#chest press for chronic illness

[compassionmattersmost]

8: Gently Building Strength with Compassion: The Converging Chest Press for Post-Viral ME/CFS

The journey toward mindful movement when living with Post-Viral ME/CFS is deeply personal, one that requires patience, gentleness, and, above all, self-compassion. Today, as we continue this path of self-care and mindful strength-building, we’re going to explore the Converging Chest Press Machine—a tool that, when used thoughtfully, can help us nurture our upper body strength in a safe and…

[kitasuno]

dating the love and deepspace boys | domestic moments

featuring: rafayel, xavier, and zayne x gn!reader

(´• ω •`) ♡ modern au! can you guys tell raf is my favorite..?

rafayel

a year younger than you. lies to everyone (including you) that he’s actually two years your senior. you only found out he was younger than you when you met his parents, who have his birth certificate framed. 

hates cats. despises them. they fill him with rage (fear). says he’s allergic (he’s lying).

“oh shit raf, this sucks! i guess you can’t move in with me.. i have cats”

“...you have cats?”

“yeah. 3.”

“i’m not allergic. i can move in tonight.”

chronically online. minoring in marine biology and majoring in annoying you. texts you over 200 times a day and if you don’t respond, he’s faking a horrible chronic illness. again. it’s amnesia on wednesdays, appendicitis on thursdays, chronic migraines on fridays… etc..

he has 2 followers on his private twitter. you and thomas. 

over 700k followers on instagram for some reason? he sells paintings on depop (he says it's depop but you’re convinced he sells them for heinous prices on the black market) 

cooks on occasion? has an apron that says kiss me im irish (he's not irish?) made you a tuna cupcake once?? 

pescatarian. not in the vegan/vegetarian way where he refuses to eat red meat but because he’s absolutely feral over fish. (is this cannibalism? he says its not)

lives in a 2 bedroom apartment with you but doesn’t use his bedroom. says your bed is comfier. turned his bedroom into a painting studio (IT’S for the black market you say!!) and sleeps with you. 

“raf,” you sigh. “don’t you have.. homework or something?” 

he sits between your legs, back against your chest as he scrolls through his phone. 

“yeah,” he says. you flick the back of his head because you know he’s smirking. “it’s called assignment: you. due in two minutes.” 

with his free hand, he reaches back mindlessly to grab yours. you sigh, fingers intertwining with his, a reflex as he leans his head back. his eyes meet yours and you can’t help but laugh. 

“well?” you ask, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he squeezes your hand. “what are the assignment details?” 

he chews on the bottom of his lip as he thinks, humming while his eyes wander across your face. he swings your interlocked hands in circles. it’s raining outside, the heater is on, and rafayel is warm like hot chocolate. 

“what?” he says, his cheeks a tinge pink. “you’re looking at me like that again.” a pause. he turns, his head now buried in your chest.

“just studying my homework.” you say, hands instinctively wrapping around his back. the laundry machine is running in the background, rain is falling against the window, and you faintly hear your rice cooker dinging in the kitchen. home, you think, is with rafayel.

“i can hear your heartbeat.” he says, voice muffled. “it’s super fast. you like me or something?” 

“i really like you.” you say, without skipping a beat. rafayel groans into your chest, sighing in discontent. 

“no fair. i’m supposed to be the flirter.” 

you press a kiss onto the top of his head and you feel his body melt into yours. the two of you fall into a warm silence, his breath steady as he traces paintings into your neck. 

“raf?” you mumble, eyes drooping. he hums in response. “did you pass your assignment?” 

he smiles. “with flying colors.” 

xavier

chronic napper. (yapper?) 

has 100 late assignments. failing all of his classes yet got into the top university in your country because he got a perfect score on his entrance exams. you thought he was a nepo baby (turns out he’s just.. smart?)

his procrastination rubs off on you… he is the WORST distraction and he knows it. so smug about it and uses it to his own advantage. will perch on top of you when you’re studying and kiss down your neck until you go to sleep with him. 

lives in the apartment on top of yours but is at your house most days, if not all. you ask him to move in.

“am i not already.. living with you?” 

“don’t you still have your apartment, though?”

“yeah..?”

 is that good for the economy?? is it financially smart? not at all, but he’s too lazy to move out and put his apartment up for lease. 

xavier sleeps with his legs entangled with yours and his arms wrapped tightly around your chest. the air conditioning hums in the background as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, dimming the brightness as you hear xavier stir. 

“sorry xav, did i wake you up?” you ask. he doesn’t respond, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he glares at your phone. 

“xavier?” you question, swallowing a laugh at his ruffled hair and disheveled clothes. 

“phone down.” he says, voice raspy with sleep and an octave lower than usual. you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“can i get a pretty please in this economy?” 

xavier’s eyes narrow as he snatches your phone away, snoozing the device and placing it on the nightstand next to you. his lips ghost your neck, pressing kisses against your skin as he mumbles incoherently in the dark of your bedroom. 

“xavier-” you breathe, giggling at the sensation. “that tickles!” 

he nips at your neck. 

“bedtime. now.” 

zayne

3 years older than you 

he literally has his whole life together at 27 which scares you so much

“my credit card is your credit card” typa boyfriend

cooks. cleans. has a 9-5. you’re interning at the hospital that he works at (he’s head doctor!!)

you’re just a sweet little intern and zayne is the big bad monster!! everyone at work thinks he hates you because he’s extra strict on you. doesn’t give you any special treatment, ‘ignores’ you most days (but also slips meals into your locker and hands you heat packs on cold days in the hospital)

no one knows he’s dating you until one day someone sees you leaving in zaynes car. 

“oh, you carpool with doctor zayne?”

“huh? no, we live together.”

“you WHAT???”

he’s a virgo……. erm……

the two of you get ready together in the morning. his guard is down when he’s sleepy and he’ll cling to you as he brushes his teeth and does his hair.

you wake up to the cold night breeze, blinking the sleep out of your eyes and shivering as you scan your surroundings. you yelp as you meet the attentive gaze of your boyfriend. 

“huh? whuh? huh?” you splutter, squirming as zayne holds you tighter. he’s carrying you bridal style in his arms, his jacket around your shoulders as the two of you walk to his car. you see the bright lights of akso hospital fading away behind the two of you. 

“it’s two am,” he says calmly, placing you down gently as he opens your car door for you. “you waited for my shift to end. again.” 

you smile bashfully, rubbing the back of your head. “well, i didn’t wanna just leave you!” 

zayne clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed but gaze warm. he guides you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt in place. 

“you can nap on the way home,” he says, closing the door and sliding into his side of the car. 

the heater’s on already- courtesy of his super expensive electric car. he fastens his own seatbelt and hands you a hot tea and bread from the hospital vending machine. 

“drink up. doctor’s orders.” 

you grin before he leans over to press a kiss on your lips. 

“thank you for waiting for me.”

[spatialwave]

"my ambition" - part one

pairing: jayvik x fem!reader word count: 1k tags: mdni! semi-nsfw, fluffy, poly relationship, reader has a chronic illness, no use of y/n, not beta’d. notes:no summary bc it’s very short n sweet and mostly just some fluff!! will probably write a part 2 to this or use this fic as a base for future one shots hehe. reminder that my ask box is open! 🩵 credits: art by @/shuploc & divider by @/cafekitsune on tumblr!

part 2. ->

“No, no, this doesn’t make sense.”

The flickering flame of several candles lit up the darkened apartment as Jayce sat over a scattering of papers. His back hunched, eyes tired, stubble unshaved and fingers tracing over the writings on the parchments. Forever studying and analyzing ways to work with the hextech, to improve upon it and use it to help others. To help you, and Viktor.

“Sleep is good for the brain.” A tired voice spoke from behind him.

There was a quiet groan that erupted from deep within his chest, a reprieve from the chaos in his mind, as he rested back against the wooden chair that creaked beneath his weight. Your hand, a delicate touch, trailed over his bare shoulders as he worked late in only his nice pair of trousers that were gifted by the Kiramman family.

He hadn’t taken a single moment of rest since a meeting with Viktor and Heimerdinger earlier that day to go over progress of the hextech research. They had hit a roadblock, having advanced so far, yet still struggling to find ways for it to help the people, rather than just Piltover.

Hextech was more than a tool to better run the city and improve upon its trades within Runeterra. If only he could find a way to stabilize the crystal.

“You’re overworking yourself, Jayce,” you continued, arms now wrapping around his shoulders. Your chest pressed against the back of his head, hands palming against his muscled chest.

“I’m this close to a breakthrough,” the man sighed, finding comfort in your touch as he leaned back and let his eyes flutter closed, sleep heavy in his head, “Progress Day is three months away, and what do we have to show for it? An unstabilized crystal?”

Jayce was worked up like this more often than not, the work with hextech had taken the forefront for years now. Recently it had begun to consume him, but you were the recipe to keeping him sane. 

You were his rock, as he said.

“Hexgates, airships, robots,” your posh accent chimed as your body moved and you’d managed to sneak your way onto Jayce’s lap — ultimately severing the line between him and his work. 

Your chests pressed together, faces only a few inches apart as you stared into those honey-coloured eyes.

“Why do you always get so down on yourself?” 

Jayce stared at you, strong calloused hands settling on your hips as you straddled him. He had no ambition to answer, knowing very well that he was his own worst critic and you were his biggest supporter. 

“You’ll get there,” you continued, head ducking as your lips pressed to his jaw. The roughage of his stubble prickly against your lips as you kissed, trailing from under his chin to underneath his ear, “now, I haven’t had a chance to have you in over a week. I think I’m rather deserving.”

That roused a chuckle from him, a toothy grin on his lips as he allowed himself to relax under your touch. 

“I want to do this for you,” he murmured, head lulling back as you kissed down his neck, “something to help.”

“I know,” you soothed, one hand palmed at his chest as you pulled back, a finger touching his chin and tilting his face back to you, “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Jayce’s eyes opened, and it was like seeing you for the first time all over again. Beautiful and glowing.

Your sickness was well-hidden, a struggle you dealt with behind closed doors. Pain that erupted through your veins, left your muscles weak and skin burning. It came in flares — aches so painful it left you bedridden for weeks.

Once an Academy all-star, now confined to your apartment. You were thankful for Jayce and Viktor, the two most important individuals in your life.

“Now come to bed. I can’t remember the last time you’d managed to stay up later than Viktor,” you smiled, shifting off of his lap. Two quick breaths blew out the candles, and you’d managed to pull Jayce along behind you like a lovesick puppy.

You dropped the robe that had covered your body, revealing your half-naked body save for the underwear that hugged the curves of your hips. The mattress dipped under your weight as you crawled in next to a sleeping Viktor, who had retired to bed with you a few hours earlier.

He rolled onto his side toward you, a slender arm wrapped over your waist and bony fingers pressing into the skin of your hip. You pressed yourself against his frail chest, face buried as you inhaled his scent and Jayce slipped under the blankets on the other side of him.

“Finally wrangled him?” Viktor hummed, half-asleep, as both yours and Jayce’s warmth kept him tired.

“You’ve let him beat you again. You’re losing your drive for all-nighters full of bright ideas,” you murmured, nuzzling against him.

“I’ve long lost that spark,” Viktor mumbled, burying his face in your hair and sighing as he felt Jayce’s hands slide along his bare skin, “I’m a tired old man now. I can live with that.”

Jayce snorted, “I do it for the both of us then,” he murmured into his lover’s ear, breath warm and tickling his skin. A shaky breath trembled out from Viktor’s lips, tensing his arms around you.

You were quick to join in on the fun, lips attached to the base of Viktor’s throat as you left a trail of feather light kisses along his skin. One hand reaching down between his legs and into the briefs he wore.

“Can’t a man get rest?” he breathed out, squirming between you two. 

“No,” Jayce huffed, lips pressed to Viktor’s shoulders as he assaulted him with a flurry of open-mouthed kisses to his skin, teeth and lips dragging against him.

“Sorry, love,” you whispered, licking a line on his neck before suckling on the skin, “I may have riled him up in the kitchen.”

“How awful,” he sighed, though, there was nothing Viktor enjoyed more than having two lips and two pairs of hands traversing his body. 

He melted into the touch as the three of you consumed each other. Hands traveling over skin, lips connected, tongues lapping at each other and clothes ripped from bodies.

The three of you were the embodiment of love. On the worst days, there were no thoughts of giving up. You were each other’s ambition.

[myalgicencephalomyelitiscfstom]

Press release for this Canadian study [Metabolomic and immune alterations in long COVID patients with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome]:

“We do not actually believe that long COVID is a separate new disease,” explains rheumatologist and clinical immunologist Jan Willem Cohen Tervaert, professor of medicine, who is an expert in fatigue associated with rheumatic illnesses.

“Some symptoms — such as the loss of taste and chest pain — are very specific for COVID, but we see a common pathway with ME/CFS, which leads to the same fatigue, brain fog, post-exertional malaise, widespread pain and non-refreshing sleep,” he says.

[blackenedsnow]

Can you write me a Shadow the Hedgehog x Female Reader, but movie Shadow version and the reader has DiGeorge Syndrome a rare medical disorder that I have, idk about any prompts or summary atm, anything will do :3

a heart’s shadow

WARNING: Mention of chronic illness and medical trauma, implied violence

PAIRING: Movie! Shadow the Hedgehog x Reader with DiGeorge Syndrome

NOTE: I may have gotten his personality completely wrong (let's hope not) but I hope you enjoy anyway! Sending you lots of love <333

SUMMARY: Shadow abducts you as part of a calculated plan but soon discovers your health struggles, which remind him of Maria. This realization shifts his cold purpose into something else.

The hum of machinery filled the darkened corridor. Shadow’s red-tinted eyes scanned the area, unyielding, calculating. Dr. Robotnik’s orders were simple: take a hostage to ensure leverage against Sonic. Anyone nearby would do.

He found you on a bench by a park, bundled against the chill, your breath coming in slow, deliberate measures. Shadow had no reason to think twice about you, but when he closed the distance, a brief hesitance stirred within him. There was something… different.

“You’ll do,” he muttered to himself, voice cold as he stepped forward. Before you had a chance to scream, the world became a blur of black and crimson.

When you came to, you were somewhere unfamiliar, an industrial space with harsh lights and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Panic clawed at your chest as you tried to sit up, but a sharp twinge in your side reminded you why that was a bad idea.

“Good, you’re awake,” a voice came from the shadows.

You turned toward the figure stepping into the light—small, black-furred, and with eyes that pierced right through you. Recognition struck. Shadow the Hedgehog.

“Why am I here? Why… why me?” Your voice trembled, but there was an underlying defiance.

His expression was unreadable. “You were convenient. That’s all.”

It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Shadow had noticed the slow way you’d been breathing, the way your hand pressed against your chest as if steadying something fragile. Something about it gnawed at the edges of his focus, but he dismissed it as irrelevant.

Hours turned into a day. Despite his original intention to keep you confined, Shadow had been uncharacteristically quiet and watchful, observing you from a distance.

When you tried to stand, the stumble in your step was enough to make him act. “Sit,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll hurt yourself further.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your trembling hands betrayed you. “I’ve been through worse.”

Something flickered across his face—a rare softness. “Explain.”

You weren’t sure why you did, but the words poured out before you could stop them. The surgeries. The way your heart worked harder than it should. The moments when simple things—like standing too quickly—felt like scaling a mountain.

Shadow listened, his arms crossed but his eyes filled with something akin to recognition. When you finished, you expected him to dismiss you or make some cutting remark. Instead, he just nodded.

The days stretched on, and Shadow’s demeanor began to shift. Where there had been silence, there was now a steady rhythm of his presence—a glass of water set beside you when he thought you weren’t looking, the careful adjustment of the space to make it more comfortable.

“What changed?” you asked one evening as he handed you a blanket.

Shadow hesitated, his gaze fixed on the floor. “You’re not what I expected. You’re… stronger than you seem.”

“Strong?” You laughed bitterly. “I can barely make it through the day without—”

“Strength isn’t about perfection,” he interrupted, his tone firm. “It’s surviving despite everything trying to break you.”

It wasn’t just empty words. Shadow understood. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened when he spoke, the unspoken weight he carried.

One morning, you woke to find Shadow in a room—not the cold, sterile space you’d been confined to, but warm place. He had taken you somewhere safe.

“You’re not taking me back to Robotnik?” you asked cautiously.

“No,” he said simply.

“But why—”

“Because I don’t work for him anymore.”

He didn’t elaborate, but you didn’t need him to. The walls Shadow had so carefully built around himself had cracked, just enough for you to glimpse the truth. He hadn’t saved you out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way, you’d become important to him.

Life with Shadow wasn’t easy—he was blunt, stoic, and often distant. But he was also fiercely protective, learning the intricacies of your condition without complaint. He’d carry you when you were too weak to walk, stand vigil during your worst days, and remind you in his own quiet way that you were never alone.

“Why do you stay?” you asked him one night, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, his gaze steady. “Because you remind me of her. Of Maria.”

You reached for his hand, resting yours over his. “I’m not her, Shadow. I’m not perfect.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you’re worth fighting for.”

[cressidagrey]

Holy Ground - Chapter 3

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

The library was supposed to be a safe space. The priestesses were supposed to be sheltered there.

A place far away from the terrors of the world. A place where they could study and learn far from the grasp of those who would harm them.

But clearly today that peace had been destroyed, Rhys reflected weakly. 

Merrill was dead. 

Neither Cassian or Rhys had let Gwyn see the…carnage of that, Nesta and Emerie bracketing her away from…her fellow priestesses’ corpse…and Irena…

Rhys had to keep repeating the words to himself, over and over again. Like a litany, a prayer, desperately trying to make them stick. 

Irena was alive. Irena would be fine.

 She would be alright, even though she looked so, so pale, deathly pale in Azriel's arms.

Irena.

Irena, who Azriel had saved around two centuries ago…

Not from the horrors of the war but from her husband.

