rose the music box doll

Well, if your eyes won't work with you, your hands will. You move to prod the site, but your arm feels almost weightless, and way too much force sends it thumping uselessly against your lap. You've half a mind to ask your friend what's going on, but stringing words together sounds hard when you're this loopy, plus your throat feels like it's full of cotton. You stare dumbly up at them. They don't seem to be freaking out, so whatever's happening is probably fine. You trust them. They love you.

Through the haze, you notice your core strength seems to be dwindling. Quite fast, in fact. You lurch forward, powerless to right yourself, but warm hands thankfully grab your sides before you can complete your fall. They squeeze you a little (were you always this squishy?) (and has that always felt so good?) before lifting you up effortlessly. Reflexively, you try to lessen the load by wrapping your arms around them, but your limbs are absolutely set on being useless right now. You kind of just lightly smack them. You try to mutter an apology, but your lips feel numb, or maybe like they don't exist at all. Now that you've noticed that, you realize your hands and feet feel about the same. All muscle memory pertaining to them is gone, it's like they were never there.

By all accounts, you should be freaking out. 99% of your body weight has poofed away. Moving's getting harder to even think about by the second. You feel way smaller than you did five minutes ago, and like your nerves have been coated in a layer of soft fuzz. But somehow, your heart and mind aren't racing at all. You feel surprisingly comfortable. You feel like as long as those wonderfully warm hands keep holding you, you're safe.

Oh, you just noticed you've moved. You're being held up to the bathroom counter. There's a box in front of you, with the big needle from earlier inside it. You don't really care about it, you don't think? It's not as important as the hands under your arms. So warm. So comfy.

"Can you read that?"

Ugh... Well, if you're being asked, you guess you can try. Let's see... P... Plushie... HRT... Works Instantly!

There's some smaller text, but you really can't be bothered to read all that. Too much effort... Well, it's probably just warning labels, so it's fine. You try to tell your friend you're all done, but your mouth's still not moving. That doesn't stop you from making noise, though! You end up squeaking. Like a dog toy. You didn't know you could do that.

"Yeah, so basically—" you're lifted up higher. "You've seemed super stressed lately. Have you taken a break at all this week?"

You have not. Not caring to admit to this, you hold your squeaker and stare at the floor.

"That's what I thought. So! I— well, we, me and some of our other friends kinda conspired on this— thought you might benefit from a little push in the self-care direction. And since you're the type to get stressed about 'wasting your productivity juice'..." (They squeeze your tummy with those scare-quotes. It feels nice, a little tickly.) "... It only made sense to make it impossible for you to be productive."

You finally realize why they lifted you up. You look in the mirror like you probably should have several minutes ago, and...

Oh! You weren't really sure what you expected to be staring back at you, but it definitely wasn't a copy of your favorite plushie ever! That's you? You're that?! You're so cute! You squeak with unrestrained glee!

"Hehe, you like your new body, huh?"

Yes! You love it! You squeak as hard as you can!

"Good!" you're transferred to one hand, and the free one pats your head. "Your guilt-free impromptu vacation starts now! We'll cuddle with you, dress you up, take you places..."