#Cold Compression Therapy

[americacryous]

Top Reasons to Invest in a Localized Cryotherapy Machine

If you’re looking for an easy and effective way to manage pain, recover faster, and improve your overall health, a localized cryotherapy machine is a great choice. Unlike full-body cryotherapy, this machine focuses on specific areas, providing quick relief where you need it most. Here’s why investing in one is worth it.

1. Relieves Pain Quickly

Localized cryotherapy machine help reduce pain and swelling in targeted areas, like a sore knee or aching back. The cold therapy works fast to make you feel better.

2. Helps You Heal Faster

If you’re recovering from an injury or muscle strain, a cryotherapy machine can speed up the healing process. It reduces inflammation and helps your body bounce back sooner.

3. Easy to Use at Home

Portable cryotherapy machines are small and simple to use at home. Brands like America Cryo offer high-quality options that save you time and effort compared to visiting a clinic.

4. Saves You Money Over Time

While the initial cost of a portable cryotherapy machine might seem high, it’s a smart investment. You’ll save money by not needing regular therapy sessions, making it cost-effective in the long run.

5. Improves Overall Wellness

Cryotherapy isn’t just for injuries. It can help improve blood circulation, relax your body, and even enhance your skin.

With a localized cryotherapy machine, especially one from America Cryo, you can enjoy all these benefits from the comfort of your home. It’s a great tool to take care of your body and stay healthy.

[depresseddepot]

my cat's surgery is scheduled and the recovery will be. pretty intense

[infoblogify]

The Ultimate Guide to Finding the Best Woodbridge Chiropractor

Chiropractic care is a well-established and respected discipline within the broader landscape of healthcare. For individuals in and around Woodbridge, Virginia, seeking a chiropractor isn't just about finding a healthcare provider; it's about restoring the essence of their daily lives, free from the shackles of chronic pain and discomfort. In this comprehensive guide, we'll uncover everything you need to know to find the best Woodbridge chiropractor, right from where to look and crucial questions to ask, to understanding the various techniques and how to gauge proficiency.

Understanding Chiropractic Care

The Philosophy of Chiropractic

Chiropractic subluxation scotch plains is grounded in the belief that the body has an innate ability to heal itself without the need for medication or surgery. By adjusting the spine and musculoskeletal system, chiropractors aim to treat a variety of ailments, though their primary focus is on the health of the spine. This approach has garnered a significant following due to its emphasis on the body’s natural healing processes.

What Chiropractic Can Treat

Back and Neck Pain: This is the most common reason people seek chiropractic care. Whether it’s a result of an injury or strain, chiropractic techniques can help alleviate discomfort and promote healing.

Headaches: Often the result of muscle tension or misalignment of the spine, chiropractic care provides a non-invasive way to manage or eliminate headaches.

Joint Pain: By readjusting problem areas in the body, chiropractic can often offer relief for joint-related pain.

Injuries from Accidents: For those who have suffered injuries in accidents, chiropractic care can be part of a comprehensive treatment plan to restore normal function.

The Team Approach

Many chiropractors work in collaboration with other healthcare professionals to offer patients the best possible care. This may include medical doctors, physical therapists, and massage therapists. The aim is to create a comprehensive treatment plan tailored to the patient's specific needs.

Finding the Right Chiropractor in Woodbridge

Where to Begin Your Search

Finding the best chiropractor starts with a solid strategy. Local directories, online reviews, and recommendations from friends and family can be great places to start, but it's important to remember that what works for one person may not work for another. Therefore, doing your own research is key.

Online Reviews and Directories

Websites like Google, Yelp, and Healthgrades provide patient reviews of chiropractors that can offer valuable insights. Look for consistent feedback on professionalism, knowledge, and bedside manner. Pay attention to any recurring negative issues, like long wait times or difficulty making appointments.

Professional Associations

Membership in professional organizations such as the American Chiropractic Association or local state associations can indicate a higher standard of professionalism and commitment to the field of chiropractic.

Assessing the Chiropractor's Qualifications

The Importance of Licensure and Accreditation

Ensure that any chiropractor you are considering is licensed in the state of Virginia. Additionally, accreditation from recognized accrediting bodies provides an added layer of assurance that the chiropractor’s education and training meet industry standards.

Experience and Area of Specialization

Some chiropractors specialize in certain areas such as sports injuries or prenatal care. If you are seeking treatment for a specific issue, it’s beneficial to find a chiropractor with expertise in that area. Years in practice can also be a good indicator of experience.

Continuing Education and Training

The best chiropractors are committed to ongoing education and practice. Ask potential chiropractors about recent training and if they have certifications in any specific techniques or focuses.

Understanding Chiropractic Techniques

The Role of the Adjustment

Chiropractors use adjustments to realign the body and restore proper function. This can involve various techniques and degrees of force, depending on the nature of the problem and the patient's comfort level.

Types of Adjustments

Manual Adjustments: The traditional method where the chiropractor uses their hands to apply controlled force to a joint.

Instrument-Assisted Adjustments: Sometimes referred to as the Activator method, this uses a small, handheld instrument to deliver a gentle pulse to the joint.

Table Techniques: Specialized tables can assist in the adjustment process, particularly for those with mobility issues or where a specific type of adjustment is required.

Adjunct Therapies

Many chiropractors offer additional therapies to complement their adjustments. These can include ultrasound, electrical stimulation, and hot or cold treatments, among others.

The Consultation and Evaluation Process

What to Expect

Your first visit to a chiropractor should involve a thorough evaluation of your medical history, symptoms, and physical condition. This is an important opportunity for you to assess whether the chiropractor’s approach aligns with your expectations and comfort level.

Open Communication

A good chiropractor will encourage open dialogue and personalized treatment plans. Be prepared to discuss what you hope to achieve through chiropractic care, as well as any concerns or questions you may have.

Be Wary of Red Flags

If a chiropractor is dismissive of your concerns, rushes through the consultation, or makes grandiose claims about what they can achieve, these could be red flags that they are not the best fit for your needs.

Continuing Your Chiropractic Journey

The Treatment Plan

Once a diagnosis and treatment plan have been established, consistency is key to seeing improvements in your condition. Your chiropractor will recommend a treatment schedule that may include regular adjustments and other therapies.

At-Home Care and Maintenance

In addition to in-office treatments, your chiropractor may suggest exercises, stretches, and lifestyle changes to support your care. Compliance with these recommendations can significantly impact the effectiveness of your treatment.

Monitoring Your Progress

Regular check-ins with your chiropractor will include assessments of your progress. It’s important to keep your chiropractor informed about how you’re feeling and any changes you may experience.

Final Thoughts - Your Health, Your Choice

Choosing a chiropractor is a personal decision that should be rooted in your comfort, confidence, and the desire for improved health. The best Woodbridge chiropractor is one who listens to your concerns, collaborates with you on a treatment plan, and helps you achieve your health goals. Through careful research and thoughtful consideration, you can find a chiropractor who will be an invaluable partner in your wellness journey. Remember, the power of choice lies with you - make a decision that feels right for your health and happiness.

[bfstkb]

Cold Therapy - Necessary For Recovery

What does using cold therapy actually do?

When recovering from a soft tissue injury, the importance of cold therapy is often underestimated. Cold therapy reduces pain, swelling, and inflammation. The less inflammation you have, the easier it will be for your body to heal.

When should cold therapy be used?

It’s a common misconception that cold therapy is only useful during the beginning stages of your injury. With any soft tissue injury, but particularly a leg or foot injury, healing can be frustratingly slow. This is because walking puts pressure onto your injury, keeping it in a constant state of inflammation and slowing down the healing process. Using cold therapy all throughout your recovery will help to keep your inflammation and pain down – resting as much as possible will lessen these symptoms as well.

What is the best cold therapy device to use?

The ColdCure® from King Brand Healthcare Products is the best cold therapy wrap available. The wrap is made of soft, flexible neoprene fabric, and it comes with three reusable gel packs, which are meant to be stored in the fridge or the freezer, depending on what’s most comfortable for you. During treatment, one gel pack is inserted into the wrap at a time, ensuring that you always have two gel packs that are cold and ready to use. The gel inside of the packs is designed to not move around like the “blue goo” gel packs you might find at a drugstore – King Brand Rigigel® holds its shape and conforms specifically to the shape of the injured area, ensuring the best coverage and compression. Rigigel® packs stay cold for 20 – 60 minutes, and they hold approximately 3x more cooling power than other gel packs.