The daughter of a merchant, married off young, to one of the richest men in the midlands…she had been raised to run an estate…had excelled at it in fact. And her husband had excelled in killing young girls.

The things he had put her through... The things he had done... 

Azriel, who had found her and brought her to Velaris had been shocked that she'd stayed in one piece to be honest. Rhys had been shocked too.

And once she had been in the library…she had excelled once more.

Rhys had gotten long used to see her handwriting, not long suffering Clotho’s, fill out the sheets with expenditures and acquisitions.

She had cut the fat, made sure that the House of Wind was self sufficient, thanks to research requests being able to be submitted, thanks to patents and the gardens…

Irena had been a godssend. Literally. 

Rhys wasn't quite sure how they had survived before her.

But the last fucking thing he had expected was that…her and Azriel were…mates.

Rhysand had not seen that coming in a million years

But there was no question about it.

If Irena's thoughts, an utter mess of shock and pain and grief and agony...with the only thing that ran through it the whole time was her thread to Azriel wouldn't have been a dead giveaway...then it would have been Azriel's behaviour.

Azriel who had gone on his knees next to the priestess, his hands slick with her blood and had simply clung to her. He had begged her, his voice broken.

Rhys would never forget the sound of his brother's voice, the pure desperation bleeding from every single letter. Please. We haven't had enough time. I am going to be so furious with you if you die. We may have our first fight. Don't you dare. Open your eyes. Look at me, love. You can't go. Fight.

That look on Azriel's face as he had held her close, refusing to let go as he tried to will her back from death's clutches. The words he had kept murmuring like a prayer. A desperate mantra to the Mother, the Cauldron, anyone who would listen.

Azriel was never the most expressive of them. He rarely even showed a flicker of emotion for most things. To see him lose so much control, to beg. To see tears in his eyes. None of them had ever seen him like that before, had ever even considered the possibility of him acting like that.

He was always composed. Always calm, collected, in control. To see him on his knees next to Irena, begging her not to leave as he pressed kisses to her forehead and kept telling her to stay with him…

For a moment, it had felt like he had forgotten the others even existed. That nothing had mattered except her pulse, the slight rise and fall of her chest. The only thing that had mattered to him in that moment was that she was still with him, still alive.

She was important to him. There was no question about it. 

Sometime during the last few years, that Priestess had become the Shadowsinger’s whole focus. 

Sometime in the past, Irena had become Azriel's whole world.

And Rhys hadn't known. Had known nothing about this.

He could feel the guilt clawing up inside him. 

Rhys had had no fucking clue this was happening, right underneath his nose. 

That he had never noticed that Azriel's eyes lingered on Irena…had never noticed that Azriel sought her company…hadn’t known that Azriel had spent time with her… 

Rhys hadn't known. Hadn't...hadn't even thought about it.

Azriel had pulled back from them after that catastrophic solstice and Rhys had let him. Had thought that Azriel needed to lick his wounds...that maybe then he would see it Rhysand's way...but none of this happened.

Azriel had kept his anger tightly leashed, even though Rhys had gotten a taste of it every time he badgered him. But Azriel hadn’t exploded. 

Instead, he had been vicious in throwing Rhysan’ own words back into his face. 

There didn’t pass one day where Rhys didn’t regret that one sentence, because Azriel was clearly… furious about it. 

Azriel had grown distant...cold...unfeeling. And Rhys had badgered him and got on his nerves and figured that if Azriel would just get it out of his system… but he didn't. Didn't get angry. Didn't fight. Didn't scream...Rhys would have preferred it if he did.

What wouldn't he give to have that old Azriel back, the one who actually got mad? Who didn't just accept everything with a nod and a word of acknowledgment. Who talked to Rhysand, who told him when he'd done something wrong. Who fought with him if he went too far, who made his opinion known. Who told him to his face when he was being an arrogant prick, who didn't just accept his commands with a quiet nod.

But now it made sense. Azriel hadn't fucking cared what Rhys did, what any of the did, because his priorities had been rearranged completely. As long as he could get home to his priestess...he hadn't cared.

He did all the missions Rhys had for him and then went home to the House of Wind and found one quiet corner or another to romance his mate, out of the view from everybody else. 

And that was the worst part. That Rhys had been such a prick to Azriel, so wrapped up in his own worries, his own fears, that he hadn't even noticed that something had shifted so fundamentally in his brother. Had pushed him so far away.

Rhys had thought that they were simply…in a rought spot. That in a few years, Azriel would be over Elain and it would be done. But now Rhys realised that…that it wasn’t about Elain. Not really.  

Rhys had never realized how deep this was, how close to the breaking point he'd taken his brother.

Deep enough that the fact that Azriel had found his mate...that was something that Azriel didn't share with any of them. Something that happy... Azriel had just kept silent.

Azriel hadn’t trusted them with the most treasured and precious thing in his life. 

And that hurt. Hurt more than he could put into words. 

That Azriel had found the one person who he was destined for, the only one who was perfect for him in the entire world. The one person who would love and cherish him, who would complete him, who would accept him as he was, who would understand him...and he hadn't told Rhys. Hadn't told any of them.

Azriel hadn't told anyone that he had found his mate. 

Had kept that to himself for who knew how long. Just how long had it been? When had he figured out they were mated? 

“Bring her to her room,” Madja said at the moment. And Rhys watched as seemingly some colour went back into Irena's cheeks, her eyes closed, her breathing still laboured…her mind filled with Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. and Safe, Safe, Safe. 

“My room,” Azriel corrected, his voice fierce. The mating instincts must have gone completely haywire at that very moment, not soothed at all, even when he had pressed a kiss against her forehead moments before.

.“Your room?” Gwyn asked sharply, staring at Azriel, then at still, quiet Irena. She seemed to be utterly shell-shocked, not that Rhys could fault her. 

"Gwyn," Rhys said carefully. It was best if none of them...interfered right now. This was between Azriel and his mate.

"Az, how long have the two of you..." Cassian asked, clearly having come to the same conclusion, but Rhys interrupted him. *Leave him be,* he warned their brother.

*Leave him be?! I had no idea that he and Irena are...whatever the fuck they are!*

“Two years. She’s my mate,” Azriel answered, not even looking at any of them, completely concentrated on said mate. 

"Mate," Irena agreed weakly. "Mine."

"Yours," Azriel agreed, his voice hoarse, as he picked her up carefully like his mate was made out of spun glass. "Let's tuck you into bed, Love," he told her softly. 

And off his spymaster went carrying the priestess that was his mate.

Rhys could just stare after them. 

"Did you know?" Cassian demanded sharply.

"I had absolutely no fucking clue," Rhys admitted weakly.

He felt the guilt swirling inside him, deep and bitter and vicious. He should have known. He should have realized and supported Azriel.

But it had been Rhys who had pushed him so far away that he hadn't told him. That he didn't even think that he could tell Rhys that he had found his mate.

And it hurt. Gods, it hurt. To know that Azriel had kept something that he should have been so happy about to himself just so he wouldn't have to deal with Rhys's bullshit.

Cassian started barking orders...About a stretcher and about Merrill's body...It would be taken away and prepared for the last rites. 

It wasn't often that one of the priestesses died. It wasn't...They were safe here. They were supposed to be safe here...but whatever happened in this room…

“What even happened?” Rhys asked, as he turned around to surview the carnage. 

It was bad. Really bad. 

“Irena went to talk to Merill, because Merrill got…angry with one of the newer acolytes…” Gwyn said, her voice shaky. “Merrill was in a bad mood because Irena forbid her newest research project.”

Her newest research project? It was well known that Merrill was brilliant. So for Irena to…

"Why did she forbid it?" Rhys asked curiously.

"It involved some form of spell crafting. Irena wanted Merrill to have supervision from a spellcrafter, because it was a language that none of us actually understood and we didn’t eve know about what kind of spell it was…Merill didn't think that was needed," Gwyn said weakly, wiping away tears. "And now look where that got us. God, how could Merrill be this stupid?"

"It wasn't stupidity, it was probably arrogance," Cassian said with a sigh. "It's dumb luck that only...that only Irena got hurt.

Rhys couldn't but agree with Cassian's assessment. It was a miracle that Irena was alive. That she'd survived when Merrill’s body was…near unrecognisable….clearly it had been closer to whatever had blown up in their faces

Merrill had probably thought she knew what she was doing, but she didn't have the skill or training to work on advanced spell work. I

rena wasn’t the type of person who would deny research on a whim either. If she believed that Merrill needed supervision then Merrill had needed supervision.

Irena was clever. And cautious. 

Azriel's mate was a damn good judge of character after all.

Gods, Azriel's mate. What a thought…

The spymaster and the priestess. Rhys’ near silent brother and…and gentle, caring Irena, the beating heart of the library. 

Rhys would need to wrap his mind around that in private. 

“I’ll seal…this room,” Rhys said quietly. So nobody could enter. And then he would probably turn Amren loose in it, to turn around every fucking stone, so that they figured out what that spell had been that had reacted like it. The last thing they needed was for the spell to have any sort of consequences that involved Irena. 

"Clotho," he greeted the priestess as she arrived, inclining his head. 

What happened? she demanded, holding out her usual piece of paper. 

Rhys felt his stomach churn at that question.  

How the hell were they supposed to tell Clotho that not only one of the priestesses had tragically died…but one of the others was currently holed up in an Illyrian warrior's room, recovering from injuries that should have killed her, and that said Illyrian warrior was said priestess's mate, so was probably not going to leave her alone anytime soon?

And that was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to the absolute clusterfuck this whole situation was. There was nothing to do except to simply tell Clotho the truth and hope that she didn't have a breakdown.

"There was an...accident. Merrill is dead," he told her bluntly.

For a moment Clotho was just frozen in place. But he could tell that his words had hit her hard. That she was shocked, horrified, stunned beyond belief. HOW?!

And Rhys took a deep breath, trying to find a way to explain what had happened. 

To explain how one of her charges had been killed in a room where she was supposed to be safe…How her own experimentation, her own research had killed her…

And how no one had even noticed that a priestess had been mated. 

No...how the shadowsinger had mated to a Priestess and hadn't even thought to tell them because Rhys had acted like such as bastard to his brotherthat Azriel had actually thought it preferable to keep his mating bond a secret.

"Merill didn't listen when Irena turned down her research proposal," Gwyn said suddenly with a shaky voice. "Irena went to talk to her this afternoon, because Merill made Meera cry...It looks like the spell that she was taking apart went...haywire. Merill was killed in the backlash...Irena was hurt.”

Rhys just nodded. It was a reasonable explanation, even if it didn't cover everything that had gone on. At this point in time, he was almost more concerned about Clotho than anything else. The poor female looked ready to collapse.

I told Merill to keep away from that spellbook. We still don’t know what it even contained, Clotho agreed, even her handwriting looking shaky. 

He could tell that she was in shock and grief. Could imagine how she must be feeling. Clotho protected the Priestesses with all she had. They were her flock. To lose one of her charges...There was no way that Clotho would not blame herself.

She was going to blame herself for something that wasn't her fault at all. And the thought made Rhys feel sick to his stomach.

Clotho had enough weight on her shoulders already, the last thing she needed was guilt over something that was not even her fault.

IRENA?! Clotho demanded sharply.

"Alive, if just barely," Rhys informed her, trying to push down his own guilt at the thought. "Madja is with her."

In the dormitory?

"No, in Azriel's room," Cassian said bluntly. "Apparently they have been mates for... two years.”

Clotho's head snapped around, facing Cassian, her eyes wide. 

Nobody had seen that coming, not even one of Irena’s closest friends. 

It seemed like both of them had kept it quiet. Azriel must have so badly wanted to protect his mate from…from him, that…

The thought made Rhys feel sick. Azriel would rather keep his mate a secret than reveal to Rhys that he had found her. 

Than tell him that he had found his perfect match, that there was a female in this world that loved him above all others, who understood him, who supported him.

And it was all Rhys' own fault. 

He didn't have any other thought. There was no other explanation. If a friend didn't trust him enough to confide in him that he had found his mate, it was because he had done something wrong. So wrong that Azriel hadn't felt like he could tell him.

She wanted to be with him? Clotho demanded.

"From the look of it, she was barely conscious, but still claimed him as hers. And Azriel certainly seemed to think that she would want to be with him," Rhys told Clotho. 

And why wouldn't she? He was her mate. Her mate. 

"He won't do anything to her," Cassian said fiercely. "She's his mate."

Rhys agreed with that. Of all the males in existence, Azriel was by far the least likely to do anything that Irena would not like. Hell, he wouldn't do anything that might make her even feel mildly uncomfortable. And if she told him to back off, he would give her as much space as she needed.

"Mor, whatever Clotho needs," he told his cousin, who had brought Madja there, who just inclined her head, seemingly shaken. "I'll seal of this room...we'll need to...figure out what to do with it," he said softly. "Clotho, whatever form of memorial you would like to hold...take all the time you need and then let me know."

Clotho looked at him sharply before nodding weakly. She probably wouldn't need his help when it came to something like this. She knew how to handle something like this. How to give her fallen a last farewell.

"I want to check on Irena," Gwyn said, her hands shaking as she crossed her arms.

Rhys nodded. That was fair. Of course Gwyn wanted to check on her friend. And at this point all anyone could really do was wait anyway. "Let me seal the room and then we can go," he said softly. "But I need to warn you, Azriel will be...overprotective," he told her. "Chances are, he won't let you get close to her at all."

"I don't have any doubt about that," Gwyn said dryly. "But she's my friend. I should at least be allowed to check on her."

***

He cleaned the blood of her skin...The shadows procured one of Irena's nightgowns. She didn't protest when he held her up and Madja pulled the soiled, ruined dress from her body...didn't even flinch away from his touch on her naked skin.

They had never gone further than some heated...kisses...further than his hands slipping under her nightgown and pressing against her soft skin. He had never wanted to push. Azriel had been willing to give her all the time in the world. 

It had taken months until she had been ready for a hug…longer for a kiss. And he had waited. Gladly. He had gladly waited, because it was worth the wait. She was worth the wait. 

Her marriage wasn't something that she was just going to get over, and Azriel was never ever going to push her for more than she willingly offered him. 

He had never wanted to undress her under these circumstances. So he closed his eyes, and pressed a kiss to her head, not looking at all. 

Irena didn't make a sound, didn't even really respond...just stared into the distance. He wasn't even sure she really noticed what was happening to her. Wasn't sure she even noticed Madja cleaning the wounds…cleaning thin, silver lines, scars of her past, mostly hidden by her clothing, but still visible. 

This was also when they saw the rest of the wounds...and the fact that her bad leg was broken.

Madja bandaged it carefully, stuffing pillows underneath it to keep it elevated, wrapped the rest of her bruises and scrapes with a tincture.

Still, once she was clean, no more debris in her hair, her skin as clean as he could get it...and the new nightgown was fitted over her skin, he tugged her underneath the thick goose feather stuffed duvet and then the furs.

There was no resistance on Irena’s part. She just let him do as he pleased, let herself be maneuvered and tucked in with the patience of a parent settling a little girl into bed. She didn't say anything. Didn't protest at all, even when he curled his own large body around her smaller frame, even when his wings came around her, shielding her from the outside world.

But she didn't move to snuggle up to him either. Didn't reach for him, didn't try to press her body into his. Just...allowed him to pull her close and hold her as tightly as he wanted. Her body was limp and unmoving, the only emotion on her face a sort of...emptiness. A blank expression that...it was terrifying.

He wrapped his arms around her with a sigh, running a gentle hand through her hair with a sigh. He knew that she was in shock. That she had just survived something terrible, something traumatic. So it wasn't surprising that she wasn't really responsive at the moment, that her skin felt like ice to him and that she was shaking slightly, trembling…

But the instinct to comfort her, to protect her from everything that might hurt her was roaring in his chest. He couldn't pull away from her, even though he knew he should. Even though he knew he should just be thankful that he had her, that she was here, in his hands, breathing.

She felt so thin in his hands. So fragile. Like she might break if he didn't hold her close. And that feeling, the knowledge of how vulnerable his mate was, it was almost too much for him to bear.

“I have pain potions and a sleeping draught,” Madja said quietly.

Azriel felt his jaw clench at the mention of a sleeping draught. He wanted Irena to rest, needed her to sleep away some of the horrors, but there was also some instinct in him that revolted at the idea of making her vulnerable like that. That revolted at the thought of knocking his mate out when she couldn't protect herself.

“Is that alright, love?” He asked her softly.

She didn't answer. Didn't even stir. The only sign that she had heard his question at all was the way her fingers clenched more tightly in his shirt. The only outward sign that she even understood that he was there at all. That she could even hear him. "Love?" He asked again, his voice a gentle murmur. "Do you want the sleeping draught, love?"

“Sleep?” She repeated weakly. 

“Sleep.” He promised her.

She simply opened her mouth in response, letting him pour it down her throat and swallowed.

He ran gentle fingers through her hair as the potion began to take effect. As her eyelids drooped and her limbs went loose and he could almost watch the tension leaving her body. He couldn't help but press a soft, tender kiss to the crown of her head.

Azriel couldn't put into words how good it felt to have her in his arms like this. To have her safe and protected and healing.

Madja left with the promise to be back soon…and as soon as she left there was a knock at the door. He didn’t want to deal with his brothers. 

*We could bar the door, master,* the shadows offered.

Azriel considered that for a long moment. It was tempting. Really, really tempting to just let the shadows seal the door and tell everyone to fuck off. That they could deal with the rest of the world later and he could just focus on Irena for now.

He knew that he couldn't though. Knew that he couldn't keep the world away from Irena. For all that he would like to protect her from all the harm in this world and lock her away into the safety of his arms, he knew that he couldn't do that. And that Rhys would throw a fit if he didn't let them in immediately.

He sighed softly, his arms tightening around his mate. He didn't want to deal with his brothers right now. Didn't want to deal with Rhys lecturing him about his decisions. Didn't want the pity and understanding in Cassian's eyes, his careful kindness. He didn't want to have to hold up the strong facade when his brother pushed and pushed and pushed.

