)
in the beginning of act 5 scene i, lady macbeth’s lady-in-waiting says,
since his majesty went into the field, I have seen
her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon
her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it,
write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again
return to bed — yet all this while in a most fast sleep.
i’ve never experienced physical compulsions myself, but this sort of repeated, methodical act matches how i’ve seen people describe them. the doctor specifically calls them “actual performances”, which suggest, i think, something mechanical and dictated in some way; “perform” is definitely a word i’ve seen people use to descrive carrying out compulsions. (do correct me if i’m wrong!)
then let’s look at lady macbeth’s actual speech:
out, damned spot, out, I say. — one, two — why,
then, 'tis time to do't. — hell is murky. — fie,
lord, fie, a soldier, and afeard! what need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account? yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him?
the jumping around of her thoughts honestly feels exactly like my mind alternating between intrusive thoughts and desperately trying to justify why they aren’t true. she goes from reflecting on her debillitating guilt, to being anxious about going to hell, to replaying and checking her memories, to reassuring herself (and macbeth) that she won’t get caught, and then to thinking about her guilt again. it’s a rapid-fire, relentless cycle that continues throughout the scene. she’ll jump from reenacting a moment with her husband, to the obsessing over the blood on her hands, then back again. notably, in her address to macbeth, she never seems to be reenacting the exact same moment. she taunts him for his cowardice seemingly before the murder, then pleads with him, saying that “banquo cannot come out his grave”, then goes back to when they are fleeing the crime scene. i think this reflects the sort of distortion of memory that constant memory checking and ocd can cause. the moodswings and the flip-flopping between “everything’s fine” and “i’m going to hell” are also SO intense and honestly it’s exactly what it feels like on my worst days.
in the entire scene, lady macbeth speaks in prose instead of verse: it’s obviously a sign of madness by itself, but i also think it reflects the complete loss of control she has over her thoughts and actions. in the beginning acts she is all about control: she demands “spirits / that tend on mortal thoughts” (1.v) to do her bidding, she tells macbeth to “leave all the rest to me” (1.v), and she tells him what to do at every moment. but at this point in the play she can’t stop the onslaught of regrets, guilt, and memories, and she can’t even control herself physically.
speaking of the elephant in the room: the excessive handwashing. i think of lady macbeth’s handwashing as less of a reaction to a genuine fear of contamination, but as something more akin to body-repetitive behaviours like skin-picking (dermatillomania) and hair-pulling (trichitillomania, which i think i have) which are associated with ocd.
i sort of headcanon lady macbeth to have absolutely horrible skin splits on her hands (<- this part is complete projection): and so following this interpretation, i think of her handwashing sort of as a form of self-flagellation because rubbing her hands continually will make the skin tear and bleed. (gore tw?) that, then, fits in with the blood on her hands: in her semi-conscious state she thinks it’s duncan’s, when it’s really hers.
i know that another common compulsion is counting: and lady macbeth does count (“one, two—’tis time to do it.”) one of the reasons people with ocd may count (and there are many reasons, this is not the be-all-end-all) is “attaching meaning to particular numbers where certain numbers will induce anxiety, while others will reduce anxiety. for example, if you assign special meaning to the number three, you might count your steps by threes, or lock and unlock your car three times before driving, or any variety of other action ruled by this magic number.” (<- quoted from nocd website)
i also know that repetition of words or phrases is another common compulsion. and these are lady macbeth's final lines:
to bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate.
come, come, come, come, give me your hand. what's
done cannot be undone. — to bed, to bed, to bed.
4. her death
in your ocd hamlet post, you talked about how hamlet’s death is almost peaceful in his “silence”, and how horatio, despite knowing all his flaws and obsessions, believes wholeheartedly in his salvation. (that honestly means the world to me, by the way, so thank you.) the macbeths went through EVERYTHING together: the planning, the crime itself, the aftermath—it’s clear from their dialogue that at the beginning of their sufferings they saw each other go through sleeplessness, nightmares, and obsession. but over the course of the play, they completely fall apart. (i think the last time macbeth uses “we” to refer to the two of them is to say “we’ll to sleep” and “we are yet but young in deed”, which is the most ironic thing ever.) macbeth’s only response to lady macbeth’s death is “she should have died hereafter.” i honestly don’t know what that means in terms of the ocd reading, or in comparison with horatio's reaction to hamlet's death. i'd love to know what you think.
thanks for bearing with me!! i’m a bit less confident in this reading than i am for ocd hamlet, and it’s more likely i’ll get something wrong about ocd in this one, but sorry i just wanted to unleash this somewhere i hope that’s okay and genuinely please tell me if i say anything wrong or insensitive! i also typed this over 3 hours and went over the text as if this was a homework essay.....? and it is now almost 2am so i’m sorry if this isn’t coherent. i hope you’re having a wonderful day :)
hi same anon here i forgot to put this in but. i listened to verdi macbeth opera mad scene una macchia è qui tuttora the whole time i was writing that thing in case anyone would like to know...... i love it so so much my favourite video recording is by sylvia sass on youtube https://youtu.be/tP59Ox8MdQ4?feature=shared&t=319 AND there are full productions of the opera on youtube as well. thank you so much for reading!!!!