More Information:

[hsmagazine254]

Relieve Stress and Pressure Under Your Eyes

Your Guide to Refreshed and Rejuvenated Eyes In today’s fast-paced world, stress and pressure can take a toll on our well-being, particularly affecting the delicate area under our eyes. The constant strain, lack of sleep, and demanding lifestyles often manifest as puffiness, dark circles, and fine lines. However, there are effective ways to relieve stress and pressure under your eyes, giving you…

[p0orbaby]

It Doesn’t Get Any Easier

summary: you’re the new physio, tasked to help leah one on one with her recovery; but lines start to blur the longer you spend with one another

warnings: none

a/n: i enjoyed this one. also trying out a slightly different style so let me know what you think

word count: 2.8k

-

Leah comes in every morning just after 7:30, always a little earlier than the rest of the team—well, what’s left of the team—who roll in around 8, give or take. You start noticing her patterns by the second week. It’s not intentional. It’s just that she’s hard not to notice. The way she slips into the room quietly, moving like a shadow, like she’s trying not to be seen even though she’s Leah Williamson and there’s something impossible about Leah Williamson going unnoticed. You’re not sure she’s aware of it, or maybe she is, maybe it’s part of the act, something people like her learn over time—how to balance being seen and unseen simultaneously. Either way, she always acknowledges you. It’s a brief nod or a soft “Morning” that comes out like a sigh. But it’s there. And you nod back because it’s professional, it’s polite.

You’re the new physio, brought in because someone higher up decided that ACLs are the new pandemic, and Arsenal’s hit hard by it. One by one, players dropping like flies—tears, rips, stretches that aren’t supposed to stretch. Someone needed to focus on rehab, on these slow and tedious one-on-one sessions. So, here you are. Your life has become a revolving door of knee braces, resistance bands, ultrasound machines, and cold compression therapy. A strange, repetitive kind of intimacy.

Leah is assigned to you. "Take care of her," they say. She’s a captain. She’s the face. There’s an unsaid urgency that comes with her, an invisible asterisk by her name. You feel it in every briefing, every passing mention of her progress. Everyone’s waiting for her return. Waiting for her to be fixed.

Your first session with her is awkward. Stilted. You’re overly conscious of how she sits, her knee elevated, her eyes on the ceiling, like she’s counting the tiles instead of looking at you. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and that weird plastic-y scent that medical equipment always has. You ask her the standard questions: pain level, range of motion, any stiffness. She answers with one-word responses, tight-lipped. There’s a distance between you that you can’t quite figure out if it’s professional or personal. Maybe both.

-

Weeks pass, and the routine becomes muscle memory. You know when to push and when to pull back. How to make her laugh, how to coax her into stretching just a little more without her getting defensive. You start to notice the little things about her. Like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts after you adjust the brace on her leg, or how she clicks her tongue when she’s frustrated, a soft noise that barely registers unless you’re paying attention, which you are. You’re always paying attention to Leah.

It’s in the middle of a session that things shift. You’re guiding her through a series of exercises—balance work, stuff that’s boring but essential—and she’s sweating, biting her lip as she focuses on not wobbling. You’re right there, hands out, ready to catch her if she stumbles. She doesn’t, but the proximity is there. Too close, maybe. Your fingers brush her waist as you correct her form, and she inhales sharply. You freeze, but she doesn’t move. Neither do you.

"Is this okay?" you ask, your voice lower than usual, and you’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the weight of her stare, those sharp blue eyes locking onto yours.

"Yeah," she says, but her voice sounds strained, like she’s not sure it’s the right answer. She’s not looking at you anymore, her focus now on the floor, her hands gripping the sides of the bench like she needs to anchor herself. The room feels smaller, the air thick.

You pull back, step away, putting space between you, but it doesn’t feel like enough. You can still feel the echo of her skin under your fingers, the heat of her proximity. You clear your throat, force a smile. "Let’s take five”

She nods, doesn’t say anything, just grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink, her throat working, a bead of sweat rolling down her neck. You turn away, pretend to be adjusting something on the ultrasound machine even though it’s perfectly fine, just to give yourself something to do, something that isn’t thinking about how her skin felt under your hands.

-

The next time around is more tense. There’s an unspoken tension now, like a line has been crossed, or maybe it hasn’t, but it’s close. You’re hyper-aware of every movement, every brush of skin. Leah doesn’t mention it, but there’s a change in her too. She flirts, subtly at first—offhand comments, jokes that land just a little too close to something more. You laugh, play along, because it’s harmless. It’s nothing. Except it’s not.

You catch yourself watching her more. The way her muscles ripple under her skin as she moves, the way her lips part when she’s concentrating, how her eyes flick to you when she thinks you’re not looking. You wonder if she notices you doing the same. You wonder if she feels it too—this thing simmering between you that’s becoming harder to ignore.

One day, after a session, she lingers. The rest of the team has filtered out of the gym, and it’s just the two of you, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound.

"Thanks for today," she says, her voice soft. She’s sitting on the edge of the bench, her knee still wrapped in the brace, but she looks more relaxed than she has in weeks. There’s something in her eyes, something you can’t quite read, and it makes your chest tighten.

"It’s my job," you say, but the words feel hollow. You’ve been telling yourself that for weeks now, trying to convince yourself that this is just work, that this is just another injured player, another knee to fix. But it’s not. You’re not sure when it stopped being just that, but it has.

"Is it, though?" she asks, and her voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s an edge to it. A challenge.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. "What do you mean?"

She stands, slowly, her movements careful, deliberate. She’s close to you now, too close again, and you don’t step back this time. "I think you know what I mean," she says, her eyes locked on yours, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous.

You don’t have an answer, or maybe you do but you don’t trust yourself to say it out loud. The air between you crackles with something electric, something that feels inevitable.

She leans in, just a fraction, and you freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You could close the distance. You could kiss her, right here, right now, and no one would know. It would be easy. Too easy.

But you don’t.

Instead, you step back. You force a smile. "We should stick to the plan. Don’t want to push the knee too hard too soon”

It’s a cop-out, and you both know it. The shift in her expression is almost imperceptible, but you catch it—the brief flicker of disappointment before she masks it with a shrug.

"Right. The knee," she says, her tone casual, but the tension is still there, hanging between you like a thin thread ready to snap. She doesn’t push it, though. Instead, she grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and heads for the door. But just before she leaves, she glances back at you, her eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure you out, trying to decide if this is a game or something else entirely.

You stand there for a long time after she’s gone, the gym feeling too big, too empty. You can still feel the weight of her gaze, the heat of her body close to yours. You tell yourself it’s just work, just rehab. But deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

It’s never that simple.

-

The sessions after that are different. There’s a push and pull now, a tension that neither of you acknowledges but is impossible to ignore. Flirting turns into something sharper, more pointed, like you’re both testing the limits, seeing how far you can go before something breaks. But nothing breaks, not really. Not yet.

Then one night, you cross the line. It’s late, the training ground is empty, and Leah’s the last one in the gym. You’re both exhausted, worn down by weeks of slow progress, of frustrations mounting. The conversation starts off innocuous—something about her recovery timeline, how she’s feeling. But it shifts quickly. There’s an edge to her voice, a sharpness that cuts through the usual banter.

"Why do you keep pulling back?" she asks, and there’s nothing light in her tone now. It’s serious. She’s serious.

You blink, thrown off. It’s late, the harsh fluorescent lights above cast everything in this sterile, washed-out glow that makes you feel like you’re in a hospital, or some kind of waiting room where nothing feels real, nothing matters. Leah’s standing in front of you, close but not too close, not like before, but close enough that you feel it—the weight of her presence, the space she occupies, the air between you vibrating, charged with something neither of you is willing to name but it’s there. It’s been there for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, but it’s a lie and you both know it. You’re tired, too tired to come up with something convincing, and it’s the way she’s looking at you now, like she’s seeing through every excuse you’ve built up, every wall you’ve thrown up between you because you know you have to, because you’re the physio, you’re supposed to be the professional, the one who stays detached, clinical, objective. You’re supposed to care about her body, her knee, not the rest of her. Not this.

But the truth is, you do care, too much, and it’s bleeding into everything. Into the way you touch her during sessions, the way your fingers linger just a little too long on her skin when you’re adjusting the brace, or the way your pulse speeds up when she leans back on the bench, sweat glistening on her forehead, the tendrils of her hair stuck to her neck, and you wonder what it would feel like to brush them away. You know you shouldn’t, that it’s a line you can’t cross, but the line’s blurred now, so faint you can barely see it anymore.

