#exercises aid ankle

[hivemuthur]

Unrequited love setting with viktor please! BUT make it hurt no comfort. I want ANGST (reader is in love with jayce) i have no plot in mind so you may go wild with your impressive writing.. i want him to cry, i want him to yearn.. oh myshaylaa TAT

Anon, idk what's your beef with our beautiful boy, but here you go! (jk, thank you for the ask, this was a nice writing exercise for me)

(To Speak Or) To Die

viktorxgn!reader general - ANGST (!), Viktor-centric

word count: 0,9K

author’s note: I have nothing to justify this, I promise to put a band-aid on it soon. Artist in case you haven't figured, @petitesieste

original quote source

—

Feeling like a fool is a sensation utterly unfamiliar to him. Not knowing, just guessing, then second-guessing himself as he mistakes kindness for affection, attention for interest, mere politeness, human decency and perhaps a platonic fondness for infatuation. He could spit into his own chin for ever hoping and deems hope to be the stupidest feeling of all.

Never in his life has he gone thus far to just ask, it’s all a matter of observation for a conclusion to spark. Weighted by a broken limb and a grimy legacy he moves unnoticed, invisible, until a hot balloon of his intellect lifts him above the mediocre and finally, finally, he is noticed. Only then he dares to doubt. Only then he dares to ask.

First, he asks himself: Is it better to speak or to die?

Every day you cross the threshold of lecture hall and sit in the same spot, between his arm and Jayce’s arm. The two compare poorly and he is aware of how many of his arms would have to be bound together to make up for one of Jayce’s. And maybe that’s the only reason for you to pick that other arm to lean on or swat in a jest, but Viktor choses to remain in the realm of not knowing. The realm of guessing, as this is something he does not dare to ask about.

Until it becomes familiar and almost equal when this maddening thing called friendship blooms amongst the three of you and suddenly his arm also gets granted a lean and a swat, an occasional squeeze and the most infuriating—a brush. A warm kind, gentle caress, most likely performed without any thought put into it, which makes it this many times better—or worse. It is better to think that instinct guides you, rather than a thought, when you touch him with something resembling love. It is worse to think that it means nothing.

There is more, and the more there is the more undone he becomes. There is your mouth when you whisper a question into his ear. And he knows, possibly, it is because he would get the answer sooner than Jayce would, or maybe it’s because Jayce’s head is resting on the study bench as he drools all over his notebook. But he hopes maybe, it’s because it’s his ear, not Jayce’s, you want to tease with the plush of your lips when your arm comes to wrap against his backrest and the warmth has his skin prickling in insistent excitement. Hoping.

One of the worst things that happens to him is your hand on his knee that comes there after you’ve said the same thing three times and he wasn’t listening, because he was busy staring at your ankles. They protrude strangely and are perpetually kicked and bruised and Viktor is so utterly busy picturing himself kissing the blotches away that he doesn’t hear anything you are saying. Once your scalding touch has marked him, the feeling remains hours, days later, as he tries to clutch onto that sensation by putting his own hand in the same spot, but it’s nearly not warm enough to rival yours.

Heart flutters unbearably when he spies on you looking at Jayce and sadly, this time his conclusion comes from the realm of knowing. Painfully, it comes from there because the familiarity of your eyes ogling Jayce is a slap across the cheek. It’s familiar, this expression—he catches a glimpse of it in his own reflection each time his mind wanders to you. It’s dumb, this face he makes then, the way his eyes soften, and jaw slackens, pupils expand nearly to the rim, and he doesn’t look anything like himself, he notices.

The ache overwhelms reason once, when you swing by the lab, undeniably searching for Jayce. You ask for him even, unable to hide what is there, on the top of your shoulder. Deflate, when Viktor says there is no Jayce to be found. Almost retreat and bid him goodnight, when Viktor clutches to the fool within him and that fool whispers into his ear that maybe, just maybe, it’s better to speak.

And when he speaks finally, his voice sounds foreign to him, thick and frightened as he gives his heart away for you to stab. And at least you hesitate before you do. At least you pity him, when he asks if it is at all possible for you to ever consider him, instead of beautiful Jayce. At least it’s a clean slide of a blade when you say you value this friendship above affection. At least it’s only once you have to stab when you say it’s only Jayce for you.

And suddenly feeling like a fool is all the same familiar and a distant memory to Viktor. Because what he is feeling now is not foolish, it is worse than dying, it is remaining with his heart beating, but split in half by the blade of your apology. Will he have his heart ever mended into something resembling whole, Viktor is profoundly certain now: it is better to die.

[hueseok]

( 01. ) EASY MONEY, EASY LOVE.

you and namjoon have been married for five years.

despite being strangers who solely exchanged wedding vows to trick his filthy rich family into giving him his inheritance, being part of this scheme is surprisingly easy. he’s out of the country most of the time, you’re being compensated for being a model wife, and there are only a few things you two have to to do in order to keep up with the whole guise of being a happy married couple.

with less than three months to go until you get divorced, namjoon comes back from a business trip and stays with you at your shared house, waiting until d-day with the aim of sending off your odd friendship with a proper farewell. but it’s weird, because just when things are supposed to be easiest—that’s when everything is suddenly becoming complicated, and the two of you realized once again that there really is no such thing as easy money (or easy love).

pairing: namjoon x reader

word count: 3.3k

rating: NC-17

content: fluff, angst, marriage of convenience au, strangers to friends to lovers au, dash of fake dating au, and they were housemates au???? | ft. chaebol!namjoon + travel photographer!namjoon; office worker!reader

warning/s: swearing, mentions of a sickness, mommy issues, unsupportive family, depictions of loneliness / sadness, character death (no major characters though!), mentions of falling of a cliff bc of clumsiness lmao (nobody dies dw)

[ chaptex index. ]

EPISODE 01. the one with the emergency !

you shouldn’t have been too confident. if only you’ve been more humble and less greedy during your hike earlier with your workmates for the bi-annual team building event, you wouldn’t have literally fallen off the side of the cliff and ended up spraining your ankle pretty bad.

what were you thinking, honestly? you’ve never been an active person ever in your life. you hated cardio, you hated sweating, you hated waking up early in the morning to do exercise — yet for some reason, you were pumped for the activity that was scheduled for today.

it’s the reason why as you were trudging along the trail with your co-workers, yapping and laughing loudly with a close colleague, you didn’t notice that a particularly huge rock on your way set you off balance and caused you to sway to your right, plummeting over the ridge with a loud yelp.

it’s a good thing that there were paramedics stationed at the base of the mountain where all of you were trekking on, perhaps anticipating for an incident like yours to come along that’ll have them doing their duty.

as soon as your team leader used the walkie-talkie given to your group to call them for their help, there were four people with bright orange uniforms aiding you, checking your condition and placing you on a stretcher before carrying you to the monorail where you’ll be transported back down.

haein, your said close colleague, accompanied you as they brought you to the infirmary.

“were you possessed by an athletic ghost?” she asks once the doctor finished treating your sprained ankle, now advising you to get a bit of rest. “what made you think it was smart to walk too fast? you must have been crazy.”

“i must have,” you say, laughing because you rather laugh than complain about the pain that you’re feeling. it’s subsiding at the moment — thankfully — but you can only imagine what the next few days are going to be for you due to the injury. “god, i’m happy though that i didn’t get to roll all the way. if that happened, i would have suffered a greater fall and then i’d be on the news.”

“yeah. you’d be a legend to the company too. we’d make an altar in your cubicle for a good few months.”

“i’d be the story that hiking guides would share to the hikers to scare them into being careful.”

“we’d pay tribute to you at every christmas party. we’d make a slideshow and present that during the whole event.”

“really?”

“of course. i’d be in charge of making the powerpoint even.”

you stare at her, haein staring back, and then the both of you burst out laughing. you’re grateful that she volunteered to be with you when the paramedics declared that they needed to bring you down — although in the back of your head, you do think she’s just being a good friend as an excuse to not walk her way back to the ground with the rest later on after they reach the top and enjoy the magnificent view.

“by the way,” she takes a seat on the chair beside the bed you’re situated in, “someone named kim namjoon is going to pick you up and drive you home.”

the second his name tumbles out of her lips, you’re snapping your head towards her, shocked. “what?”

“when you passed out a bit after the fall, i got your phone and did the thing to make it call your emergency contact. he’s the one who answered.”

“namjoon answered?”

“yup.”

“but i… i don’t remember making him my emergency contact.”

“well, like i said, he’s the one who answered.” she shrugs. “why? is he an ex or something?”

you press your lips together, suddenly panicking at the thought of namjoon arriving here.

there’s nothing wrong with namjoon, really. he’s a pleasing person to have around: genuine, kind, and full of profound thoughts that you can’t help but hang onto every word he says.

however, as haein made evident, no one knows about your relationship with him and true nature of it — and you’ve done everything you can in the past year and a half since joining the company to keep it that way, deeming it unnecessary to disclose the fact that kim namjoon is your husband when the both of you aren’t bound to stay married forever.

to you, he’s just a ridiculously rich man who needed to get married for at least five years in order to get the full amount of his inheritance from his grandmother.

to him, you’re just a middle class woman who needed money to pay for her sister’s leukemia treatments, introduced together by a mutual friend who knew that both of you can benefit from each other’s situations.

in other words, your marriage with him isn’t technically real. and it’s why you rather not let anyone in your workplace know that he’s your husband, especially since you’ve managed to keep a low profile about it all these months. you don’t want to give your officemates a reason to gossip about you in the present time or when you divorce namjoon — the latter frankly scheduled to happen in less than three months from now.

****

namjoon arrives an hour later.

you take notice of him immediately while haein’s babbling about the book she recently read, recognizing him as the tall man who enters the small clinic.

you watch as he goes to the desk to talk to the staff waiting there, following his figure as the latter points to where your bed is. namjoon promptly turns to your direction then, your gazes meeting before his eyes focus on your sprained ankle, expression contorting in a mix of confusion and disappointment.

beside you, haein taps your arm, noticing namjoon’s arrival as well. “is that…?”

you swallow hard. “yeah, that’s him.”