“Come in,” he said flatly.

Azriel sighed softly as the door was opened and his brothers entered, both looking at him with concern. There was something else in Rhys' eyes, something that he wasn't sure how to name. The High Lord had an indecipherable look on his face as he moved to come stand next to the bed.

But it was Gwyn that shouldered both Rhys and Cassian out of the way, that immediately went to Irena’s bedside.

“She’s asleep,” he warned her softly. “Madja gave her a sleeping draught.”

The Valkyrie moved in silence, but Azriel could tell that she desperately wanted to reach out and touch her friend. Could tell that there was some instinct in her to touch Irena, to comfort her, that she was fighting against. He almost felt bad for her, knowing how hard it must have been to hold back that urge to offer comfort, knowing how desperately she had to want to soothe her friend's pain.

He knew that the two of them were close. That Irena was well liked by practically every priestess…That Roslin was her very best friend, but that she also got along with seemingly everybody else, including Gwyn. 

 And he wanted to let her get close to his mate. He really did. But the need to keep his mate safe was too strong. Was something that he couldn't fight against. So he just pulled Irena more firmly into his chest.

His only saving grace was that Gwyn seemed to understand. Didn't even try to argue with him or demand to get close to his mate. She just stayed at a respectable distance and didn't protest when he pulled Irena closer to his chest.

He could tell that she recognized his possessive nature for what it was. Just a desperate instinct to hold and protect his mate from further harm. And she didn't argue with him. 

“You are the one who gets her the tea and the cookies, aren’t you?” She asked him suddenly. “I was wondering where she got them from. They were always good but the tea has definitely gotten better the last two years.” 

*See, Master?!* the shadows cooed, seemingly heaving and then coming to blanket Irena in their very presence too. *We are getting her the best tea!*

They seemed very pleased with themselves. 

Azriel knew that when he wasn’t in Velaris, some of the shadows even kept Irena company through the night, cuddling themselves beneath her blankets with her. He also knew that Irena loved it.

Knew better than anyone even his shadows that those moments of comfort, those little gestures, mattered more to his mate than any large gifts ever could. Irena had never cared about large gestures, about pricy gifts, didn’t care about gifts or public displays of  affection. 

But those little things…she loved those little things. Loved her shadows coming to spend time with her…loved it when he gave her a back rub to ease the pain in her back, or when the shadows brought her the tea that she liked or her favourite cookies.

And Azriel…he loved giving her that.  He was happy to provide each and every one of them. He would do anything for her at this point. Would bring her anything that she asked for with enthusiasm. Because he loved it when her face lit up or when she smiled when he brought her something she didn't expect to get. That was something that he would never get tired of.

Azriel would never get tired of watching her face light up with happiness at the smallest of gifts that he gave her. Would never tire of feeling those little gestures bring her even a small moment of happiness. It brought him somuch joy to see her delighted by something so small. Made something inside of him fill with warmth.

“I’ll let her sleep,” Gwyn said softly. “Tell her when she’s awake that she owes us all the gossip. None of us had a clue that the two of you were seeing each other.”

Azriel inclined his head in response, a soft grin pulling at his lips despite everything. "I'll be sure to tell her." Not that he thought that there was anything to gossip about.

Gwyn left with another smile. Which left him with his brothers. 

“Az.” Cassian said with a weary sigh. ”What the fuck.”

Azriel frowned sharply, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he looked at his brother. His arms tightened around Irena unconsciously, the protective instinct coming into play.

He knew Cassian, knew all too well that his brother liked to be a pain in his ass, liked to push him further than he wanted to be pushed. "I'm not in the mood for your bullshit, Cassian," he warned his brother in a low growl. "Say whatever it is that you feel the need to say, and then get out."

He knew that he probably looked completely insane. Knew that he looked like a madman clutching onto Irena with an iron grip and growling at anyone who dared get too close. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the instincts that seemed to be pulling at every muscle in his body, couldn't stop the tension that was coiling tight as a spring.

“How long has… this been going on?“ Rhys asked delicately. 

“Two years at next Starfall,“ Azriel answered flatly.

Cassian whistled softly at that. "Two years?!" He asked incredulously. "And you didn't think to tell us?"

Azriel's jaw clenched automatically at the words. 

He had thought to tell them. Numerous times. 

He had just never wanted to. 

First he had wanted to let things settle and solidify before announcing it to his family and letting them come swarming in to analyse their relationship…Later…later he just hadn’t wanted to. 

They were completely happy when nobody knew. Why change it? 

Azriel knew that he probably should have anticipated this reaction. Probably should have expected his brothers to be confused and annoyed, probably should have anticipated them wanting to know more. But he just hadn't wanted to deal with the questions and inquiries and curiosity and judgement. 

So he had kept his relationship with Irena a secret.

“It was none of your business,” he said simply.

Cassian stared at him, dark eyes pained.  “We are your brothers,” he said quietly.  

“Quite frankly, I just didn’t want to deal with whatever opinion you cook up about us,” Azriel said flatly.  His brothers were way too nosy and curious for their own good. Always had been. “We are happy. I didn’t want you to ruin that.”

They would have never respected his privacy or any boundary he had tried to set up. 

He knew that Cassianwas probably annoyed that he hadn’t told him about his relationship with Irena. Knew that he was probably feeling left out and...excluded. That he was hurt that Azriel had kept this from him. But he just couldn’t find it within himself to feel any sympathy at the moment. Not when his patience was already wearing thin. Not when he could still feel the fear of almost losing Irena thrumming under his skin.

He couldn’t deal with this right now. Couldn’t handle whatever pity or lecturing his brother would give him. Just wanted to hold his mate and try to keep the fear of losing her at bay.

That fear was already too much, already consuming him and threatening to swallow him whole. The only thing that kept him sane, the only thing that kept him from falling apart was the knowledge that his mate, his Irena, was safe in his arms. And he needed to focus on that if he wanted to keep it together.

“Azriel.” Rhys’ choice was choked.

Azriel stiffened at the sound, his attention flicking to his brother automatically. There was something in Rhys’ voice, some emotion in his eyes that Azriel couldn’t quite discern right now.

He had heard his brother choked or emotional or desperate before, but this was something else. This was emotion in his brother that he had never seen before: raw, unfiltered, and painful.

The tone of Rhys’ voice, the almost anguished look in his eyes had Azriel holding his breath for a moment. Had his heartbeat picking up speed as he waited for his brother to speak.

The tension was heavy and thick as he waited, his muscles coiled tight as he waited for Rhys to speak. His whole body tense like a tightly wound spring.

“I am sorry,” Rhys whispered quietly.

Azriel stiffened slightly at that, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. His muscles were still tense, still ready for a fight, but the raw apology in Rhys' words, the emotion in his voice...it surprised him.

It was unexpected. He had expected the anger and the hurt and the bitterness, not the raw emotion in his brother’s voice. Not the apology.

He almost couldn’t believe his ears, almost wanted to ask his brother to repeat himself. But he just stayed quiet instead, just tensed and listened and waited for his brother to continue speaking.

He couldn't even blink as he waited, as he hung on every slight movement or small change in expression on his brothers face. The tension was so thick, so heavy he could almost taste it. But he still didn't move an inch. Just waited, every muscle still as a statue as he watched his brother with an almost desperate intensity.

“I am sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t want to hurt you,” Rhys said quietly. “I…we would have been happy for you,” Rhys promised him fiercely. 

Azriel felt his throat go dry at the words. The apology, the admission of his brother's intent to protect him, it was so unexpected that he almost couldn’t comprehend it. He felt some of the tension drain from his body, some of the tightness in his muscles loosening slightly.

Azriel's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that he almost couldn't hear anything else over the sound. The raw emotion in his brother's voice, the sincerity in those simple words...it was overwhelming.

“You were hurt,” Rhys said softly. “I understand. But you could have come to us any time over the last two years and told us and we would have been a happy for you,” he promised him fiercely.

"Would you have really?" Azriel asked softly. "Would you really have been happy for us and not made a problem out of nothing?"

He wanted to believe his brother, truly he did. But there was still a small part of him, the small part that had been hurt and mistreated and rejected so many times before, that was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The part of him that was looking for a catch, looking for the sign that this was just another manipulation.

He didn't want to feel this way, didn't want to look for the betrayal and rejection that had been written into his very soul. But he couldn't help it. Couldn't help the small part of him that was constantly looking for the next blow, bracing for rejection and hurt.

“We would have,” Cassian said fiercely. “You found your mate, Az.”

Azriel nodded slowly.

“How did you even hide it?” Cassian demanded, crossing his arms.

“I do know how to use a sound shield,” Azriel gave back flatly. 

Cassian let out a low chuckle at that, shaking his head as he grinned. "Well, you've always been more adept at keeping secrets than I am," he teased, a sly grin pulling at his lips. “ Since when do you sleep surrounded by furs by the way?” Cassian muttered.

“Irena gets cold,” he said simply.

“Wait, she spend the nights here with you?” Cassian suddenly realised.

"None of your business," Azriel replied flatly, not even trying to hide his annoyance with the nosy question. "Just focus on keeping your own mate happy, brother."

“How do you even sneak her up here?!”

"None of your business," Azriel repeated flatly. "My relationship with my mate is my own business, not yours."

He knew that he was being stubborn, that he was probably being unreasonable right now. But he couldn't help it. His emotions were too raw, too overwhelming for him to handle the intrusion into his personal life. He just wanted to focus on Irena and making sure she was okay, not on his brother's questions and prodding into the details of his relationship.

It was none of their business how he and Irena spent their time together, how they snuck around the house without being caught. That was something private, something sacred between them. And he wasn't going to share it with anyone, not even his own brothers.

He just wanted to protect that intimacy between him and his mate, wanted to keep it safely guarded from prying eyes that might not understand. He knew that his brothers cared about him, but he also knew that they could be too nosy for their own good sometimes. 

“…is she aware what these furs mean?” Cassian asked him pointedly. 

Was she aware that Azriel was laying claim to her with every single one of those furs that he hunted for her? Aware that he was following Illyrian tradition, regardless of how much…of how fucked up it was in many senses? 

“Yes,” he said simply. Kinda. A little bit. 

"So it's...serious?" Cassian asked him.

"She's my mate," he snapped back.

Cassian held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, a sheepish expression on his face.

Azriel let out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just…leave it alone," he said tiredly. "Please. I'm not in the mood for any more questions right now."

He just wanted to be alone with Irena, wanted to hold her close and let the warmth of her body soothe his frayed nerves. He didn't want to deal with his brothers and their incessant questioning. Didn't want to talk about his relationship with Irena or how serious it was. He just wanted to be with her and that was it.

. His emotions were just too raw, too close to the surface for him to hold back. He just wanted a moment of peace, of quiet, with his mate.

He just wanted to hold her close and breathe in the scent of her skin, wanted to feel her warmth against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her protectively. He just wanted to know that she was safe, that she was still here with him. Was that really too much to ask?

He let out a long breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. He didn't want to be angry, didn't want to be frustrated. But he couldn't help it, couldn't help the surge of protective instincts that came over him every time he thought about how close he had come to losing his mate.

"If you need anything, let us know," Rhys said quietly.

Azriel stiffened at the words, his hands curling into fists at his sides automatically. He knew that Rhys was only trying to be supportive, that he was only trying to offer his help. But Azriel didn't want that. Didn't want his brother's help or sympathy. He just wanted to be left alone with his mate.

He wanted to protect her himself, to take care of her and keep her safe without his brothers' interference. He knew that Rhys only meant well, but that knowledge did nothing to calm his instincts. All he could think about was how close he had come to losing his mate, how close he had come to never seeing her again. And the thought terrified him.

It made his heart clench and his gut twist in fear and pain, his hands clenching tight as he struggled to keep his emotions under control. He didn't want to be vulnerable, didn't want to let his brothers see how much this had affected him. But he knew that it was pointless to try and hide it, that his brothers could probably see the rawness of his emotions written all over his face.

Azriel didn't try to argue with his brother, didn't try to explain himself. He just nodded.

[fourmoony]

GOING TO SLEEP WITH A MARAUDER AND YOU'RE IN BED, HES SHIRTLESS AND READER AND HIM JUST TALK AND KISS AND ALL THAT FLUFFY STUFF THANKS LOVELY

this went a little angsty! thanks for requesting :)

cw: mentions of chronic pain, painkiller use, mentions of car crash, brief mention of post-car-crash-trauma, scars

remus lupin x f!reader, 1.5k

Remus is propped against your pillows, the room glowing with the light of the television, when you exit the bathroom. He turns the volume down when he hears the door click shut, turns his head until he’s looking at you with a tired smile. He looks so soft, buried in your nice, clean bed sheets; hair a mop of curls that’s starting to rest on his forehead the longer he avoids going to the hairdresser’s. His eyes bleed with exhaustion from a busy day.

You’d spent the morning in a cafe with Sirius, the afternoon at the park with Harry, and the evening having dinner with Hope and Lyall. It’d been nice, both in company and in weather, but the excessive walking and being on the go has taken it out of Remus. That much is obvious by the way he has a throw cushion tucked under his knee, poking out from under the blanket. He tries to throw the blanket over his leg, tries to hide the obvious admittance of pain.

You slide into bed next to him, a frown on your lips. “You’re in pain?” You ask, pulling the shoddy attempt at a cover up job back until his elevated leg is on full display.

Remus jolts with the blast of cold air, his stomach muscles flexing. The skin of his torso is on full display, the moonlight coming from the window showcasing his skin in a silvery light. There hasn’t been a day since you met Remus where you haven’t found his beauty astonishing. He is truly the most stunning person you’ve ever come across, even if he refuses to believe you when you tell him. The scar on his hip bone juts out from the band of his boxers, followed all the way up by a collection of raised scars that litter his skin like constellations.

Your fingers brush the particularly jagged scar across his rib cage as you lean in to look at Remus’ swollen knee. He huffs, clearly irritated that his plan of hiding the pain has been foiled. His knee is warm to the touch, the skin around it swollen. “I’m always in pain, dove.” Remus replies, flatly.

You hate that it’s true. Your boyfriend has good days and he most certainly has bad days, but he never has days where he’s not in some sort of pain. Remus’ illness has taken a lot from him; his childhood, at times, his social life, his freedom. You think maybe Remus thinks if he lets you know how bad it can truly be, it’ll cost him you, as well. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times you remind your boyfriend that it won’t scare you away, it never seems to stick.

“Okay, tough guy,” You scoff, finding that Remus often responds better to sarcasm and tough love than being babied or fussed over, especially when it gets bad, “fancy getting up to get me a glass of water?”

“Get it yourself, lazy girl.”

You can’t help the startled laugh that falls from your lips, eyes wide as you catch the sly grin on your boyfriend’s face. Remus laughs soon after, leans forward to press a loving kiss to the crown of your head. His own way of saying you know I’m kidding. You do know he’s kidding, so you kiss the underside of his jaw in return.

“Take some pain killers, baby. You know they’ll help, even if only enough to help you fall asleep.”

“Already have.” Remus chirps, pulls you by the shoulders until you’re resting across his chest.

Your boyfriend runs like a furnace at all times, the familiar feeling of warmth mixed with the signature scent of his shower gel has your muscles uncoiling as you relax into him. You’re cautious of putting all of your weight onto him until he shifts, further into the pillow mountain he’s created and pulls you along with him. He breathes deep at the relief he must feel from the new angle, reaches onto his bedside table for the television remote.

“Any requests?” He asks, words mumbled into your hair.

His arms are tight around you, thumbs brushing where they meet in the middle of their waist. You settle in, hook your leg over his good leg. One of his hands slips to the curve of your bum at the opportunity you’ve presented him, a gentle, nonsexual touch, but intimate nonetheless. “Not really. Just whatever you like.” You hum quietly.

He turns the volume back up a smidge on the sitcom you both like. His touch is soft and feather like, a comfort that pulls you fast stead towards sleep. The slow rise and fall of your boyfriend’s chest has your own breaths syncing up, lips turning every now and then to press kisses over his heart.

“Do you ever think about the crash?” You ask, eyes focussed on his raised knee.

Remus doesn’t startle. He might have, at the beginning of your relationship. He’d only told you in bits in pieces, back then, that he’d been in a terrible crash as a boy; the reason for his terrible joint and muscle pain.

You feel him shake his head, lips still firm against your hair. He presses a kiss there, then dips his head until he’s closer to your ear. His voice is quiet, tired, perhaps a little sad when he speaks; “Not as often, now. When I was a teenager, when I was in constant pain because I was growing all the time - yes. I thought about it every day and I thought about how unfair the world was, how unfair my life was.”

“What changed?” You ask, quietly.

He’s silent for a moment, only the sounds of his breathing and the quiet drone of the television can be heard. You can tell he’s thinking it over, a sense of unpleasant nostalgia somewhere in the way he audibly swallows and the slight twitch of his fingers against your skin. Eventually, he sighs, “A lot of things, really.”

"I changed doctors, for a start. They're much more understanding of my condition at the one down the road, much more patient and less skeptical of whether I'm faking it for the free codeine."

You laugh a little at the idea. Half the time, Remus refuses to take pain killers at all. "I like Doctor Frank, he's nice." You tell your boyfriend, who hums in agreement.

"He is," Remus agrees, "And then there was becoming an adult. Hard enough without carrying around so much anger. I was sort of forced to just let it go. Accept that this was my life and I was still capable of so much despite my illness."

You can't help but smile at that. Remus is the gentlest person you know. He's rough around the edges, a sarcastic, smart ass and a mean flirt, but he's gentle, all soft beige cardigans and old library books, gentle touches and even gentler kisses. Your boyfriend has never once dared to raise his voice at you, even in his moments of utter agony. He's kind and has a big heart and you can't imagine fifteen year old Remus, angry and hateful and mad at the world. It wouldn't have suited him.

