#fictional chronic pain

[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

[tea-cat-arts]

Shen Yuan getting transported into pidw isn't "the system punishing him for being a lazy internet hater," but instead representative of "step 1 of the creative process: getting so mad at something you decide to go write your own fucking book" in this essay I will

[stardust-and-snickerdoodles]

tired and i'm awake

fandom: Chicago Med

pairing: Connor Rhodes x Reader

summary: You've kept your chronic pain a secret from Connor since you started dating. But fate has other plans for you, and an untimely accident leads to him finding out about your condition.

tags/warnings: angst, injury, burns, hurt/comfort, chronic pain/illness

word count: 3024

a/n: this one's for all my EDS/POTS combo girlies

When you were young, the doctors said it was “growing pains.” That eventually it would go away, that it was only temporary, take an Advil.

Then you got older, and it was your period. Even though the pain was constant and all over, somehow every doctor put it down to your cycle. Sure, it was worse when you were menstruating, but it didn’t disappear when you weren’t.

Sometimes, you were “making it up” or “drug seeking.” ER visits, annual physicals, all proved fruitless. Eventually, it was all just too much to handle. The constant doctors’ visits, the unending questions with no answers. You’re tired.

Even when you lay on the bathroom floor, curled around yourself and sobbing, you refuse to go to the doctor. You know it won’t amount to anything, just another bill and insurance paperwork. You manage on your own with 3 extra strength Tylenol or a heating pad or just laying in bed until it mostly subsides. Then you can get up and pretend to be okay again.

So, it was a bit of a surprise to everyone who knows of your issues when you started dating a surgeon. Hell, you even surprised yourself. But Connor is… different. He’s kind and understanding and patient. Still, your previous negative experiences prevent you from telling him about the chronic pain you experience, or any of the other problems that come along with it.

You’ve been dating now for about six months and you couldn’t be happier. Connor’s hours are busy and long, but you look forward to the end of every day when you can see him. Even if it means putting on a brave face when your joints ache. You moved in together about a month ago, and it’s a little harder to hide the pain now, but you manage. You don’t want to be just another patient for him to deal with.

Today, you have a feeling it’s going to be a little more difficult to put on your façade. Your knees and hips have been acting up lately. Everything feels… a bit looser than usual, like the tissues between your joints are made of thin string, ready to break at any movement. Each movement feels as though you’re going to rip yourself apart, limb from limb. It’s all you can do not to cry out when you finally pry yourself out of bed in the morning. Connor is already gone, having left sometime in the middle of the night, off to work his shift at the ED. You hope beyond hope that the pain will have subsided by the time he gets home tonight.

You hope that maybe a warm bath with some Epsom salts will help, and take short, shuffling steps to the bathroom, walking near the wall just in case. Each footfall sends shooting pain up your legs. You grit your teeth and manage to make it to the toilet, sitting down and reaching to turn the tap on the bath. Breathing in and out slowly, you remind yourself that you have this under control. You will survive this, it’s just pain. It’s just pain.

You stare as the tub fills with water, trying your best to compartmentalize and clear the pain away. Mind over matter, that’s what your mother always says. Easy for her, when she’s not the one in pain.

Feeling as though you might break with any sudden moves, you lower yourself into the warm bath, closing your eyes as the water surrounds you. It’s calming and smells like eucalyptus.

You linger until the water is cooled and your joints begin to protest from staying in one position too long. You wrap a fluffy robe around yourself, a gift from Connor after he saw the old ratty one you’d been using for years. It’s luxurious and soft, and probably cost him the equivalent of an entire week’s salary for you. Perks of dating a surgeon, you suppose.

Just standing has you feeling lightheaded, and you can feel your heart beating in your ears. For a moment the room darkens as spots fill your vision, but you just breathe in deeply until it subsides. Then you continue to take small steps back out to the bedroom, before placing yourself gingerly on the comforter.