YES.... YES..... YESSSSSSSSSS I LOVE AN OCD LADY MACBETH... IT'S ABOUT THE GUILT IT'S ABOUT THE REPETITION DOES EVERYONE HEAR ME? TODAY WE ARE DOING GUILT AND REPETITION
i have had similar thoughts about the sort of inherent trickiness of it (oh, the lady who washes her hands a lot has ocd? whoa, totally original thought that has nothing to do with pop culture perception of ocd) (and also she did kill a man). but you really said it all with that ksdhfdksnfdsn. i will pitch in that i DO have handwashing compulsions and tbh. i personally think lady macbeth ocd reading is a net win even if it does trail a little close to stereotypes because if you dig even slightly deeper than "haha handwashing" it allows for an examination of ocd not just as an action but also as a manifestation of guilt and illness. which is SO macbeth. the body politic is sick the government is sick!!! again im taking the words right out of your mouth here this ask whips ass
shaking your hand on conceiving of ocd as something parasitical. really feels like there is some Thing up there feeding on my brain. (also on intrusive thought dreams. fucked upppppp like man leave me alone)
AND ON THAT NOTE i feel like even if she is asleep it can still be ocd. i say this with no medical training whatsoever and this isn't, like, me asserting that people actually do compulsions while asleep, but on a narrative level, the emotional processes happening to her character are petty clear even if she's sleepwalking, right. once again no medical training whatsoever
the jumping around of her thoughts honestly feels exactly like my mind alternating between intrusive thoughts and desperately trying to justify why they aren’t true.
[...]
the moodswings and the flip-flopping between “everything’s fine” and “i’m going to hell” are also SO intense and honestly it’s exactly what it feels like on my worst days.
YEAH. YEAH. YEAH. the ugly intrusive thought -> self-reassurance -> self-reassurance makes it worse -> intrusive thought (harder and worse) spiral. and literally this is EXACTLY what it feels like. me when i accidentally say something rude and then i'm evil for three days. except she killed a man
i sort of headcanon lady macbeth to have absolutely horrible skin splits on her hands (<- this part is complete projection): and so following this interpretation, i think of her handwashing sort of as a form of self-flagellation because rubbing her hands continually will make the skin tear and bleed. (gore tw?) that, then, fits in with the blood on her hands: in her semi-conscious state she thinks it’s duncan’s, when it’s really hers.
YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH. ON AN ANALYTICAL LEVEL AND A PERSONAL LEVEL. LITERALLY THE LEAPS I CAN DO IN MY BEAUTIFUL MIND TO BE LIKE WOW IM JUST LIKE LADY MACBETH (BLOOD ON MY HANDS). YOU N ME BROTHER
and re: her death and the macbeths splintering apart. that is honestly the most painful part of this play for me, as a lover of evil couples and also of their specific dynamic. the fact that they mesh so well at the beginning (i mean, they argue, there's friction, but they're clearly on the same page--they enter their first shared scene both thinking the same thing and a lot of their communication is in implication) and then they just. fragment. and i think with the OCD ladymac reading it's even worse, because the thing about OCD at least in my experience is that. at some point the people around you stop being able to understand what the fuck your problem is. even when they're trying really hard. because it doesn't make any sense! the compulsions don't make logical sense the self-flagellation doesn't make any sense none of it is SOLVING anything but it also does make sense, To You, on a level you cannot really explain to people that don't Get It*. and so like. the macbeths are already breaking apart because of their responses to the murder, and this is just one more thing coming between them. she is trapped in a cage in her brain that he cannot see.
*(i think not infrequently about the overlap between OCD and psychosis; i haven't experienced psychosis and obviously there are major differences, but i relate a lot to what psychotic people have said about, like, the ability to hold multiple contradictory truths at once. my compulsions will not actually stop disasters from happening, but they also will. you could maybe pull in something about macbeth's parallel loss of control + his hallucinations? but i'm not diagnosing macbeth with psychosis necessarily i'm just saying words).
anyway, anon, i am always extremely impressed by your dedication to writing out quotes and coming armed with evidence, and also your analysis fucking bangs. this is such a good ask i need to frame it on the wall your mind is huge. i hope you have a wonderful day as well :)
#max.txt#macbeth#lady macbeth#asks#also my secret is that i wrote a sort of macbeths-inspired short story about that ocd psychosis overlap thing#but i can't post it yet because i'm trying to make someone give me money for it#i can't write anything that isn't about shakespeare apparently.
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Chapter 18 - The Ghosts of Babylon
Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete
Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence
Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3
~*~
The walk to the clinic from your house takes about five minutes, but today you take your time, drawing it out. It’s autumn in Wyoming. The oppressive heat of summer has passed and you finally feel like you can breathe.
With the promise of winter comes snow, making movement by the infected hordes more difficult. With any luck, patrols will get a little less nerve-wracking for Joel and Ellie…and by extension, for you.
You haven’t thought about the radio in a long time, which is why, when you come home to find your front door unlocked, you don’t give it a second thought.