“holy shit.” she takes a dramatic pause. “he’s hot.”

“don’t —” you grit your teeth. “don’t say that. it’s weird.”

“why? i have eyes — i’m just saying what i see.”

“yeah, but —”

“are you weirded out because he’s a relative? like your brother?” haein cuts you off. “wait, you mentioned before that you have a sibling. is that him?”

“he’s not a sibling.”

“then who —”

namjoon stops on the foot of your bed, causing haein to shut up now that he’s within earshot. he’s still staring at your ankle, like it inflated to twice its original size, and you actually don’t know what to say.

although you’ve developed a close friendship over the years of this sham marriage, you always seem to restart whenever he returns from a business trip of his — and it’s only been a couple of days since his return to south korea, having just come back from spain for his latest project.

it’s worth mentioning too that you do feel strange having an audience like haein around that renders you clueless on how to act.

he lets out a slow whistle, crossing his arms. “and you say i’m clumsy.”

you huff out a chuckle, namjoon grinning that releases the charm of his dimples.

“uh, i’m haein,” your friend stands up from her seat and extends a hand out, obviously enthralled by how handsome he is. “i’m the one who called you using ____’s phone. namjoon, isn’t it?”

namjoon shakes her hand. “oh, yes. it’s nice to meet you.”

“wow. you have a very tight grip.”

“haein,” you scold, slapping her wrist that causes their handshake to cease. if it isn’t apparent enough, haein doesn’t have a filter nor cares enough to stop saying the first thing that comes to her mind. “stop being weird.”

she turns to you. “i’m not being weird. i’m complimenting him.”

“how is commenting how tight his grip is a compliment?” you demand.

“it’s a compliment because i’m making it clear that i find him strong,” she explains, focusing on namjoon again. “sorry. do you feel offended by what i said?”

he appears amused. “not really.”

“see?” haein tells you.

you’re about to quip back a reply when she beats you to it.

“anyways,” she says and namjoon stifles a laugh, “if you don’t mind me asking, how are you and ____ related?”

at the question, you send him a signal with your eyes, asking him not to tell the truth, regardless if that’s wrong of you to do so. one of the things you had to keep in mind upon agreeing with this arrangement is that neither of you should ever deny the marriage whatsoever, a precautionary measure because you two were that paranoid that the news might reach namjoon’s parents.

from the looks of it, despite namjoon understanding where you’re getting at as you give him the most bizarre expressions, he does the opposite (perhaps mainly due to what was explained above), resulting into you hanging your head low, waiting how haein will react at the revelation that will be served on her plate.

“i’m her husband actually,” namjoon says casually. 

haein cackles out loud. “husband?” she repeats. “that’s really funny — you’re a funny guy. but seriously, how do you two know each other?”

he raises an eyebrow. “i’m not joking.”

“sure you are. this girl right here isn’t married.” she does a show of holding you in an affectionate headlock. “she doesn’t even have a boyfriend.”

“did she tell you that?” he’s teasing, glancing at you for some sort of confirmation.

haein averts her attention to you. 

you look at them, switching from namjoon to haein to namjoon and back to haein. 

“i mean… you never asked, and i never said i was single,” you tell haein, shrugging and acting as nonchalant as ever.

it’s half the truth, ‘cause as far as you’re concerned, you’ve been diligent in always wearing your wedding and engagement ring. you even make it a point not to appear interested in any offers of blind dates or group dates to ever imply that you’re single as well.

she gawks at you, like she’s waiting for you to take back what you said. “are you being for real right now?”

“i am.”

“if this is some elaborate prank —”

“it’s not a prank,” you say. 

there’s silence, and then she practically screams.

“YOU’RE MARRIED?” haein bellows, attracting everybody’s attention inside the infirmary. “we’ve known each other for more than a year and only now do i discover that you’re married?”

before she can berate you and force you to tell her your entire relationship history, namjoon’s asking for your bag and helping you sit up, aiming to lead you to the car waiting outside.

haein almost stops him, declaring with conviction that she literally can’t wait until the next office day to get the full scoop, but he kindly reiterates what the ER doctor he spoke with earlier said, insisting that he ought to bring you home as soon as possible so you can get the rest that you need after over exerting your body for today’s hike.

“everything. you need to tell me everything on monday,” she says when namjoon goes out for a minute to deliver your bag first to the vehicle. she’s giddy and jumpy and very hyper about what you can guess is because of her latest discovery. “also, i’m sorry about calling your husband hot earlier. i wouldn’t have done so if i knew.”

you grin, appreciating the fact that she felt the need to apologize for that. “it’s no biggie. you didn’t know.”

“yeah, which you really should apologize about.”

“i’m sorry.” your grin only stretches wider. “i’ll buy you a matcha latte on monday to make up for it.”

her face lights up.

you share your farewells as namjoon returns, namjoon saying goodbye to haein too. she leaves first, remembering that she needs to inform the rest of your co-workers that you’re fine and headed home, and once you and your husband are alone, he takes a good look at you again.

“should i carry you?” he asks.

you blink at him. he may be reliable, but he is also extremely clumsy. “you’re not asking the right questions, joon.”

“unbelievable.” he laughs. “you can really be cruel sometimes, you know?”

“i just want to be safe.” you further tease.

“then should i get a wheelchair?”

“no wheelchair please. i think i can walk to the car just fine.” you begin standing up.

“you sure?” he doesn’t even let you answer that, his hand just naturally goes to support your elbow. “you might fall.”

you pause, calculating how many steps it’s going to take until you reach your destination.

you’re fine, really. your good foot is perfectly walkable and you’re convinced it can take the burden of not having its pair in ample condition. however, you might need to hold onto namjoon for you not to fall halfway like he already stated, and you’re not really keen on being that close to him no matter how amazing his cologne smells even a few inches away.

“a wheelchair would be ideal,” you say.

namjoon chuckles, nodding and getting it with the assistance of a staff member. 

in minutes, you’re on the passenger seat and he’s climbing on the other side.

you don’t expect it but you’re relieved at the thought of coming home earlier than planned. though you’ve conditioned yourself to enjoy this team building and take this time to get into camping, you were horrified when you learned that there wouldn’t be any shower rooms or portable toilets at least at the area that you’re heading at after the hike, this retreat meant to give each one of you the raw camping experience.

come to think of it, perhaps it was your subconscious that prompted you to inflict this accident on yourself in order to avoid shitting on the ground in case your stomach hurts.

“comfortable?” namjoon glances at you. “you can recline the chair if you want to sleep.”

“oh, okay. thanks.” you smile. 

he smiles back, starting the engine.

you subtly watch him while he does that, admiring how he seems so adept in driving now compared to when you first met him. you remember his reluctance in the past to drive due to his fear of messing up, yet he managed to drive for approximately two hours in most likely gravelly roads to get where you are.

“thanks too for coming here, joon. i hope i didn’t bother you. honestly, i don’t even remember putting you as my emergency contact,” you sheepishly add.

“no problem, and i think hoseok did,” he says. “i remember him mentioning that i should put you as mine before.”

hoseok is the mutual friend that introduced you both together when namjoon was still trying to find a fake wife to obtain the full amount of his inheritance in five years time. he was aware of namjoon’s ploy and knew that you were in need of money during that year as well — and so putting two and two together, he set up a ‘date slash chemistry test’ between you and namjoon and reckoned that you could be great help to one another regarding your respective needs.

“that makes sense. i just don’t know how he did that without my knowledge.”

“well, nothing’s been impossible for hobi, so…”

you agree with a snort.

“by the way, i should mention this before you doze off,” namjoon abruptly halts just when he was beginning to drive off, “mom’s inviting us to dinner this weekend. she heard that i was back in the country and wanted to see how i am.”

you gradually digest that information, a constipated look already appearing on your face. “okay. is everyone going to be there?”

“yes, based on our last conversation.”

“should i be prepared for anything at all?”

he seems to find the inquiry funny. “no. just the usual.”

“meaning i should block off every passive aggressive comment your mom makes about either my choice of clothes and social status, right?”

“pretty much, yeah.”

you let out a groan.

“i’m sorry.” the dimples make a recurrence. “i would have declined her request but she wouldn’t stop pestering me about it.”

“god, i just really don’t like your mom, joon.” you say. “or your dad. or your older brother. i don’t like everyone, basically — except your pet dog, hiro. no offense.”

“that’s fine. i don’t like them either.” he shrugs, carrying on driving then now that the news have been shared. “plus, you know i’m on your team. i’d defend your honor to death.”

“of course. it’s what makes attending these things tolerable.”

“well, if it makes you feel better, this might be the last family function you’d have to attend.”

you raise your eyebrows, recalling the reason why. “woah, shit, you’re right.”

in less than three months, you’re getting divorced and namjoon’s getting even more money than he already has.

in less than three months, he’s going to share some of the portion of what’s left of his inheritance and it’ll be the last time you’ll receive financial help from him.

it also might be the last time you’ll be with him in general, and though there’s a side of you that’s glad not to be tied down anymore, you can’t say that you’re glad of possibly losing contact with namjoon, having grown fond of his presence in a way.

facing him, you blurt out the first thing that occurs in your mind. “when we get divorced, can i keep my engagement ring?”

namjoon chuckles. “that’s up to you. there’s no reason for me to take it back.”

“but what if you fall in love with a woman someday and think about proposing to her?”

“then i’d buy a new ring.”

“but wouldn’t that be impractical? given that you already have an engagement ring? i mean, this costs so much i could probably buy a lot and a house with it.”

“yeah, but that’s yours. it’d be horrible of me to give her a ring already worn by my first wife.”

