#fatigued fiction

[plushipaws]

“Dragon, I am not sure that I am a prince.”

“Of course not, you are my beloved pet.” “No, I mean… gender-wise.”

“Oh. Are you a princess?”

“No, I don’t think so.” “Alright, dear. Then, what are you?” “I think- well I’m not sure I am allowed.”

“You can be anything you want to be, my darling.”

“Well- and please don’t laugh- I think I’d like to be a dragon. … Like you.”

The dragon purred and wrapped its long neck around the smaller being and nuzzled its nose on their head. “Then a dragon you are, my love.”

“But I’m worried I’m not qualified to be a dragon. I don’t have scales or wings.”

“Dragons come in all sorts of kinds. Many are scaleless or wingless.”

“And I’m rather small and weak for a dragon…” They sighed. “I mean, I am already fairly small and weak for a human.”

The dragon studied the being who was now a smaller dragon for a long time before speaking rather gently. “I am rather small and weak for a dragon too you know… It is something I never told you, and you couldn’t know because you have none other to compare me to.” “What? But you’re so big and strong! You fly ten miles a day to hunt for us and you defend me from nosey knights who try to ‘rescue’ me!”

The dragon nodded. “Yes, but other dragons can fly for a thousand miles a day and hunt for an army, and they could fight off an army too. After fighting a single knight I become quite tired… This is why I live alone in this cave, away from other dragons. They harass me for my weakness, and try to push me to do more… they say what I am is not enough.” With this, the dragon lowered it’s head, seeming to feel ashamed. 

The smaller, human shaped dragon kissed the larger one on the snout. “Well, you are certainly enough for me. You might not be able to fight or feed an army, but your hunts keep us both full and your claws keep us both safe. And I always look forward to curling up under your wings at the end of the day. You don’t have to be alone anymore.” They frowned, their brow furrowing. “It makes me angry how you were treated.”

“It makes me angry how you were treated! That is what drew me to rescue you. I could see your society was treating you the same as mine was… Pushing you to do too much when you were tired, not appreciating you for who you are… but I appreciate you. You always know how to make me laugh, and all your little faces are so cute. I always look forward to feeling you press against my sides at the end of the day.” It nuzzled them. “You are dragon enough for me, better than any other dragon I have met. You are enough.”

The smaller dragon nodded. “We are our own sort of dragons. And that is enough.”

[kimiko24-art]

Drew this little punk.. 🐞🐞

[tumble-tv]

Writing fanfic about a very mentally unstable character because fistfighting my doctors isn't right

[blitzsicedcoffee]

Me, writing with fatigue: he stared at him, half couscous. half conscienciese. half-corn on the cob.

Me: Okay maybe I am half couscous.

[newbornwhumperfly]

what water says as it plummets...

i'll be honest, fellas? 🥺💖🥺 this one is a plot point i'd built up for a long time and it sort of poured out of me all at once in this chapter 💖 it's a little rougher than i'd like due to sleepiness but i'm so happy to bring this character to my audience in this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 15: a soft reprieve - cause i'm sure you'll love her. 🥰

title insp. by the poem "interview" by jordan kapono nakamura - "i have extensive experience in studying what water says as it plummets..."

~

“Okay, honey, you can hop up on the table whenever you’re ready.”

Sarai has found that Morja, as a patient, generally prefers orders. That’s to be expected, for sure. It’s usually safer to be told what to do when you’re told what to do every day of your life and Morja has often frozen, still and quiet, when offered an option right away. So, the best way to start these appointments is to sort of sound like she’s telling him what to do. 

Every patient is different and has different needs from their doctor. In this way, every patient is the same.

Sure enough, Morja’s shoulders go down a notch from their raised tension as he hoists himself to sit on the bench. He’s been…less tense with each visit, especially recently. He even took one of the candies Sarai offered without protesting. 

But today, something is…different about Morja. Or, moreso, something is the same, some pattern that has been shifting is fixed, cold and solid, in place in Morja’s countenance.. There is a way that Morja holds himself, tight, rigid, that comes and goes, but there is something even worse that she’s observed - it was the dead, resigned bracing in his face when he first got an exam. It was as if he was locked in around the certainty of a terrible thing, his body merely a vessel which would carry whatever was to come. 

He looks like that now, his hands and the mass of scar tissue they hold not clenched loosely or folded politely, but laid palm-up in his lap, still but for the twitch of a finger, and it sends the familiar pulse of knowing down Sarai’s spine. 