So, you're proud of how far he's come. Even if he still deals with the trauma of the crash, the hatred he has for the scars it left him with and the pain he lives in. It's less. It's dialled down to one, maybe a two on his bad days. Your Remus looks at the world like a challenge, now. A challenge to overcome, to be the best he can be, to keep fighting. You love him so, so much, and you place a kiss to his heart as the feeling washes over you. Bright and light and floaty.

"And you, dove."

Your lips curl upward at his words, spoken so soft you're not really sure if you were supposed to hear them. Remus pulls you impossibly closer, holds you tighter as he ducks down to your ear, breath fanning across the skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"If there was ever something to live for, something to not be angry about. It's you. The way you love me, your patience, your laugh, your smile. I think you were the universe's apology for that crash." Remus presses a kiss to the side of your neck when he's done and it sends a shiver through you.

There's tears in your eyes. Blinding you until your boyfriend becomes a blurred cheeky grin amidst the blue light of the television. But you're happy. So happy and so in love.

But you can't fight the urge to tell Remus, "Your consolation prize."

His startled laugh is music to your ears, a softness breaking through the storm clouds of your heavy conversation. He tuts a moment later, kisses you for the millionth time, "I prefer God given solace."

You roll your eyes. The man doesn't believe in God, but you'll take the compliment, you decide, as you curl back into him.

"Thanks for opening up. I know it's hard."

You feel his shrug, "Anything for you, dovey."

[marvelstoriesepic]

Even When It Hurts to Hope

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Chronically ill!Reader

Summary: After yet another devastating medical appointment leaves you drained and spiraling, Bucky is there and shows you that you don’t have to face this alone.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: chronic illness themes; emotional distress; crying; medical gaslighting; ableism (via doctors); implications of long-term suffering and fatigue; comfort

Author’s Note: This request is from a lovely anon!! I really hope this brings you some softness and healing, and that it feels like a hug on the days you need it most. I did mention chronic illness themes to make it more personal for you, but I do not wish to trigger you in any kind. Hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

The hallway buzzes like a hive of fluorescent bees. White walls. White noise. White lies folded in lab coats.

Your limbs don’t belong to you. Your feet are distant. You feel like you’re swimming through honey, like someone filled your bones with cement and told you to smile through it.

You can feel your soul fraying like the sleeves of your oldest shirt, the one you wore in High school when you thought maybe one day it would get better. It’s not getting better.

The doctor’s voice still echoes in your head like a bullet ricocheting against bone.

“Try harder.”

Ten years. Then years and that’s all she had to say. As if you’ve been twiddling your thumbs. As if survival had been optional. As if your pain didn’t cost you friendships, years, entire versions of yourself you’ll never meet again.

You step out of the examination room with your fists clenched and your teeth grinding against the scream you won’t let out. Your body feels too loud. Your heart is a fault line. You want to disappear.

“Hey.”

His voice is quiet. But it splits the storm inside you like light through a crack in the door.

You look up.

Bucky is on his feet already, as if he’s been counting down the seconds for you. As if he could feel you falling apart behind that door.

And when he sees your face - your red-rimmed eyes, the tremble in your jaw, the shattered dignity - you don’t have to say anything. He knows.

You can see it in his eyes. They’re made of storm clouds too full for this world. There’s this kind of anger that’s boiling and dangerous, the kind that burns slow and insistent, like molten steel behind ice.

He looks like he wants to wrap you in his arms right here, but you feel the tears in a perfect line across your waterline, each one holding hands, begging to let go. You press your fingers into your own palms as if pain might keep you grounded.

Bucky steps closer, doesn’t touch you yet. He waits. Always waits for you to come to him.

But you don’t. Not yet. Because you know you would crumble right here on the empty and cold floor.

So he says, “Let’s get out of here,” with a voice so soft, with a voice so understanding.

You don’t say a word. You just walk.

And he follows.

You walk in silence through the parking lot.

The world is pressing in. The sun is too bright. The air is too sharp. You think you might shatter if someone looks at you wrong.

He opens the car door for you without a word.

You sit. You try to breathe. You stare at the dashboard, eyes unfocused.

Bucky slides in beside you, starts the engine, but doesn’t drive.

You don’t look at him. You look out the window and hate that your eyes sting.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You don’t know why. Maybe because you feel pathetic. Maybe because you let someone break you again. Maybe because you dragged him into it.

Bucky turns the engine off.

“I’m not,” he says, almost lowly, but gentle. “And you shouldn’t be either, sweetheart. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

You glance at him. He’s staring at the steering wheel like it’s the doctor’s face. And he wasn’t even there to hear what she said.

The car is too small for this moment. Your chest is too full of feelings you don’t want to let out just yet. So you just reach for him, and he doesn’t wait. He leans across the center console and pulls you into his arms. You melt into him as if you were meant to be there, as if he’s the cure to all the things the world can’t fix.

“Take me home?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Yours or mine?” he murmurs into your hair.

“Yours, please?” you breathe out. Because you only ever feel at home when surrounded by him.

He presses a kiss the the crown of your head and starts driving.

You don’t remember much of the drive. All you remember is that Bucky took your hand in his and traced circles over your skin with his thumb.

You remember the way he walked you into his apartment as if you were glass and he was gravity.

Now you’re curled up on the couch, legs drawn in, a blanket over your shoulders. Bucky gently brings you a cup of tea, made exactly how you like it. He always remembers the smallest things.

He hasn’t stopped watching you. Not in a creepy way. In a tethering way. As though he only has to take his eyes off you and you’ll slip between the cracks in the floor.

“I- I thought this time might be different,” you say, voice shaky, voice weak. “I thought maybe - finally - we had something. An answer. A direction. And she didn’t even listen. Didn’t even check the labs or ask me any questions. She just looked at me like I was wasting her time. She told me to try harder. What the hell does that even mean, Bucky?”

There is silence. A rupture.

“She said what?”

You flinch. Not at him. Not because of him. Because of the heat in his voice. The anger he tries to bite down for your sake. But his fists are clenched. His jaw is locked shut. You feel the way he wants to break something. Burn something. Destroy a world that keeps failing you.

You shake your head. “It’s the same story again. Every time. Every year. A new face. A new god playing doctor. And they all say the same thing. Like they’ve only read the same textbook written in 1985.”

You blink. The tears spill anyway. Hot.

And Bucky doesn’t waste any time. He kneels in front of you. Not as if you’re broken. Not as if you’re a child. But as if trying to anchor you to earth.

“I’ve been trying, Bucky,” you whisper wetly. “I’ve been trying so hard for so long.”

You’re crying now. Ugly, breathless crying. The kind that doesn’t make a sound but leaves your whole body shaking.

He takes your hands and brings them to his chest, shifting closer and caging you in.

“I know,” he croaks, voice trembling, but he’s trying to be strong for you. “I know, doll. You don’t have to prove anything to me. You’ve already been doing the impossible.”

You close your eyes and let the tears fall, let Bucky’s shirt catch them. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just holds onto you as if you’re sacred.

“I’m so tired,” you cry breathlessly into his chest.

He exhales as if he’s been holding that breath for hours. It comes as a shudder. “You don’t have to be strong with me, baby. I'm here for you, alright? Always here. Not gonna leave you. Not gonna let you go through this alone.”

You pull back slightly, just to meet his eyes.

And there’s something there. Something that’s been building quietly between you for months. A kind of love that doesn’t need to be said out loud to be felt. A kind of love that exists in every small action - every drive, every cup of tea, every waiting room seat he’s ever taken beside you.

But this time he says it anyway.

“I love you.”

He says it while wiping your tears. He says it while brushing your hair back. He says it while kissing your forehead, your temples, your nose, your cheekbones, your chin.

His eyes are glossy, red just like yours and he is staring at you so intently, you stop breathing, stop thinking, stop moving.

“And I see you,” he continues, voice so quiet, but you feel the breath, the truth of every word brush your skin. “Every win. Every loss. Every time you get out of bed when you’re not sure how. Every time when you keep breathing even when it hurts to exist. I see you. I love you.” His voice catches. Falters. Tumbles. But he fights to keep going. “I don’t need a doctor to confirm that you’re fighting something real. I’ve been here. I’ve seen what this has taken from you. What it’s still taking. And I swear-” He looks at you, full and raw and wild. “I swear, I’ll never let them make you feel like this again.”

You forget how to breathe. Forget how to exist in a body that’s suddenly too small for what he just gave you.

He kisses your forehead again, gradually, carefully, so slowly. “You don’t gotta say it back, sweetheart. You don’t gotta say anything right now. Just feel me, yeah? I’m right here.”

You think you’ve been numb for years. You think this is what it feels like when love becomes shelter. When it becomes a soft place to land after a decade of falling.

You let your body sink into him, muscles finally remembering what it means to rest. Your hands fist his shirt. Your head presses against his chest and you can feel his heartbeat. It’s always there.

You’ve been seen before. But never like this. Never with reverence. Never without conditions. Never by someone who watched the worst parts of you unfold and stayed. Held them. Named them beautiful just for surviving.

You want to say thank you. You want to say I love you back. You want to say a thousand things but none of them fit in your mouth. None of them could come close to what he’s done with just a few words and arms wide enough to carry all of you - even the shattered pieces.

So you hold him tighter. You press your face into his chest and you weep. For every year you spent trying. For every dismissal. For every night you wondered if you were imagining your pain, if maybe the world was right and you were just weak. Lazy. Failing.

But you’re none of that. You never were.

Because Bucky said so.

And Bucky Barnes is a man of his word.

[tqlepatia]

Could you please write something about Abby x gf with chronic pain/illness, and Abby taking care of her/buying her things to help with the pain, like those heat packs that are also stuffed animals, or compression socks with cute little patterns, etc?

Thank youu!💕💕

— SOFT NIGHT'S. 'ABBY ANDERSON.

Abby never liked feeling helpless. It was in her nature to fix things—to patch wounds, brace injuries, carry what needed to be carried. But this, this was different.

Pain wasn’t something she could lift off of you. It wasn’t a bullet she could remove or a wound she could stitch up. It was there, lingering, gnawing at you on the bad days and weighing heavy on you even on the good ones.

So she found other ways to help.

One evening, she came home with a bag full of things she hoped might make a difference. You were curled up on the couch, a pillow hugged to your chest, the exhaustion clear in your face.

"Hey, baby," she murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before settling beside you. "Got you some stuff."

You blinked up at her, curious, as she pulled out the first item—a plush, lavender-scented heating pad in the shape of a bear. "It’s microwaveable. Thought it might help with your muscles."

Your lips parted slightly, eyes softening as you took it from her hands. "Abs…"

"and," she giggles to herself, looking at the other bag, "I bought this shit for alice, it's like a dog chew toy, cute, right? It's shaped like a bone."

She wasn’t done. Next came a pair of compression socks covered in tiny dinosaurs, then another with pastel moons and stars. "Figured you’d like these better than the white boring ones."

You were already smiling, running your fingers over the fabric.

She continued, pulling out a weighted blanket, "This might help with the bad nights."

By then, you were biting your lip, fighting back tears. Abby saw it, and it made something in her chest ache in the best way. She didn’t do any of this for a reaction—she just wanted to help. But seeing you look at her like that, like she was something safe, something good… yeah. She’d buy out the whole damn store if it meant you’d hurt a little less.

You didn’t say anything at first, just shifted closer, pressing your face into her shoulder. "Thank you," you whispered, voice thick. "I love you."

Abby wrapped an arm around you, holding you against her. "I love you too, baby. Always."

And she meant it. Every damn word.

[fairytaleendingss]

Hello! I’m loving Room For One More, and you said you were taking requests?

This is kind of a general one, but could you do another chapter focusing on Remus’ chronic illness?

I struggle with severe chronic pain and chronic illness in general and haven’t had a relationship in 5 years bc of it (it’s hard to meet people and a lot of people see it as a burden, unfortunately) so seeing cute fluffy things with chronic illness representation gives me hope for the future 😅

Thanks for the consideration :))

- ✨💚

Room for One More?

Chapter 13

Summary: You and Remus have some time to bond.

CW: Depiction of chronic illness, alcohol consumption.

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x fem!reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12

So I received this request a few months back and I feel really guilty that I haven't gotten to it sooner. I know how important representation is and I wanted to make sure I gave it a the proper time and thought it deserves. I also I wanted to include it somewhere that made sense to the plot of the story and I hadn't found a good spot previously.

I feel like I could've done better during this series in general with including Remus' illness and I'm going to try harder to make more reference to it in the remaining chapters. I feel that my representation of RA throughout this story hasn't been present enough since it was introduced and I'd like to try to capture a more accurate depiction of it going forward.

One again, I want to disclose that I myself do not suffer from any chronic illnesses, so I apologise for any inaccuracies that may be in here.

I hope this is what you were looking for, anon and sorry again that it took so long. Enjoy the chapter.

--

Mary was staring. Leaning up against the kitchen counter in her brand new apartment. It was her housewarming party. She and Lily had just moved in to a new place together and decided to throw a celebration. All of their friends were there, crowded around, drinking wine and listening to an eclectic shared Spotify playlist.

However, there was something not quite right about the picture she was looking at. She was watching from across the room as you and James danced together, laughing goofily as you pretended to know what you were doing. Beside you on the couch sat Remus and Sirius, snuggled up together, laughing at the display.

She narrowed her eyes as she watched. She was happy for you all, of course she was. She loved how happy you'd recently seemed, however, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that there was something... off about the new sets of couples that had recently emerged in the apartment.

"Is everything okay, love?"

"Huh?" she was snapped from her thoughts as Lily came to stand beside her, rubbing a gentle hand down her girlfriend's arm.

Lily chuckled. "I wanted to know if everything's okay. You look like you just bit down on a lemon."

Mary raised her brows. "Do you think something weird's going on with them?"

Lily glanced across the room. "No? I think they look happy."

"Hmm, maybe," Mary responded, unconvinced. "I just feel like there's something we're missing."

Lily just smirked, taking Mary's glass of White Wine from her hand. "I think you've had a few too many glasses of this tonight."

Mary rolled her eyes affectionately. "Nonsense. I don't know what you're talking about."

Lily leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her girlfriend's waiting lips.

---

The energy in the room was high as Mary's playlist gave soundtrack to the evening. You and James were dancing around the room, utterly embarrassing yourselves while Sirius and Remus sat curled up together, Sirius throwing his head back and groaning dramatically every time a Taylor Swift song came on.

"Come on, Sirius. You aren't fooling anyone!" James exclaimed towards his friend as he twirled you playfully. "I know you listen to 1989 while you work out."

"I do not," he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. "Back me up here?"

He looked up at the man his lap was played across, however, Remus only shrugged. "Sorry love, you hum in your sleep."

Sirius sighed thickly. "You all are the worst. How am I supposed to maintain my rockstar image with accusations like these!"

"I say own it," you chimed in.

"Come on, mate! You know you want to dance!" James exclaimed, doing that stupid lasso throwing move towards him, causing you to let out a loud groan at his silliness.

"I do not," Sirius huffed petulantly.

"Yes you do!"

Sirius paused for a moment, weighing his options before rolling his eyes and begrudgingly standing.

James cheered as Sirius began to join in, moving goofily around to the music. You couldn't help but chuckle as you watched the two dance together. They were always a chaotic duo.

You looked over at Remus who was watching on affectionately.

"You want to join us?" You asked, extending a hand to the man.

He chuckled but shook his head. "I'm alright here, thank you."

"Oh come on, Rem," Sirius exclaimed. "It'll be fun!"

"I'm alright," he stated once more.

"Are you sure?" you asked.

"Uh, yes," he muttered bashfully. "Truth be told, I'm not feeling the best this evening."

"Rem! Why didn't you say anything," James all but shouted, moving to take a closer examination of his friend.

"It's nothing, really. Just my usual symptoms," he tried to brush off but you could see the crease of pain between his brows.

"Well, this won't do," Sirius muttered. "Come on, I'll take you home."

Sirius moved to find the car keys but Remus stopped him with a tug of his wrist.

"Sirius wait. I'm fine, I promise. You were really looking forward to tonight. Besides, I'm designated driver, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah," Sirius hummed, deflating slightly.

"That's okay. I can take you. I've only had one drink," you intervened.

"A-are you sure?" Remus inquired, looking at you guiltily. "I don't want to pull you away from the party."

You smiled at him. "It's okay. There'll surely be others."

"Well thank you. I really appreciate that," he responded sincerely.

"It's no problem, Remus. Let's get going."

--

Up close, it became all too apparent that Remus really wasn't feeling well. His eyes were shut and he was resting his head against the passenger window the entire way home, his face pinched in pain.

You couldn't help but cringe in sympathy. You wanted to say something but you weren't sure what would be helpful right now, if anything at all. So instead, you drove in silence. You said an internal thank you to whatever higher power encouraged Mary and Lily to move only 20 minutes from where you lived.

Remus sat up slowly, blinking heavily as you pulled into the garage of your building. You looked over at him, biting the inside of your cheek.

"The stairs are going to be a pain," you muttered sympathetically.

Remus sighed deeply and ran a hand down his face. "'Just have to get it over with I suppose."

You exited the car before making your way around to the passenger side to assist Remus. Where he normally would have seemed uncomfortable with this kind of doting, today he just felt grateful.

His joints were so stiff that he could barely make it up the stairs at all but with your support and a lot of effort you managed to get to the front door.

Walking into the apartment, you deposited him on the couch. He groaned and lifted his heavy legs up so they were stretched out in front of him. You sighed deeply as you watched.

"Can I get you anything?" You asked gently. You couldn't help the pang of worry that was congealing in your stomach as you watched him. He was looking extremely pale and there were drops of sweat beading across his forehead, an indicator of the pain he was experiencing.

"My wheat bag would be nice if it's not too much trouble," he muttered stiffly.

"No of course not!" you were quick to respond. "I'll be right back."