“first wife,” you repeat with a dramatic scoff, lips curving upwards regardless. it’s cheesy and tickles your insides. “that trip to spain changed you, joon. you’ve been too flirty since you returned.”

that coaxes out a full laugh from him. “my apologies. it’s a habit at this point.”

“what is?”

“pertaining to you as my wife.” he shrugs. “isn’t it the same for you?”

“pertaining to you as my wife?” you joke.

you don’t see him roll his eyes. “you know what i mean.”

you think about it.

had it been the same for you? there’s not a lot of occasions wherein you have to call namjoon as your husband. your dad isn’t present in your life, your relationship isn’t good with your mother to constantly chat with her (she doesn’t even know you’re married), and as for your little sister who was the root cause of why you got married to namjoon…

well, she’s in a better place right now. far better than this crazy and scary world you’re living in.

“i guess,” you say, but your tone isn’t convincing.

he nods his head in a slow manner. “hm, it does seem that way according to what just happened with haein.”

you wince. “sorry about that.”

“don’t be, i understand. i’ve been gone most of the time since you got hired in your new company — and we are separating in a few weeks.”

“time flies really fast, doesn’t it?”

“yep. we used to think that it’ll take forever before the five years are up.”

“true. we kept on suggesting a backup plan if ever we fight and get sick of each other.”

“yet here we are, still happily married.”

“ugh, there you are again!” you accuse and he laughs out loud once more. “are you enjoying cringing me to death?”

namjoon doesn’t answer, a big grin plastered on his face as he continues laughing, groaning eventually when you start slapping his arm because of how it’s obvious that he truly is enjoying this.

“____,” he complains, laughing still, “stop, i’m driving!”

you follow as he says. “you’re the worst.”

“i forgot how easy you are to tease.”

“shut up.”

he snickers, doing a zipping motion against his mouth.

gentle reminder: this author loves feedback! let her know your thoughts if you enjoyed reading this fic and you’ll add 100+ points in her writing motivation meter ♡

[makethatelevenrings]

Torture and Trust // S. Riley x f!reader

warnings: waterboarding, reader is physically hit and tortured, reader is threatened with sexual assault in one (1) line, canon-typical violence, swearing

A part two to this but also doesn't need to be read before this. I'm kind of making a little universe in my head but idk. We vibin'.

It was the shock of cold water smashing against your face that woke you up. To be honest, you weren’t really asleep. You had been drifting between the space between consciousness and sleep, lured there from a few nasty hits to the head and exhaustion.

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission before the rest of the team came in to aid the retrieval of an asset. It was a warehouse tucked away in the streets of Tokyo that was apparently the hub of a human trafficking ring. MI5 had tasked the military to dispatch a SpecOps team since British citizens were targeted, something that had you grumbling under your breath because it shouldn’t take someone’s fucking citizenship to determine if they needed help. Explosives would be a bad idea considering how metropolitan the area was, even if it wasn’t very busy in this area. So you and Lieutenant Riley were tasked with figuring out a solid entry point and a tally of guards.

Simon had agreed to split up so he could canvass the west side of the building and see how many guards were stationed while you took the east side. It just so happened that the second-in-command to shithead in charge himself spotted the flash of your rifle scope and the next thing you know, you were strapped to a chair in the middle of the warehouse.

Your chest heaved as you caught your breath and you let out a small laugh as you regarded the two men in front of you. Being in the SAS, you were no secret to torture. Everyone knew that one step of the training was to go through seventy-two hours of pure hell and sleep deprivation to see who broke and who didn’t. This was child’s play compared to that.

“Your swing is getting better,” you said through bloodied teeth. “But that follow through is what we need to work on.”

A hand fisted in the back of your head and shoved your forward, directly into the trough of water they had placed in front of you. Waterboarding was always an interesting exercise. You knew it was coming and had inhaled sharply, focusing your attention on anything but the air slowly leaking from your lungs as he held you in there for maybe a minute. Your thoughts drifted to other things, like the ramen you and Simon split in the safehouse the night before. It had been a few months since he grew comfortable enough with taking the mask off in front of you so now you savored the few moments you saw of his face. He seemed almost tentative without his mask, as though he was aware of how beastly his scars made him look.

You pondered over if he knew just how beautiful he was.

They yanked you back out of the water and you didn’t know what time it was. It was certainly darker than it had been when you were first nabbed from your lookout point. Certainly long enough that Simon was aware of your predicament. So that meant you were running out of time. Two in front of you, three guards behind. Your hands strained against the rope and duct tape mixture that bound your wrists and ankles to the sides of the chairs.

“Who do you work for?” the boss hissed. You blinked up at him innocently through the water that clung to your lashes and shrugged.

“Can’t a girl just chill around here? God forbid women do anything.” You braced yourself for a hit that never came. Instead, he grabbed your jaw and squeezed, forcing your teeth to clack together with a sharp jolt and a bite to your tongue, adding more blood to mix with the cuts already present from the lackluster punches delivered earlier.

“Not with that level of weaponry. Try again.”

“You got me. I’m one of Santa’s elves and he wanted to make sure you were being a good boy this year. I’d hate to let him know that-” Your words were cut off as you were shoved back into the water. Ramen. How many meals had you two shared at this point? He had even started bringing you dinner to your office since he could take his mask off there rather than in the chow hall. You wouldn’t lie, you were starting to get tired. Your lungs burned from the fight to breathe and inhale the water, but you tried to shut off the small part of your brain that sent up signals of panic.

You didn’t need to worry, you reminded yourself. Just hold on a little longer.

“If you don’t start giving me real answers, maybe I’ll let some of our clients get it out of you. They’d love that,” the boss snarled when you were let up for air. Your gut tugged uncomfortably at the implication. It was always something that you had to keep in the back of your mind. Being a woman, military or not, always meant that it was a threat held over your head, simply for existing. It was why you were so eager to destroy their whole operation.

“How about you go fuck yourself?” Gathering up the blood and spit in your mouth, you forced your tongue back and then spat the putrid mix all over his face and the pristine white collar of his shirt. Rage flickered across his face and he stood up straight.

“Get me the pliers. If she won’t talk, we’ll make sure she screams.”

Well, you mused, what was a few less nails and teeth except less maintenance?

As his little goon walked off to whatever evil lair table of doom they had set up, your ears tuned into the silence around you. The typical sounds of the city met your ears, along with…there.

“I’m afraid, boys, that you’re out of time,” you said softly. A smile tugged painfully at your swollen and cut lips but you pushed past the pain. “This has been fun, truly, but I can’t lie and say I’ll miss you.”

The boss’ hand was heavy on the back of your neck as he held you down into the water. Even through the distorted splashes and fuzziness in your mind, you could hear five audible pops. You knew what they saw in their last moments. You knew that the Ghost emerged from the shadows, steps silent despite the fact that he was more muscle than man, and you knew that these men felt fear seconds before a bullet silenced their cruel minds.

He tugged you up out of the water and you inhaled deeply, the sound harsh and grating on your sensitive ears. Blinking the water out of your eyes, you came face to face with a mask that most said elicited a bone deep terror in them.

But not you.

“Right on time,” you panted. He said nothing as he cut the bindings holding you down and inspected the way that they had rubbed some of your skin away, leaving it tender and bleeding. Simon turned to look at the leader of all of this and you realized that he didn’t kill him. The man was dragging himself towards his discarded gun on the ground, blood oozing from his ruined kneecap. Ghost stalked towards him and lifted him up and away from his weapon. He regarded the little weasel coolly and then glanced back at you. You tried to push yourself up and out of the chair but your legs shook under you and instead, you collapsed back against the metal.

“Warehouse is clear,” Soap announced as he, Gaz, and Price entered. “Christ, bonnie, you look like shite.”

“You charmer,” you muttered. Gaz rushed to your side to help you up and you were grateful for your team. Your friends.

“This him?” Price asked as he joined Simon.

“Yeah.” It was the first time he’d spoken since he entered the building. “Keep him alive. I want to be the one to interrogate him.”

If it were anyone else, Price would agree. But seeing the slight tremor in Simon’s hands where he gripped the man’s suit jacket and then looking over to where Gaz was supporting your half-conscious form, he knew that putting Simon alone in a room with the man would result in a very messy clean up.

“We’ll worry about that when we get them back to base,” Price said. “We need to get her to medical.”

Four days into your medical leave and you were growing antsy. Soap and Gaz tried to keep you entertained and Price offered you an opportunity to yell at some cadets, but you were bored. You missed moving your body more than just the walk from your room to your office to the chow hall and back. But the doctor had threatened to strap you to a bed for a week while you let your body get back to normal after, and her words were, “you got your shit rocked. I know you SpecOps bastards think you’re invincible but anyone would need to take a fucking break after being tortured.” So, here you were, sitting in your office and writing up a mission plan for another team because Price knew you were getting twitchy without anything to do.

Two knocks, sharp and perfunctory, caught your attention. You called for whoever it was to enter, but you already knew who it would be. How many times had he laid that same knock upon your door? You once said that he might as well move into your office and he had regarded it for a moment thoughtfully, as if he was genuinely considering it.

“Four days of silence from you. Thought I did something wrong,” you commented lightly as Ghost entered and shut the door behind him. He didn’t take his usual seat, the plush wheelie chair you invested in when you joined the team and realized that he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Simon dropped a tray onto your desk and then stalked away, his shoulders tense and bristling like a scared cat.

A quick glance at the time confirmed that your trap had worked. He always noticed if you missed a meal, usually because you were invested in something you were working on. Everyone had their own quirk or vice and that was yours.

He brought you beef stew over rice, a quintessential British meal that was surprisingly appetizing despite the cook’s minimal care. A shiny red apple sat beside it and, as if he read your thoughts, Simon whirled around and yanked it off of the tray. He extracted a knife from his pocket and started to carve the apple into slices that he dropped onto the tray and then turned around and began to stare at the wall once more. You simply grabbed one of the slices and chewed on it while waiting for him to speak.