Once you’re still and laying down, the pain begins to creep back in with force. It just reminds you that as much as you want to, you can’t ignore it. You can compartmentalize and convince yourself all you want, but you’re stuck with this.

Now, along with your hips and knees, your back and neck have begun to ache from sitting upright in the tub. You sigh and curl onto your side, your wet hair clinging to your neck. Five minutes, you tell yourself. Then I’ll get up and get dressed and dry my hair and… God, it’s all so much. How are you ever supposed to get all of that done when you feel like this? Still, you reprimand yourself and promise only five minutes of rest. Just until the aching diminishes somewhat.

You wake to the sound of the door unlocking. Night has fallen outside the window, leaving the apartment bathed in darkness.

So much for five minutes.

Connor walks in, looking tired and worn out, but still wearing a smile when he spots you curled up on the bed. You smile back, still groggy from your extended nap.

“Hey sweetheart,” he murmurs, setting his bag down before taking a seat next to you. “How was your day?”

“Good,” you lie easily. “How was work?”

Connor smooths some errant hairs away from your forehead before placing a soft kiss there. “Busy. But good. Did you shower? Your hair’s still wet.”

A fierce blush makes its way up your cheeks as you avoid his eyes. “Took a bath. I guess I just passed out after. Baths always take it out of me,” you half-joke.

Connor’s brow furrows and you can immediately sense the switch into “doctor mode.” He places the back of his hand on your forehead again. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” you reassure, pulling his hand down to your lips to plant a gentle kiss on his knuckles. “Do you want dinner? I can make something.” The ache in your joints begins to make itself known again, but you want to do something nice for Connor. You know how tired he is after his shifts.

“Sure,” Connor replies, but he’s still looking at you with concern.

You slowly sit up, trying to school your expression as something pinches in your hip. “Spaghetti? I think we have some noodles leftover from the other night; I can just make a quick sauce.”

Connor nods and stands with you. “I’m gonna go shower,” he states while pulling you into a loose hug. “Do you need anything before I go?”

You shake your head and breathe him in. He smells like the hospital, but underneath that is the gentle scent of his cologne that always relaxes you. “No, you go. I can handle it.”

Connor releases you and makes his way to the bathroom while you head to the kitchen. You feel incrementally better than this morning, the pain in your back and neck thankfully lessened. Your hips are the worst now, and the right one especially feels tenuous. Each step is shaky, but you push through it.

You’re grateful for the distraction of cooking as you work on dinner, but it’s not enough to totally take away the pain. As you stand over the stove you can still feel the pulsing in your knees, the unsteadiness in your hips, and the ache in your back is returning. You barely suppress a groan as your right hip nearly gives out.

Seconds later, the door to the bathroom opens, and Connor exits with just a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. For a moment you’re tempted to stop cooking altogether and take him right back to bed. But then your right hip protests yet again, and the thought quickly flees. You shoot Connor a smile as he comes up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder and you tense imperceptibly. Illogical as it may seem, you’re worried maybe he’ll… feel your pain or something, if he gets too close.

“Smells good,” Connor murmurs, kissing the side of your neck.

“Grab some plates,” you reply, stirring the spaghetti sauce one more time before turning off the heat.

Connor’s arms leave you and you let out a breath. You grab some potholders from a nearby cabinet and pull the sauce off the stove.

As you make your way over to the table, your hip begins to feel even more unsteady than before. Each step is agony as you grip the saucepot, praying that your leg doesn’t give out now. Connor’s back is to you when suddenly you step wrong. Instantly, you feel a popping sensation in your hip and you stumble.

The pot goes flying, splattering sauce all over you and the kitchen. You crumble to the floor, a short cry leaving your lips. The sauce burns your thighs, uncovered thanks to the robe you still wear, but all you can feel is the burning pain in your hip. It feels… wrong.

It’s not exactly a new experience. A few years ago – with no help from your doctors – you finally realized that this type of pain means something is dislocated. In this case, your hip. It’s one of the worst to dislocate, since you have trouble getting it back in place on your own.