Knowing isn’t the only thing that is pulsing in her body - the tidal wave is cresting earlier than usual. 

The familiar ocean of pain, her vision of it, has crept up on her, busy with setting up shop, with answering messages, with putting in another order that wasn’t refilled because prescriptions are delayed and not being a civilian is not much of a fucking advantage with medication the past two months. The whirlpool centers at her spine, radiating down the leg in a strong current, and she winces as she rubs her thigh. Okay, we’re doing things a little differently today. 

“Hey, Morja? Would it be okay if we did some of our appointment stuff on the couch today?” She thinks about leaving it at that. Remembers, with a slow, purposeful inhale, how vulnerability is a gift to others, as well as yourself. You’re not exempt from being nice to yourself, girl. “I’m having some, uh, bad pain today and I think the exam would be easier in my office, if that’s alright with you?”

At that, change ripples through Morja’s body. Under the industrially bright bulbs, his strained face falters, briefly, but what comes in place of listlessness is…a sort of determined expression. Not bracing, only…something, Sarai’s thinking wavers under the fog rolling off the water. It’s something. 

“Of- Yes, Doctor.”

The crinkle of the gown, the rustle of climbing off the table, the shuffle of feet in socks across the floor as Sarai turns herself towards her office. Luckily, her warm corner is only a few feet away and the couch beckons like a haven. It’s a shitty couch, sure, but military bases can’t be choosers and it’s new, which means its firmness holds up the parts of her body that need it. She actually sighs as she sinks down into the cushions, pats the neighboring cushion in a sit gesture. 

The careful exhale of breath beside her as Morja sits, careful and precise as he always is, tells her that the softness of cushion is a relief from the hard plastic of the table as much as the relief for her being off her feet is. She smiles at him to let him know his moves were right and lays her cane to rest against the companion side-table, stretching out her limbs to make room for the little streams of voltage pinpricking her skin from the inside. She can tell, now, just by the way he didn’t try to stand at attention, hands clasped behind his back, that she did the right thing. 

In the softening shadow of her purple-shaded lamp, Morja looks so small on the couch. For all his bulk, the muscle that has been so pounded into those broad shoulders, the wide torso hard and sturdy as a sack of potatoes, he doesn’t fill up the space much at all. Tucked into the corner, folded neatly, compact, trying not to draw attention. 

Sarai lifts the stethoscope, the warmed metal a comfort in hands that move with shaky slowness, deliberate and obvious when pressing it against Morja’s back, her murmured breathe in for me, please, now out, now in, very good a rhythm she could say in her sleep, her focus on the measure of his pulse. Listening to this man’s lungs make it impossible to not listen to other parts of his body. How the texture of scar rises to meet the shirt that covers it. How even those ridges are and how they rise with his breathing into her hand. There are so many. 

“Doctor?”

Sarai is almost startled by the sound of Morja’s voice. He is so quiet, often, in the examination room. She wonders if it is the softly-lit enclave of her office nook which prompts him to speak first or the intensity of whatever state he’s in. Sarai smoothly folds her hands in her lap, visible and also at a safe distance. 

“Yeah, Morja?” Her voice is slower, the tide catching up to her a little, dragging the lilt away a bit, and she doesn’t quite swallow back a wince at the depth her pain is dragging her voice down to. Morja doesn’t seem to get snagged on the roughness though, his body leaning forward, brow wrinkling up in an intense concentration expression and Sarai tries hard to be alert. She’s so glad there is no sterile smell or bright light to distract her. “What’s up?”

“...Your cane is…pretty. Why, Doctor?”

Damn. So it’s that kind of mood. Huh. 

Fuck, she’s watery, the pulsing little hammers at her temples, her knees, her back, are trying to pull her away from the conversation. But she breathes in, out, in a hum that lets him know she heard, she’s thinking. 

“Great question, Morja.” Sarai says softly, at last, making a rainwater of her voice, flowing with the pain and the rolling mists. Working with her body, not against it. The bright hues of the cane pull her focus and she lets that be her guide. She was feeling…blueish, today, and her blueberry earrings, her sea-deep dress, mirror the cobalt-on-white, delicate patterns on mimicking porcelain teacups, spiral up to the sturdy handle, its blue velvet cushion, anything but fragile as a dish. “Pretty things make me feel better. And…since my cane is me, ya know, it makes sense that it makes me feel better. I hurt a lot some days and, uh, I figure I deserve all the help I can get, so, gotta give it to myself.” 