“Joel? You here?”
There’s a scuffling from upstairs, footsteps. You see her familiar red Converse peek over the landing.
“Ellie? Hey, I’m just getting off work.”
You set your bag down by the door, waiting for her to come downstairs. She doesn’t; lingering for too long. You realize you can hear her ragged breathing, the snick of her switchblade.
“Ellie? What’s wrong?”
Her footsteps are slow and measured when she finally descends. One hand is clutching her knife, her eyes never leave yours.
Sleepwalking? Is this a panic attack?
She keeps her focus trained on you but stops on the second to last riser.
“Ellie–”
You take a tentative step forward but she jabs the knife at you, trembling. You realize with dawning horror that she’s terrified of…you.
“Don’t!” she gasps. “You’re…you’re–”
“What–”
She bolts, leaping off the steps and practically spinning you on your heels as she flies for the door, flinging it open, tearing out of the house at a full run.
You stand in limbo, wanting to go after her, needing to know what set her off…but some dark thing in the back of your mind wakes from a deep slumber and rears its ugly head.
…oh, no…
You know what you‘ll find before you make it to the upstairs landing. The attic door has been opened, the stairs pulled down.
She knows.
You stand at the entrance to the attic, blinking back tears, unable to swallow past the lump in your throat.
You imagine her looking for the comics, taking matters into her own curious hands. You kept forgetting to go up yourself and dig through the boxes, kept promising her you’d do it and then forgetting , but was it really forgetting? No. The attic is a tomb of shame, you couldn’t face it when things had been so good, so easy , for once in your goddamned life things were light and–
She knows. She knows everything. She knows, she knows, she knows, sheknows sheknowssheknows…
You climb the steps on heavy legs. The radio has been turned on; it crackles with static. There are papers–your papers, your notes, your maps–scattered across the work desk. You never hid them after the last time, you’d been so panicked, so stupid .
Fuck. Why did it have to be her?
The room tilts and you brace yourself on the table, breathing hard, digging your nails into the wood hard enough to leave a mark. You need to think, you need to…fuck, if you could just think for one goddamned second.
Joel. She’ll go to Joel.
The recorder is blinking. You press the button to rewind the tape with a trembling finger. The final message is old, from last spring…your extraction orders finally came, along with a warning.
Your stomach sinks, drops like a stone, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright, to bite back a sob as you realize what it means.
They’re sending the masses your way.
You dig deep, finding that kernel of hardness within, biting on it the way you bit on a leather strap when you were scraped raw and bleeding. You gather the notes, the maps, and the tape with the final transmission–everything you can carry in shaky hands. You don’t have much time.
~*~
Tommy answers the door, blinking in confusion as you hold out the evidence of your crimes.
“I need Maria. I need to speak to the council. It’s urgent.”
~*~
Hours later, an emergency assembly is gathered in the Jackson town hall. It used to be a gymnasium; you’re staring at the scuffed markings on the wood floor as you await your verdict.
You tell them everything you know. You give them everything–your notes, the maps. You tell them to search the clinic, your home, even your body. You come clean with the stoicism of a prisoner of war, inwardly amazed at how easy it is to slip back into the role of soldier.
They grill you for hours and you answer with everything you have. No excuses, no drama, no tears–just the facts.
Inside, your stomach has knotted itself so tight you can barely swallow, every muscle in your body burning and somehow not yours . You are just an empty vessel. You wonder if this is what the infection feels like as it takes hold, cold certainty and dread and…drifting…
There are guards at the doors, but you have no desire to run or fight. The council has sequestered themselves in another part of the building. Sometimes you think you hear raised voices, but mostly you’re left to the quiet of your thoughts, the place you’d least like to be.
You think about Ellie finding Joel, because you know that’s where she’s gone. She’s probably already told him, and he knows your dirty little secret, your shame–
Don’t go there.
The hard voice is back, saving you from yourself.
Your heart lurches when you hear a door open at the other end of the gym and hear footsteps as the council shuffles in and takes their seats at the long folding table in front of you. Only Maria will meet your eyes.
She clears her throat, studying you for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and even, controlled.
“We’ve studied the evidence. We’ve searched your home and your office. You’ve given us a very difficult decision to make.”
You lower your head, waiting for the sentence. Waiting for hanging, jailing, expulsion.
“I can’t think of a good reason for you to lie to us now…no more than you already have,” she frowns, visibly angry, before smoothing her face into an unreadable mask. “The information you’ve given us can be…put to use. And as much as I hate to admit it, you’ve been a valuable asset to our community.”
You blink, certain you’ve misheard.
“To be honest, we don’t know what to do with you. We considered putting it to a community-wide vote, but based on what you’ve told us…I don’t think we have time for that kind of red tape.”
Maria sighs and sits back. “I want to be clear that this is a probation. As long as you’re here, you’ll be under supervision by council-appointed guards. Your every waking move will be monitored. You won’t be–”
“I’m sorry,” you say, your mouth suddenly dry. “I…don’t understand. You’re not…”
…saying I can stay? you think but can’t finish the thought. There’s no possible way.