“That was stupid,” his rough voice broke the silence. You scoffed and stopped chewing.

“What, getting captured? I didn’t fucking plan on it.”

“No. For not trying to escape.”

A dry, startled laugh escaped you and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your forehead. “Five men with guns and me with nothing, tied to a chair. Yeah, fair chance of running without a bullet in the back.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“I didn’t have to. I knew you were coming.”

He turned to glare at you from behind that infamous mask and you cocked your head to the side. “That doesn’t scare me, Simon, and you know it. Take the mask off.”

He hesitated and then reached up and yanked it off, revealing the sharp line of his jaw, the scars around his mouth, and those freckles that speckled across his nose and cheeks. You could see him better and, therefore, read him better. His eyes told you he was angry. His tight jaw told you he was scared.

“You can’t just sit there and fucking die because you’re waiting for me, you can’t do that.”

“Why? You’re my teammate. I trust that you would come for me.”

“What if I hadn’t?” You shook your head at his question, at the absurdity of it. Was he hearing himself? Was he that consumed by whatever foolish notion that had somehow worked its way into his head? You pushed away from your desk and stood up so you could cross the floor to stand toe to toe with him. 

“What if what if what if, fuck the what ifs, Simon. You. Wouldn’t. Leave. Me. Behind.” Each word was punctuated with a jab to his chest.

“And what if I had been injured, yeah? What then?” God, he was insufferable.

“You really mean to tell me that you wouldn’t crawl through broken glass to get to one of us.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Would you have this conversation with Soap or Gaz or Price? Then why are you so insistent about it with me? I was doing my job. Are you saying I can’t trust you? Trust my team? Because I can. I do. Don’t start telling me I shouldn’t.”

“You can. For fuck’s sake, you can.”

“You said it yourself, Simon, this job is dangerous and I knew the risks going in so I don’t know why you’re so insistent on thi-“

He tasted like nicotine and mint gum with maybe a hint of gunpowder, something so uniquely him. His lips pressed against yours with surprising gentleness and he cradled your face between his hands like you were the most precious glass figure he’d ever held. You fisted your hands in the lapels of his uniform jacket and sank into his touch. His fingers traced the skin of your cheeks, careful to not irritate the cuts you sustained days prior, and down to cup the back of your neck to draw you closer. A soft whimper escaped you at the sensation of his strong body pressing against yours.

You could easily hold your own in a fight, but the knowledge that this Adonis of a man was by your side through the hell of war was a comfort.

You needed to breathe but it wasn’t the painful reminder like it was when being tortured. His hands slid from your neck to cradling your jaw as you pulled away, settling back down on your heels.

“Don’t make me bury you,” he whispered, his forehead still pressed against yours.

You nodded, too dazed to say anything noteworthy. His thumbs stroked over your jaw and you blinked up at him.

“Was that a one time thing to shut me up or…”

“Fuckin’ insufferable, you are,” he grunted but leaned down to kiss you sweetly. There wasn’t much you could associate with Simon Riley and being sweet, but the tenderness in his touch made you want to hold him and keep him away from the world that had hurt him.

You felt his fingers brush against a nasty bruise on your jaw from a well aimed hit and saw his eyes darken.

“Did you question him already?”

“We’ve got a list of buyers that MI6 and Laswell are confirming right now,” he affirmed. Good. The mission was a success then.

“And how did you get this information?” you asked.

You met the gaze of the Ghost and didn’t flinch. He chuckled low and deep in his chest and tilted your chin up so he could see one of the cuts better.

“I did everything he did to you,” he said fiercely. "But I made sure it was permanent."

You moved your hand up to tangle with the short hair at the base of his neck and pressed your lips against his. Pulling back so just a small gap separated you, you murmured out a single sentence.

"I trusted you would."

[greyskyflowers]

I like the idea that while Bucky's recovering, he has to relearn what hurt is, how rest feels, being full, etc.

They have to drill into him that if he's hurt, then he needs to tell them. It's just until he gets better at identifying it himself because they quickly learn he can't identify it himself.

For a while, when he first starts the long recovery process, he almost causes more damage to himself than Hydra was. Simply because he doesn't understand limits, or rest, or anything like that. He doesn't know how to care for himself.

Not maintenance.

Care. Humans need care.

And he's human now. Always was. Maybe? He's still working on that one....

It takes a while for him to really know what hurt is. Whenever something happens and he starts bleeding, or breaks a bone or anything happens that he thinks they might consider hurt, then he turns to look at them like a kid would, trying to figure out based on their reaction if he's hurt or not.

He's still bad at explaining it, though. He's still learning the different types of hurt and how to narrow down what exactly is hurting.

He usually just goes to whoever is around that he trusts and just says it hurts and stares at them.

I'm a fan of colorful/sparkly/excess bandaids being used for this because visual aids would be so helpful. Even putting them on things that don't need them but instead having them function almost as reminders more than anything else.

Bucky, be careful. You have that sprained ankle, remember?

And he just looks down at like 4 gaint, completely unnecessary, neon bandaids plastered on his ankle and remembers to take a minute to acknowledge the hurt. Just so he knows what it feels like and that if his hand hurts, he should be careful with it. And if there's a cut, then he should try not to reopen it. Or if he hurt his leg, then he should try to rest off it.

He doesn't have to stop anything, and he rarely does. It's more an exercise in body awareness and remembering that weapons don't have limits, but the human body does.

And he's human... So sometimes he has to stop.

He just kind of lingers around them when he's hungry because he hasn't quite gotten cooking down yet. He'll eat anything, even if it's undercooked or burnt, and it's kind of heartbreaking that even those are gourmet compared to the shit Hydra had him on.

He's still learning what hunger feels like and tries to remember that he needs to eat because he forgets a lot there at the beginning if they don't remind him.

They hope he forgets anyway. He says he does when they ask, but they always worry that he thinks if they don't bring it up, then he shouldn't either. Like it's a punishment, and they're playing mind games.

He's also learning what full feels like.

He has to relearn what tired is and what well rested feels like.

He sleeps curled up at first, usually shoved into somewhere small and hidden. He does that when he has episodes sometimes, too. He still has the instinct to run, but he also knows this is a good safe place, so he usually just shoves himself somewhere small and dark until he calms down.

Eventually, though, he starts to fall asleep on them. Slumped over on their shoulder, head in their lap, and pressed close when they finally convince him to sleep in their bed.

To sleep... Just come sleep, Buck. Relax... please. You're tired. You're so tired, honey, and you don't even realize it.

I just have this scene in my head and maybe I read it in a fic or saw some fanart art of it or whatever, but in the very beginning of his recovery process, when he couldn't think, got overwhelmed, scared, etc then he'd shove himself under the bed.

Small, dark, and usually against a wall so that someone could only get him from the side or bottom. He usually pushed himself back in the far corner, just a pair of wide eyes and pale skin when someone looked under it.

But gradually, he gets closer and closer to the edge until eventually he still goes under, but rarely, and he's right there on the edge.

Often after nightmares, when the world is just too big and the dark is in him as much as around him, then he goes under the bed.

And they sit by the edge of the bed, on the floor, leaned back against the wall, and eventually Bucky comes out a little, still mostly under but part of his knees and his head and shoulders visible. Just curls towards them until his head is kind of pressed against their thigh/hip.

And he sleeps.

I'm also a fan of the idea that Bucky gives people access to his throat and belly, the inside of his wrist and his inner thighs when he's especially relaxed and feels safe.

All those vulnerable, soft areas with thin skin, and where it's easy to hurt him even without having to put much effort into it, but they never do.

[archfeyreveries]

He will not be denied

Raphael had finally claimed the Crown of Karsus, a relic of unimaginable power, though it was not by Tav's hand. Her scornful refusal to aid him in his pursuit still burned deep within him, a slight he would never allow to go unanswered. Tav had dismissed and betrayed him as if he were a mere nuisance—a grave mistake she would soon come to regret. Raphael was not one to be cast aside lightly. By all the seething flames of Hell, he would not be denied. Pairing: Raphael x F!Tav Content: NSFW | BDSM | Humiliation kink | Rough | Dirty talk | Creampie | TW: Kind of non-con Author's note: My first smut on this cursed website and fandom. Hahaha I hope it doesn’t feel too rushed; I aimed as an exercise to keep it concise, wrapping everything up in a short, intense story (three chapters max). Enjoy and I do appreciate feedback. <3

Raphael, ever the cunning manipulator, devised a plan to isolate Tav from her allies. Employing his most potent illusion magic, he crafted a series of convincing visions that preyed upon Tav’s deepest fears and insecurities. Over the course of several days, Tav began to notice subtle but unsettling changes in her companions—whispers behind her back, furtive glances, and unexplained absences that chipped away at her trust.

The final blow came when Tav overheard a conversation, seemingly between her most trusted allies, where they coldly discussed handing her over to Raphael in exchange for their own desires. The illusion was flawless; their voices dripped with deceit and cruel calculation, leaving Tav’s heart shattered and her resolve hardened.

Convinced of their betrayal, Tav felt she had no choice but to confront Raphael on her own terms, hoping to strike a deal or end the threat once and for all. Fueled by anger and despair, she stormed into his lair, determined to face him. But the moment she crossed the threshold, the illusion unraveled, revealing the bitter truth: her companions had never betrayed her—everything had been a lie, a meticulously crafted trap woven by Raphael. And as the horrifying realization dawned, Tav found herself immobilized by chains and bound by blood to the devil.

That was over a week ago.

She struggled against her restraints, her thoughts a maelstrom of self-loathing and fury, until a familiar scent wafted through the chamber—a sickening blend of sulfur, musk, and the sweet tang of cherries. The master of the house had arrived, relishing the sight of Tav bound in chains, savoring every moment of her torment.