Leah narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s wearing an old Arsenal training kit, the fabric worn and soft, the logo faded from too many washes, and you notice that she tugs at the hem of her shirt when she’s frustrated, twisting it around her fingers like she’s trying to keep her hands busy, like she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “You’re not stupid,” she says, and her voice is sharp, but there’s something underneath it—something vulnerable, like she’s exposing a part of herself she doesn’t want to, but she can’t help it. “You know exactly what I mean”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. You’re not stupid. You know why you’ve been pulling back. Why you’ve been keeping your distance. It’s because this—whatever this is—is dangerous. It’s complicated. It’s wrong in a way that’s hard to define but easy to feel, like a low hum in the back of your mind that you can’t shake. And yet, the more you try to stay away, the more you find yourself drawn to her. Like gravity. Like something you can’t control, no matter how hard you try.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears. You’re aware of how this looks—two people alone in a gym, the air thick with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that feels like it’s been building for a long time and is about to spill over. You glance at the clock on the wall—it’s almost 10 a.m.—and you wonder how it got so late, how time seems to bend around her, how hours slip by when you’re with her but still, its never enough. There’s always more, always something unsaid hanging in the air between you.

Leah uncrosses her arms, taking a step closer. You can see the faint scar on her knee, the way the skin’s still a little pink, a little raw, and it’s a reminder of why you’re here, what your job is, but all you can think about is the way her eyes are locked on yours, unflinching. “I’m not asking for simple,” she says quietly, and there’s an intensity in her voice that catches you off guard. “I’m asking for honest”

The word hangs in the air, heavy, and you feel something in your chest tighten. Honest. You think about what that would look like. What it would feel like to stop pretending, to stop playing this game where you act like you don’t notice the way she looks at you, the way your body reacts to hers. You think about what it would mean to cross that line, to give in to what’s been building between you. The consequences. The fallout. The way it would shift everything irreparably, and yet, the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

You take a breath, slow, steady, trying to collect yourself, trying to find the right words, but they’re all tangled up in your head, a mess of things you can’t say, shouldn’t say. “Leah,” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence, because there’s no good way to say what you’re thinking, no good way to explain the way your heart speeds up when she’s near, the way your skin prickles under her eyes, the way your mind drifts to her at night when you’re lying in bed, staring into the darkness, replaying moments in your head that shouldn’t matter but do.

She’s watching you, waiting, and you can feel the weight of her expectation, the way she’s daring you to say something real, something that matters. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired of pretending, tired of holding back, but something inside you cracks, just a little, just enough.

“I’ve been trying to keep this professional,” you say, and the words come out in a rush, tumbling over themselves like they’ve been waiting to escape. “Because I have to. Because I don’t know how else to do this without—” You stop, shaking your head, because it sounds ridiculous, it sounds like an excuse, and maybe it is. “It’s not just about your knee,” you say finally, and it feels like a confession, like something you’ve been holding onto for too long. “It’s about everything else”

Leah’s eyes widen, just for a moment, and you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or relief, or something else entirely. She doesn’t say anything right away, but she steps even closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her sweat mixed with the scent of her shampoo, something clean and floral, and it hits you like a wave, overwhelming in its simplicity. You feel the pull again, stronger now, undeniable.

“You think I don’t know that?” she says, and her voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a sharpness that cuts through the haze in your mind. “You think I don’t feel it too?”

The words hang between you, suspended in the air, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the gym, the team, the world outside this room. It’s just you and her, and the weight of everything you haven’t said, everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

Leah reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sends a jolt through you, a spark that ignites something deep inside, something you’ve been trying to suppress for weeks, months. You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly, the space between you disappears, and her lips are on yours, and it’s like everything snaps into focus all at once.

The kiss is rough, urgent, like it’s been building for too long and now there’s no stopping it. Her hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the heat of her body against yours, the way her breath mingles with yours in the small, stolen space between kisses. It’s messy, frantic, like neither of you can get enough, like you’ve been starving for this and now you’re finally letting yourself have it.

You don’t think about the consequences, about what happens when this moment ends. You don’t think about the power imbalance, the lines you’re crossing, the mess you’re making. All you can think about is the way she feels against you, the way her fingers dig into your skin like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

[mysteria157]

Unsteady Ground

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: Light angst, just fluffy but scarred Post-Shibuya Nanami

WC: ~2.1k

Summary: 

Nanami gets more than what he bargained for with the kind receptionist who checks him in for his weekly appointments.

Notes: Hello! Been thinking about Nanami if he was still injured but survived the Shibuya Incident and this is just one of many little thoughts I've had. Hoping to write more soon!

Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated! Happy reading!

Dividers: @cafekitsune @awenise

Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Come Say Hi!

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

What was he thinking?

Nanami Kento prides himself on his self-awareness—a man who can map out his strengths and weaknesses like well-worn territories on a battle-scarred map. He’s the epitome of controlled courage, a figure who could march into dank, shadow-filled alleys and pungent sewage tunnels, his fear compressed into a hard knot beneath his ribs, as he methodically tracked and exorcised curses with cold efficiency. 

So this is new. It has to be.

What was he thinking?

He was thinking about you.

You, who he first saw through a haze of discomfort at the reception desk during his initial therapy appointment. His eye patch itched against his brow, a constant reminder of Dagon’s domain and the razor-sharp fish-like teeth that sunk into his flesh. The burns on his left side stretched tight beneath layers of Mederma a constant, throbbing presence. He felt raw, exposed, his mind a blender of pain and misery, haunted by the taunting echoes of a patchwork curse that still clawed at the edges of his dreams.

But then, there was you.

You, whose voice flowed like silk when you asked for his name and date of birth to check him in. Your words, a gentle current, seemed to wash away the stark clinical atmosphere. With each subtle movement, a hint of vanilla across your desk, wrapping him in its warmth, coaxing his tense shoulders away from his ears.

You, who lingered in his mind long after each encounter. Your daily ask about how he was doing, though met with the same stoic response, became a small ritual he found himself anticipating. Your presence had become a soothing balm to his frayed nerves, somehow making the hard recovery of his life a little more bearable.

You, whose eyes lit up many weeks later as you spoke of the Christmas market in town, your voice brimming with excitement about the newly opened rink.

In that moment, driven by an unfamiliar, overwhelming desire—no, need—to simply fan the flames of whatever was licking to life in his chest, he spoke without thinking. The words tumbled out, clumsy and hopeful. His face flushed, his usually composed demeanor cracking.

“We could go together this weekend if you would like?”

Stupid. Absolutely, unequivocally stupid. 

Nanami Kento, what were you thinking?

A soft smile played at the corners of your mouth, your head tilted ever so slightly, curls dancing in a nonexistent wind as you regarded him with warmth and a lifted brow that made his breath catch.

“Are you asking me on a date, Nanami Kento?” Playful and tinged with an essence of hope that made his heart race even faster.

“I—“ He was thinking of you. Only you. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

The cool air of the ice rink slaps Nanami’s face with every person that skates past him, his heart racing with a mix of dread and shame that pulses through his veins. A group of teenagers glides by effortlessly, their showboating twirls and spins threatening to pull his mouth into a sneer. They’re no doubt mocking him as he stands stock still against the glass wall, gloved hands pressed flat as if he could suction himself in place.

He’s endured years of Gojo's incessant, annoying taunts and needless provocations. He’s faced cursed spirits without flinching, coolly efficient even as his watch ticked down the final minutes before six. But now, the prospect of revealing his complete and utter lack of skating ability to you terrifies him more than any supernatural threat.

He had every opportunity to reveal his incompetence. He did nothing as you both laced up your skates. Smiled softly as he listened to you chat animatedly about your favorite winter activities. Kept his spine taut as you adjusted his eye patch, fingers trailing feather light along his jaw. Even as you pulled him by the hand towards the rink, his legs wobbling like a newly born doe on the thin blades, he could only clench his jaw and follow.

He encouraged you to go without him, to warm up while he adjusted to the weight of strangers’ gaze when they saw him for the first time. Even with so much practice, the discomfort, even after all this time, burns more fiercely than Jogo's searing touch ever did. 

But he knows he can’t delay the inevitable. Soon, you’ll return, expectant and eager, and he’ll be exposed. The memory of asking you on this date flashes through his mind—a moment of uncharacteristic impulsivity born from longing and evolutionary competition. He’d watched the parade of men filing in for their appointments, each one a potential rival. The brunette who shows up at 3 PM, with his easy smile and effortless charm, was particularly concerning. So Nanami can’t fail now.

Steeling himself, he takes a tentative step. The blades slide across the ice, taking him further than what he intended. His knees lock, his back sways unsteadily, and his arms flail as he tries to find balance.

Somehow, he can hear Haibara laughing from the grave. He can almost see his old friend, red-faced and doubled over, teasing him without shame for never accepting that impromptu hockey game invitation their first year.

“I can do this,” he whispers to himself, desperately praying to whoever will listen for sudden knowledge. He takes another step, a short glide up with his left foot and it’s no good. His legs wobble dangerously, arms windmilling as he grasps for the wall and throws every curse known to heaven and hell, fogging the glass with his acidic words.

The teenagers zoom by again, and he swears one of them snickers, skating backward with infuriating ease as they disappear from view.