Her gaze drifts back to Morja’s face and his eyes are deep wells that meet her own. A groove of emotion carved deep into the valleys and ridges, scar after scar, rough terrain hiding buried treasure. So dark in their brown they approach black and the color is what guides her brain again, guides her to recognize the furrow between those eyes, the shadows beneath. The spasm of pain in her chest is not from any illness, only an emotion. The weight of pretty as it fell out of his mouth is the weight of his body on this couch. A luxury Morja  (believes, so strongly believes he) can’t have. 

It only lasts a moment, less than a heartbeat, before Morja looks away and Sarai is unable to swim after it. She’s quite sure he never meant to look her in the eye. She’s quite sure that he wanted to. Morja’s mouth is no longer slack and a frown is an expression, better than nothing. 

The fog thickens around the corners of her eyes, head going all syrup again, thick sugar, bitter as burning caramel, and she breathes out, out, out through a cluster of needles up and down her neck. Fuuuuuuuck. The back of her head thumps against the wall, the darkness of her lids pressing back the dizziness. 

“Hey, Morja? I’m a little out of it- I’m okay, it’ll pass, but do you want to sit in here with me or sit in the exam room? No wrong answers, honey.” 

Her voice is a rumble in her chest and she breathes out the wince, the tremors rocking the tilt behind her lids precariously. 

“Can I…change back into my clothes?”

Oh, honey. 

Her lid cracks, as does the corner of her mouth, and though he’s blurry, she wants the sunlight of how pleased she is of him asking for a thing to break through her cloud of exhaustion. 

Fuck, her head hurts so much, but she’s proud and glad, ouch ouch ouch. 

“‘Course, Morja, gra’ me a can’y when y’get yourself on, pl’se...” 

The rustle of Morja leaving and returning is close together, time doing its foamy thing while she counts her breaths, but the press of a wrapped peppermint, round and crinkly, in her palm is so gentle. 

The couch sinks and settles into the shape of another body, doing the thing she is doing, leaning back into the firm crevices that hold you up. The soft-crunch sounds of the wrapper as she squeezes her fist around it, as Morja unwraps his own candy, as she tries to just kind of be as Morja is on the spot beside her. 

The office is dark and cool and quiet and they’re both in good company right now. 

“...It’s nice. The candy.” 

A flat whisper, halting and small and brave, fumbling across the inches in the dark. 

A flat answer fumbles back, warm and limping and still good enough to greet him.

“I'm glad, Morja. It's really nice.”

~

sincerely hoped you all enjoyed this venture into my story 🥺💖🥺 sarai baptiste is the team's medic who is stationed at base forthill and she's disabled and kind and badass as hell and deserves the world 😢💖✨😍

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @i-eat-worlds @wolfeyedwitch

@straight-to-the-pain @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

@tears-and-lilies @whumping-every-day @whumpthisway @stoic-whumpee @liliability

@whumpster-draganies @whumpzone @suspicious-whumping-egg @lave-whump @kixngiggles

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[defectivehero]

people with chronic fatigue 🤝 exhaustion whump

[cloudcountry]

me thinking i've caught the flu or a cold or something:

google: you could be feeling this way because you're stressed

me: a.

[brumeraven]

🪫: On Fates || chronic illness, decay, exhaustion, depression, fatigue, helplessness, self-harm, the mirror

"Have a nice day-oh..." She trailed off mid-platitude, blinking and looking away as she noticed my Fate. I knew that's what it was; I'd grown accustomed to the sudden loss of eye contact. One quick saccade, realization, revulsion, and finally embarrassment.

For the first time, I allowed myself to become aware of the other figure, standing beside and a bit behind her, like an over-controlling manager.

Old. Tired, yes, but at peace, nothing at all like the vivacious youth she'd once been.

Not a bad way to go.

No one knows where Fates came from, or at the very least if someone does, they're not telling. Maybe they sprung from our collective subconscious. Maybe there was a data breach at the Akashic records. Maybe it was just divine revelation.

Or maybe a Witch decided once and for all that She was tired of explaining Herself, tired of the rest of us not seeing the world through Her eyes.

All I know is that one day, they were suddenly there, just beside and a little behind each of us.

Didn't take long to figure out what they meant.

Even if there'd been the possibility for doubt, well, a sizable majority of that first bunch showed all the hallmarks of a myriad novel and varied means of suicide.

And then all of them came true.