"Why the sour mood, my dear little lamb? I see you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament. Perhaps I could offer a remedy?"

Tav glared at the devil, her wrists and ankles bound in thick, cold chains that dug into her flesh, preventing even the slightest movement. She was immobilized, utterly at his mercy—a fact that filled her with equal parts rage and fear.

"You’re the reason I’m in this predicament" she spat, her voice laced with cold contempt.

"How ungracious" Raphael huffed, crossing his arms with a mock pout. "I wasn’t the one who chose to stray from the path. You had every opportunity to make a different choice, and yet here you are—bound, chained, entirely at my mercy. Did you truly believe I needed your help to claim what is rightfully mine? How could you ever be so delightfully foolish?"

Tav’s eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with bitter defiance. "If you're going to kill me, get it over with. I won’t give you the satisfaction of tormenting me."

"Torment you?" Raphael laughed, a deep rumble from his throat, "I'm not going to torment you, dearest. You have the distinct honor of being the first to serve the Archdevil Supreme of this era —body and soul. I chose you, and you shall serve me well."

Raphael stepped closer, his clawed finger tracing along Tav's jawline with deliberate slowness. She shuddered under his touch, but it wasn’t fear that coursed through her—no, it was something far more insidious, a dark anticipation that gnawed at her resolve.

"Do not fret" Raphael murmured, his voice a low, seductive purr. "I’ll be gentle… if you behave. As I said, this is an honor."

He stepped back, his wings fluttering behind him, and his tail swaying lazily as if in rhythm with some infernal melody only he could hear.

"Kneel" he commanded, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

"I will not—" Tav began, but before she could finish, her legs buckled beneath her. She collapsed to the floor, her knees slamming against the cold stone, the chains clinking ominously as her limbs were pulled taut against her sides.

"Do not defy me" Raphael spoke softly, yet his words carried a weight that pressed down on her like a physical force. His hands remained clasped behind his back, a sly grin curling across his lips. "Good girl."

Tav’s eyes blazed with fury and confusion. "What have you done to me?!" she cried out, her voice echoing off the walls.

"I did nothing" Raphael replied, crouching down to meet her gaze, his tail swaying with lazy arrogance. "You did this to yourself. Your actions brought you here, to your knees, where you belong—begging for forgiveness, for mercy." He chuckled, the sound a cruel mockery that cut through her like a blade. "But I am not in the business of mercy."

"I don’t care" Tav hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I will not beg. I will not break. Do whatever you want with me."

Raphael’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Oh, but I will. I will do everything, and more. I will break you, and you will come to love every moment of it. You will be mine. All mine. Mine alone."

With a snap of his fingers, the chains around her ankles vanished, and Tav’s legs moved forward of their own accord.

"Stand. Do not move." Raphael ordered.

Tav rose to her feet, her hands still bound behind her back, her body trembling with a mix of fear, anger, and a growing, unwelcome desire. Raphael stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, and grabbed her hair roughly, his sharp nails digging into her scalp.

"Open your mouth. Wider. Wider" he commanded, his voice low and menacing.

Tav obeyed, her jaw dropping as her lips parted, her tongue visible, wet and trembling. Raphael’s gaze darkened with lust as he licked his lips hungrily. Without warning, he spat on her face, the warm saliva splattering across her mouth and cheek.

Tav recoiled, her nose wrinkling in disgust, but she could do nothing—her body remained frozen in place, her mind reeling from the humiliation and the dark, twisted pleasure that coursed through her veins. His cock twitched with her reaction.

"Now," Raphael murmured, his fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her closer as he gazed down at her with a mixture of amusement and dark desire, "Lick it off your pretty face."

Tav hesitated, her defiance flickering in her eyes like a dying flame, but she could feel her resolve slipping away, crumbling under the weight of his command. Slowly, she extended her tongue, tracing the path of his spit across her flushed cheek, each movement a reluctant act of submission. Her heartbeat quickened, echoing in her ears as her skin burned with humiliation.

Raphael’s chuckle was a low, rumbling purr, his gaze never leaving her face as she continued. "That’s it, my sweet" he whispered, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Savor it"

Tav’s movements became more deliberate, her tongue sweeping across her skin with increasing confidence, lapping up every trace of his saliva. She could feel his eyes on her, drinking in her submission with a hunger that made her pulse race. As she flicked her tongue across her lips, tasting the remnants of his essence, a shiver ran down her spine.

"Good" Raphael purred, his hand releasing her hair to caress her cheek, his touch deceptively gentle. "You learn fast, mouse. Now, let us see how much more you’re willing to do to please me."

CHAPTER 2 >

[aspiffygoat]

So you want to be cared for, huh?

Two words: Maslow’s pyramid.

(Info from Spiffy Ref sheet.)

Creating a goal:

Height: 9ft (274cm) [Incredibly tall goat boi…]

Start BMI: 21.7 359lbs (163kg) [Cursed slim Spiffy…]

End BMI: 45.0 745lbs (338kg) [Wholesome big boy Spiffy~!]

Essentials:

Diet: (This is what Spiffy can haz.) [This is what goats can have to eat]

Barley, peas, corn, wheat, soybean, canola, whole grain breads, oats, molasses, rice, various nuts. celery. cheese, milk.

Meal plan:

Starting with 3 meals and snacks then 4 meals and escalating slowly until you have:

Breakfast. Brunch. Lunch. Second Lunch. Dinner. Supper. And finally: Dessert!

An allotted 2 cheat days a month. (You can have cake sometimes, big boy. :) )

Exercise:

Light jog for 1 hour a day (Light exercise for cardiovascular health.)

Sleep Schedule:

Wake up at 8am.

Wind down by 7pm or 8pm.

Be in bed by 12am at the very latest. (YOU NEED SLEEP!!!)

Personalized apartment:

Modified double doorways.

Modified hallways.

Bariatric equipment.

(Sling Bar, Lift motor reinforced steel frame, California king, Cotton sling.)

No stairs.

Ramp (For easy accessibility in and out of home.)

Fully furbished kitchen pantry. (You gotta snack.)

Bedpan/Chamberpot in bedroom.

Mobility aid handles in bathroom.

Washtub (for big boy~)

Safety Needs:

Potential Healthcare:

Bi-Annual Physical exams (To be well-informed on potential illnesses.)

Dental appointments. (For clean teeth~!)

Prescribed Medications (To prevent heart disease, fatty liver, hypertension, depression, blood sugar and blood cholesterol.)

Therapy, once a week (To ensure mental health. :3 )

C-Pap Mask (For sleepy time, you snore loudly with sleep apnea!)

Skin and fur care routine. (Soft boi)

Sponge bath routine. (Clean boi)

Transportation:

Reinforced back of a pickup truck. (Long distance and fast food trips.) [You’re too big to drive~]

Rascal scooter (For short distance, with basket for snacks.)

Rollator Walker (So you can waddle at home, big boy~!)

Love, Belonging and Esteem!

Social interaction:

VR headset (Friends in your computer~!)

Personal computer set-up.

Personal cellphone.

Scheduled meet ups with friend groups.

Constant praise and love and attention on demand.

Comfort:

Bedroom fridge.

Bedroom computer.

Personal cellphone.

Emergency Health alert necklace (So you don’t lose contact and in case you fall over and can’t get up.

Cotton Robes (Clothing for sensitive skin)

Personal art tablet.

Big screen television (In bedroom and living room)

Streaming devices with protective VPN.

Large pull out couches for relaxation.

PILLOWS! SO MANY, WOW~!

Box of Special things. (For Naughty boys only!!!1!)

Self-Actualization

You’ll be allowed to do as you like as I constantly praise you for being a handsome man while you binge almost constantly~

When you reach 745 pounds (338kg), we’ll adjust your diet accordingly so you can be a big, happy, fluffy boi for as long as possible~!

Finances: I am in so much debt caring for your fatass Don’t worry about it~ ;)

My thinking behind this method: Feeding you is only part of your life and isn’t really all that fulfilling as a life goal. To gain weight, you not only need to eat more, you need to accommodate for the future burden obesity might pose, no matter how sexy it is. Not only that, but we don’t want you to be a stinky, lonely fat boy with health problems…

You’re entitled to a normal, albeit more fulfilling life with friends and relatively good health.

Now go treat yourself with a brownie~

free healthcare...? free housing...? ... hey Anon... how you doin?~ lifting my skirt showing off my exposed ankles showing off my ringless hoof fingers blows a kiss and winks

[theatrekidenergy]

Being a disabled therian — My experience with dysphoria + a bit of a ramble

I was feeling really dysphoric as a disabled therian about how my theriotype (saarloos wolfdog) is so active typically speaking, and how much I long to be that way. I’m lucky enough where because ice is an alleviating factor in my chronic pain due to fibromyalgia I can still figure skate (which does give me species euphoria) albeit in shorter bursts than before to allow rest and not dislocate anything. Well, I was feeling dysphoric to an extent about how I have to use ankle and knee braces, as well as a cane soon enough which is coming in, and I saw this!

This guy is using a brace to support himself just like I do! I felt so much happier and thought about other things that relate my disability to my alterhumanity. So, I remembered these:

- Canines can also use braces to support themselves.

- Canines, including saarloos wolfdogs, frequently can have joint issues, which is something I also deal with as someone with ehler danlos syndrome.

- Canines with chronic illnesses also need rest periods.

- Soft bedding and ensuring a warm, comfortable environment helps manage pain, akin to how I use ergonomic aids and heating pads.

- With pain management medications and supplements, such as glucosamine and omega-3 fatty acids, are used to manage pain in canines too.

- Hydrotherapy and gentle exercises (like physical therapy) can help maintain muscle strength and joint stability in canines, which I also do.

Anyways, thanks for coming to my ramble session, I just wanted to share. Please reblog with things related to your disability and your theriotype in anyway, I need to see more disabled therians in the community and would love to see your input!!!