Your eyes flick to the other members’ faces; most are downcast. Some stare at you in stony silence. You get the impression there were negotiations, and not everyone is happy with the decision, but Maria’s voice is steady.
“You’re more valuable to us here than out there,” she says flatly. “If it were anyone else…we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
You’d expected to be hung; at the very least, banished, put outside the walls to fend for yourself. You don’t deserve anything more; what she’s telling you doesn’t make sense.
One of the lucky ones.
“If you agree to these terms–”
“I…can’t.”
“Excuse me? You don’t agree?”
“I can’t stay,” you say, willing your voice to be stronger. It comes out faint and hoarse.
Maria stares at you, incredulous.
“You won’t make it,” she says flatly. “The infected are everywhere. They’re driving hordes of them this way as we speak. And if they don’t get you, FEDRA will.”
“I know,” you say softly. “But I can’t.”
~*~
The doors swing wide into the night air and he’s standing before you, eyes wild with confusion. He opens his mouth to ask the question, but stops short, hands at his sides, fists clenching.
It’s been eight hours since Ellie ran out your front door. You feel numb, twisted and wrung out like a wet rag. All you want to do is go back to the little green house, pack your shit, and leave. But he’s blocking your exit, studying your face, forcing you to watch the slow unraveling of his features from sadness to anger to rage.
“So it’s true,” he says thickly.
“The council doesn’t know about her,” you rasp, staring at a point beyond his shoulder, into the street. You need to make him understand that this is the one secret you didn’t give up. “I told them everything, but I didn’t tell them about her.”
He shakes his head, chest heaving, pacing like the leopard in its cage.
“I trusted you,” he hisses. “I trusted you with my kid, with my fucking life –”
You attempt to push past him, but he grabs your forearm, hard. The pain is fierce and tears finally come, spilling over, dripping silently down your cheeks.
“Joel–”
“Look at me!” he growls, hand grabbing your chin, tilting your face up to him, and the betrayal in his eyes is a wildfire waiting to consume you.
The door to the town hall opens behind you. Maria’s voice is soft but level.
“Joel.”
You wrench yourself from his grip and flee.
~*~
When the gates open for you for the last time, you’re carrying nothing but a backpack and your jacket, a knife tucked into the pocket. You think you can feel the entire community’s eyes on your back, but it’s just you, Maria, and the guards on the wall.
Joel isn’t there. Neither is Ellie. You’re thankful for small favors.
Maria clears her throat. “If I were you, I’d head north. If you make it past the border, things get pretty quiet. I’ve heard there’s a settlement in Alberta.”
You nod, but you have no intention of heeding her advice. You doubt you’ll make it out of Wyoming, let alone across the border. You’ve packed a few clothes, but it’s mostly for show. Survival is not the intent. You’re operating in a space outside your body, watching yourself from afar with the detached nature of a physician examining a patient, and this one’s not going to make it.
The gates close behind you with a groan, sealing your fate. The pack on your shoulders feels heavy.
You take a deep breath, and you walk.
~*~
Each day becomes a simple matter of one foot in front of the other. Your legs and back ache mercilessly and you revel in it, letting the pain become your constant companion. When you get tired, you lie down in the grass and curl into a ball with your pack as a pillow, entering a nightmare-filled sleep.
When you wake up, you’re always cold and hungry. You drink from a small stream, hands going numb with the frigid water as you bring it to your mouth. You fill a water bottle and stash it in your pack, mutely wondering why you bother.
You don’t see many infected at first; sometimes they’re off in the distance, easy enough to avoid, though you wish you dared to just throw yourself at them.
Take me.
Your mind runs in circles, trying to drag you back to Jackson. Sometimes you wipe the salt water from your cheeks before you realize you’ve been crying, but most of the time you’re lost in the great void that has opened up in your chest.
You lose track of time. There are more steps, the endless invisible path ahead, the steady ache in your legs, and the hollow gnawing of your gut. The ground is uneven, and as you grow weaker, your strides become less certain, less sure.
On day four, you crest a hill and find a highway running through a valley, what looks like a small town, tiny cars littering the surrounding area in their vain attempts to escape the inevitable. You haven’t seen anyone yet, infected or otherwise, but the highway promises civilization of a kind.
The hike is further than it looks, and by the time you pass the first decayed skeleton in the tall grass, your breath comes in short, ragged gasps. You study the skeleton, consider laying down beside it…just for a minute. Or maybe longer.
Maybe you won’t wake up. Maybe that would be okay.
The road cuts a ravine through the landscape, leaving a jagged ledge of rock and loose soil between you and the town. You’re stumbling down the slope when the ground gives out beneath you, pebbles sliding underfoot, and before you can right yourself, you’re rolling over and over, landing hard on one shoulder and wrenching your ankle with a sickening twist.
Pain rips through you and the world goes gray.
~*~
You blink up into the too-bright sky, groaning. It comes back to you in the flash of a white-hot blade shoved deep into your left ankle. You moan, rolling over, trying to get to your feet, but that leg won’t hold you.
It’s broken.