You couldn't help but watch him over the kitchen bench as the bag went around in the microwave. You bit your lip nervously. You weren't quite sure what to do to make him feel better. In the time you'd lived with the boys, you'd seen him go through a few flare ups here and there but nothing nearly as bad as this one, and you'd never been here with him on your own either. You'd always had one of the other boys to help out.

You thought for a moment about calling James or Sirius for help but you quickly dismissed that idea. You were being silly. You and Remus had on good terms as of late, you would even go so far as to call him a friend. And he'd taken such good care of you when you'd been unwell all those weeks back, the least you could do was repay the favour.

You straightened up as the microwave began to beep and hurried to deliver the bag to Remus.

He looked up slowly through tired eyes when you returned, smiling appreciatively.

"Where do you want this?"

"My right knee," he muttered and began to carefully lift up his pant leg.

Your eyes widened as he revealed the red, swollen joint.

"Remus! This looks awful!"

You gently placed the wheat bag on the appendage and he let out a gentle sigh of relief.

"Thank you. It's really not that bad."

You gave him a look that told him you could tell he was lying.

"You don't have to pretend to be okay, you know? I'm here to help. I want to know what's really going on."

He let out a breath and ran a shaky hand down his face. You watched as his front receded ever so slightly. In all honesty, he was too tired to put it on anymore.

"Do you mind grabbing the pills from beside my bed?"

You smiled at him gently. "Of course."

--

You spent the next while doting on Remus. You got him everything he needed, completed his usual chores around the house and even ordered food from his favourite Chinese place for dinner.

All the while, Remus thanked you profusely and you could see the guilt that lingered behind his eyes, despite your continuous reassurance that you were happy to help.

It was about 11pm when you found yourself sitting in the arm chair beside the couch where Remus was situated, watching Netflix together. Every now and then your gaze would flicker towards him, eyes flitting over his features in an attempt to assess how he was feeling. You couldn't help but take notice the way his lips pursed in concentration as his gaze stayed glued to the TV, or the way his hair, in need of a cut, was slightly disheveled and began to curl around the base of his neck. There was something endearing about him, you observed. He was handsome in a sort of tender and understated way. Where James was strong and buff and had a boyish charm, and Sirius' look was bold and unique, Remus' attractiveness was more subtle. He had gentle features and dark, kind eyes that you couldn't help but become lost in. There was something so intriguing and mysterious about him that made you curious to learn more, even during the times where you hadn't been friendly. He was unlike anyone you'd known before.

"You can stop worrying, you know?" He drawled lowly, not turning his gaze away from the TV.

You sat back in your seat, being broken from your thoughts. "I'm not."

"Yes you are. I can feel you looking at me."

"Oh well, excuse me for being concerned about you."

He sighed thickly. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Remus," your voice was small as you replied. There was so much on your mind, especially when it came to him. So much about him you didn't understand.

You bit your lip as you turned back to the TV, watching the colours flicker and flash through the screen, casting light in the otherwise dark room.

After a moment you heard a shuffling begin beside you. Your eyes widened as you turned to look at Remus, who was attempting to swing his legs over the side of the sofa.

"Remus, what on earth are you doing? You're in no position to be walking around right now."

"I'm not! I promise. I was just trying to make some room."

"Oh." Your brows furrowed as he scooted over on the couch. You weren't quite sure what he was trying to do until he patted the spot beside him, glancing up at you with hopeful eyes.

"Will you sit?"

It seemed a peace offering of sorts.

Hesitantly, you got up from your chair and moved to sit beside Remus. Once he was sure you were comfortable, he carefully placed the blanket he was previously using over both your laps.

You looked at him skeptically, unable to gather what was going on in his head. Remus was just like that. Completely unreadable. An enigma.

He cleared his throat nervously. "I'm sorry if I've been a little short with you."

"Remus, it's okay," you responded sincerely. "You're in pain. It isn't your fault."

He sighed. "I don't just mean today."

He turned to look at you, guilt clouding his chocolate eyes.

"I've behaved poorly towards you ever since you moved in. I know it's no excuse but if I'm being honest, I was scared," he didn't know entirely why he felt the need to say it. Maybe it was the medicine or the pain or a combination of both but you'd been so undeservingly kind to him this evening. And all these feeling had been swirling around inside of him for so long, they were ready to burst out of him.

"Things weren't easy for me growing up with... all this." he gestured absently to his leg that was now propped up on the coffee table. "People weren't always understanding about it. Especially when I was younger. It took me a long time to find a place where I felt accepted and not like I was an outcast or a burden. I suppose that means I don't take too kindly to change."

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling his walls slowly but surely begin to lower, as you watched him sympathetically.

"But that was no reason for me to be cruel to you when you've been nothing but kind in return. So for that I'm sorry."

You smiled gently. "Remus, that's okay. I understand."

You shuffled closer to him. "And I'll have you know that no one thinks of you as a burden. You have amazing friends who care about you so much. And as scary as it is to be vulnerable around new people, I promise I would never judge you. I'm always happy to help whenever you need me."

He let out a breath of relief, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He smiled at you kindly, appreciation pooling in his eyes.

"You're wonderful. You know that?"

His words sunk in to your skin and you felt heat rise to your cheeks, suddenly exposed under his gaze. Your eyes fell to your lap as a nervous chuckle escaped you.

Remus reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was unbearably tender. You looked back up at him. His eyes flickered with vulnerability as a heavy tension settled between you, completely unlike the kind that has encompassed you before. Your heart began to race.

It was at that moment, the door burst open and James and Sirius stumbled into the flat.

"Honey, I'm homeeee!" you heard James call out, followed by a excessive amount of snickering from Sirius.

You pulled away from Remus suddenly, scooting back on the couch as if you'd been burned.

"You two are back early," you remarked in surprise.

"We just missed you guys too much!" James exclaimed as he came around the back of the couch and pressed a sloppy kiss to your cheek. His breath smelt like wine.

"How are you feeling, my love? Did Y/n take good care of you?" Sirius cooed, coming to sit beside Remus on the arm of the sofa and running a hand through the mans hair.

"She did a lovely job. I might have her replace you next time."

You chuckled and watched as Sirius pressed a hand to his chest and gasped dramatically in mock offence.

"I can't believe this! My own lover is replacing me. How ever will I go on?"

You giggled once more as Remus rolled his eyes fondly.

"On that note, I think it's time for bed, love." Remus turned his attention to you. "Thank you again for all your help tonight."

You smiled gently. "Don't mention it."

--

As you laid in bed with James' arms curled around you, sleep refused to come.

There was a heavy lump of guilt in your stomach and you didn't fully understand why. It wasn't like you'd done anything wrong. Nothing had even happened. You and Remus had just been talking, that's all. However, the feeling hung over you like a raincloud over your head.

You rolled over to face the boy beside you. The sweet boy who you truly cared for so deeply and you snuggled into his chest.

You shut your eyes tightly, trying to rid your mind of the thought. But as you began to drift off, it was Remus' eyes you saw.

You wondered as you fell asleep, if it was possible to have feelings for more than one person at the same time.

--

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[oaksgrove]

Hi! Can I request a Husband! John x Wife! Reader, in which he helps her wife who deals with migraines due to hormonal problems? Maybe John comforting her and being in domestic mode...

I love how you write!! Thank you! 🥰

Through Sickness and Health

Pairing: John Price x Reader

Synopsis: A brutal migraine leaves you bedridden, but John Price is nothing if not steadfast. Through gentle touches, quiet reassurances, and unwavering presence, he reminds you that you’ll never have to suffer alone.

Warnings: Chronic illness (migraine), descriptions of pain and discomfort, caretaking, extreme softness, John Price being The Husband™

Word Count: 1194

The pain had settled behind your eyes hours ago, a dull ache blooming into something sharp, relentless. You’d felt it coming—your body had warned you, the telltale pressure creeping in like a storm on the horizon. By the time the sun dipped below the trees outside, the migraine had swallowed you whole.

John had noticed immediately.

You tried to downplay it, as you always did. A tired smile, a quiet assurance of It’s not that bad. But John Price wasn’t a fool. He saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fingers curled ever so slightly against your temple, your breathing slower, more measured—like you were trying to will the pain away.

And now, here you were, curled up in bed, the room shrouded in darkness, curtains drawn tight to keep out the slivers of light that only made it worse. The sheets felt too heavy, the air too thick. Your stomach churned, nausea creeping in at the edges, but worst of all was the helplessness. The knowledge that no matter how much water you drank, how still you lay, how deep you breathed—it wouldn’t stop until your body decided it would.

John sat at the edge of the bed, his palm pressed against your lower back, rubbing gentle circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. You weren’t sure how long he’d been sitting there—maybe minutes, maybe hours. Time felt strange when pain took over.

“I hate this,” you whispered, voice raw, eyes shut tight.

John sighed, deep and low. “I know, love.” His voice was warm, grounding, but there was something else there too. Frustration. Not at you, never at you—but at the simple, infuriating fact that he couldn’t just fix this.

You felt him shift, leaning down, pressing his lips to your temple. “I wish I could take it away,” he murmured against your skin, like the words themselves might soothe you.

You exhaled shakily. “Not your fault.”

“Still.” Another kiss, softer this time. His beard tickled against your cheek. “Feels like I should be able to do something. Anything.”

You cracked one eye open, just enough to glimpse the furrow between his brows. He was frustrated, his lips pressed into a thin line. You reached out blindly, fingers brushing against his hand. He caught them immediately, intertwining them with his own.

“You’re already helping,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand weakly. “Just… being here.”

John didn’t answer right away. Instead, he brought your joined hands to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles. “I’ll always be here.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest.

Another wave of pain pulsed behind your eyes, and you winced. John noticed, of course. He was on his feet in an instant, disappearing for a moment before returning with something cool—he pressed a damp washcloth to your forehead, adjusting it carefully. His movements were steady, deliberate.

“You drink enough water today?” he asked quietly.

You made a vague sound in response. You had, but probably not enough.

John clicked his tongue, but didn’t push. “I’ll get you some tea in a bit. Something light.”

You hummed in approval, too tired to say much more.

John stayed. He ran his fingers through your hair, tracing slow, soothing patterns along your scalp. He adjusted the pillows behind you, making sure you were as comfortable as possible. He checked the time, keeping track of when you last took your medication. He whispered quiet reassurances, telling you about his day in a low, hushed tone, like maybe his voice alone could ease you into rest.

Eventually, the pain dulled, just enough for exhaustion to win out. You drifted, barely conscious, but you felt it—the press of John’s lips against your forehead, the warmth of his body beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And you knew, without a doubt, that no matter how bad it got, no matter how many nights like this you had to endure—John would always be here.

When you woke again, the pain had dulled to something bearable, a ghost of what it had been. The air in the room was cool, the scent of peppermint and chamomile lingering—John must have left a cup of tea on the nightstand. Your mouth was dry, your limbs heavy, but the worst had passed.

The space beside you was empty, the sheets slightly rumpled, still holding the warmth of where John had been. He hadn’t left entirely—you could hear him in the kitchen, moving around with quiet efficiency. The sound of water filling a kettle, the occasional clink of a spoon against ceramic.

You sighed, pushing yourself up slowly, cautiously, half-expecting the migraine to rear its ugly head again. It didn’t—not fully, at least. Just a lingering soreness in your skull, a reminder of the battle you’d fought.

Padding into the kitchen, you found John at the counter, stirring something in a bowl. He was still in his undershirt and sweatpants, hair slightly tousled, looking every bit the man who had stayed up all night worrying over you.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, eyes immediately scanning over you, assessing. “You shouldn’t be up yet,” he said, setting the bowl down.

You gave him a tired smile. “I’m okay. Better.”

John wasn’t convinced. He crossed the space between you in two strides, his hands finding your arms, warm and steady. “You sure?”

You nodded, leaning into his touch. “Yeah.”

His eyes softened, but there was still worry lingering beneath. “You barely ate anything yesterday,” he murmured, tilting his head toward the bowl. “Figured I’d make something light. Oatmeal.”

You huffed a small laugh. “John Price making oatmeal? I thought you were more of a full-English-breakfast kind of man.”

His lips twitched. “And I’d make you one if I thought you could stomach it.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face. “Go sit. I’ll bring it over.”

You didn’t argue. The truth was, you were still exhausted, and standing too long made your legs feel like lead. You settled into the chair near the window, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

John set the bowl in front of you, along with a cup of tea. He sat beside you, watching as you took a tentative bite. The warmth settled in your stomach, soothing in a way you hadn’t expected.

You glanced at him, taking in the crease between his brows, the way he still looked at you like you might collapse at any second.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he admitted quietly, eyes flickering down to his hands. “Hate not being able to do anything about it.”

You reached out, resting your hand over his. “You did more than enough, John.”

He exhaled, squeezing your fingers lightly. “Just wish I could take it away.”

You smiled, tired but grateful. “You already make it easier.”

John didn’t argue. Instead, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, lingering there for a moment.

And in that quiet, intimate morning, with the scent of tea in the air and his warmth surrounding you, you knew—you would never have to face this alone.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[wchswift]

hiiii omg i love your writing. no pressure but a request ! logan has a date planned, maybe for valentine’s day, or an anniversary, or just for no reason. and the reader doesn’t feel well (i’m chronically ill myself and get intermittent aches and ailments but the reader doesn’t have to be… just anything that keeps her in bed) so they have to stay in? and logan is of course a sweetheart about it, doting and lovely etc, insisting on caring for her. i just think he’d be so sweet 🥺 - marshmallowmusing 🤍

— always taking care of you.

pairing: logan howlett x reader

summary: logan cancels your anniversary plans to care for you, making it so clear that for him doesn't matter where—but who. word count: 1.1k

notes: hii sweetie!! thank you very much, makes me so happy to know that you like my writing <3 and I'm sorry it took me so long to write this, really sorryy!! I loved your request sm and I'm so sorry about your chronic ill, it's so hard :( I hope I write it how you wanted and that you like it 🫶 (I love sweet and caring logan btw)

This day had been planned for weeks. Logan had set everything up—not that he’d let you in on every little detail. He liked keeping things quiet, liked the idea of surprising you. But today was special, and he wanted to do it right.

A little trip somewhere private, something comfortable and just for the two of you. Then dinner—something fancier than usual, but not too much, just enough to make you smile. He’d worked all day thinking about it, about how you’d look, about how your face would light up when he told you what he had planned.

So when he finally stepped through the cabin door, heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor, he exhales, rolling his shoulders, his body still warm from a day's work, the cool evening air clinging to his flannel. He's expecting to find you up and getting ready, maybe fixing your hair, slipping into something nice for the dinner he planned. Instead, the cabin is quiet, the place so still. No soft music playing, no sound of you moving around. Just the crackle of the fireplace and the quiet hush of the evening.

And then he sees you.

Curled up in bed, hands over your eyes, the way your body sinks into the mattress tells him everything before you even stir. His brows furrow.

“Hey, darlin’,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “What’s goin’ on? Why aren’t you ready yet?”

You shift slightly, your breath catching, like even the sound of his voice is too much. His concern deepens, and within a second, he’s crouched beside you, rough fingers brushing over your forehead.

“Headache?” he guesses, already knowing the answer.

You nod slowly, voice small. “Yeah, It's my migraine. It’s bad. My body, too.”

That part tugs at something deep in his chest. He exhales, rubbing a slow, grounding touch along your arm. He hates seeing you in pain—hates knowing there’s nothing he can do to take it from you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick with guilt. “I know you had everything planned. I just—”

Logan huffs, shaking his head before you can finish. “None of that,” he says firmly, voice soft but unyielding. He takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, lingering there for a second. “Ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for, sweetheart. Plans don’t mean a damn thing if you’re hurtin’.”

You try to blink up at him, but even the dim glow of the room feels sharp. He frowns, tugging off his jacket and kicking off his boots before climbing into bed beside you. He shifts carefully, pulling you against him, letting you bury yourself into his warmth. His fingers slip into your hair, massaging slow, soothing strokes against your scalp.

For a while, he just stays like that, holding you, steady and sure. His body runs hot, solid and safe, and you melt into him, exhaustion tugging at you.

At some point, he murmurs, “When’s the last time you ate somethin’?”

You groan, tucking your face against his chest. “Logan—”

“I’ll take that as a no.” He’s already moving before you can protest, shifting out of bed and heading toward the kitchen. “Stay put.”

You hear him rummaging around, grumbling under his breath, something about “stubborn woman never takin’ care of herself” before the smell of something warm fills the air. When he comes back, it’s with a mug of tea and a plate of something simple but comforting.

You try to argue, but he just gives you that look—the one that leaves no room for negotiation.

“Eat, drink,” he orders, settling back beside you, one arm draped protectively over your waist. “Then you can go back to sleep.”

So you do, if only because it makes him relax a little.

When you finish, Logan takes the plate from you, setting it aside before reaching for the remote. The TV hums to life, the volume turned low, just enough to be soft background noise.

You shift, resting your head against his chest, but he doesn’t move to watch the screen. His attention stays on you. His fingers drift lazily along your arm, tracing mindless patterns. Every time you sigh or shift slightly, his gaze flickers, checking on you, making sure you’re not in more pain.

Eventually, sleep pulls you under, and Logan stays exactly where he is. Even with the movie playing in the background, he doesn’t care about it—not when you’re curled up against him like this, your breathing evening out, finally at ease.

He watches you. Not in a way that feels intrusive—just quiet, steady. Like he’s memorizing every little detail, like he needs to keep an eye on you, just in case.

At some point, you stir, the worst of the pain dulling as you blink up at him, a little hazy but clearer than before. He meets your gaze instantly, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“You watchin’ me?” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.

Logan smirks slightly, tilting his head. “Maybe.”

You shift, pressing closer, seeking his warmth. He lets you, arms tightening around you automatically.

“I mean it, Logan,” you say softly after a moment. “You’re perfect.”

His jaw tenses, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. He shakes his head, letting out a rough, almost amused breath. “Nah, sweetheart. You’re givin’ me too much credit.”