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Hii! Same anon as the last question about complex readers. Could you please write some headcanons or a drabble about Noelle with a fem poet around her age who is very loyal to her? As in using terms like “My Lady” or “Princess” to refer to her and crouching by her side almost like a bodyguard if that makes sense. Whether or not the love is reciprocated is up to you ^^

Thanks!

Hello! Thank you for your patience! I don't think I have written that much for Noelle, but I did like this little writing exercise~ ^^ I hope you like it

Pairing: Noelle x f!reader Genre: General/fluff Fanfic type: Oneshot Length: ~0.7k Contains: Noelle gets a little embarrassed and blushes, but aside of that, it's just cutesy feels~

It was a warm, sunny day in Clover with no clouds in the sky, but a few passing breezes did aid tolerate the warmth of the sun. Which made the blades of grass dance around your feet; sway as if it was water in which you were walking. But touched your ankles with feather light touches, almost as if soft kisses onto your skin.

“Would My Lady wish to take a walk around the lake?” You asked while looking towards the path that would turn to your side, and go down a small hill to a clear lake with a sandy beach that would continue far into the lake floor.

Noelle looked at you from the corner of her eyes as a small blush rose t her cheeks.

“You want to write poems there again?” She asked, sounding a little bashful just as she averted her gaze.

“Only if that is what the Princess wishes as well,” you told her with a tone that was as soft as a petal caught in the wind.

“Geez... You can-, you know I have allowed you not to call me that,” she said with an utterance, speaking under her breath with half of a mumble as the blush intensified.

“I know,” you told her, while taking her hand. “But as always, you need to tell it to me one more time,” you said, while bringing her hand to your lips, and pressed a kiss onto the back of it.

“Mmm.... yeah,” she said while still looking away, but not pulling her hand away from your touch.

It still took time to get used to this. Being called a princess and ‘my lady’ in this manner. Because... because. Before it had been only a title. A dry word that was spoken with the stiffness of steel, which sounded so rigid and harsh. But it was her title. Her birthright. Though only a word, to which she had leaned onto for so long, as if a shield.

But... that was not how you said it. That was not how you spoke out the title, the words; how you called her. Because when the words flowed out from your lips, they sounded so soft and gentle, like feathers caught in the wind.

She had never before heard anyone speak in such a manner.

Like she herself was... adored. Appreciated. Dare she even think loved?

“You never answered my question, My Lady,” you spoke while kneeling in front of her, which made her eyes widen in the wake of emotions she didn’t quite know how to process.

“I guess!” She said in haste. “I mean...” she corrected herself with a hushed tone again. “Yeah, I would like that...” she said, without letting go of her hand.

To which you nodded, while getting up, and leading her down the path. As if a guard, armed with words and poetry. Words of comfort to offer.

“You know...” she started while being led along the path.

“Yes, My Lady?” You glanced over your shoulder.

“You should say... what you want to do, too...” she said as the blush still lingered.

“I’m happy as long as you’re happy,” you told her with a gentle smile, but it made her frown.

“But what makes me happy is that you’re happy too,” she insisted, this time harder, but not harsh. It was as if she was putting a period at the end of a sentence, and yet... the period was wrapped in a blanket of care.

That was one of the things that always made you wonder about her, the girl, young woman, known as Noelle Silva. How she could be so soft and caring, and tough and determined at the same time. She was a collection of qualities wrapped in an impossibility.

She was someone of whom you thought you could write poets until the sun would rise from the west, and set into the east.

[corvusspecialartist]

The Beloved Brood Mare (Demon Primarch Corax x Pregnant Reader)

A/N: This is Roboutian Hersey AU Corax. This guy in this Universe is object MENACE to society. He is essentially Bile, but as a free agent and as a primarch and Chaos aligned. In fact, in that canon they are described as one if not the MOST vile traitor legions. (If you are the AU writer... I am 50% sorry for writing this terrible fanfic for your AU) AND on top of that, this author gives A REASON on why Rushal joined the Night Lords.

Read it Here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10578370/18/The-Roboutian-Heresy

TW: implied forced pregnancy, rape

You arise. You are trapped in a gilded cage, for Warp knows how long. Getting up, you almost tripped over the golden chain around your ankle, it was a common occurrence by now. Even since the experiments... you have never truly gotten used to this body. Everything about you has been altered to aid the process of birthing.

You were essentially if the primarch body was female with none of the sterilization that would naturally occur. Like the Marines that guarded your room, you were an abomination. You could almost remember when this transformation happened. Glimpses of the Demon Primarch, an older Marine with many appendages, and a screaming captive Thousand Son...

You remember passing out and waking up in this new form... it was awkward.. but never mind... your "duties" had to continue. Corax occasionally visited, but it was very rare. Often to ask brisk questions in a white lab coat about the progression of the pregnancy, you answered honestly.. for he could tell if you were lying given the nature of his place...

Looking around your room, it was time... you could often get food as much as requested, but just enough to make it so you could survive the process... you looked down at the swollen belly. Around this time, it would be time for "breakfast". You were often fed a random assortment of ingredients... often to see the effect would have on the fetus.

You had often tried to escape from the room, often killing the Spawn Marines that stood guard outside of your room with contemptuously ease. The furthest you had gone was at least a couple of miles within the tower before you were hit with a neutralizing gas.

Every step you took, you felt the pain in your legs. you felt helpless.. you felt your two heartbeats move faster.. you had not really entered your body this much before... for Lord Corax demanded that you have minimum exercise. However, you felt a sharp pang within your belly. It was kicking again.

Maybe the pain was fake, a phantom feeling of the soul imagining how pregnancy felt like.

Maybe the room had some form of shielding to protect the fetus from what laid on the outside.

The resulted in resuscitation of you in a lab table in which your arms and legs were strapped. You could feel the eyes of many Marines all on you. Struggling you cursed and tired to escape, but the equipment held fast. Your eye adjusted to the dark quickly, until you saw him come into the room. You felt your skin upon the laboratory table, cold and unyielding. The overpowering smell of disinfectant, mixed blood and other gore made your stomach turn. You also noticed your legs were in stirrups with your privates facing the audience.

Lord Corax's face was scared from the years from captivity, You could recall memories of you being ordered to soothe him and tend to his scars. His face held a mixture of contentment and disdain. You could hear others whisper in the long dead Kivharian, and lean forward almost if they were excited what were to come next. Corvus gave close and his statue seemed to dawn over you. He approached you and stroked your hair almost as if it was kind gently. He was in front of you, and he held a syringe within his left hand and a forceps in his right hand. As if he were giving a lecture, He gave you an gentle kiss on the forehead.. before starting to explain the process. You felt something cold enter your private.. you tried to struggle and fight but nothing really changed, then a liquid flowed in. You started to scream and fight even more... but the lecture continued on. even after the process had been done.

You shook yourself out of that feeling and sat down... you knew that your tower didn't have windows. But, given the advanced the state of the pregnancy, he would visit. That was something that you dreaded the most. TO try and entertain yourself you started to sing, of course it was old Imperial tunes that you took to heart. At that moment.... the door burst open and Corax appeared.

Immediately you stopped singing...as he moved almost with a slowness, but your mind being unable to process it it he grabbed you by the arm. "Don't even sing that again." He said, his voice still maintaining that softness... he face was a warped tone of anger.. but then softed as he left go of your arm and forcefully sat you down on the bed. It was comfortable sure, but still.. you knew that in your heart of hearts he was only like this because of the forlorn hope that you could produce functioning Marines with working geneseed...

He started to coo as he stroked your belly.. "I hope that this one is a success.... this is your fifth this year. I do hope that this one lives you to expectations..."- you swallowed a bit before trying to move out of range.. but he followed you. "This one.. I tried to do it more scientifically..." He placed his head down.. "And it is growing far past expectations, I should move you... to a more safer place." He started to touch your hair which your bristled. He paused but chuckled. "Though... your womb is really only used for procreation... it does get boring tormenting them." You tried to move away, but he got up and gave you a gentle kiss on the forehead. He left almost as quickly as he came. You shuddered, why you?

[c0rpseductor]

another thing the doc said is 30 minutes of exercise 5 days a week is the recommended minimum. this seems eminently doable. i used to get that much just by walking to and from bus stop and to and from the store for lunch back when i was working full time, like i did a LOT of walking. i think i can try it again.

i will ask about whether i ought continue using the cane when i get in for physical therapy and what type of exercise they would recommend that is ok for my leg. my doctor said that some of the pain could be from weakness and that the ankle injury and knee injury from high school are probably interacting, and also that stuff like that requires PT (obviously), and in the case of both injuries i did not have adequate PT at all. also i was surprised but like, despite there not being a lot of records for me the knee injury WAS on my chart lol.

part of me is like. anxious that if physical therapy Fixes My Leg it will somehow mean i was like, exaggerating or lying or something by using a mobility aid. which is stupid and makes no sense. i think overall i would prefer i didn't need it any longer because it's inconvenient, but the whole thing has been a weird emotional battle in terms of letting myself like, admit i was struggling, so. kind of a weird feeling

i think in general there's a little bit of me that's like "once you've been treated and feel better you won't be disabled anymore, which retroactively makes you a big faker jerk right now!" and like. again, not how anything works

[rottingoranges]

Cane two electric boogaloo still very minimal pain getting home! Lotta less stress on my ankles!!

One kindof benifit (or has been so far) is that people can like, SEE that I struggle/am in pain now? Which is kindof ironic and a little annoying sometimes but overall great because it wasn't really visible before. Only annoying because people are assuming im less capable now, even though I'm actually having less trouble with things, so I'll have a friend offer to grab a laptop for me when it would've been more useful when I wasn't using an aid😭 Still nice of them though!! Mums very unhappy with my use of it, but I find the fact I'm in a lot less pain after school is actually making me wayyy more willing to do physio (I dont want to do stretches when it feels better to just sleep off the pain) Will probably use the cane at school for winter and then dwindle it down to only when Im walking q lot in the summer when theres less uh, cold and wet and uncomfortable boots and uneven terrain. Once I've done enough physio its onnn to afos!

im getting used to holding it now and using it with my non dominant hand is a lot easier, shoulders hurt but its the dull kindof aching that you get after like, exercise, and isnt really that annoying. I'll probably start doing shoulder exercises along with physio when I get to it.