You hear them before you see them, the ground underneath you pounding a faint staccato against your palms in the grass. The first one appears at the edge of the horizon in your blurred vision, staggering with that telltale lurch, and your bladder flushes with hot fear.
You curse that hard seed of survival within you, the one that urges you to get up, to go, now . Another staggering figure in the background, then another…
You scan the littered field of cars, looking for an escape. There’s no way you’ll be able to run. The ground underneath you reverberates with their footsteps, their screeches and moans sound in the distance.
Just stay. Lie down.
Fighting your inner dialogue, you get to your hands and knees, trying not to scream when your ankle flops at an impossible angle. Eyes fixed on the nearest car, you begin pulling yourself across the field, hands clutching at the earth until your palms are scraped and bloody.
You steal a glance behind you and see the full horde like a wave washing over the landscape.
Gritting your teeth, you dig your fingers into the grass and pull, arm over arm, until you’re panting next to the car’s rear door. You reach up, muffling a scream at the pressure on your ankle as you lift yourself enough to open the door.
The knife in your pocket digs into your hip, reminding you, and you pull it out, fumbling to open it. You plunge the sharp blade into the back seat’s upholstery, giving yourself a lever on which to pull your broken body upright.
The screeching is on top of you now. You see a blurred shape streak by on the other side of the car’s muddy window, then another. The ground underneath you is thrumming.
You slide into the back seat and reach behind you to shut the door just as one of the infected slams into it, one mangled hand clawing its way inside. You scream and slash at it with the knife, slamming the door hard against the creature’s wet, angry growl. The flesh twitches and pulls back just enough for the door to latch.
The creature throws itself at the car, slamming its head into the window over and over as you scramble as far into the opposite corner of the seat as you can. Cold sweat stains your clothes, and there’s the unmistakable scent of urine as your bladder lets go.
A screech from over your shoulder startles you and you muffle a scream into your palms. The horde is surrounding the car now, fumbling and clawing blindly for purchase. There’s one on top of the car; when it sees you, it begins pounding against the rear windshield, leaving bloody, moldy smears.
You sob, a wretched sound in the confines of the stale, musty prison that will be your death. You curl into a ball and press your face to the upholstery, wishing you had the courage to open the door and let them have you. You curse that grit inside you that keeps you alive until the last waking moment.
But it will be over soon. The glass is cracking.
#fanfic#fic recs#the last of us hbo#joel miller#the last of us#ellie william#joel and ellie#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you
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Sleepwalker Infection - Stages
If you run into a Stage 4 Infected, run. Any contact will infect you, which seems to be a mutation of the Tantabus's original ability to transfer to other ponies through nightmares. Now, although it doesn't seem to be able to travel to other ponies through nightmares anymore, unless an infected visits another in their dreams, it can do so in the waking world, like a virus.
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i havent proofread this but
here is the first part to 'hortator of the sharmat'
i might go back and fix a lot of stuff but im excited so far bc i love this little messed up idea
--
The Sixth House broke out of Vvardenfell first, and then escaped out from the mainland, slowly but surely infecting the greater empire. The Tribunal’s power was waning, and the empire had no idea what to do about the strange plague ravaging the lands.
Most of the Sixth House preferred to move in shadows or hiding in plain sight. They had squirmed their way into the heart of the empire and beyond, but they didn’t move without a purpose.
Many, when they didn’t live in old ruins or in the wilds, instead opened up orphanages far and wide. There was always an unfortunate abundance of orphans in the Empire, except in Morrowind where the temple’s charity took care of anyone displaced or abandoned. Churches in Cyrodiil were always flooded with too many mouths to feed, so it was no wonder they readily accepted help from outsiders wearing the robes of the Nine Divines. In fact, many were former priests or nuns who, when exposed to ash statues, suddenly took up an interest in opening their own orphanages with the help of some ‘kind and generous souls’.
Neht was one of the orphans the Sixth House picked up. At first it wasn’t all bad; he was no longer hungry all the time and no longer being kicked around on the street by people who looked at scruffy children like they did diseased rats. He thought that, surely, they must be good people from how kindly they treated the children, despite the strange iconography beneath the surface that didn’t belong to any divines or the way they constantly muttered to themselves and sleepwalked.
And then he became a young adult, and he saw what really happened.
Typically a young Dunmer of his age just started with physical labor. Usually the orphanage would send older kids out to work in fields for a couple of hours a day to help out and even bring back some coin. Neht thought that was why they sent him and a few other kids away by wagon. Only this wasn’t a short excursion; what he thought was only going to be a few hours at most quickly ended well past nightfall. The other kids were confused, talking among themselves.
There was one thing they all had in common, they realized: all of them had been born under the thief sign.
Finally, they were all ushered inside an old ruin, greeted inside by the black and blood red iconography they’d see at the orphanage. Only this time it was everywhere, blood red candles lighting their way.
The Bosmer, two years older than Neht, muttered to his friend wondering if they were daedra worshippers.
From there they were divided up and told why they were there. There were no Nine Divines, at least, not in that they were worthy of worship. Even the living gods of the Tribunal were false gods. No, there was one real god: the god of Morrowind, the Dreamer, Dagoth Ur, and the Good Daedra of Morrowind ruthlessly dethroned. All betrayed and abandoned by their people. All in service of a higher cause.