“I’m not,” you insist, voice quiet but firm. “You take care of me. Even when I feel like I don’t deserve it. Thank you.”

Logan exhales, his fingers pressing lightly into your back. “You always deserve it,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t even have to think about it. “Ain’t got a damn thing to do with deservin’ it. It’s just you. Always gonna take care of you.”

You swallow, blinking up at him. His face is softened in the low light, a little rough around the edges from the long day, but there’s something so warm in his gaze. Something deep and unwavering.

“S’our anniversary,” he murmurs after a moment. “Should still celebrate, even if we ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding him close, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the lingering ache in your body.

“Yeah?” you whispered.

Logan hummed, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he never wanted to move. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Think I got an idea.”

You press closer, eyes fluttering shut as a small, contented hum escapes you.

And that’s enough of an answer.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

taglist: @namikyento @blossomingorchids @logaenhowlett @cruel-as-sin (let me know if you want to be added or removed <3)

[astracora]

Drunken Confession - Zayne

Characters: Zayne x gn!mc

Warnings: Very Drunk MC, Chronic Illness, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2677

Written: 21st February 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship, with Zayne and the main MC I write for. I'm so sorry to Zayne this came out way more angsty than I meant for. I guess it's in character for how tragic all his story feels.

Masterlist AO3

<- Caleb Xavier -> Rafayel -> Sylus-> Poly!LADs ->

Zayne is returning from a conference when he gets the call, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he parks his car.

"Hey Doctor Li, have you heard from your hunter at all?" 

He stops from where he's walking to his door, normally he would gently nudge Greyson to drop formalities, but the man sounds out of breath, like he's been running. "Greyson, I have only just returned to Linkon, why?"

There's hesitation, he can feel it, he hears Yvonne speaking in the background, but can't really make out the words. He's about to nudge Greyson along, before the man speaks again, "I was going to cover their check-up today, but they met with Doctor Noah earlier, and then left. I haven't been able to get in touch with them since."

It's not like you to skip appointments. You're careful, you hate to put people out, and you've always at least shown up. Even if he knows you ignore his advice, even if he's heard enough from Doctor Noah to know the time he spent apart from you, you didn't spend it taking care of yourself. He hasn't heard everything, and you do not share what you don't have to, but there is enough information in your files, for him to piece it together.

Still, the you he's reacquainted with, is a person who values your role as a hunter, and you do not avoid your requirements to have health check-ups. Even if you act flippant about your own health.

'If I can still hunt, then I'm fine, Doctor Li.'

He wonders when the child he knew, energetic and vibrant, forgot how to live.

"I will go check on them, I will get back to you to rearrange the check-up afterwards." Greyson affirms, and Zayne returns to his car. When he gets in, he tries to call. The call goes to voicemail each time. He hopes you'll at least see missed calls and get back to him before he gets to you. Alleviate the anxieties rising in his chest.

The fear that something has happened to you, that he's too late. He always feels like he's too late.

He feels too hot under his turtleneck, as he rushes out of his car, and up to your apartment. Pressing buttons in the elevator with too much force. His fingers feel cold. Like ice, and he shoves them into the pockets of his coat, trying hard to breathe through the churning in his stomach.

He's logical, Zayne tells himself. You're fine, you just fell asleep, or forgot, or got distracted.

There's so many reasons, for why you didn't arrive at your appointment. He will not spiral. No matter how many times he's seen you be reckless on a mission, and had to stitch you up afterwards.

When he arrives at your door, he's not overly proud of how forceful he is with his knocking. Three sharp raps, before he pauses, hesitates and steadies his hands. When there's no response, he tries again, this time he's less heavy handed. Carefully knocking, three times.

This time he hears a groan through the door, shuffling and movement, before it swings open.

Zayne exhales relief as he sees you, alive, and solid in front of him. You're wearing a loose vest, the sleeves slipping off your shoulders, and shorts. Long fluffy socks up to the knee. Your hair is pushed back with a headband, and there's a bottle held in your hand, precariously held to the side.

He quickly reaches a hand out, to tilt it back up before whatever it is, spills all over the floor.

Even if his eyes don't stray from you. Your eyes are watery, the bright colours of your mismatched gaze glittering up at him, and your lip is bitten.

For the shortest moment, he's captivated by you, as though he's ever not, and stares.

"Doctor Li? You good?" Your words come out on a sigh, and you tip the bottle back up to your lips, taking a steady swig, all while watching him.

Snapping himself out of his stupor, he pulls his hand back, and is relieved that there's no more ice over his skin. "You missed your appointment."

"Ah." He watches your face, the guilt skittering through your expression, the way your shoulders jump, and you crack a tiny smile, "My bad, I'll rearrange later. I must have forgotten."

You're lying to him, he notices, the way your eyes dart away. The way you fidget on your feet. You've never been a good liar, even as a child, you're somehow worse now. He imagines the alcohol in your hand hasn't helped.

He's standing at your door, and there's a vague sense of knowing he doesn't want other people seeing you like this. Armour down. He's concerned about you, that's all. He's your doctor, and your old childhood friend, and he's worried about you.

"May I come in?"

You blink at him, then look behind you, and back at him. He watches you think, and hesitate. Until you open the door wider for him, and indicate with the bottle for him to enter. Walking in ahead.

The first thing he notices, is the television is on, but there's no sound coming out. Like you'd turned it on, and forgotten to unmute it. A movie he doesn't recognise plays in the background, but you find your way back to the sofa, sitting down and pulling your legs up to face it. Nudging your head at the seat next to you.

The second thing he notices, is there's quite an array of bottles on the table, not all of them are finished, like you've been going through to find ones you don't hate. Many are still full, others barely a tenth empty. There's three that are fully empty, and the one in your hand is close to joining them.

The third thing is that he doesn't know what to do. Hesitating at the edge of the sofa, looking at you, watching you, before you look back up at him. "You gonna join me or not?" Your voice is far more casual than it normally is, you speak like you're amused by his hesitation. Watching him with the smallest quirk to your lips. It is that, which makes him join you. Sitting next to you, but not touching.

"You want a drink?"

He doesn't. He doesn't normally drink at all, and he's not sure now is the time to test his likely terrible tolerance.

"Are you alright?" He asks instead, cutting to the chase.

You sigh, leaning back on the sofa, and looking over at him. Mostly looking over his shoulder, your cheek resting against the back, "I'm fine."

It's another lie, so he simply looks at you, reading the look on your face. When he looks for too long, you laugh. It's soft, and weak, but you do smile at him, "Would you like a picture?"

His cheeks feel warm, because he would. You look tired, sad, with glistening eyes and are dishevelled. Like a painting he'd see on the wall in a gallery, of beautiful sorrow. If it were a better circumstance, he would want this view every day.

"Your ability to lie hasn't improved, would you like to try again?"

This time you exhale, looking up at the ceiling, then lean forward to take another swig. You finish the bottle, and then place it down. "Noah, he-" You choke on the words, shaking your head to fight back the feelings, "We talked, about my condition."

Your heart, that beats in your chest. The thing that drives him, every path he has taken, to find an answer for it. To heal it, so that you could live a long life. He's never told you, and he never plans to. That you drove every choice he's ever made. That you have meant more to him throughout his life than any other.

That his heart beats for you.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing new. He wasn't any closer to an answer, no one is, that there's no cure. That no one knows how long I still have. I just-"

He watches the trembling in your hands, and he reaches out to take yours in his. Your hand is even colder than his. You make to pull away, and then stop, looking down at his hand. It's hesitant that you move over on the sofa, wiggling over, and tightening your grip.

"It just hit me again, that's all. Reminded me. I had to get out, I didn't want to see Greyson like that, I just needed to take some time to calm down. I'm sorry, Zayne."

Zayne watches you smile again, turning your head back to him, you're so close he can smell the lavender of your shampoo. "There are better coping mechanisms." He notes, but there's no bite in it. Especially when you laugh without humour, and shrug.

Like you know that, like it's all you can think to do.

"Why did you not call me?"

You pull away from his grip now, pulling back on the sofa, and reach out for another drink. Scowling a little when you find nothing that interests you available. "I can't bother you with everything Zayne, you have enough on your plate."

"You could never bother me."

Your edges have softened, and you're distant, like if he takes his eyes off you, you'll float away. Like the drink has taken the weapons out of your hands, removed your tether. You don't believe him though, he can tell that much, the way you don't bother to respond, just shrug once more. So he leans forwards, takes your hand between two of his, and rubs careful circles into your skin.

If he holds onto you, you'll never disappear. No nightmare will become reality, and no world will exist where he doesn't have you in front of him. "You will never bother me." He reiterates, carefully catching your mismatched gaze with his own, holding it there.

"I'll be fine, promise. I have a lot still to do." You affirm, but it's not a promise to seek him out. It's not an assurance that you won't continue to suffer alone. That he won't come find you curled up in a corner.

He has a recollection of Caleb finding you in the rain, where you'd hidden after an argument. Trembling because you didn't know what else to do but hide from all the feelings. All the fear and sorrow. He'd felt useless then, not knowing all the places you'd hide to lick your wounds. He feels useless still, watching you put up walls he can't get through… because he has his own to contend with.

Yours are agonised, lonely and twisted around your heart.

His are ice cold to touch, and sharp as thorns around his body.

Zayne stands, and then tries to leave, but your hand moves to grasp at his sleeve. Eyes wide and startled, you tug it carefully, and with a small voice, "Stay." Escapes you. His heart thumps, a beat skipped, and he would offer you his own heart in a second if you asked for it. He knows you never will. He watches the fear tremble your fingers as you ask for something so simple.

"I'm just going to clear up some of the bottles, and get you some water. I am still your doctor, and a hangover is hardly advisable."

You look guilty again when you pull away, releasing him to rub at your arm, and this time when he moves away you don't grab at him, let him pick bottles up and get rid of them. Watch him pour them out into your sink. He feels the weight of your gaze as he busies himself, occasionally asking for the location of things he needs.

As well as water, he makes the both of you tea. Bringing yours to the table, and returning with his own. You gratefully receive the cup from him.

"I wasn't aware you enjoyed silent movies." He comments drily when he sits down, speaking to distract himself when you attach yourself against his side. Glancing down to see your fingers tighten against the hem of his turtleneck, he replaces your grip and holds your hand again. Grounding you, grounding himself, when he squeezes, loosens, squeezes. Feels the heat of your hand in his, the weight of you.

Remembers you're here. You're alive.

It's all that matters to him, your life. He wishes you valued it as highly as he does, as highly as you value everyone else's.

"I didn't even realise it was muted." You laugh, leaning forward to quickly turn the sound on, before returning to his side. "I was a little distracted."

He stays, to watch the movie with you, at the start you laugh, relaxing a little, and talking about it. Commenting on things he can tell you've already seen a hundred times. He barely watches, enough just to comment, or nod along, but mostly he watches you. Watches as the sorrow eases out into something he remembers more. Soft, and relaxed and happy. After a little while, your eyes begin to droop.

The alcohol pulls you past the emotional ride, and into exhaustion.

Zayne realises he wants to see you relax more often, losing the formality you wear as a hunter, holding his name as Zayne, and not Doctor. He wants to see you laugh, and smile more often.

"You should get to bed." He speaks, making to move you, but the small sound of protest is already out, clinging to his side with far sturdier hands than he'd expect of a tired, drunk person. "Come on now."

You shake your head against where it has fallen to use his chest as a pillow, nuzzling against the fabric of his top. A sleepy little grumble is made against him, and he almost laughs. Almost. Fighting it down.

"Films almost over." You manage, but it's slurred.

Against his best intentions, he always does end up giving in to you, "Ten more minutes, then."

You nod, and he feels your thumb soothing over the back of his hand, absently like you don't even realise you're doing it.

"Thank you, Zayne."

"Well, I haven't watched this movie before. I may as well finish it."

You pinch his hand without real force, but he revels in the laugh he receives. "Not that."

He knows.

"Thank you for coming to see me, for caring." Your hand tenses in his, so he does to you what you did for him, rubbing circles into the back of your hand with his thumb, "I-" A yawn, and he watches you, head drooping, eyes closed, voice petering out as you succumb. "really-" You get quieter, and he has to lean to hear, "like you, Zayne."

You're asleep before he can respond, so he carefully moves, so he can lay a blanket over you. Leaving some medicine on the side, for if you wake up with a headache, that the water you've drunk hasn't taken away.

Turns off the tv, and closes your curtains. He wants to move you to your bed, but if he jostles you awake, he foresees you clinging to him and staving off sleep even longer.

As he goes through the motions, pulling his coat back on, he plays it over in his head.

I really like you, Zayne.

It circles around his head as he moves, skitters his heart. Nestles there. You're unlikely to remember you've even said it. Unlikely to show him this level of vulnerability again, though he hopes you do. Lower your weapons and your armour down, and let him take care of you.

When he kneels down at your side, brushing strands of hair back from your face, "Just stay alive for me, that's all I need." Everything else can come second, everything else he can think about after. He just wants time.

Even if he never returns your words, or speaks them out loud. He knows he'll always love you, more than you will ever know.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 — 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐌𝐞

∿ 𝐚/𝐧 : This story was written in response to a deeply personal and important request—one that asked me to portray life with chronic pain not as a background detail, but as the center of the experience.

To the person who entrusted me with this: thank you. Your honesty shaped every word. I carried your story close while writing this—your flare days, your choices, your strength, your sarcasm, your exhaustion, and your quiet victories. I wanted to do more than depict pain; I wanted to honor what it means to live through it, and still be worthy of love that doesn’t flinch.

This is a story about tenderness without conditions. About the sacredness of being cared for, even when you feel broken. About being believed, chosen, and seen—not in spite of what hurts, but with it.

If you live with chronic pain, disability, or an invisible illness, I hope something in this story wraps gently around your heart. You are not alone. You are not too much. And you are not a burden.

∿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Some days, Sylus carries her. Some days, he simply holds her hand as she winces through the smallest movements, his presence an anchor against the ache. Pain reshapes the boundaries of their world, but never the shape of his devotion. In quiet moments and in touches measured for comfort, Sylus learns the language of her limits—and how to love her fiercely, gently, without ever asking her to be anything but herself.

∿ 𝐜𝐰 / 𝐭𝐰 : This story explores life with chronic pain and physical disability, and features gentle, adaptive intimacy within a supportive relationship.

∿ 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

∿ “To be loved in your suffering is to be seen naked by God.” ∿

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 again—an ordinary mircale that meant very little and everything at once.

Light filtered through the half-drawn curtains like judgment: merciless in its indifference, silken in its execution. There was cruelty in the way the sun entered on days like this, draping itself across the floorboards with obscene ease, while she remained motionless beneath the blanket—breath shallow, limbs drawn inward, bones folded like a prayer no god had the decency to answer.

Sylus stood in the doorway.

He didn't knck. He never knocked anymore. There was something indecent about ceremony when grief had already laid claim to the room. Pain made privacy irrelevant.

He watched her in silence, afraid any sound might deepen the wound. Her face was turned to the wall. A single lock of hair clung to the curve of her cheek, and her hand twitched once beneath the covers—an almost imperceptible movement, but to him, it might as well have been a scream.

She hadn't acknowledged him. Or perhaps she had, and pretended otherwise. There was a strange, quiet nobility in the pretense. He respected it.

But it didn't stop him from stepping closer.

His movements were silent—or perhaps the stillness had devoured all else, even time. The air felt too thick to breathe, weighted like the pause before a confession that could ruin everything sacred.

"Sylus," she said, without turning.

His eyes closed for a beat. Her voice—hoarse, sleep-wrecked, or scraped raw by pain—dragged across his chest like a chain. Again he felt the futility of his strenght. What use were weapons or willpower against a wound that couldn't be shot, bargained with, or bled out?

"You're early," she added.

Not an accusation. Just a fact. But he heard the subtext anyway: I didn't want you to see me like this.

He always saw her like this.

Every day, he thought he had teached the threshold of what it meant to witness her suffering—and every day, the threshold receded. It was an infinite hallway, an unlit corridor of quiet devastation, and he walked it alone.

He sat at the edge of the bed.

Her back stiffened. Even the gentlest motion was still a ripple, and his presence always made waves. He would regret it later—this nearness, this gravity. Even when he was careful, he was too much.

"I can make tea," he offered, though he didn't rise. His voice sounded alien in the room, like something smuggled in from another life.

She nodded, faintly. Her lips parted, then closed. The words—whatever they had been—were gone. He recognized that silence. She was holding something back. Whether it was a sob, a scream, or the urge to lie and say she was fine, he couldn't tell.

He didn't ask.

Some truths were too holy to force.

So he waited.

He always waited.

The minutes passed without sound—but they were far from quiet.

The hush between them was not peace. It was weight. The burden of everything unspoken—every I'm sorry she'd swallowed, every I'm here he never voiced aloud.

She shifted—barely. But of course he noticed. He noticed everything. Her breath stuttered, caught, then resumed with unnatural precision, each inhale measured like currenvy. As if existing cost something now.

He didn't reach for her.

He wouldn't. Not yet. Even kindness had teeth when poorly timed.

His gaze dropped to her hands.

Fists beneath the blanked. Knuckles strained, white with tension. There was rage in that stillness. Not at him. Never at him. At herself. At the betrayal of her own body. At the cruelty of mornings that arrived not as beginnings, but as verdicts.

He wanted to tell her—it's not weakness to be wounded. That sometimes, rising at all was an act of rebellion. That he saw her, saw the quiet war she fought just to stay. But words like that—however sincere—could wound more deeply than silence.

So he said nothing.

And turned inward instead.

He had grown accustomed to the ritual of helplessness. Not hers. His. The routine of watching her suffer and offering nothing but presence. Once, he believed endurance was born of action—that a man's worth was carved from the things he did. But here? Action meant nothing. Brute strenght had no currency in this kind of battle. What she needed was something he'd never been taught to give: gentleness.

The truth was—he feared touching her more than any weapon.