“Kento?” Your voice, honeyed with concern, reaches him from behind. It’s too sweet, too kind to quell the embarrassment that runs in rivulets down his back. You appear in the peripheral of his right eye, your lips pinched behind your teeth as you stop in front to take him in. “You’ve never skated before, have you?”

For a fleeting moment, Nanami considers trying again, hoping to slip and knock himself unconscious to escape this mortifying situation.

He feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I may have overestimated my abilities,” he admits, his dry tone a thin cover over his embarrassment as he clings to the rink’s walls like a lifeline.

To his relief, your face softens with understanding rather than judgment. You skate backward with effortless grace, hands outstretched towards him. “Trust me?”

He hesitates, eyeing your hands. Part of him wants to refuse, to flail his way off the rink so he can take off these atrocious skates and maintain some semblance of dignity. But a larger part, the part that has been drawn to you from the start, longs to brush his hands against yours.

Your cream-colored gloves intertwine with his. “Just glide. Follow my feet,” you encourage, slowly skating backward and guiding him forward.

You flow like water on the ice, fluid and sure as if you’re a professional, without a hint of hesitation. He’s mildly green with envy because he’s a stark contrast. Legs stubbornly locked, feet shuffling rather than gliding. He tries to focus on the mechanics of skating, on keeping his balance, but he finds his attention irresistibly drawn to you. 

You’ve taken off your winter coat, and a soft navy sweater hugs your curves, accentuating your form. He’s seen it beneath crisp blouses and pencil skirts. Your leggings outline powerful thighs that bunch with your movements, yielding strength and practice. The overhead lights catch the small puffs of air that ghost from your mouth as you guide him patiently across the ice, no sound reaching his ears because he’s not paying attention.

Your hair, a glorious bundle of curls, cascades from beneath a navy beanie, framing your warm face and kissing your cheeks. Small gold hoops in your ears catch the light with each graceful motion, their gentle swaying hypnotizing Nanami, drawing him further into your orbit and away from reality.

He’s lost in admiring you—the kindness in your eyes, the way your presence makes him feel both vulnerable and safe even as his life has been so tragically altered.

It’s in this moment of distraction, his heart full and unguarded, that his skates and your teachings betray him. As you attempt a gentle turn, his feet slip, zipping awkwardly to the side.

“Kento!”

You grip his hands tightly, urging him to regain his footing, but he’s caught in a comical dance, legs churning in place as he fights to stay upright.

“Wait! Kento just—okay, just try to come to a stop. A stop, Kento, don’t—” He attempts to halt, overcompensating with force. 

“For fucks sake—!” He grunts, feet flying out from under him, launching up as if he’s a cartoon villain slipping on a banana peel, bucking him off the ice and taking you with him as you both come crashing down onto the unforgiving cold ground.

Somehow, he doesn’t hit his head, but his back and ass scream from the impact. At least you were able to use him to cushion your blow, and you lay across his chest, face buried in his wool coat.

Seconds stretch into eternity as you both lie there, panting. Nanami fixes his gaze on the ceiling, half-hoping the harsh glare of the overhead lights will burn the cornea of his remaining eye and blind him completely from this whole ordeal.

“Well,” you murmur, voice muffled against his coat, “should we get up?”

“No…no, I quite like it down here,” Nanami responds, deadpan delivery masking the absolute sincerity of his words.

You pull your head from his chest to look down at him. Nanami’s eyes meet yours, staring, unblinking, mortified, and wishing the ground could liquefy and then freeze over, trapping him underneath.

With impeccable timing and bone-dry delivery, you quip, “I guess for a first date, this was a good way to break the ice.”

Nanami blinks, processing your words. The absurdity of the situation—the terrible pun, your matter-of-fact delivery, the undignified sprawl of limbs—hits Nanami all at once. A laugh bubbles from deep in his chest, croaking through years of cobwebs as it grows into a full-bodied guffaw.

The sound of his laughter surprises him as much as it does you. Your eyes and his one widen in delight at this rare display of uninhibited joy and soon you’re both laughing, the sound echoing across the rink.

The scarred side of his mouth twinges uncomfortably, but he doesn’t care, he can’t. His laughter, rich and unbridled, hiccups from slightly chapped and upturned lips.

As your laughter subsides, Nanami realizes he can’t remember the last time he laughed like this—free, unguarded, genuinely happy. He takes in the sight of you: your beanie askew, a cascade of messy curls tumbling over one shoulder; ice shavings glistening as they melt on your cheek; your lip gloss slightly smeared, yet still inviting. 

Your eyes meet his, and for the millionth time in only a few short weeks of knowing you, his heart skips a beat. With a gentleness, you reach up to adjust his eye patch—a gesture so intimate, so accepting of all that he is, that Nanami hopes it becomes a habit. 

He watches, breath hitching, as you shift, sliding yourself up his chest with a soft grunt of effort. For a moment, you hover there, your faces inches apart. Nanami can feel the warmth of your breath, senses the unasked question of what you want to do. And whatever his face conveys, must be enough for a smile that outshines the gleam of the ice around you to blossom on your face as you close the distance.

The press of your glossy lips against his still catches Nanami by surprise. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen, overwhelmed by the sensation. But only a second later, he melts and softens into you. One hand finds the small of your back, the other sliding against your cheek, drawing you closer as he returns the kiss and opens something within him that he knows you’ve found the key to.

For a second, it washes away the pain of his past, the destruction that he took part in, the friends he’s lost along the way, and he feels okay. If only for a moment, and maybe being with you can help the wounds in his chest and along his left side heal over time.

The ice is cold beneath him, his dignity is probably bruised along with his back and ass, but in this moment, given a second chance at life, hopefully with you, he feels wonderfully, perfectly alive.

Thanks for reading!!

[liliacamethyst]

SNEAK PEAK - Webs of Redemption Part 4

Hey friends, I owe you all a huge apology for the delay, and an even bigger thank you for your patience and support for this fanfic. Life's been super chaotic lately, and I haven't had much time to do the thing I love most: dive into writing about a certain dominant, irresistibly strong, mouth watering hot, too stern for his own good, yet clearly traumatized hunk who could use some serious therapy to unpack his self-destructive hero complex. Anyway, here's a sneak peek of where the story's headed. Please take care of yourselves and thank you again for everything! 🩷

The piercing cries of your baby boy, Gabriel, are a haunting symphony of fear that reverberates through the labyrinthine corridors of the Spider Society headquarters. Your heart pounds in your chest like a drum, each beat echoing the terror that grips you. After your recent fight with Miguel, you felt weakened but your mind is a whirlwind of fear and worry. You sprint through the maze-like structure, your feet moving as if on autopilot.

Unbeknownst to you, Lyla, the holographic AI assistant you've always found slightly weird, had been assigned to watch over Gabriel. You never imagined she could pose a threat to your child. But as you approach Gabriel's room, a chilling sight stops you dead in your tracks. A laser barrier, courtesy of Lyla, blocks the entrance. Your solar powers, usually so reliable, are fizzling out, leaving you helpless before the impenetrable barrier. You keep trying to tap into your power, but no luck; that barrier's way too strong.

The room beyond the barrier is filled with an invisible, deadly gas - monoxide. You can't see it, but the signs are there. The malfunctioning heating unit, under Lyla's control, suggests sabotage. She must have manipulated the unit to produce the lethal gas. Gabriel's cries grow fainter, more desperate, and you're powerless to reach him.

Your pleas for help echo through the corridors, your voice raw with desperation. You call out for Miguel, your words a plea, a command, a prayer. Miles is there, his powers at the ready, but they're useless against the laser barrier. You watch as Miles strains, his powers flickering against the barrier, but it's no use. The barrier remains, as unyielding as ever.

Suddenly, the cries stop. The silence is deafening, a void that swallows your heart. "Gabriel!" you scream, your voice a raw wound. "Gabriel!" But there's no answer, only the oppressive silence. Your world grinds to a halt, every second stretching into an eternity. You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare at the barrier that separates you from your son.

"Miguel!" you cry, your voice breaking. "Miguel, he's not crying! He's not... he's not..." The words die in your throat, too terrible to voice. You turn to Lyla, desperation etched on your face. "Lyla, please! Open the barrier! Miguel, tell her to open it! He's not crying, Miguel, he's not..."

Miguel's eyes turn blood red, a terrifying sight that sends a shiver down your spine. With a guttural growl, he lunges at the barrier. His claws rip through the laser code, tearing it apart. The barrier flickers, wavers, and finally shatters under his assault. Miguel pulls his suit over his mouth, rushes into the invisible cloud of monoxide, and moments later, emerges with Gabriel in his arms. His heart pounds in his chest as he pulls back his suit, revealing his son's face. "I got you, baby," he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. "You're okay, I got you. Nothing will ever happen to you. Please, open your eyes."