Connor immediately rushes toward you, calling your name in panic. “Are you okay? Oh god, what happened?”

You grit your teeth to stop from crying out again as you right yourself with your leg out in front of you. Your hand grips your right thigh, the pain from your dislocated hip shooting down your leg and making your toes numb.

Connor’s already pulling out his phone to call 911, obviously only seeing the burns on your legs from the hot sauce.

You reach out to grab his wrist to stop him from dialing. “I’m fine,” you insist, tears brimming in your eyes.

Connor levels you with a glare that would make anyone give in. “You just spilled scalding sauce all over yourself. You’re at least getting checked out at the ED.”

“Okay, okay, but… Can’t you just drive me?”

He must hear the pleading tone in your voice because he sets his phone down with a sigh. “Fine,” he surrenders. “Let’s get you cleaned up first so I can take a look.”

You nod as he stands to retrieve towels. Once his back is turned, you take mental stock of your hip. It doesn’t feel too badly dislocated, but it certainly needs to be put back sooner rather than later. Before you get a chance to do it yourself, Connor returns with wet towels. He immediately gets to work gingerly cleaning your skin. You can tell that you’ve at least got first-degree burns, maybe even second in some places. But you can’t get past the pain in your hip. If you could just get a moment alone so you could reset it…

You notice that Connor’s movements have stopped and you look to see what he’s doing. His brows are furrowed as he looks at your right leg, now clean of the sauce. “Doesn’t look too bad, but I still want to go to Med just to be sure. And…” Suddenly his eyes widen and his hands rest delicately on either side of your leg. You can’t help but flinch at the touch. “It looks like your hip is dislocated… God, that must hurt. Did you hit it on the ground when you fell?”

You bite your lip and shake your head. “It’s nothing,” you insist.

“Y/N,” Connor’s voice is firm. “We need to get this reduced. I’m calling an ambulance,” he says, pulling out his phone once more.

“No!” you cry. “I can take care of it!” Before he can stop you, you bend your knee outward, making a half-butterfly shape with your legs, then push down on it with your hands. Your hip pops back into place with an audible click and the relief is instant.

Connor is silent for a long moment as he stares at you, mouth agape.

You speak before he can, blabbering without much sense. “It’s fine, it happens a lot. I’m okay, I promise.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes are wide with concern and empathy. “What do you mean?” he whispers.

You shrug and take the wet towel from his hand, continuing to wipe off the sauce from your other thigh. This one’s not as bad as your right, but it’s still painful. “Nothing, Connor. I just… It happens sometimes, okay? Dislocating things, it’s not new to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Connor’s voice is so full of hurt that you immediately regret keeping this from him.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, meeting his eyes. The tears in your own begin to fall down your cheeks. “I just… I’ve always dealt with it on my own. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it too. And I didn’t know if you’d believe me, no one ever believes me, and I didn’t want to lose you because of my broken body…” You’re rambling now, the adrenaline and pain making your words come out jumbled.

Connor scoots over to sit next to you, uncaring of the sauce that’s getting on his jeans. His arm wraps around you gently, and already you can feel that he’s treating you differently. Touching you like you’re… fragile. “Y/N… I would never not believe you about something like this. Have you gone to the doctor about it?”

A sob leaves your lips and you smile sarcastically. “Of course, I have, Connor. I’ve been to so many doctors and none of them have any answers. It’s always growing pains, or my period, or I’m faking it. Eventually I just gave up because, like I said, I can deal with it on my own.”

Connor is silent for a long while. Finally, he lifts your chin with his finger so you’re forced to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to deal with it on your own now. We’re together, and that means we tell each other these things. I won’t leave you because of something you can’t control, sweetheart. And I want you to find answers. We can find them together. Okay?”

You nod and Connor goes to dial 911 again. As he’s on the phone with the operator, you let the tears fall. The pain of the burns is finally hitting you, only adding to the existing pain you already feel. Connor’s words mean everything to you, but right now that’s all they are – words. How can you know he’ll stay with you after he finds out what this really is like? The constant pain, the days spent in bed, the agony of it all? How could anyone – how could Connor – ever want someone like you?

