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[november 17]
Nov. 21st, 2018 01:40 pmThe first few days of this had been entertaining as hell, between waking up with Spike, kicking some prick's ass when he sure as shit hadn't expected it, and startling Greta to the point where she'd come after him with a broom. He's been having a fine time overall, trusting Spike to be right, trusting that it'll end eventually and he'll go back to living in the body he's had for so long, but he's enjoying himself in the meantime.
It had been a fucking blast until yesterday.
He'd woken up with a headache the likes of which he's never known before. It wasn't like being hungover, wasn't like rolling out of bed still drunk, his mouth dry and still tasting of booze. Popping a couple painkillers and washing them down with a beer hadn't done much to touch it and he'd grumbled around his flat for most of the day, ill-tempered and in pain. His jeans had been snug, too, the stupid ones he'd picked up just because he was small enough to fit into them, and buttoning them across his waist had been uncomfortable and tight.
His plan had been to go out again that night, but between the uncomfortable jeans and the headache, he'd given it up, dressed himself in one of his regular shirts, as large as a dress on him in this state, and gone to sleep far earlier than he usually would.
Today is worse. Today he wakes up and it feels like his new and temporary vagina is trying to turn itself outside out. Like something is trying to dig its way out from inside his body with a dull, rusted knife. Like his asshole is trying to rip itself in half. He hurts from the middle of his back to his knees, all the way through, to the point where he kind of wants to weep from the pain of it all.
After a few hours, he calls Greta, but she doesn't answer, so in desperation, he sends a text to Spike. All it says is im fuckin dying, knowing damn well he isn't, and then he throws his phone down beside him on the bed again and curls into a ball.
Mad Sweeney is a man who loves pain. A man who actively pursues it, who has gotten off on being bitten by a vampire more than anything else in fucking decades, but this is different. This is fucking awful.
It had been a fucking blast until yesterday.
He'd woken up with a headache the likes of which he's never known before. It wasn't like being hungover, wasn't like rolling out of bed still drunk, his mouth dry and still tasting of booze. Popping a couple painkillers and washing them down with a beer hadn't done much to touch it and he'd grumbled around his flat for most of the day, ill-tempered and in pain. His jeans had been snug, too, the stupid ones he'd picked up just because he was small enough to fit into them, and buttoning them across his waist had been uncomfortable and tight.
His plan had been to go out again that night, but between the uncomfortable jeans and the headache, he'd given it up, dressed himself in one of his regular shirts, as large as a dress on him in this state, and gone to sleep far earlier than he usually would.
Today is worse. Today he wakes up and it feels like his new and temporary vagina is trying to turn itself outside out. Like something is trying to dig its way out from inside his body with a dull, rusted knife. Like his asshole is trying to rip itself in half. He hurts from the middle of his back to his knees, all the way through, to the point where he kind of wants to weep from the pain of it all.
After a few hours, he calls Greta, but she doesn't answer, so in desperation, he sends a text to Spike. All it says is im fuckin dying, knowing damn well he isn't, and then he throws his phone down beside him on the bed again and curls into a ball.
Mad Sweeney is a man who loves pain. A man who actively pursues it, who has gotten off on being bitten by a vampire more than anything else in fucking decades, but this is different. This is fucking awful.