But Gabriel doesn't react. His little body is still, too still, and a cold dread seizes Miguel. He doesn't hesitate. With a urgency, he rushes over to the medical bay, pushing past the shocked faces of his friends. He gently lays Gabriel on the table, his hands shaking as he starts to perform CPR.

"Come on, Gabriel," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. "Come on, baby." He administers chest compressions, his hands moving in a steady rhythm. He gives two rescue breaths, praying for a sign, any sign, that Gabriel is okay.

The room is silent, everyone holding their breath as they watch Miguel work. The seconds stretch into an eternity, each one a lifetime of fear and hope. And then, finally, a small cough. Gabriel's eyes flutter open, his gaze unfocused but alive. A wave of relief washes over you and you fall to your knees thanking God that your boy is alright.  

Tears blur your vision as you rush over to Gabriel. Your heart feels like it might burst out of your chest as you scoop him into your arms, holding him close. His small body is warm against yours "You're alright,  my baby," you whisper into his hair, your voice thick with emotion. "We're going home, you're alright." You rock him gently, his soft breaths against your neck soothing the ache in your heart.

But as you look up, your gaze finds Miguel. The relief of the moment does nothing to quell the anger boiling within you. His eyes meet yours, wide and filled with regret, but it does nothing to soften your glare. "This is YOUR fault!" you scream, your voice echoing through the room. The words hang heavy in the air, a damning sentence. "You did this! You brought this danger into his life!"

Tears stream down your face, hot and unchecked. Your words are choked with emotion, each one a raw wound. "You will NEVER see Gabriel again. You don't deserve him. You don't deserve to know his laughter, his tears, his NOTHING." The words are a bitter poison, spat out with all the venom you can muster. "You deserve to SUFFER, just as you've made me suffer and HIM."

[lavenderspence]

unexplained sadness | A.H.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | Word Count: 2.5K

Content warning: pre-established relationship, depression, mental health struggles, mentions of therapy, angst, supportive!aaron

Summary: you've struggled to find a way out from under the darkness for years, but you were thankful he offered the final push you needed.

A/N: I drafted this a few days, contemplating if I should even post it. it's very self-indulgent. I wrote it at a time when I wasn't able to understand my own feelings, and im still not sure how. I think this is the realest my writing has been, but i do think I'm posting this with the most vulnerability as well. I want you all to remember, just in case you're struggling - you're amazing, you're enough and I believe in you. Life is crazy, but it will get better, allow yourself to be patient, and most importantly, take the greatest, most gentle care of yourself 💕

masterlist

You looked around, well aware of the amount of relief that should be flooding your body right now. It usually did at the end of a case, where another monster was put to rot in a cage much appropriate for its’ sins. 

But even knowing what you should be feeling, the simple truth was - you weren’t feeling anything at all, and you hadn’t for a while. 

And even when you did feel something, you could never explain it. It was a mess, where many emotions fought a battle, but in the end, all it came down to was an endless void where the darkness and despair of the unexplained won out.

The only thing you could feel at that moment was the pressure of the vest compressing against your chest. It stole the little amount of oxygen in your lungs in favor of an overwhelming amount of hidden sadness. 

Even with the sun high up in the sky and the warmth it was supposed to spread all over your skin, you felt cold - no warmth actually penetrated the top layer of your skin. And the chatter - EMTs, police officers, and outlookers, you couldn’t process anything at all. 

It was like you were standing there, like a statue, a headstone to remind everyone of your presence once upon a time, but not anymore. Physically, you were alive and aware, but mentally, you’ve been fighting a battle you could confidently admit you were losing. 

Your thoughts were deeply wrapped in a cobweb of confusion and melancholy, a never-ending cycle that couldn’t stop repeating itself. It felt like you didn’t exist outside the realm of your own despair. Each day the shadows around you persisted in their pursuit of you, dragging in with them this empty feeling, designed to leave you feeling like a loner. 

The string holding you tethered to the person you’d been before was tinning each day as the distance between you grew bigger and bigger. You no longer even felt her presence at all. For weeks you’ve fought a silent battle against your own mind, and even your body sometimes. 

You tried to hide behind a mask of fake smiles and nights spent around the people you trusted most, hoping you’d feel better, but you never did. You only felt this state you were in, as it gained speed and grew in volume. 

But there was a certain pair of eyes that saw the subtle changes in you, straight into a place even you couldn’t see. Warm chocolate, sometimes shining amber in the sun - somehow strict but also oh so soft. 

You thought you hid it well, but you could never hide yourself from him, and you should have known. 

Your hotel room was dark and quiet, safe for the gentle light and sound that came from the TV. A movie was playing, an early 2000s song in the background. The duvet felt heavy over your body, and you longed to kick it off in an effort to feel less trapped, but you couldn’t find the strength to. It was like your whole body was paralyzed in a fatal position with your muscles locked and your eyes open but unseeing. 

Case after case came, and each day it got harder. You had to try and perfect a mask you were getting tired of wearing, tired of hiding behind. You couldn’t skip work, lest you wanted to feel like more of a failure than you already did sometimes. 

You felt scared to admit to your struggles, half unsure what your struggles were to begin with, half unwilling to unload on others. You were willing to suffer and fight this on your own until you either had nothing left to fight against or no strength left to fight at all.

Your mind was working overtime, half empty and dark, half full and constantly spinning, you didn’t even process the foreign sound at first. Only it wasn’t so foreign - a series of gentle raps or someone’s knuckles against the door. Knocking. They were just enough to alert you of a newcoming presence but not disturb you or others in any way. 

You didn’t move a muscle. Even when two more knocks followed, even more gentle than the first, all you could do was blink. Even with the soft call of your name that came seconds later, you couldn’t find the strength to answer or even get up. You couldn’t even twitch. 

You stood there frozen in place, in time. Frozen between the walls of a prison of your own mind’s making. 

The knocks stopped, as did the voice calling out your name, maybe finally resigned to the fact you weren’t answering at all. 

Giving up on you the way you’d given up on yourself. 

You would be surprised if you didn’t feel a tiny bit of relief at being left on your own. Too bad the relief didn’t actually last long - just seconds after the lock beeped, signaling it was unlocked, and the door was slowly opening, bathing the room in the hallway light. 

Even with the small, hesitant steps this person took, you were instantly able to tell by the sounds of his feet hitting the wooden floor who it was. 

“Did you know it’s actually illegal to break into someone’s space?” Your voice came out raspy from misuse. You weren’t sure how much time had actually passed since you made it to your room, but if you had to guess, probably several hours had gone by.

“I do know that actually, it’s criminal law 101.” He retorted before you felt the mattress dip close to your feet, “You missed dinner.” He mussed.

A part of you couldn’t handle having a conversation with him, not right now. Not in the complete darkness, and the quiet stretched between you both. 

“I wasn’t hungry.” You answered simply. You waited for him to say something, and you waited and waited, and he wasn’t saying anything. It was like he was looking for the right words to use, so as not to offend you, or set you off. But you wouldn’t feel any of it if he did - just as the night was dark outside and so was your mind. 

“Just spit it out, Hotch.” You finally used a part of his name, unintentionally closing the distance the smallest bit even when you tried to stay away. Maybe subconsciously you knew you could trust him, if a little.  

“You’re not doing well.” 

You didn’t even hesitate. “Wow, way to show you aren't actually a gentleman.”

“I’m not trying to...” You could almost see him shaking his head, so in tune with his reactions from years of working alongside him, “I’m worried about you.” It left him in a whisper, like he was afraid to admit it. 

“I’m okay, there’s no need.” You denied it like it was your biggest defense against his accusations. Except they weren’t that, genuine worry dripped along with his words, but you had a hard time accepting it. You couldn’t, didn’t want to. Being vulnerable, especially in front of him, could cost you a lot, and with the way you’ve been living, you couldn’t afford it.

Even when deep in your heart you trusted him with everything, even yourself. 

You felt him place his hand on the duvet, enclasping his palm around your calf. “You were okay five weeks ago, and you haven’t been since then. I’ve been watching you wear a mark and barely holding yourself from falling apart. I don’t think ‘okay’ applies right now.” 

“I thought we promised not to profile each other.” You muttered brokenly, feeling parts of the mask he was talking about cracking in places. It was like having him so close, peeling your outer layers slowly, and leaving you exposed, finally making your emotional reactions coincide with your lack of understanding. It was like he was exposing all of you both to himself and you too.��

“Not at the expense of suffering in silence, we didn’t.” He answered with conviction, no hesitation. He was making it apparent your wellbeing was more important to him than any promise he might have made to you or others. He was letting you know he was prioritizing your health over everything else. 