[dendrite-blues]

Lock In, Friends. We're the Resistance Now.

Things in the American left wing have been pretty gloomy this week. Lots of retrospectives, lots of “I told you so,” lots of doomy predictions.

I share the feeling. I understand it. It’s gutting to experience such a decisive defeat from a party who claims that caring for people is too expensive, but "there's no price tag” on harming them. We would have to sociopaths to not be upset about that.

However, I think we need to be mindful of how our emotions frame our reality.

I don’t think it’s particularly wise for us to invest too much energy into the news cycle. It only serves to exhaust and demoralize people by overwhelming them with a tsunami of problems. The sum total of the threats feels insurmountable, and so we throw up our hands and accept that the end is nigh.

I understand the camp of people who are willing to sit back and accept the suffering as long as the Y’all Qaeda suffers too.

We all feel frustrated and resentful, because in the course of fighting for freedom, leftists and liberals inevitably end up fighting for the rights of people who do not appreciate it, will not help defend it from future infringement, and are actively voting against it. And that fucking sucks.

But throwing up our hands and watching the world burn does mean that we will burn too, and I don’t know about you, but I like my flesh un-scorched.

Therefore, before all else, we must be willing to block out the noise. We must stop giving our attention to a mass media who are cosigning our destruction, and focus our attention on tangible, achievable, local action. We must ask ourselves, “What cause truly matters do me? What cause do I care for more than my comfort or safety?”

Some people will answer, “None,” and that’s okay. They would be poor allies anyhow. We let them go in peace.

For the rest of us, the people who care even in foul weather and terrible odds, we must gather ourselves around the campfires of those heartfelt causes. We must make close bonds with our true allies, and devise plans for how we can draw a line in the sand of our values and say, “No more. You will not take away our healthcare/our mutual aid/our ability to protest and exercise free speech/our right to exist and love who we do.”

It will feel alien to those of use who are accustomed to paying attention to everything. It will feel like we are letting our neighbors and their causes down. But we are not, we are actually helping them a great deal by ensuring that our campfire does not spread uncontained about the woods.

[Read and subscribe on Substack]

or continue reading below.

Because we are focusing on our fire, they can ignore it and invest that extra energy the spent watching our fire to defend their fire better. And we, likewise, can pay less attention to them and trust that they will handle it.

Which leads quite nicely into my second point with this letter; in our ongoing fight for freedom, the preservation of hope and our spirit must be the absolute first priority.

They have been working tirelessly for nearly a decade to break our spirits and push us into apathy. They are closer to succeeding now than they have been for a long time. The antidote to this psychic damage is psychic healing. We must take care of our own.

If you are holding a door closed against an intruder, you won’t last long with a broken ankle. You won’t be able to plant your feet if your socks are sweaty and the soles of your shoes have no traction. You would also fair much better with a friend who is also pushing.

People in our lives are hurting, and so we have to help them heal.

It sounds daunting when we’re all feeling so tired and wrung-out, when we feel deep in our hearts that this country deserves to go to the dogs. We think, “how could I possible support someone else when I’m barely staying on my feet already?”

There is some truth to that. That’s why I’m moving to a blue state. That’s why I’m cutting off people who I don’t think I can reach.

Put your gas mask on before assisting others. It’s common sense.

But at the same time, don’t take it for granted that helping drains you of energy.

Certain people are quite draining, and certain types of help can require a lot of energy, but we don’t have to do that kind of help all the time.

When you are feeling worn out, a hug can be a revolutionary act. A night of karaoke with friends. A cup of tea, an empowering conversation, one-line text message welfare checks—these are revolutionary acts, because they keep people motivated. They remind them that life continues even under oppression.

We lost the election, but the battle for our souls is still being fought. The legislature doesn’t determine how our movement goes forward. No candidates or conventions dictate how we gather and speak and coordinate.

Are we headed to another civil rights movement, where signs and song and massive, multi-cultural coalitions stand together and tell the government where they can stick it?

Or are we headed for a slow, self-defeating whimper that rolls effortlessly into an interminable era of rigged elections, single-party politics, and dissidents being disappeared from the streets in broad daylight?

Donald Trump doesn’t get to choose, and neither does Elon Musk.

We don't control the game or the rules, but we do get to decide if we're even going to try and win or if we'll just forfeit at the start.

It’s in our hands.

And we will absolutely surrender that choice if we give too much quarter to grief and anger. We will kneecap our own chances for freedom if we neglect our collective well-being and give our energy to the vampires on both sides of the punditry.

I believe the thought leaders on the left are well-meaning. I believe our bickering and pontificating flow naturally from our identities as intellectuals and humanitarians, and I think it’s important for us to have those conversations. But we need to have them at the right time, and we need to have them after we’ve patched up our wounded and put on fresh socks and tied our shoelaces good and tight.

We need to take care of our own and give them little bits of love to cling to, to remember the world we’re fighting for—a world where everyone is equal, everyone is whole, everyone is cared for and sheltered and connected to a community.

We have to give people a taste of the world they deserve, and it’s not even that hard to do because it turns out that when we make a space of healing for our community, that space heals us too.

In the face of oppression, survival is an act of rebellion. Gather your people close and ask them how you can help. When they tell you, take their answer seriously and do what you can to improve their situation. When you need support, don’t be proud. Go to your people and tell them.

Human beings are categorically shitty at imagining better times when their thoughts are steeped in depression and despair. In order to have any chance of a better future, we need good, hopeful ideas. Therefore, now and in the future, our first impulse should always be to care for our people. Nothing good can happen until our minds are free of our demons.

So go out today and find yourself some peace. Find relief, or get as close as you can. And when you’ve had enough relief to feel angry, to feel fired up and pissed off and impatient to take on the Horrors, channel that feeling into giving someone you love peace and relief.

And for fuck’s sake, turn off your phone notifications. You don’t need that shit activating your amygdala 24 hours a day. Check once in the evening so you’re informed, and then run far away. You’ll better off, and you’ll have more energy to improve the world around you.

The enemy is apathy. Don’t be an easy mark.

Let's all get our heads straight, and find the dim spark within us that still hungers for a better future.

The Horrors persist, but so do we.

I’ll see you tomorrow.

Den

[alexandraisyes]

Hey guys when a child tells you that they're in pain you don't tell them to walk it off.

This is coming from someone who was just about to start sobbing from his chronic hip injury they got in the behavioral health hospital when she was 15 where the doctors told him to "walk it off".

And continued to say that for the next two months.

And then when he got home her parents told her the same thing and told her to stop being dramatic.

For eight months.

Finally, when it got to the point that they literally couldn't walk more than half a mile a day without their hip buckling and giving out and them being in so much pain they would start crying at random - then they took her in to get checked out.

We had to go and get an X-ray, and the X-ray showed that I (yeah the hypothetic kid was me, shocker) had damaged and scarred tendons and ligaments in my hip. We went to a physical therapist, but there wasn't much they could do. "Oh just exercise", isn't good advice when I had already been getting in an hour of good exercise every day. Everyone has told me I need to exercise for years, it doesn't help. My injury is getting worse the older I get, and I'm only 19. It interferes with my work, and with my life.

I need to see a doctor, I can't afford that. I don't have insurance. I can't get a job with benefits because I can't work with my hip like this. The strain has leeched down to my knees and my ankles over the years, and when I sprained my ankle last year it only sped up the process. I didn't get any treatment for the ankle other than ice, and my dad didn't let me rest it. I didn't have any mobility aids either.

So fucking please. If your kid tells you there's something wrong, listen. What kid is going to lie about a hip injury for 8 months?

[deadtime-stories]

30-Day First Draft Challenge Working Title: "The Hive"

Adult, sci-fi, fantasy, military, dark themes, trans protagonist

First draft, continuity and canon may shift.

Chapter One: The Gauntlet

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and someone was puking up ahead. The less-experienced among us were learning the hard way that military propaganda posters lied, and were weeding themselves out by the day. Of the thirty new recruits in my training unit, only fourteen were assumed to be making it to the finish line of this exercise.

To be fair, at least sixteen of them were dead. Maybe more, if the corpses were carried off instead of left behind for counting.

The initiation trek from Briarmont Station to New Kairu was called The Gauntlet, a 300-mile stretch of undefended wilds. There were no documented hives in the area, but there was nothing to stop the occasional harvester raiding party from traipsing through the territory to kidnap wandering hosts. Humans had been the aliens’ favorite nesting material since our surface activity first brought them out of hibernation eight decades ago, and they weren’t about to let some extra travel distance stop them. There were also no human ruins here, which meant no potential shelter from the elements or large predators.

I listened to the retching sounds, but didn’t speed up to offer aid. I kept to my measured pace, breathing in and out at intentional intervals and occasionally scanning the horizon for danger.

Far to my right, matching my pace, I spotted Seymour about thirty yards away. To my left, Kaya. Jolie and Mathison were somewhere to Seymour’s right, out of view in the growing tangle of low, skeletal brush. It was about ten minutes later when I reached the body and stopped, shrugging the gun from my shoulder and holding it up. Ten minutes more for the signal to travel down the line and the others to join me at their own unhurried pace.

 There was no rushing in this dead stretch of the trip, not if one wanted to survive it. Between the treacherous footing waiting to break unwary ankles, and the scorching summer sun baking flesh and snatching away breath, an overworked body could quickly overheat and shut down.

Jolie was the last to rejoin the group and get a look at the corpse. Since she was the most experienced in medical matters, I waited for her to inspect it first.