Not because he doubted his control, but because he understood what it meant to be the final fracture of something already fragile. He had held dying men in his arms. Had watched pain strip flesh from soul. But this—she—was different.

She didn't scream.

She endured.

Quietly. Hour by hour. Day after day.

She was stronger than he had ever been. And still, somehow, he was the one tasked with carrying her.

That irony did not escape him. It haunted him.

He had never prayed. Not properly. Not with conviction. But in moments like this—when he watched her sleep through pain, when he helped her rise with arms that trembled not from effort, but from reverence—something inside him folded. Bent.

A whisper. Let me be enough.Let me be what steadies her. Not her cure. Not her salvation. Just the ground beneath her feet when she could no longer stand.

She inhaled then—a sharp, pained sound that broke through his thoughts.

Her eyes were open. Barely. Her lashes clung together in the corners, and her gaze was unfocused. But it was on him.

She didn't speak. She didn't need to.

There was something in her eyes—a softness that didn't shatter him, but unmade him. Not because it hurt. But because it asked nothing of him.

And chose him anyway.

He reached not for her, but frot the blanket. Drew it higher over her shoulders with reverent care.

Still, he said nothing.

Because some silences were sacred.

And this one—this one felt like prayer.

For a long moment, they lingered in that liminal space between stillness and motion, as if even a breath in either direction might unravel something delicate suspended between them. The room bore silent witness: sunlight dulled by worn curtains, the air thick with stillness save for the faint murmur of morning traffic beyond the glass. The world turned, heedless.

But here, in this modest bed, time held its breath.

Then she spoke—voiced thinned by sleep, frayed by strain, yet laced with humor so dry it nearly cracked:

"You gonna keep staring, or are you going to help me not be a corpse today?"

He exhaled, half a laugh, though the sound snagged in his throat. There it was again—her edge. The one sharpened by defiance, brandished like a blade when the body gave no other weapons. Sarcasm as armor. A joke as her sword. She wore both like a second skin, even now, in her frailty.

He shifted closer without touching her. "Permission to approach?"

"You're stalling."

"I'm respecting protocol."

A faint smile tugged at her mouth, fractured at the edges. "You're impossible."

He leaned in then, hands slow and deliberate—held open, not like a man preparing to lift, but like one offering to catch. "Say the word."

Her breath came in steady, careful pulls. "Do it."

One arm slipped beneath her shoulders, the other braced at her hip, fingers splayed to avoid the tender joint. He felt the tension rise through her frame like a scream she refused to voice—not out of pride. She had long since stopped performing strenght. No, it was because that scream had already been spent in silence too many times, in rooms like this, with no one to hear.

She winced. Her hand clutched at the sheet, nails catching on the cotton, but she didn't cry out. She never did during this part.

His voice was low, meant for her alone. "Tell me where it hurts today."

"Everywhere," she murmured.

"Then we go slow."

He lifted her—not with force, but with intention. Each movement matched to the rhythm of her breath. She curled against him, her torso rising from the bed like her ribs had forgotten how to move without guidance. Her head dropped beneath his chin, the crown pressed into the hollow of his throat.

When she was upright, propped against a pillow he'd arranged behind her, her jaw trembled—not from pain, but from sheer effort.

He remained crouched at her side, hands resting lightly on the mattress. "How many sticks today?"

The question was gentle, the way one might ask about the weather.

She paused, then let out a breath. "Five."

"Out of?"

"Thirteen. If I'm reckless."

He nodded once. "Do I cost any?"

She turned her face toward him then. Her eyes half-lidded but piercing. "You don't count."

"I might argue I should."

"You always do." A tired smile curved her mouth. She leaned her head against the wall and blinked slowly. "Sitting up's already two. Bathroom's three. Tea's another half—maybe a whole—depending on how far the kettle decides to mock me."

He hummed softly. "And dignity?"

"Costs at least six." Her voice cracked on the final word, though her smile held—brave and brittle.

He didn't flinch. "Then we skip it. Tea can wait. Dignity's too expensive today."

Silence settled again, but not the sacred kind. Not the hush that preceded miracles or collapse. The silence was older—worn thin by repetition. It was the knowing between two people who had been here a thousand times, and would be again. The kind of intimacy born not from novelty, but from staying.

She lifted her hand slowly, trembling with the effort, and laid it on his wrist.

"You make it easier," she said.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just looked at her hand—so pale, so fragile, and yet impossibly strong for how much it had endured.

When he finally answered, his voice was low, rough with the weight of all the things he didn't know how to say. "No kitten. You make it possible."

She blinked slowly. There was something unspeakable in her gaze—something balanced precariously between apology and love, between gratitude and grief. He knew that look.

He wore it in the mirror.

"You still calling me that?" she whispered.

"Until you tell me to stop."

"I won't," she said.

"Then I won't stop."

He rose to his feet, rolled his shoulders back, and offered her his hand.

"Come one," he murmured. "Let's spent those five wisely."

She took his hand without hesitation.

It was not weakness. It was trust in its most distilled form—consent not only of body, but of pride. A surrender that had nothing to do with giving up, and everything to do with choosing him.

Her fingers were cold, but steady. He held them the way one might hold a bridge over black ice—firm enough to guide, gentle enough not to fracture what was already thin.

They walked slowly. Her steps were cautious, each one deliberate, as though drawn from a dwindling currency. He matched her pace without comment, without visible strain, though the part of him trained for war and precision bristled at how easily her body betrayed her.

The hallway to the kitchen was short. Today, it felt like a pilgrimage.

Inside, he helped her into the cushioned chair at the far end of the table—the one with the thick backrest, the one he had lined himself with folded towels after she'd once winced too sharply for words. She noticed the extra blanket draped over the seat. Neither of them mentioned it.

She sat. He knelt to adjust her feet against the floor. She let him.

Affection, for them, had always lived in the ordinary.

He moved to the stove with the quiet competence of a man who found peace in structure. There was no need to ask what she wanted. he already knew. Toasted oat bread. A soft egg, never fried. The kettle was already half-full from the night before. He began each task with a kind of reverent precision, as if preparing breakfast were less a routine than a ritual—an offering, not to her, but to the fragile mercy of peace.

He wasn't trying to fix her. He was simply trying to make the day kinder.

Behind him, she sighed. Not in pain. Not discomfort. Just the sould-deep weariness that had long since settled into her bones.

"What kind of tea?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Surprise me."

He didn't. He chose the ginger honey—the one that soothed her when nothing else could, the one she never requested because she knew it was expensive. She didn't know he bought it in bulk. That he'd trade his entire salary for it if it meant she could breathe easier.

He cracked the egg along the rim og the pan—perfect seam. The kettle whispered to life. Steam curled upward, thin and ghostlike, coiling in the still air like incense in a forgotten church.

No music. No distractions. Just the quiet choreography of devotion.

"You're too good to me," she said.

"No," he replied, not turning. "I'm exactly good enough."

"You'll spoil me."

"I intend to."

She laughed—quiet, but full. it startled him every time she laughed on a flare day. That she still could. That pain hadn't stolen that, too. It humbled him more than pity ever could.

He plated the toast and egg with the simplicity of someone who believed in quiet elegance. No garnish. No flourish. Just warmth, softness, and enough salt to remind her she was still here.

He set the plate before her. Then the tea—only after testing the temperature against the side of his thumb. She curled her fingers around the mug, a faint crease forming between her brows as the heat kissed her palms.

"Good?" he asked.

She nodded, eyes closed. "It helps."

He sat beside her, not across. That choice mattered. On days like this, her skin was a battlefield—there were moments when even kindness felt like an assault. But today, she leaned into him, just enough for her shoulder to rest against his arm.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just reamined—an anchor in a world that spun too fast.

"You don't flinch," she murmured after a while. "Not even when I'm... like this."

He looked at her then. Truly looked. The shadows beneath her eyes. The clenched line of her jaw. The fatigue carved into her skin like a second skeleton.

"I've seen you worse," he said softly.

She blinked. "Charming."

"I've also seen you better."

"And?"

"I love you in both directions."

The kettle whistled behind him. He made no move to silence it. She didn't flinch. Perhaps they were both learning to live beside the things that used to jolt them.

She reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist. Her thumb pressed lightly where his pulse beat steady and loyal beneath the skin.

"You're the only thing that doesn't hurt," she whispered.

His heart missed a step.

Then resumed—slower, deeper.

He didn't reply with words. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, reverent and unhurried.

Not out of romance.

Out of devotion.

Because to be chosen in pain is the holiest form of love.

She tried to take another bite of the toast. Tried to pretend the morning might unfold as planned. But he saw it—the way her grip on the fork faltered, how her spine tensed as though her very bones were ringing with pressure. Her breathing shortened—not in panic, but in that quiet, disciplined way she used when her body began to revolt without warning, without grace.

Her face remained composed. But he knew her tells.

She placed the fork down. Slowly. Precisely. As if sheer defiance could stave off what was already coming.

His voice came soft, careful. "Where is it?"

"Lower back," she murmured. "And left hit."

"Stabbing?"

"Dragging." Her fingers curled against the edge of the table. "Like something’s caught beneath the joint."

He nodded once. Rose without sound. Moved behind her.

When his palm met her back, it brought no pressure—only presence. His thumb traced slow, methodical circles through the fabric of her shirt. Not to ease the pain. To anchor her.

She leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, eyes closed. Her jaw locked. He could feel it—how her muscles clung to resistance like a last act of will, tension wound tight as coiled wire.

He bent low beside her. "Do you want to take something?"

She shook her head immediately. "No. Not today."

He didn’t ask why. He already knew.

The medication dulled her. Blurred the edges. And on days when she only had five sticks to spend, she didn’t want to spend them sleepwalking through the hours.

Still, her body wasn’t letting go. Her breath hitched—not in pain, but in dread. The kind of fear that came not from surprise, but from knowing exactly what was coming—and being helpless against it.

Sylus moved. Certain. Wordless. Without hesitation.

One arm slipped beneath her knees, the other supported her spine, and he lifted her against his chest like something weightless—though she was not. She carried gravity in every nerve. A gravity he never resented bearing.

Her arms wound slowly around his neck, fingers clutching at the collar of his shirt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. The shame in her voice hit like a bruise. "For being like this."

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He turned down the hall, each step measured. The decision had already been made. Not consciously, but in the marrow. In the place inside him that always knew what she needed before she asked.

The bathroom door opened with a push of his shoulder. He turned the tap, adjusting the heat until steam rose in soft, ghostly ribbons. The tub creaked as the water filled, but he didn’t wait.

He stepped in.

Shoes, jeans, shirt—everything on him soaked instantly. The warmth clung like a second skin, dragged heavy against his frame. He didn’t flinch.

She gasped, startled—not in protest, but disbelief. "Sylus—"

"Shh," he murmured against her temple. "I've got you."

He sank slowly into the water, her body wrapped in his, her cheek pressed to the side of his throat. The warmth rose around them in increments, curling between ribs and joints like a balm. He adjusted his grip—her lower back resting in the cradle of his lap, her ribs anchored gently in the shelter of his arms.

His heartbeat pulsed steady beneath her cheek. A rhythm she could lean into. A rhythm she didn’t have to control.

She clung tighter.

The flare didn’t vanish—these things never did—but it softened. Eased its grip enough for her to breathe again. Just a little. Just enough.

He pressed a kiss to her hair. Not for reassurance. Not for ceremony. Just because she was there. And so was he.

"You didn't have to get in," she said at last. Her voice was barely more than breath.

"I did."

Her fingers curled tighter around his collar. Her voice—broken glass in velvet—whispered his name.

"I hate this."

"I know."

"I want to be normal."

"You're more than that."

"That's not a comfort."

"It's not meant to be," he said quietly. "It's the truth."

She didn’t speak again.

She simply buried her face against his neck and let herself be held.

He let the water rise. Let his clothes soak through. Let the ache of her body bleed into his own.

Because if she had to burn— Then he would burn with her.

Steam curled between their bodies, threading through the folds of his soaked shirt, winding along the curve of her spine. His breath aligned with hers—not by effort, but by instinct. As if his lungs had decided it was easier to follow her than to resist her.

Then—a sound. Faint, muffled. A dull vibration against his thigh.

She stirred. "Your phone."

He didn’t respond at first.

She lifted her head, just enough to glance downward. The water had climbed past his waist. Somewhere beneath the surface, the buzzing came once more. Then silence.

Her eyes found his, wide with disbelief. "Sylus... it was in your pocket?"

He nodded slowly. "Seems so,"

"You didn't take it out?"

"I didn't think of it."

She stared. "You always think of everything."

His gaze dropped to her hands, now resting lightly against his chest. When he spoke again, his voice had quieted. "Not when you're in pain."

Silence returned—but this time, it didn’t feel remote. It settled between them like a shared breath, a third presence. The water had reached the brim of the tub. His jeans were drenched, his shirt clinging like a second skin. Still, he didn’t move.

She reached down, tentative, as though to check the damage. Her fingers barely brushed the outline of the phone before he caught her wrist.

"Leave it," he said, folding his hand gently around hers. "It's done for."

"But your work—"

"I can replace the phone, kitten." He kissed the pad of her thumb, soft, final. "I can't replace this."

She went still.

He didn’t explain further. Just held her hand.

Then, slowly—almost as an afterthought—lifted it again to his lips.

This kiss lingered.

Not romantic. Not performative. As though her hand were something sacred—worn down by time, by need, and still infinitely worthy of reverence.

His mouth moved from the edge of her palm to the center, lips pressed to the skin like a monk listening for scripture. Another kiss to the base of her wrist, deliberate, hushed. The water shifted with their breaths, but neither of them noticed.

She did not pull away.

So he kept going, unhurried. As if the path from her fingers to her shoulder was holy terrain—every inch a journey worth taking, every touch a vow. His lips traced the places untouched by pain, unmarked by illness. Quiet devotion. Wordless prayer.

And when he reached the bend of her elbow, he spoke—not loud, not sudden. A breath caught on the edge of a sigh.

"Marry me."

The words hung there. Weightless. Irretrievable.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t repeat it.

As if saying it once had already cost him something he would never get back.

She didn’t answer.

Not because she hadn’t heard.

But because she didn’t believe he meant it.

And for now— he let her believe that.

The bathwater had cooled.

He felt it in the way her body began to shiver again—not violently, not from pain, but with that slow, creeping discomfort that followed the aftermath of a flare. The kind that made even familiar skin feel foreign. The kind that made strength feel borrowed. Fragile in new ways.

He shifted beneath her, careful not to disturb the weight she entrusted to him. She didn’t resist. She only pressed her forehead against the line of his collarbone one last time before letting him lift her again.

Her arms remained draped around his neck, loose, trusting. He rose from the water slowly, his soaked clothes clinging to him like a second skin, the fabric heavy with warmth turned cold. The air outside the tub struck them both like breath after grief—sharp and uninvited.

But he didn’t flinch.

His thoughts were elsewhere. Anchored to her.

He carried her the few steps to the towel rack, his hip bumping it open with practiced ease. The thick gray towel unfolded like something sacred, and he wrapped it around her not with haste, but with a precision born of ritual. An old choreography, polished by repetition.

He lowered her onto the closed lid of the toilet—an improvised altar to their unglamorous devotion—and kept one hand steady at her back while the other reached for the second towel, the one he always left on the radiator.

Steam clung to the mirror in soft breathmarks. Time pressed in quietly.

He crouched in front of her and began to blot the water from her skin—not rushed, not clinical. Present. Deeply, achingly present. Each touch quiet, purposeful. The kind of presence that made tenderness feel like a vow. He moved slowly—shoulders, collarbone, the delicate slope of her arms. Not to savor. Not to claim. Just to honor.

She trembled.

He saw it—the slight tremor in her hands as she kept the towel drawn around herself, the way her knees pressed together beneath the fabric, as if warding off the chill. But her face remained still. Always still. Like a lake beneath a stormless sky.

He rose again and reached for the final towel—smaller, thinned from use—and began blotting water from her hair. She winced once when his fingers caught a knot at the back of her head.

"Sorry," he murmured, voice low, close to her temple. "Almost done."

She hummed, a sound more breath than voice. Not quite agreement. Not quite protest.

He parted the damp strands with care, fluffing gently at the roots so it wouldn’t cling to her scalp. His hands slowed. Stilled.

And then, without lifting his gaze from the wet threads caught between his fingers, he said it.

"I'm serious, you know."

Her breath paused.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Not yet.

"I didn't say it to distract you," he said, softer now. "Not to make you feel better. Not because the water was warm and you were in my arms and I forgot myself."

She didn’t move.

He drew the towel gently down the side of her head, smoothing the strands behind her ear with infinite care.

"I said it because I meant it."

Still no reply. Still no disbelief. Just silence—ripe, brimming, breathing between them like something sentient.

He let the towel slip into the sink, forgotten. His hands remained at her face, thumbs near the ridge of her jaw. Light. Steady.

"You think I'm joking," he whispered.

And finally—finally—she looked up.

Her gaze wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t startled.

It was tired. And terrified.

Not of him.

But of what it might mean to believe him.

He didn’t press. Didn’t move. Didn’t offer the words again, as if repetition might cheapen them.

Instead, he brushed a single drop of water from her cheekbone with his thumb.

And said, so softly it might have been mistaken for a thought—

"I don't know how to want a life that doesn't have you in it."

She looked at him for a long moment—long enough for the steam on the mirror to begin fading, long enough for the silence to gather weight, deepening into something heavier than hesitation.

Then, in a voice like torn paper—soft, raw—she asked:

"You're okay with this?"

Her eyes didn’t blink. They stayed fixed on his, unwavering. And yet she looked like someone bracing for impact. Not rejection. Not exactly. But the ache of being misunderstood.

"With me?" she added, quieter still. "Like this?"

He didn’t answer.

Not right away.

She shifted slightly on the closed lid of the toilet, the towel slipping from one shoulder. She didn’t fix it. Didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she no longer cared.