Once people came face to face with an inerrant, tangible proof of their own mortality, well, they just gave up. Taking matters into your own hands was a means of control, of reclaiming agency, snatching back some false sense of free will from the jaws of predestination.

It was paradoxical, come to think of it, all wrapped up in retrocausality. None of them ever saw any other death but by their own choice. Perhaps it was just the finality of it all, but it hardly seems as if that could have driven any to it.

And yet...

It was a matter of proof incontrovertible that one just wasn't strong enough to survive in a world devoid of make-believe, one in which it seemed impossible to forget.

They were wrong. The human capacity for self-delusion and willful blindness should never be underestimated.

I nodded politely to the girl and wandered out of the shop to the street. Those who survived adapted quickly.

It became gauche to even notice another's Fate, much less comment on it, and how could one acknowledge one's own without tacitly, indirectly doing the same to others?

People just ignored them.

If your Fate was to die fast and young, what was there but to squeeze in every last drop of life in the interim?

And if instead one was to die after a long life, why bother thinking of the future? Damn the consequences; apparently they wouldn't matter.

And so it was that, after a short period of adaptation, society all but returned to normal.

All but us, the afflicted.

I peered furtively at passersby, taking in the myriad endings their Fates foretold.

Cancer.

Heart disease.

An overdose.

Vehicle accident.

The usual fare.

For them, death was a state, the finality of an outcome so unlike one's current state as to be near impossible to consider. And as such of no concern to them.

For some small number of us, though, death was a process. Dying, dying was hard. And living in spite of it harder still.

I looked to my side, forcing myself to see what others refused to, what I'd seen every single day since that first.

I saw myself, as I was.

My own life, as I lived it.

All the suffering and resentment I lived with, day after day after day.

Only, it wasn't the same at all.

Decades older, she was nevertheless a mirror of me, a cruel reflection in which every ounce of pain and frustration and resentment had been magnified, every bit of exhaustion redoubled.

Decrepit and decaying, I saw the truth of my future every single day.

Decline.

Despair.

Every time I looked at her, I saw that I would only worsen.

Every time I looked at her, I saw that, soon enough, my bad days would be good ones, and the bad to come worse still.

Every time I looked at her, I knew I would go on existing anyways, spared even the mercy of death.

No wonder then that I walked alone in a bubble of averted eyes down these crowded streets.

With time, they'd all found it easy enough to know that they'd die.

How much crueler a fate to know that you'd never be allowed to live.

~🪫

[twigsandhearts]

DISABILITY PRIDE MONTH

Currently, we have 7 canon disabled characters with a range of disabilities, voiced and written by disabled people! Yen (she/her) & Zenith (he/him): Autism Teddy (he/him): Deaf, Chronic Pain, Chronic Fatigue Angel (she/her): Blind Jolly (it/its): ADHD, Chronic Pain, CPTSD Iris (she/her): ADHD Moth (it/he): CPTSD, Anxiety

There is nothing unrealistic about having several disabled characters, no matter how visible their disabilities. Let them exist. Let them be friends. Let them be a part of other minority groups. Give them depth. CREATE MORE!

[thedisabilitybookarchive]

'The Reformed Vampire Support Group'- Jinks, Catherine

Disability Rep: Fictional Chronic Illness; Chronic Fatigue; Chronic Nausea

Genre: Paranormal; Urban Fantasy; Mystery

Age: Young Adult

Setting: Australia

Additional Rep: Vampires

For more information on summaries, content warnings and additional tropes, see here:

[tired-fandom-ndn]

Yes, yes, I know, I'm a bitter cripple who shouldn't be vaguing about random people in my notes, whatever. Just stop being fucking ableist.

Anyway, I'm an adult and a proshipper and the way those two things intersect is that I realized that I'm too fucking tired to spend my time arguing over fictional characters so I've just stopped participating in actual discourse.

Sometimes growing up means realizing how absolutely fucked the world is and how little time we all have and that we all have better and more enjoyable things to be doing than butting our noses into other people's kinks and ships. We can die at literally any moment so we might as well just have fun and be kind to each other.