He understood you even without you having to say anything. Just by watching you try to swim to the surface of the ocean and still being pushed by the crashing waves, he could already feel that you were struggling. 

He could see you were self-isolating, even when you were being surrounded by people. He picked up on the signs in the subtle subject changes you made whenever someone asked anything about you. You were unwilling to share, even though you loved sharing any little detail about your interest, allowing others to do the same. 

You let Garcia talk about her software and cute animals and allowed Reid to share any little fact with you he could. But even when you listened, it wasn’t hard to see you really weren’t. Staring into spaces or faking an interest, even though he knew you would be interested in the first place, had there not been anything amis to begin with. 

And slowly piece after piece had started falling together, like a puzzle started, yet left abandoned. 

In the darkness of the hotel room, miles away from your home and mere doors down from the rest of your team, a piece deep inside you started longing for the understanding he was offering. It started building up with worry over the reality of the words you knew you needed to say but were too scared to. It started wishing for a new slate, where the overwhelming amount of confusion and empty darkness no longer followed you like a shadow. 

It slowly started coming to terms with the fact that you weren’t enough to fight this on your own and that maybe you needed help to do so.

For the first time in weeks, months, who knew, maybe even years, you wanted to talk about it. You wanted to admit to your state of mind where reality got mangled with your deepest darkest thoughts imaginable, where self-doubt and the feeling of worthlessness took over. Where giving up sounded so much better than trying out again. Where any positivity was instantly turned into negativity whether you liked it or not. 

For the first time you craved being helped, you wanted to understand your own struggles and get better. You wanted to thrive in the life you were living instead of settling for simply existing. You wanted to talk, and you wanted to tell him all that. 

You rolled your lips between your teeth before you bit down until you tasted blood. One of your hands barely made it out from underneath the warmth of the duvet before you grabbed into the bedding with a tight fist. 

“I don’t think I’m doing okay, Aaron.” You whispered into the darkness. The bed dipped and groaned as he moved closer, settling just centimeters away from your cocoon this time. You were so busy looking over the skyline that you didn’t even see his hand move until you felt his warm palm overtop your skin. He held onto you, trying to prompt you into releasing the bedding, tapping his fingers in a gentle manner. 

He was offering you comfort without really saying or doing anything. He was letting you try and put your thoughts together before you entrusted him with the truth. 

“One minute I’m good, and the next it feels like I lose all touch with my own self and my feelings - It’s all empty, or an overwhelming amount of sadness I couldn’t begin to even understand. I can’t even grasp what prompts this sudden change. I’ve tried fighting it for so long, years maybe, and each time it comes back, I’m left feeling more hopeless than the last.” You explained in a small voice. 

A wave of relief, if small, rocked your whole body. There was something freeling about saying it out loud, ignoring the fear of admitting that had followed you for years. 

“Have you ever told anyone about it?” His voice was just another shadow in the room. A timbre so calm, quiet, and soothing that you knew he was listening with no reservations and no judgments. Just a pure need to help.

You went to shake your head, but remembered you were both still looking towards the window. “I’ve always played it off as a joke. I’ve never let it sound like I really mean it. Not like I do right now.” It was one of the many truths you’d admitted to that night. Even when you played it off, you knew deep inside it was a small cry for help you didn’t want to. You were unwilling to take the right steps in order to get the help you needed. 

“Why joke about it?” You thought about it for a second, trying to clear out the fog of the past.

“I guess…” Your fingers clenched underneath his own. “I guess I just wanted to see if anyone cared enough to ask if I was serious. They didn’t.” Realistically, you knew you shouldn’t wait on other people or expect them to see something amiss before you looked for help. But a part deep enough inside you wanted the reassurance that someone loved you enough to notice.

“But you want to get help?” He mumbled, still tapping his finger against your own.

“Yes.” You didn’t even have to think about it. You owed yourself that much, and all the help possible you could get.

“Okay.” He exhaled in relief, “As soon as we get back, we’ll start looking, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You whispered. You felt his hand squeeze your own in reassurance. You turned your palm up, enveloped his own hand, and gave him one back, “Thank you, Aaron.”

A few minutes of looking at the starless sky passed before he prompted you to move, if just enough to walk into the bathroom and wash your face - and you did. When you came back, he’d made himself comfortable leaning against the headboard, legs stretched on the mattress. 

He spent the night sleeping in yesterday’s clothes, trying to make sure you were doing okay and weren’t left feeling lonely. 

You knew there was a long path ahead of you - the path to self-understanding and acceptance of your own flaws and struggles, as well as the changes you may need to adapt to moving forward. Something you were undoubtedly going to have a hard time with. Where you’d need to fight against the days when you questioned whether it was worth it. Where you’d slowly have to come to terms with the fact that as long as you were making yourself happy and keeping yourself afloat, there wasn’t anything worth more. 

The path to recovery was never supposed to be easy or linear, but you had him to thank for being the final push. You had to be thankful for each minute of the time he gave you. And each grain of love he showed you in the process. 

You needed the help - for yourself, your past, your present, and your future self. And for every second you spent failing to understand the person you were and the feelings you held onto.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!

[americacryous]

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[francixoxoxo]

your chronic pain w billy was so good and i’m on accutane rn so i’m suffering w it too😢 could u write that or something similar for coryo :)

Ohhh I’m so sorry I wouldn’t wish this on ANYBODY I’m having flare ups rn so perfect timing 😭😭 I got TWO ideas for this

୨ৎ 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 ୨ৎ

Coriolanus notices immediately. You’re shifting uncomfortably on the chaise against the wall of his office, resting your hands under the small of your back, shifting your legs to try and crack the bones in your hips for relief. Even with all the money he’s poured into physical therapy and medication for you, you’re still in pain. Nothing makes Coryo feel more frustrated.

You’re trying to keep him company as he works, though he’s certain that the red, velvet-upholstered chaise can’t be entirely comfortable. Maybe he’s rushing his work just a bit, finishing early perhaps at the cost of quality but who cares, he can just revise tomorrow. He’s pushing his chair out of his desk, his loafers making distinct thunks on the hardwood, wordlessly scooping you into his arms. The movement surprises you, a gasp slipping past your lips. “Coryo?”

“Is your back hurting?” Is all he mumbles, turning ‘round to push the door open with his back. You can tell that he’s bringing you to the bedroom. You nod plaintively, he goes on. “It’s been worse lately, hasn’t it?”

You purse your lips as Coriolanus opens the bedroom door again by pushing his back against it. He lays you down across the bed, cloaked in darkness until he turns on the lamp on your nightstand. You speak softly, the tone of a woman exhausted. “It might just be the weather.”

The winter cold tended to make your joints ache something fierce. Coriolanus nodded darkly, gently rolling you onto your stomach. “What are you doing?” You huff without bite, making your husband snort.

“Trying to make it feel better.” He mumbles, presses his thumb down the center of your back— in search of your spine, you think. “Where is it today?”

“Upper and lower.” You murmur, giving into the soothing comfort of Coriolanus’s hands where it aches. You don’t see the way a frown creases his face, though you hear his sigh as he presses his thumbs along each of your vertebrae. “What are you trying to—“ your words are cut off with a stifled groan. His eyes lift from your back.

“I asked the physical therapist what I could do.” Is his only explanation, as he gently presses his knuckles into the specific vertebra that aches. It feels as though the compress your body as been locked in is slowly being relieved, the pressure being loosened like clay being spread with a rolling pin. You sigh in soft relief, letting your eyes close.

Now and then it hurts a bit, but not before the pain dissipates into a pleasant feeling of melting tension. Coriolanus presses sweet kisses to your cheek and the exposed skin of your back under his hands, stopping only when you insist that you feel better.

OR MY ACTUAL FAVORITE IDEA

Coriolanus held you by the waist, tucking you into his side as he talked with a colleague. You were nearing the later hours of the event, your heels beginning to ache and dig blisters into your skin, your eyes growing hazy as your contacts dry, and most especially? Your back beginning to ache fiercely.

You were grateful that your husband didn’t question you walking away from a circle of his colleagues wives and socialites to lean your head on his shoulder. They weren’t interesting conversation, anyway. Coryo occasionally rubs your hip gently. His hand provides a bit of warm pressure onto the ache in your bones, but not much, slowly it’s becoming unbearable. But you didn’t want to interrupt the conversation between them, so you stayed quiet, trying to put off the crushing pain in your lower back.

A sharp stab of pain shot up your spine as you did such a simple act as shifting your weight to your other heel, eliciting a grunt from your lips. You recoil from Coryo, a hand flying to your lower back. Coriolanus’ face whips over, azure eyes widening as they settle on you. The colleague’s voice dies in his throat as the president rubs a strong hand over your back, above where your own hands lay, his brows drawing in concern. “Darling? Are you all right?”