None of them knew what to think. Neht remembered several didn’t take it seriously. Others planned to escape, not underestimating how difficult it would be.
They were told they met certain conditions to be Dagoth Ur’s champion, Saint Nerevar Moon-and-Star reborn. Lord Dagoth’s greatest strength, and his destined consort. And through various trials, the Nerevarine would be revealed and brought to him to finally cleanse Morrowind and begin his expansion in earnest.
And the first trial was one of the worst: the trial of flesh. To become free from aging and blight. The true start of their trials and cut them off from the rest of the world.
The blight, corprus, the strange new plague that was a huge thorn in the empire’s side. Whatever you called it, the divine disease was the same: many infected became not too dissimilar to zombies, though magic targeting the undead didn’t work on them. They never decayed past a certain point either, and showed no mindless desire to infect others. Instead they seemed to just… Walk. They wandered and moved into the wilderness, wherein they seemed to disappear. Some infected others, but the empire seemed relieved they weren’t overrunning cities at least.
One by one they were all infected with it. None of them could escape, though many tried. If any did so, they were dragged back alive, forced to endure it.
Most of them became the common corprus beast, lumbering around aimlessly, looking decayed. Others lost the color of their skin entirely and became a different kind of mindless creature, looking waxen as a corpse. A few of the unlucky ones had their skulls cave in and growths form out of it, though they were taken away more quickly.
The rest of them waited through pained fevers, nightmares, and pure agony. To Neht it felt like he endured the pain of dying over and over again, only finding relief from physical pain when he closed his eyes. Most of the time he dreamed though it was nightmares: dreams he was being ripped to pieces. Dreams that he was being poisoned. Dreams that he had been betrayed.
A few more of them succumbed to the strange transformations, but weeks after that…
Their fevers instead began breaking. The aches and pains subsided. The nightmares became less and less common. They no longer looked visibly ill. And as they would soon learn: they no longer aged. Luckily they were all physically mature, but there was something somber about how they would remain like this either forever, or until they mentally deteriorated into becoming the ash creatures they saw before.
The other trials were tests of skill. They were trained with various weapons and even magic, before their tutors found their strengths and honed in on them. Neht’s life became getting up, eating, and working his body doing more grueling training than even the arena apprentices were given, and then finally passing out.
Then they were tasked with surviving Ayleid traps. Then killing monsters. Then killing hostages like stray blades agents that learned too much or people who went lurking in homes to find treasure. Then killing each other to narrow it down further.
Neht didn’t even know why he was fighting except to just not die. He was overworked, stressed, and numb. Perhaps death would have been a blessing, but he couldn’t bring himself to overcome his base instinct to survive.
The other ‘potential incarnates’ as they were called, took different perspects. Many became, as you’d expect, enraged and planned to kill their way out of there one day or succumbed to despair. However what was more surprising was that the majority didn’t fall into one of those categories, but instead a different kind: those that wanted so desperately to be Nerevar Reborn. Those that started saying they knew they were his incarnation and often fought with each other about who was truly Nerevar. They became ruthless, killing each other in jealousy and to prove they were the ones who were ‘truly’ Nerevar.
But without fail, there was one thing that they all stumbled over: the trial of the moon and star. The moon and star ring was a relic of the good daedra—the definitive proof of Nerevar’s identity. The dwarven brass ring was enchanted to kill all those except for Nerevar and Nerevar alone.
After a certain point of accessing their skills, the higher ups of the Sixth house would have a ceremony under the watchful eyes of the statue of Azura, and were told to put it on.
And one after the other, they all died. Blood leaked from their eyes, their noses, their mouths, before they even burst into flames choking on their own blood.
Some were still cocky thinking they were the real Nerevarine. Others would scream and try to fight away from the leaders to avoid wearing the ring. But Neht knew both camps were foolish. Begging and pleading or trying to escape wouldn’t stop them and none of them were Nerevar reborn. But it seemed delusion and fear clouded their senses.
If there was a way out, Neht would have found it by now. But instead it seemed it was ‘his’ turn; his time was up so some god in a volcano could foolishly search for his ‘destined’ bride or groom, no matter how many had to die. Maybe the blood and fire would be better than succumbing to the madness late and becoming an ash ghoul after all like the Altmer around his age did two years ago.
They woke him at dawn, taking him to bathe. Only this time the maids scrubbed him town; something they usually only got on the 25th of evening star, Nerevar’s birthday and this their new collective birthday whether it was the same or not. It was to cleanse them for prayer, their bodies being washed with a specialty ash soap imported from Vvardenfell. The scent always made Neht a little nostalgic; it was perfumed with a blend he’d never smelled anywhere else before, but it overwhelmed him every time. When he closed his eyes he felt like he was somewhere far away, familiar and alien all at once. Perhaps that was the intended use of the soap—to make his mind go hazy, almost covered in a fog as the stress melted off his muscles.
Then he was dressed in black and red robes. They were soft and luxurious, though only two thin layers. They were costly and most of them died, after all.