Celebrate life by being freaky little weirdos 🎉

[rabbithaver]

Help what do I do part of my brain kinda wants to ship mephilver but also wtf no?!??? I'm an espilver shipper aswell hellp,I think it's my brain defaulting to ship because there's no actual content on mephiles and silver help me

oh boy okay so like. mephilver as a ship kind of wigs me out real bad unfortunately. i have it blacklisted so i dont see it. it's one of those ships that i personally cannot stomach, i don't see it being healthy in any capacity and while that's definitely not a requirement for me in ships in general (hello i ship surge and scourge because it'd be nuclear wasteland levels of toxic and i think that'd be interesting as hell), for ships including Silver, it is very much a requirement for me. because i love Silver as my son and have intense instincts to protect him, i need his relationships to be positive and healthy or else i'll die and also explode LMAO

however THIS IS JUST HOW I FEEL!!! this is just me!!! i have absolutely no beef with folks who do ship mephilver and i don't think there is anything morally wrong with hypotheticals and exploring relationships in fiction. i know a couple people semi-personally who ship it as a toxic dynamic and i don't get it, but i just ignore it. i do not care what other people do with their lives and i think spending time being upset about how other people play with their touys is just an exhausting way to live.

at the end of the day, i think you should do whatever you want forever! i am not the boss of you! my feelings on the ship should not affect what you choose to do! ship whatever you like!! just do me a favor and tag your ships, ok? no matter what they are. it's just common courtesy :)

[kimiko24-art]

"I'm sorry for being so tired, it'll pass..."

"Don't apologize for something that's out of your control, like you said it'll pass. Just take care of yourself in the meantime."

My health hasn't been the best as of late and it's been a struggle to do anything other than sleep honestly.(I'm lucky I even finished this) We're still working to figure out what's going on, and are currently playing the waiting game. I really really hate not being able to do anything at all. I'm the sort of person who gets pretty restless if I'm not doing anything useful/productive. But I'm trying to cope as best I can, and have been reminding myself that I need this rest. I just have to get through it until I get answers. Bruno has also been helping by keeping my morale up and reassuring me about the situation when he can. Which I appreciate from both him and my family.

(rather be taking care of him)

[sabraeal]

NaNoCryMo Day 11

Excerpt:

Sen gingerly paced his bare feet on the threadbare rug, letting the hard floor steady his center. He’d slept on this more nights than not this past week, dressed in all his layers and pulled up to the poor excuse of a hearth to keep warm. It had seemed sufficient, if worn, only hours ago, but now…not it had faded in his mind to just another piece of decoration, easily trod upon and dismissed. Only that morning he had snapped at Elend for stepping on a corner of it—

“I sleep there,” he growled, snatching it out from under her heels. She giggled, lifting her skirts with exaggerated pleasure, letting them swish around her ankles as she danced away.

“Sorry, sorry.” Even her voice was lighter, excited, and his chest tightened.

“Watch where you walk,” he spat, “I don’t want your dirty feet where I put my head.”

“If you just slept in the bed,” she hummed, dancing away from where he tossed his coat at her. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry. There’s plenty of room for us both.”

He scowled. Impossible, since the moment he touched her, he would—

Sen stood, the memory sloughing off him like water down a fall. He had to do something, otherwise he’d just…do that all night. Remember.

[sickpunk-selfshipper]

You’re laying on the couch/ bed, just focussing on breathing

Your F/O notices you looking uncomfortable, they ask you what’s wrong

Breathing kind of heavily, you explain it’s your chronic fatigue

When they frown, you chuckle and say it’s just palpitations

Your F/O sits down next to you and gently takes your wrist to check your pulse

You try brushing them off, it’s something you are used to and it’ll go away soon enough

You know you just need to lie still until the palpitations go down

Instead of leaving you be, your F/O lies down behind you, wrapping their arms around your chest

You are still hyperaware of your heartbeat but also of them holding you

Closing your eyes again, you settle against your F/O, pretending your heartbeat feels so intense because of them

Yes I’m having palpitations right now as I’m typing this, why do you ask?!

antis DNI! This post is not for anti-shippers!

[givemethaturl]

I took today and tomorrow off simply because I've been putting too many hours into work and wanted some time to rest...

And I'm fucking bored to shit. It's really great that my work is my passion, but I absolutely need to find other hobbies outside of reading and working out. I am seriously questioning taking my PTO day back tomorrow and just heading into the office.

That or prepping my class content for next semester (adjunct). I mean, I worked on two more LinkedIn learning courses today just to keep my mind going.

A complete juxtaposition, really, from my younger days where I couldn't fathom being a quarter as productive on a regular basis. The pendulum has totally over corrected. My coping mechanism to deal with the ADHD and Anxiety became to just never stop being productive, and it is sending me to an early death.