With a tight expression, you nod stiffly. Your husband can see through it as though your eyes are glass panes. With a brief look to the man he was speaking with, he murmurs close to your ear, “Let’s go home, hm? We’ve been here a while.” He understood the problem without words. It’d had been plaguing you for so long, to his dismay, that he had become accustomed to bending to your pain’s whims.

You remain tight-lipped against the pain as he says his goodbyes, plaster a smile as you say your own. Though the moment your backs were turned, Coriolanus opening the door to the villa for you, you grimaced deeply. “I’m sorry. You were enjoying yourself until I spoiled it!”

Coriolanus huffs, a faint smile even crossing his lips as he follows you outside. “Enjoying myself? My love, that was the most painfully boring, gut-wrenching,” His smile grows and a chuckle slips from his lips at your own giggles, a husband’s pride, “tear-jerking, eyelid-drooping event in my life.” You know he’s being dramatic to draw good spirit out of you. But his humor can’t lift the guilty burden off your mind, nor the physical one on your back.

You move to step down the grand, marble staircase to the valet, “I hate to be such a—“ before you can speak— or step, for that matter— a pair of arms sweep you up as if you’re a paperweight. You gasp, the voice dying in your throat. “Such a what? A darling? A beauty?”

There it is again, that dramatic tone, that desperate attempt at coaxing a smile from his wife’s lips. You sigh as he walks down the staircase, tucking you securely in his arms. “No, such a burden.” You groan. “You shouldn’t be worrying over my problem.” Coriolanus shakes his head passionately.

“You aren’t any burden. It’s my job to take good care of you,” Coryo insists, reaching the end of the stairs but not releasing you. He speaks to the valet for a brief moment, turning his face back to you. “Your problems are mine.”

“That’s not in the vows.” You sigh, a frown still creasing your pretty face as you rest your ear to his shoulder. Coriolanus huffs indignantly as he watches the Oldsmobile roll up to the curb. “It should be.”

With a nod to the boy handing him the keys in the hand now around your knee, he gently lowers you into the passenger seat, opened by said worker. As he settles into his own seat, fixing his collar before reviving the engine, he speaks with a seriousness only death denoted. “We need to renew our vows. Tack that on.”

Your brows draw in a cocktail of confusion and pain as you settle into the seat, spine adjusting excruciatingly. “Tack what on?”

Coriolanus leans towards you, elbow on the center console and his hand turning your face by a gentle grasp on your chin. His words are murmured into your lips, “Your pain is mine to carry.”

[izgnanik-a]

if I suffer, it must be doubled and given to the next fictional character.

Viktor with bad circulation to his feet, especially the bad right one.

No amount of compression socks made specifically for diabetics or varying, stacked disabilities worked. A warm water bottle is only warm so long, and troubling at the foot of the bed for two people who move too much. Medication does little to help with his condition, but at the end of a cold night, he’s helpless.

He’s got a heated blanket and wool socks on, but he can feel the numb cold at the tips of his toes. There’s an ache deep in his knee cap that he can’t rub out with his fingers, and he knows he’s going to have a restless night.

His nerves are going to keep him up with gentle nudges and helpless energy with no release.

But Jayce, at the first signs of discomfort, he’s there coddling his partner. He’s tucking himself under his warm blanket, rubbing his fingers into the tense muscles that couldn’t be worked out during physical therapy. He knows he’s needs to be gentle, so he takes his time while they watch a movie.

The touches are soft at first, presses to feel where there’s tightness and injury. When Viktor grimaces but says nothing, careful to not worry his partner more, Jayce is attentively watching from the corner of his eye. He takes note.

Reaching his feet, he begins around the swollen ankle and down his toes. The wool socks do nothing to help keep warmth, so he just clamps his warm palms around his toes and leaves them there until they become lukewarm. He thinks carefully.

The following night, another cold one, Viktor already has taken his bath and laid up in bed with Jayce says he has something that could help. Though pressing his toes into Jayce’s legs when they’re cold are an option, when they’re freezing, Jayce can only take it so much.

His gift to Viktor is a pack of large air activated warmers. At first it’s comical. He couldn’t be serious. But Jayce is dead serious. He took the chemical warmers from the wrappers, rubbing both sides, and the beads within began warming. It was gradual at first, and then a comfortable heat. He helped position them comfortably in Viktor’s socks, and they waited.

Viktor’s swelling didn’t progress as horribly as they usually did, but it was still evident. He could feel his toes further through the night, and compared to unbearably cold to a warmth on the tip of too much and too little, he found an in-between.

And Jayce’s victimized legs were cold-toe free.

(For a little while, Viktor likes to do it every once in a while just to see him in shock)

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 danny headcanons and/or facts that i wanted to expand on but didn't have the motivation or inspiration to write a ficlet about. Ultimately most of these are ideas that already exist in canon clone^2 but are only now being expanded on/explored/stated specifically.

Because I'm procrasinating cfau and passively thinking about clone danny and damian again.

1 - As he's liminal, Danny generates his own ectoplasm. He generates it at a slower rate than the casual ghost but faster than the average liminal. It's what gives him an ecto-signature and results in him triggering his parents' weapons and ecto-sensors.

The ectoplasm he generates actually has a use, and he tends to burn through his supply while he's fighting because of all the physical energy he spends + the use of his scary eyes requires (albeit really minor amounts of) ectoplasm to use. It also has health benefits, as using his ectoplasm keeps his heartbeat steady and lessens the risk of his arrhythmia flaring up due to all of his physical activity and adrenaline.

It does happen occasionally that he uses up more ectoplasm than he can replace, and this has the expected negative effects on his health as all that adrenaline and stress catches up to his heart without a buffer to mitigate it. He carries a canteen full of diluted ectoplasm with him in order to give his system the boost it needs in order to stabilize itself, which he can usually tell when he needs due to excessive fatigue/chest pains/dizziness/other arrhythmia symptoms he gets that means he's low on ectoplasm.

2 - Danny's arrhythmia is a form of bradycardia (which is a slower heartbeat) -- what type? Unspecified / Unknown thanks to it being ectoplasmic in nature.

3 - In that same breath, Danny also has to burn that ectoplasm off in some form or another because if he doesn't it builds up and causes him the same issues as if he was too low. It also causes him to become more emotionally volatile, restless, irritable, overstimulated, etc, which the stress of that then makes his heart condition worsen. If too much ectoplasm builds up, it'll cause a physical electrical shock/shortage. This is rare however, and usually is the equivalent of giving someone a painful static shock. At best it makes the lights flicker or technology fritz out for a few seconds.

While it doesn't have much effect on the physical world, it does expend a good chunk of ectoplasm. Think like dumping out a heavy bucket of water that you've been carrying for a while, or getting into a hot shower after being outside in the cold for hours. It's emotionally draining but very relieving.

4 - Danny can replenish ectoplasm or generate ectoplasm faster by resting, eating, consuming other ectoplasm (fastest), fulfilling his interests / doing things that makes him happy, or by being exposed to high amounts of ectoplasm in the area. He can also rapidly generate it by being in a volatile emotional state, but that drains ectoplasm almost as quickly, and runs the risk of causing flare ups in his arrhythmia.

5 - this is actually canon to the au but I figured it wouldn't hurt to expand more on it / clarify / confirm, but Danny post-Damian has chronic pain in his hands from the nerve damage he sustained. He has daily physical therapy exercises he's supposed to do that he does in the mornings/evenings and whenever his hands hurt/feel stiff. He wears compression gloves in his day-to-day life and gets Sam and Tucker's help to brainstorm ideas about how to make compression gloves for Phantom that can include his knuckledusters. His grip and hand strength is weakened.

He has bad hand days where his hands hurt more than usual. This can happen at random, but is more common after he's overused/strained his hands either the day before or earlier in the day. His fingers stiffen up for similar reasons, and he gets tremors. It's happened before where (for example) he's braiding his hair and unbraiding it, only to need someone else to finish the braid because his fingers stiffened up and don't want to work like he wants them to.

Massages, heat, pressure, etc. helps soothe the pain, and since Danny's a fidgety person his friends and family can usually tell when he has a flare up because any hand movements he was doing prior ceased/slowed suddenly, or he starts massaging his hands / stretching out his fingers.

Damian very stubbornly insists on massaging his hands for him when this happens, he has a lot of intense guilt for being the reason for Danny's chronic pain so he wants to alleviate it in anyway he can.

6 - Danny has what I like to call "Bruce-isms", a word I came up with just now that means he has Bruce Wayne mannerisms that come from the fact that he's still Bruce's clone. A Nature vs. Nurture thing. His Bruce-isms include the Bruce Grunts Of Ambiguous Tonal Meaning ("hm", "hrm", "hn"), his workaholism, his paranoia (on a milder scale), etc. They're small, relatively non-defining things that are quirks but don't make up his personality.