"I mean... you see it," she said, gesturing toward her body, her breath, the crumpled towel in her lap. "There are days I can't move. Days I wake up and everything already hurts, and I have't even left the bed. And other days, I feel like I could run a marathon. It makes no sense. It never makes sense."

She swallowed. Her jaw clenched.

"I’m going to spend the rest of my life counting sticks. Bargaining with medicine. Taking it, skipping it, weighing what I lose either way. I’ll cancel plans. Miss things. I’ll forget who I am on the worst days and beg for normal on the best."

Her hand curled around the towel like she was clutching something far more fragile.

"I can’t promise consistency. Or stability. I can’t promise I’ll ever get better. This might just be it—this mess. This in-between."

Her voice frayed at the edges. But she didn’t cry.

"I’m asking if you really want this. Because I don’t get to stop living it. And I can’t let you in halfway just because you think I’m beautiful when I’m quiet."

He was still for a moment.

Then he smiled.

Not wide. Not indulgent.

But small. Steady. Certain.

Like a man who had been waiting for this question longer than he realized.

He reached up, brushing the side of her cheek with the back of his fingers. The touch was feather-light, but real—unshakably real. Like someone proving they still believed in gravity.

"I want you," he said, "not in spite of those things. With them. Not edited. Not airbrushed into something easier."

His thumb traced the edge of her jaw, slow and reverent. There was no urgency in the gesture. Just presence. Just care.

"You talk about your body like it’s a battlefield," he murmured. "But all I’ve ever seen is someone surviving."

She opened her mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to explain—but he didn’t let her interrupt.

"I know it won’t be simple. I know I won’t always get it right. But I’ll never stop wanting to try. And that has to mean something."

He tilted his head slightly, his palm settling at the curve of her neck, thumb near her pulse.

"You're beautiful," he said, softer now—like the words might bruise if spoken too loudly. "Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re hurting. Even when you don’t feel like anyone at all."

She inhaled—but not to speak. Just to breathe.

And he saw it—the way something inside her unknotted. Not completely. But enough. Enough to soften the hardness she’d worn like armor.

He leaned in, brushing his lips to her forehead with barely any pressure at all.

"I’m not asking for perfection," he whispered against her skin.

"I'm asking for you."

She didn’t speak right away.

He felt the change in her breath first—shallow at the edges, then slowly deepening. Her hand, still cradled in his, turned. Not to retreat.

But to hold.

And then, with a sigh that felt less like surrender and more like release, she slid her arms around his neck and leaned into him fully.

Not just her weight.

Her trust.

Her warmth. Her silence. Her heartbeat—fast and real—thudding beneath the damp folds of her towel.

She tucked her face into the hollow of his neck, nose brushing the line of his jaw. He felt the wet strands of her hair against his collarbone, the honest weight of her against him, unapologetic now. Present.

Then, muffled against his skin—

"I think you just gave me ten more sticks."

He smiled before he could stop himself. A breath escaped him like a knot unwinding.

"Ten?" he murmured, arms gathering her closer. "That's a record."

She laughed—a small, whole sound. Breathy. Tenuous, but real.

Her fingers curled into the back of his damp shirt, not out of fear, not from need—but from safety. Because she could. Because here, she didn’t have to measure what she gave.

"Why are you so good to me?" she whispered.

He didn’t respond right away.

There were a thousand things he could have said—complicated truths about devotion, ruin, redemption. Words that could’ve filled a novel or broken her open.

But none of them would have been enough.

So he said the simplest thing he knew.

"Because you let me be."

She stilled in his arms, and then softened further, curling in, as if the answer had met her in a place even pain couldn’t reach.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Held by water. By breath. By something quieter and older than language—something so fragile it could never survive being named. To define it would diminish it.

Eventually, the mirrors cleared. The steam faded. The air cooled. Outside, the world resumed its slow, indifferent turning.

But here—in damp towels, skin against skin, her heartbeat steady against his—Sylus knew they had made something of the day.

Not something perfect.

But something theirs.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was everything.

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝… — © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

[thesecondhandwoman]

I’ll think of the jist

When reader is well enough to work for ambessa she uses a rollator (walker with like a table/seat) so she can carry multiple things at once that she couldn’t with a cane.

reader interrupts a meeting quietly to give Ambessa something, the room is full of big strong people who look down on sick ppl even if it’s genetic (:/)

They comment on her ability to work and ambessas like Nuh uh she fine brotha and Ambessa thinks nothing of it, reader thinks a lot of it and can’t sleep

lol thank you goodbye

MORE THAN ENOUGH

Ambessa x f!reader

Synopsis: Being Ambessa’s assistant and having chronic pain was difficult, but it was always worse when you tried to help on more manageable days only be to told that you are incapable.

Request: @possessedmagpie

A/N: This is part two of Chronically Ill

The soft light of morning slipped through the towering windows of Ambessa Medarda’s estate, a golden glow painting the cold stone walls. The days always started early in Noxus, the city that never slept, but for you, mornings weren’t a signal to begin. They were another checkpoint in the never-ending cycle of managing your body’s rebellion against itself.

You shifted beneath the thick covers, testing your limbs carefully. The ache that usually gripped you like iron shackles had ebbed to a low thrum today. It wasn’t gone, but it was manageable. Relief flickered in your chest, tempered by caution. You had learned long ago that even “good days” came with limits.

The other constant in your mornings lay beside you, Ambessa, her powerful frame still as she slept, her features softened in the pale light. Despite the countless demands on her time and energy, she always made space for you. She had stayed the night again, likely at your insistence, despite her busy schedule. She’d never admit it, but you suspected she worried about you constantly.

As if sensing your gaze, Ambessa stirred, her amber eyes blinking open. A small smile tugged at her lips as she caught you watching her.

“Good morning, little one,” she murmured, her voice low and warm, still laced with sleep.

“Good morning,” you replied, voice hushed, as though speaking too loudly would break the delicate peace between you.

Her eyes searched your face, her brow furrowing slightly. “How are you feeling?” she asked, the question laden with genuine care.

You considered her words, stretching carefully to test the limits of your body. “Better,” you said after a moment. “Not great, but I think I can manage today.”

Ambessa propped herself up on one elbow, her expression skeptical but not dismissive. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I want to try. I can’t stand feeling useless, Ambessa.”

“You’re never useless,” she said firmly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Your value isn’t measured by how much you can do. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” you murmured, though the weight in your chest said otherwise.

Her hand lingered against your cheek, her touch both grounding and reassuring. “Alright,” she said after a moment. “But promise me you’ll be careful. No pushing yourself too hard. If you need to stop, you stop. Understood?”

“Understood,” you said softly, leaning into her palm.

She pressed a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering just long enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

By mid-morning, the estate was bustling with activity. Servants and guards moved swiftly through the halls, their boots echoing against the polished stone floors. The sheer size of the estate could be overwhelming, even intimidating, but today you felt determined.

The rollator was your lifeline, its sturdy frame and built-in seat allowing you to navigate the estate without collapsing. It wasn’t a perfect solution—there were still moments when the pain flared unexpectedly, threatening to rob you of the strength to keep going—but it gave you a sense of independence.

Today, you carried an important correspondence marked with the crest of General Vessar. The message had arrived early, its contents urgent enough to require Ambessa’s immediate attention. Despite the challenges of moving through the estate, you were determined to deliver it personally.

The grand hall where Ambessa was meeting her advisors loomed ahead, the heavy double doors closed but not impenetrable. Pausing just outside, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself against the ache radiating through your legs.

The moment you entered, the room fell silent. The rollator’s wheels squeaked faintly as you moved across the polished floor, your presence a disruption in the midst of their intense discussions.

At the head of the long table, Ambessa sat tall and imposing, her amber eyes sharp and focused. The sight of her sent a pang of comfort through your chest; she was the one constant in a world that often felt too harsh to navigate.

“Ambessa,” you said, your voice soft but steady.

Her gaze snapped to you, her expression shifting immediately. The hard edge she wore in these meetings melted away, replaced by a warmth that seemed out of place amidst the cold, calculating figures around her.

“Little one,” she greeted, her voice low and tender.

You grabbed the sealed letter on the table of your rollator as you moved it a bit closer and held it out to her. “This arrived this morning. From General Vessar.”

She shifted in her chair slightly as she turned to face you, taking the letter from your hands with a subtle nod. Her fingers brushed yours briefly—a fleeting touch that carried more reassurance than words ever could.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft enough that only you could hear.

But the moment was short-lived.

“She’s still working for you?” a voice called from the far end of the table.

Your chest tightened.

The man who spoke leaned back in his chair, his tone dripping with disbelief. “How can someone in her condition handle the responsibilities you’ve given her?”

Another advisor chimed in, her voice quieter but no less cutting. “It does seem unwise. The demands of this role require someone—”

“Capable,” the first man interrupted. “Someone who isn’t constantly compromised.”

The words struck like a blade, each syllable carving into your carefully built armor.

Ambessa’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood, her movements deliberate and commanding.

“Enough,” she said, her voice sharp and unforgiving.

The room fell silent.

Ambessa’s gaze swept over the advisors like a storm about to break. Her presence was a force of nature, and for a moment, you pitied the fools who dared challenge her judgment.

“You will not question her competence,” she said, her tone cold enough to freeze fire. “Do any of you doubt my ability to judge who is fit for their role?”

No one dared respond.

“Let me make something very clear,” she continued, her voice like a blade. “Y/N has proven her worth time and time again. She is stronger and more useful than any of you could hope to be, and I will not tolerate such ignorance in my presence.”

Her words were a shield, protecting you from their scorn, but they couldn’t stop the tears that welled in your eyes. You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, but the weight of their judgment was crushing.

Ambessa turned to you, her expression softening. “Go rest, little one,” she said gently.

You nodded, your throat too tight to form words. As you left the room, the rollator steady beneath your hands, you couldn’t shake the sting of their words.

Back in your quarters, the pain returned, not the physical ache in your joints, but the sharp, unrelenting sting of humiliation and self-doubt. You sank onto the edge of your bed, burying your face in your hands.

The echoes of their voices replayed in your mind, each word a reminder of what you couldn’t do, of how the world saw you. No matter how hard you worked, no matter how much you gave, it was never enough.

You didn’t hear the door open, but you felt the mattress dip beside you. A familiar hand rested on your shoulder, warm and grounding.

“Little one,” Ambessa said softly.

You wiped at your eyes, turning away from her. “I’m fine,” you lied.

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close until your head rested against her shoulder.

“They don’t understand,” she said after a moment. “They never will. But you don’t need their approval.”

“I just… I wanted to help,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I wanted to prove I could still do something right.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” she said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re more than enough. Don’t let them take that away from you.”

Her words wrapped around you like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge of despair.

“I’m tired,” you admitted, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your chest. “I’m so tired, Ambessa.”

“I know,” she murmured, her voice full of quiet empathy. “But you don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here, I always will be.”

You whimpered a little, holding back tears as you sunk into her arms as she lied down on the bed with you, stroking the back of your head for comfort.

She stayed with you long into the night, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of your emotions. When sleep finally came, it was with the comforting knowledge that no matter how heavy the world felt, Ambessa would always be there to share the burden.

A/N: I got a peace offering to write this, loving it.

[writingjourney]

I’m having a severe chronic illness/pain flare up today that’s kept me in bed all night and all day today- I’d love some headcanons for the Papas when it comes to caring for a sick or chronically ill partner if you have the time! Maybe even a short ficlet if you feel inspired to! ☕️😮‍💨📚

I hope you're feeling better by now! ♡ I managed to write a short snippet for each Papa, trying to keep it somewhat vague as to what type of pain reader is experiencing. Copia can be read in whichever role you fancy :)

content: 1.5k words total, each papa x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, reader with chronic pain [Ao3 link]

Primo

He's successfully shut out the rest of the world, one harsh look and the Sibling who tried to pester you scattered off like a fearful rabbit. He's tucked you under the blanket with the firm insistence of a nurse who's overseeing your strict bed rest. Primo knows one thing by now, having forced his body through decades worth of hard work – you can only push yourself so far before you shut down, before you cannot recover without sufficient rest.

"I could have just helped them quickly," you insist. "It's already getting be–"

"I will not have these idioti risk your health with tasks they can do themselves, fiore."

And that's that. He's well aware that no one is going to be brave enough to complain about him to Sister, half the Ministry too scared to bother you at all while you're with him. Primo knows you care about your work which entails that you'd never have called off unless you collapsed right in front of him. But he likes to think that you enjoy it when he's just as stubborn as you are.

"Drink some more water, amore." Perched on the edge of the bed, he hands you the glass, perpetually full as if by magic. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," you admit. "The heating pad helps."

"Good." He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Now, time to get some sleep."

"Join me? I think it's time for an old man nap."

He narrows his eyes, playful but not unserious. "I will show you who is an old man when you feel better."

You give a tired laugh and he softens up the moment you've draped yourself over his chest, long fingers stroking along your arm. With his steady heartbeat against your ear it's easier to fall asleep and for once it's comforting to know that the rest of the world can wait.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Secondo

"Ah ah, no getting up, amore."

You sink back into the pillows, caught in the act. "I just want to–"

"No." The rhythmic scratching of pen on paper, books and notepad pages scattered on the small desk he carried into the bedroom to work from home today. "Whatever you need, you just tell your Papa."

"What if I have to go pee? Will you oversee that as well?"

He glances up over the rim of his reading glasses. "Do you?"

"No."

"Then why are you trying to get up?"

"I was going to look at what you're doing."

"You are not well, amore. You need to learn how to rest."

You pull the blanket up over your head and turn to your side, your next words grumbled into the fabric. "That call is coming from inside the house."

"What was that, hm?"

Before you can reply, the mattress dips under his weight, his presence immediately taking up all air around you. A thrill runs through your whole body, clouding the pain for a short but sweet moment.

"I know I am not leading by example," he concedes, a heavy hand stroking along the shape of your arm, down to your hips and then following the trail of your spine back up to your head. He tugs at the blanket there, revealing you to him. "Do you need more medicine? A book to read? Music?"

"What I really need is you," you whisper. "And… perhaps some more ibuprofen, yeah."

Secondo lends you one of his rare smiles, thumb softly stroking along your cheekbone. As though he can't resitst he leans in for a short but soft kiss, nose brushing against yours but careful not to exhaust you. "I can do that, amore. Make some space in the bed while I get it."

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Terzo

You haven't been particularly hungry, dozing for hours, closing your eyes to drown out the world, anything to sit out the pain and discomfort for however long it takes. When the surprising smell of freshly cooked food slowly creeps into the bedroom you feel your stomach grumbling for the first time in days.

"Terz?"

He does not reply. You furrow your brow, debating whether it's worth getting up to check on whatever he's fabricating. It's less that you don't trust him in the kitchen, he's perhaps lacking the cooking practice but he more than makes up for it with his quick wit. It's more so that he's been anxious ever since you got ill, desperate to help, flinching whenever you show any signs of pain, and he's already easily distracted on the best of days.

Before you've made up your mind the door creaks open. A smile lights up his face when he finds you awake, arms occupied with a steaming bowl that he carries between two oven-gloved hands.

"I hope you have an appetite, amore," he says.

You sit up, heart swelling at the sight of him in a kitchen apron. Before he sits down on the chair by your bedside he places the tray over your lap that you've been using, unable to sit for too long, and then sets down an old porcelain bowl you know he inherited from his grandmother. The rich aroma of the hearty broth floods your nose, tiny pieces of pasta swimming alongside finely chopped vegetables.

"Pastina Soup," he explains. "My nonna made this when I was not feeling well as a little boy, she used to say it is medicine against anything. I know how to make this in my sleep, amore. The kitchen is fine."

"I didn't say anything!"

"I see it in your eyes, you don't trust me with the stove." He raises his brows and you can't help but laugh, a sound that melts the tension out of his posture. "I know I know, I have been a bit of a hectic mother hen, hm? But I do not like seeing you unwell."

"I'm grateful, my love," you whisper, taking his hand in yours for a reassuring squeeze. "I've not been taken care of like that in a long time."

He eases into the chair, proud smile stretching his lips, and watches as you try the first spoonful. Warmth spreads from your belly to your limbs, the broth rich, so full of flavor that you feel revived from the taste alone. At your delighted hum his smile grows, so much that you can see the dimples in his cheeks. It's perfect.

⛧ ✦ ⛧

Copia

"Relax, amore," he whispers, pulling you firmer against his chest with an arm tightly wrapped around your front. "I can feel that you are still tense."

"I'm trying." You let your head fall back until it meets his shoulder. The steaming hot water of the bath eases your pain in a way that makes it somewhat more bearable. "It just takes some time to get used to the heat."

You inhale the scent of lavender bubbles, figure that you should be glad he finally made you use the fancy bath bomb and foam that you've been trying to keep for a special occasion. It feels too luxurious to waste, too much of an indulgence. Copia has been insisting on this, though, after you've been in agony for days and he's been fussing, heating pad, medication, all not helping enough to take away the discomfort of such persistent pain.

"Still tense," he whispers a few minutes later, voice so close to your ear that goosebumps prickle at your neck despite the heat. You can feel his hands now, slowly working into your muscles, fingers smoothing out the knots. It's… not uncomfortable, though you have to wince on occasion when he hits a particularly sore spot. "What do we do about this, my baby?"

"I wouldn't mind if you just kept going with this," you whisper.

And he does, though his lips start to trail the softest of kisses up the side of your neck now, across your shoulder, anywhere he can reach without moving you too much. Once the water cools down you'll slip back into sweats, cozying up in his bed with a movie. It's the closest you can get to finding peace while you're not feeling well, hoping the flare up will fade if you allow yourself the needed rest. It helps him, too, though he's much better about doing his stretches and staying on top of things.

"Thanks for forcing me to relax," you whisper drowsily, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace.

He chuckles, wrapping you up between his arms and legs and the sweet scent of the bath. "We both know you never would have used that bath bomb, amore."

I hope these were comforting to anyone who might need it <3

Masterlist – My Ao3