“Poison,” she said after a minute, hooking the body with her foot and flipping it over. “Foam around the mouth, probably mixed up his mushrooms.”

That was all I needed to kneel beside the fallen recruit. My fingers checked all the small pockets of the vomit-stained uniform, tossing any valuables they found up to Mathison to stow in his pack. When the body was picked clean of anything useful, I yanked off the shiny new dog tag and moved to thrust my combat knife down into the throat where its chain lay seconds before.

“Come on, Alix!” Seymour complained, turning away. “Do you have to do that to every body we find?”

I wasn’t sure where this was coming from. This would be decapitation number seventeen, no point in getting squeamish now.

“Yes,” I said. “Unless we want the harvesters to—”

“Just leave it,” Jolie requested. She gave me a shove away from the body, as if she’d reached her quota of gore tolerance too.

It was a messy hack job to sever a person’s spine, but no soldier deserved to have their body taken as a host for parasites…not even a failed one. None of the others could stomach desecrating a corpse, or really understood the need to do so, and I was the only one who would do it. But in this heat, I wasn’t willing to fight over whether a dead body got to keep its head. I sheathed my knife and stood.

Whatever happened to it, happened.

“Deacon,” Kaya glanced at the dead man’s face. “Miles Deacon. I guess he’s never going to break the initiate record.”

There were a few grunts in response, but nobody spared much more energy than that. I cleaned my knife and hands in the dirt—damper now than the dusty trail we walked yesterday, we must be nearing water—and the group continued on. Slowly, we dispersed again, walking our extended, silent line.

The initiate record was the record time a new recruit finished The Gauntlet: Deimos Constella, six days. Known throughout Cascadia as the First Angel, he was the first military volunteer to survive the ERIS super soldier program, and he was the gold standard. Everyone knew his name, and every program applicant salivated at the thought of becoming what he was. He was an all-Cascadian poster boy, with a clean-cut look and a perfect, welcoming smile that sold the illusion of human-harvester hybridization being a success story instead of a horror one.

It was a commonly shared belief among recruits that Gauntlet finishing time was an indicator for success in the program, and it didn’t hurt that there was a large monetary reward for any recruit who beat the standing record. It included an automatic rank promotion, with a higher starting salary and private living quarters.

At least seventeen people from this unit had now tried to beat the record alone and paid for it with their lives.

There were no rules about how to travel The Gauntlet. Everyone from trained soldiers to football quarterbacks fresh out of high school applied to the ERIS program, and all were welcomed at Briarmont Station Military Base for two weeks of the most basic first aid, self-defense, and navigation training imaginable. The obvious lack of regard for the survival of applicants was the first herd-thinning measure, where most realized they were out of their depth and backed out. My unit’s initial thirty hopefuls were what remained of one hundred applicants who’d arrived at Briarmont last month.

Scaring them away was a kindness. There was no telling how many people were still alive today because violently screaming Drill Seargents sent them running home. The Cascadian military wallpapered the towns with posters of the ERIS program, told people across the country they could possibly become one of these powerful, elite soldiers, then thinned out maverick, would-be heroes. Soldiers who would stick together for the good of the group were what the brass wanted, not people who’d ditch their teammates for their own gain.

And The Gauntlet was the way to do it. Regular military enlisted and veterans would make it, if they’d made it far enough in their careers to learn cooperation was key. Or people like me, who came from the edges of civilization out in the Outer Span and learned the hard way that human community was the best defense against the ever-present threat of the harvesters.

Seventeen people had tried to do this Gauntlet run without that experience, splitting off from the group to rush through alone. I still remembered the flurry of activity on the first day, after the helicopters dropped us all at the start point with pallets of supplies to pick through and left us to our fate. Some chose to lighten their load and move faster by leaving behind most of the provided rations, deciding they wouldn’t need them if they’d be in New Kairu in under a week. Some scoffed at the extra clothing on offer, sure only our light uniform was necessary in the summer heat.

Even if I didn’t already know numbers were power, our skydive from the helicopter, with its view of the untouched stretch of Whitecrest wilderness, left a pit in my stomach that was hard to shake. Humanity colonized this planet, we didn’t evolve on it, and we still didn’t know how many things were out there to kill us even two centuries after the fact.

The sight of more than half the recruits at the drop point looting the supply pallets like sharks in a feeding frenzy was enough to keep me off to the side and out of the way. I folded and repacked my parachute with far more care and purpose than I normally would in the field, until most of them barreled off into the trees in search of glory. Even at the start line, a lot of them were cagey and jumpy, casting nervous glances at each other. They didn’t see each other as teammates, but as competition. That made them dangerous to me.

Twelve other people out of thirty took their time at the pallets, gradually breaking into groups of four and starting the trip. I’d waited around and joined the last group to leave, unwilling to have anyone behind us who might shoot me in the back.

By the time we found the third body, I knew I made the right choice. Two had clearly been killed with our standard-issue weaponry. One had just stupidly broken his leg and had no one to save him from whatever predator animal had made his organs its dinner.

But Jolie, whose mother was a doctor, checked us all each night for any cuts or bites that might lead to infection if untreated. Seymour, who grew up in a family of traveling missionaries, made sure we made it safely through the changing, dangerous terrains. Kaya, an astronomy buff, checked and rechecked the stars every night to keep our course true. Mathison taught us how to breathe properly in the heat, and to cover skin to stay cool instead of removing layers. I taught everyone how to walk quietly in an extended search line to watch for animal tracks, and how to trap small game so we could travel slower without our rations getting too light.

Alone, we wouldn’t have made it through the second day. But now, on day ten banded together, I knew we’d make it to New Kairu alive. A lower starting pay grade and living in the barracks was a small price to pay for survival. Day twelve brought us to the edge of a forested cliff, and a breathtaking view of New Kairu in the distance. We managed to do what less than half of new recruits into Cascadia’s elite ground forces unit did; we faced the outside world, unprotected by city walls and backup, and we survived.

[liminaltey]

Make a difference in a disabled woman’s life for the holidays? Read this:

I’m only $115 away from my goal!!!

Hi my name is Tey but I also go by Jas, I’m an unemployed autistic woman. I made a GoFundMe in an effort to obtain a bike, to aid in my independent traveling endeavors. I cannot legally drive, and even if I could I do not have the means to afford a car, car insurance and other car related expenses like gas. I cannot afford Uber or Lyft, and I can’t always afford the bus. I cannot rely comfortably on relatives or friends to take me places because they are their own people with their own agendas, and as mentioned previously I cannot afford to compensate them with gas money. I have been searching for a job for months and have had a couple interviews but they all have lead to nothing.

I have done much walking lately in an attempt to exercise my independent traveling muscles but it’s harder than I thought. Despite being young (24) I have dealt with foot related pain/ problems for as long as I can remember. I had surgery to address it at 9 or 10 years old. That did not solve everything of course. I used to sprain my ankles a lot due to them being unstable and floppy. I have lost feeling in my toes for weeks just from standing from working at Bojangle’s. I have an osteochondral lesion on my left ankle that may require surgery, and just two days ago I was diagnosed with a stress reaction on my right foot, a precursor to an actual fracture from all the walking I’ve done. I was also freshly diagnosed with Ehlers Danlos syndrome.

Having a bike would help me be able to travel more often, and further. My partner has a beautiful bike and I’d love to be able to bike ride alongside them on our city related adventures instead of lagging behind on my unreliable feet. See look at how pretty! It’s even more gorgeous in person:

I’d also really love to be able to take myself to my doctors and mental health appointments without begging my relatives to take me. I would like to be able to pick up my prescription medication, and do independent grocery runs. I’d love to be able to get out the house more often on my own terms rather than wait for someone to get into the “feel like going out” mood. I have depression, anxiety and other health problems both physical and psychological and I’m trying to actively overcome them. Biking is a good form of physical activity while simultaneously exposing you to vitamin D since it generally is considered an outdoorsy activity. I lack vitamin D.

So if you read all this, I adore you.

If you have the means to donate $1 I’d really really really really really really really really appreciate it, and if you can’t (I understand, my bank account closed itself because I’m that broke), reblogging would also be very very very very very very very very very very very very much appreciated!

I’m $115 away, it’s so close I can almost taste it (imagining that one Patrick licking SpongeBob popsicle scene)

Being $115 away means:

If 11 (and a half 🤭) people donated $10 the goal would be reached or 23 people donating $5, you get the picture

This is me if you care btw:

[luthrarahul835]

Effective Pain Management After Knee Replacement

Knee replacement surgery improves mobility, but pain management is crucial for a smooth recovery. Simple steps can reduce discomfort and promote healing.

Follow Post-Surgery Care Stick to your doctor’s recovery plan, including medications and physical therapy. Timely care speeds up healing.

Use Ice for Swelling Ice packs help reduce swelling and discomfort. Apply for 15–20 minutes every few hours, ensuring a protective cloth is used.

Elevate the Leg Keeping the knee elevated helps circulation and reduces swelling. Place a pillow under your leg while resting.

Do Gentle Exercises Controlled movements prevent stiffness. Ankle pumps, heel slides, and leg raises improve flexibility and aid recovery.

Use a Mobility Aid A walker or cane reduces pressure on the knee, ensuring stability. Use it until your balance improves.

Sleep Comfortably Lie on your back with a pillow under the knee or on your side with support between your legs. Proper sleeping posture prevents strain.

Eat Nutritious Foods A diet rich in proteins, vitamins, and anti-inflammatory foods promotes healing. Drink plenty of water to maintain joint flexibility.

Stay Relaxed Stress can worsen pain. Light activities, deep breathing, and listening to calming music can help.

Watch for Warning Signs Contact a doctor if you experience severe pain, excessive swelling, redness, or fever. Early action can prevent complications.

By following these steps, you can manage pain effectively and recover faster.