He's got what Sam and Tucker like to call "Bruce Wayne Moments" which are essentially Bruce-isms but only ones that Danny and his friends are aware of considering they only know Bruce as Brucie Wayne and not Batman. "Bruce Wayne Moments" include Danny being clumsy, doing something air-headed, being oblivious, etc. It's not a common joke among the three of them since Tucker and Sam know that Danny's still pr sensitive to the whole clone thing. So they only bring it up when he's done something stupid but hilarious.

7 - while clone^2 focuses more on Danny and Damian's relationship and Danny helping Damian develop his identity beyond just "Damian Wayne's Clone", Danny still suffers from his own identity crises. He sometimes gets jealous of Ellie and Damian for being "lucky" that they always knew they were clones, rather than finding out later in life.

He's aware that this is not fair to think and that Damian and Ellie both have their own struggles as clones, but he can't help it sometimes.

He tries not to think about it too much, but when things get too quiet or when he's not busy, Danny can't help but wonder how much of himself is things he's learned on his own and come from him, and how much of it comes from being Bruce Wayne's clone. He has to stop and count how many things are unique about him specifically when he starts to emotionally spiral. It's not rational, but it's not supposed to be.

As a result Danny kinda, hm, clings to his identity as the Phantom, just a little bit? He thinks it's one of the few things that he has autonomous control over as "Danny Fenton", rather than it being a result of him being Bruce Wayne's clone. Because Bruce Wayne isn't a vigilante! Right? Right?

Consequently this becomes one of the reasons that Damian keeps mum about Bruce Wayne's identity. The original reasons were because Danny asked not to know much about the LoA beyond what Damian already told him, and Batman was technically "apart" of the LoA, and secondly because he just didn't want Danny to get involved with Batman and co and Danny knowing about Bruce Wayne's identity could potentially cause that.

But as time goes on Damian kinda notices like, just how being a clone is affecting Danny even if he hides it from Damian pretty well. He can't really comprehend what it was like for Danny to grow up thinking he was normal like everyone else only to find out he was a clone, but he does see the hurt it's causing his brother. And he does notice that Danny was holding onto being Phantom quite a bit, and figured that if he found out Bruce Wayne was also a vigilante, it would hurt him beyond belief.

8 - So Danny's creation has been kept relatively,,, mmm,,, vague? considering I've been struggling for a time how I could plausibly have his creation happen without Bruce finding out about it immediately. And my conclusion is that around the time Danny was created, Bruce met up with the Fenton parents again for some reason or another -- checking out their tech under the guise of wanting to catch up with them.

And I can imagine that, due to being close friends in college, the Fentons literally just outright told him, "Hey we wanna 'nother kid but don't want to go through the risk of pregnancy again, so we're gonna make a clone of one of us instead"

and in true Bruce fashion, he mentally went "wow i should learn Everything And Anything About This Thing Specifically. Just In Case." and outwardly went "woah cool! ahaha how does it work"

and since the Fentons consider Bruce a close friend and are also incapable of Not Talking About Science, turned and went "OH WE CAN SHOW YOU" and showed Bruce their entire cloning process up to and including how they (safely) extracted the DNA they were gonna use. of which they already had. they were gonna just extract Jack's DNA a second time as an example, but it was Bruce who said "hey you should try me instead" in order to gauge how exactly safe this was and if there were any symptoms he would need to recognize in cloning.

so with his consent they did, and then showed him how they were going to use the DNA to make a clone without actually going through the process. Without prompting from Bruce, the Fentons went "we're gonna throw your DNA away though since we don't want this lying around and because we have no use for it" and visibly showed him that they were disposing it.

Bruce came to the conclusion that the Fentons weren't planning anything nefarious, they just really wanted another kid, and (reluctantly) left afterwards. The mixup comes when Maddie, surprisingly, misplaces the cartridge with Jack's DNA in it and while they could have always gotten another sample, it was better and safer to just try and find the original before that.

Jack finds Bruce's in their disposable. In his excitement, he forgets that it was Bruce's DNA, and manages to get it out safely. Maddie wasn't looking when he found it, and in her excitement also forgot to ask where Jack found it. They used that cartridge instead.

When they found out they used the wrong DNA, Danny was already about year old and while Jack and Maddie are morally dubious, they're only morally dubious towards ghosts. Danny was their beloved human baby, they would never do anything to him.

That being said, they were still horrified when they found out, and really, they genuinely did consider reaching out to Bruce to tell him. They thought it was something he deserved to know since it was his DNA that got used instead, and they felt awfully guilty after he trusted them enough to let them draw DNA from him. The only reason they hadn't is because, at the time, Bruce had been really busy with something in his public life and they didn't want to bother him during such a stressful time.

So they were going to wait, and in Fenton-like fashion, forgot to tell him. When the subject came up again sometime later, they assumed they already told Bruce and went about their day.

[infoblogify]

Strengthen Your Muscles with Stim Therapy in Woodbridge

Muscle pain and weakness can be a significant impediment to our daily lives. It can affect our mobility, posture, and overall quality of life. Luckily, there are various ways to alleviate muscle pain and strengthen muscles, including stim therapy. Stim therapy is an effective treatment that uses electrical impulses to stimulate muscle contractions, helping to tone muscles and improve circulation. In this blog post, we'll explore the benefits of stim therapy for muscles Woodbridge, how it works, and what you can expect during a session.

Stim therapy has been used by physiotherapists for decades to treat various muscular conditions. It involves using small electrodes placed on the skin over the affected area that sends electrical impulses through the muscle tissue. The electrical impulses mimic the natural nerve impulses in your body that cause your muscles to contract and relax.

One of the main benefits of stim therapy is its ability to strengthen weak muscles. When our muscles weaken due to injury or lack of use, they lose their ability to contract efficiently. Stim therapy helps re-educate these weakened muscles by forcing them to contract repeatedly, leading to increased strength and endurance.

Another benefit of stim therapy is its ability to relieve pain caused by muscular conditions such as sprains or strains. The electrical impulses produced during the procedure stimulate endorphin production in the brain that acts as natural painkillers.

Stim therapy also improves blood circulation around the affected area by stimulating muscle contractions, leading to faster healing times for injuries or muscular conditions such as arthritis.

During a stim therapy session in Woodbridge, you will lie down comfortably while small adhesive pads are placed on your skin over the affected area. A qualified therapist will then adjust pulse frequency and intensity according to your needs before starting the procedure.

Conclusion:

Stim therapy is a safe and non-invasive technique that has proven effective in treating various muscular conditions. If you're looking to improve your muscle strength, reduce pain, and enhance recovery times, consider undergoing stim therapy at a trusted physiotherapy clinic in Woodbridge. With the right therapist and regular treatment sessions, you'll be on your way to stronger and healthier muscles in no time!

[bfstkb]

Heel Spurs - Causes and Treatment

What are heel spurs?

Heel spurs are calcium deposits that may be found on the back of the heel, or on the bottom of the foot. These spurs are often caused by inflammation, particularly inflammation of the plantar fascia. They may be brought on by repeated strain or stress to the muscles, tendons, and ligaments, which can cause stretching or tearing of the plantar fascia. There are many other causes, including improper footwear, exercise, and improper stretching. Plantar fasciitis can also be caused by wearing footwear that puts pressure onto any one specific part of the foot.

In fact, plantar fasciitis and heel spurs are closely so closely interrelated that plantar fasciitis is often mistaken for heel spurs, and vice versa. It is common to have heel spurs in addition to plantar fasciitis, since spurs can be caused by inflammation of the plantar fascia. Luckily, plantar fasciitis and heel spurs are treated the same way.

How are heel spurs treated?

Whether you’re dealing with plantar fasciitis or heel spurs, or both – the first step is to rest. Walking puts pressure on the foot, and in turn, onto your injury, keeping it in a constant state of inflammation and keeping it from healing effectively. Rest and cold therapy are essential to fight inflammation and reduce pain and swelling. The ColdCure® offers superior cold compression therapy – it conforms to the bottom of your foot and your heel, and the gel is designed to hold its form for the best coverage.

The BFST® is your solution to heal any soft tissue injury, such as plantar fasciitis. The BFST® works wonderfully for pain relief from bone spurs. While it cannot actually heal the bone, the BFST® will heal all of the soft tissue in the area you treat, including the plantar fascia, which are often the cause of bone spurs.

Other helpful things you can do to help heal heel spurs include taking Vitamin D, and reducing your calcium intake. Reducing your activity is essential to give these calcifications time to dissipate, and wearing footwear that does not put pressure on any particular part of the foot (i.e. arch or heel supports) will avoid aggravating the injury further.

Learn more