From there they styled his hair, brushing it back into a large braid. The older woman covered in scars braiding his hair back always muttered to herself as though in a trance, but this time Neht could understand a few of her words.
“… Perhaps we got it right… Perhaps this time I can style St Nerevar’s hair properly rather than cut the braid of a false incarnate…”
All of their braids were kept, bound tightly, revered by the sixth house. Even though they were false incarnates, they were ‘blessed’ supposedly by Dagoth Ur and Azura and would be at peace in Moonshadow for all eternity.
Neht sighed, a red tie being used to secure the braid, before he was moved to the final room.
He hesitated slightly, before he continued walking, numb now as he knew he marched to his death. Panic would only make it worse, he imagined, and wouldn’t save him regardless.
The highest member of the cult smiled at him, her grin almost unnerving. She was a middle aged woman who always put him on edge; one moment she was smiling brightly at them, but the moment one of them died her eyes became cold and uncaring, her expression only one of mild disgust and disappointment. The only reason she regarded any of them positively was because they might be the Nerevarine. Likely none of them were, but there was a possibility.
“Come forth, incarnate. It is time for your next trial.” Her voice echoed across the room. Others couldn’t see, but they could all hear in these ruins when voices echoed so freely.
Neht stepped forward as the woman beckoned for his hand. He hesitated once more, before sighing and handing it to her.
He breathed in the perfume still clinging to his skin, trying to seek one last reprieve of comfort before his senses were swallowed up by blood and fire. Metal touched his skin as the ring slipped on, and Neht shut his eyes tightly, waiting for the agony.
Seconds slipped by, unable to breathe as he braced himself for pain, but… It hadn’t come. He wondered how long he’d have to wait, before he heard whispers and he looked down at his hand. No bruising was visible like on the other false incarnates. He reached up, touching his face, not feeling any blood.
Panic finally ran through him as the realization crashed over him, now wishing more than anything that he’d been killed.
“Ah,” the head priest looked at him with pure glee in her eyes, “I’ve finally done it… I found the Nerevarine.”
“I—“ Neht’s breathing was quick now. “What if this is a fake ring?” Something else inside him however, denied it the moment it left his mouth. No, the ring felt too familiar on his hand. It felt too right, like he’d worn it for centuries.
“It is no fake,” She laughed a bit too loudly. “I check it personally for the enchantment the moment before I put it on an incarnate…” Her eyes were still staring at him half crazed. “It’s really you, St Nerevar.”
“I-I’m…” His voice trembled as he backed away, before the head priest clapped her hands.
“Prepare Saint Nerevar properly.” She ordered, as maids and guards surrounded him. “He must be groomed and dressed appropriately. Then we prepare to travel to Vvardenfell him to Lord Dagoth.”
It couldn’t be true.
He couldn’t be Nerevar.
Neht punched the nearest guard, before the others quickly subdued him with magic. All the while the maids cooed over him, stroking his hair and singing hymns, delighted it was ‘Nerevar in the flesh’.
Neht didn’t know what happened to the rest of the incarnates. He never saw them after that.
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[lighthearted | positive]
Seeing all these MLP ‘Sleepwalker’ and ‘Infection’ AU’s around is awe-inspiring, and it’s incredible how varied and unique people’s interpretations are.
That being said, a quick question:
how do i show appreciation in the best way possible while also admitting that im fucking terrified pls everything looks awesome and people are so talented but i just cant look at it because its so goddamn awful to think about
That’s all, thanks in advance.
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💚About the cute alien who likes you from the Twisted Disneyland story!
Their race called Kattens come in many colors,covered in soft down with black speckles and stripes that shed like a snake's skin. They have large ears that fold when they sleep or hear loud noise. The facial structure is part human and part feline. Like their hairy ancestors,Kattens are nocturnal and sleep most of the day in a human bed on on a windowsill. They will either loaf or be in a ball.
Kattens have two sets of eyes,dominant ones close when asleep. The extra ones stay open and alert. Half of the brain responsible for autonomic functions is at rest while the half for voluntary,in a sense sleepwalking while aware of their surroundings,objects and actions.
They have four toes and four long fingers with soft bean like pads that absorb shock when jumping,landing or running. They have a very long forked tongue for tasting and cleaning themselves. Unlike cats,Kattens possess collarbones but have the ability to rotate their head to reach their backs. Their stomach is larger than a human,allowing them to survive on one large meal if they choose. The second stomach and second fur is not in use,but rather dormant in warm weather. This second stomach stores water infused with electrolytes to prepare for winter and is covered in fat to nourish their bodies until they find food and water.
Their digestion is normal in warm weather. In winter it slows down,so they can feel fuller for an extended period after they've eaten. Bathroom habits remain the same.
Their second skin that grows as fur is thick and insulated to keep them warm in the harshest of cold. Also the skin of the beans on their hands and feet become coarse and thick to endure it.
Kattens are sociable creatures and get along well with humans and coexist with other species peacefully.
They observe potential mates,and confront them when ready,with kind interactions such as one would see in dating.
Katten mating is similar to cetaceans in a log form. In this form,they are the most comfortable,and primarily mate in hiding. The penis and vaginal areas on Kattens shift in colors. A tell for readiness is vivid pink. Their penises retract when they are finished,and female's vaginal cavities end the mating phase and close.
Sometimes young male Kattens will wake up "broken". This meaning the penis has unsheathed overnight and will constantly secrete,causing what humans would call bed wetting while asleep. Young female Kattens vaginal cavites remain open in the mating phase,causing identical problems. Reasons behind this are unknown,so the young Kattens are given training pants to prevent unwanted infection and to stop betwetting. The problem corrects as a teenager onward.
Kattens are rarely born with sex organs of both genders and are left alone,as their reproductive systems and urinary tracts remain unharmed and unchanged during these rare births.
If a Katten is forcibly assaulted,the entrances have fine keratin hairs that become stiff to cut an aggressor during forcible penetration.
They adjust well to clothing with holes in the pants for the double tails,but in the wild,Kattens are naked and usually hunt on all fours. The purpose of their two tails is to warn other Kattens with certain tail signs for danger or shelter.
Kattens fight one another if they are attracted to the same female. The loser must watch the female in mating with the winner.
Kattens hiss when agitated and deject a blinding solution from a pit under their tongue to disable predators when cornered. They lack fingernails but have retractable claws for defense and are adept at using weaponry. 💚
💚Think thats about all on the cat boy.💚
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Plagas!Leon headcanons after treatment down the years
(since I'm at work and can't write a story of bullet points bc lol mobile)
*Leon has some side effects that reside after treatment and removal of the parasite, such as his eyes turning red when he gets angry or bloodshot veins
*He can be more prone to bursts of anger as the parasite altered his neurochemistry and he can have mood swings
*His vision and senses improved as a result of the infection. His eyesight actually was getting worse before re4 and the infection corrected it. He was at the point where he would need glasses or contacts but no longer does
*He has recurring nightmares still regarding the infection, some are more subtle and involve bug swarms while others are more overt and he sees himself transforming. Sometimes he sleepwalks and you can see his eyes shine in the dark like a cat.
*His eyes are always red in photos, like in old polaroids. Imagine he gets married and his wedding photo he has piercing red eyes.
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Here's the start of my very own mlp Infection au! Here's part 1 and part 3
Some basic info about the stages of infection, with lil traditionally drawn concepts to accompany them. I apologise if my handwriting is hard to read at points, lol.
I will put it under this cut because I've drawn some monsterish-body horror stuff and a lil bit of blood, so if you don't want to see it, don't read more.
(Edit: I will also write a transcript describing what's written under the cut for accessibility, smh can't believe I forgot something so simple.)
[transcript:]
Stage 1: Victim experiences a sudden and drastic growth spurt regardless of age.
Growing pains are persistent and severe.
"It feels like things are growing out of my bones" - a quote from the victim.
"There is something itching under my skin." - another quote from the victim.
[pictured below is a nervous looking pony that is now almost twice the size of its original state.]
Stage 2: The growth spurt has developed into a far more worrying mutation, as it has continued to grow and lengthen the victims bones; to the point where their skin has become taut and strained.
Reduced movement as a result.
Small cuts have appeared all over the victims body, though the victim swears they don't remember getting hurt.
Victim is also experiencing mental fog, and sleepwalking has developed.
[pictured below is a haggard looking pony that appears to be suffering from dehydration and malnutrition, but in actuality it looks like that because its skin has become so taut and stretched thin its basically being shrink wrapped. It has also grown even taller and more spindly. the cuts on its body look like cat scratches.]
Stage 3: The victim is hostile.
Brain function has deteriorated, and victim has ceased any identifiable efforts to communicate.
Bone growth has not only worsened, but ligaments and joints have begun to fail- leading to dislocations and visible disfigurements.
The cuts observed on the victim in stage 2 have grown and begun to swell.
Taut skin has begun to tear due to victims now violent movements.
Strange shapes are forming under their skin.
Mane and fur loss.
[pictured below is a creature only resembling the general structure of a pony. it is bald, its jaw has dislocated and hangs limply from its head, it's eyes are wide and bloodshot, the cuts on its body now resemble pustules. Looks almost entirely skin and bones except for the few places where the skin has torn and hangs limp like the skin of an old popped balloon, muscle and bone exposed underneath.]
Stage 4: The victim can no longer be recognised as a pony.
It has been twisted into a new shape.
Its skin now hangs of f of it in torn rags, wrinkled and sagging from the constant strain.
Sharp and jagged bones protrude randomly from its body.
It has gaping dark holes littering its body.
The "cuts" from previous stages have split open and revealed themselves as hundreds of new, bloodshot, eyes; always rapidly looking around.
Its jaw bone fell out, and now it just swallows its prey whole.
It's hunger never seems to be sated.
[pictured below is a monster. the stage 4 report describes it mostly. but it does also now stand entirely using its exposed leg bones. its hooves appearing to have fallen off at some point. And it's mouth has split vertically all the way down its neck.]
#mlp infection au#mlp infected au#infection au#mlp fim infection au#infection au mlp#my little pony infection au
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