You don’t realize that Connor is done on the phone until his hand lands on your shoulder. “Babe?” his voice is a little louder than necessary, which tells you that he’s been trying to get your attention for a while.

“Sorry,” you mutter, using the back of your hand to wipe away errant tears.

Connor takes a deep breath, and you worry about what he’s going to say. “You can talk to me, you know?”

You nod, avoiding his eyes. “I know. But this… I don’t want to be just another person you have to take care of.” The sound of sirens grows loud outside the apartment building.

“Honey. Look at me,” Connor urges, lifting your chin again. “You are not just another patient to me. You never will be. Okay?”

“You don’t know,” you whisper, your voice suddenly hoarse. “Once you know what it’s like, how much help I’ll need… I don’t know what my life will be like in 10 years, hell, even in a year. I’m in pain all the time, and I don’t know if it will get worse, and I don’t want you to be burdened with that.”

Before Connor can answer, the intercom buzzes as the paramedics request entrance. Connor stands to let them in, and you bring your sore legs up so you can bury your head in your knees. The embarrassment of it all is starting to hit you as you realize that soon you’ll be at Med, surrounded by Connor’s colleagues. No doubt he’ll want to run a myriad of tests to figure out your underlying condition, and you’re not sure you have the energy for that right now.

You hear the door opening, followed by a couple pairs of footsteps and Connor’s voice getting closer. “Female, 27, post-fall and contact with hot liquid. Superficial partial thickness burns on the thighs. Right hip dislocated but already reduced.” You hold in a snort at his medical jargon describing your silly accident.

The paramedics aren’t anyone you know, but they’re nice enough as they examine the burns and apply saline-soaked gauze. You’re embarrassed by your lack of proper clothing, but they don’t seem to mind. You’re sure they’ve seen worse than a nearly-naked woman anyway.

They ask various questions while Connor watches nearby, eyes slightly narrowed as if to make sure they don’t hurt you further. Once you’re finally loaded up onto a stretcher, he returns to your side and holds your hand in a crushing grip.

“This is really unnecessary,” you mutter at him, squeezing his hand.

Connor looks down at you with a soft smile. “Doctor knows best, sweetheart.” He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay if you don’t want. As long as you get that hip x-rayed and those burns checked, I’ll be satisfied. We can figure out the rest later.”

You smile back, tears pricking your eyes again. “Thank you, Connor. For being here.”

He snorts out a laugh. “You really have to raise your standards, baby.”

[myuminji]

college au

Meryl is NOT the first person Vash visited and Wolfwood has had enough embarrassment for the day

and unofficially wife-d up with paper rings (congratulations!)

Vash holding Wolfwood's hands, realising that it's not as calloused, no, in fact, it's soft. Unharmed. Safe. And he's holding it. Both of his hands are holding it. And those hands are exchanging something as fragile as a paper ring, far off from what they're usually accustomed of holding in the past...

(He's holding Wolfwood's hand, he thinks again. It's soft. He wonders if he deserves to hold them.)

Except it's no longer the past, Vash knows that, and now they're here, the flimsy rings weighing heavy with the promise of tomorrows he could never hope or dream of having before. It's so comical to the point of bringing tears to his eyes.

If anyone had seen him crying that day he's blaming it on the damned ring.

(a.k.a. the college/reincarnation au, "we deserve a soft epilogue" ending I desperately need)

[scarlett-ink]

Eclipse of the Valley Chapter 1:

The Eclipse

You are in desperate need of a change of pace, an out of the mentally draining life you found yourself in. With the combined inspiration of a total solar eclipse and letter you probably waited too long to have opened, you find yourself moving to the tiny community of Pelican Town nestled in Stardew Valley.

But what happens when there's more magic to this town than you thought, and you realize that you weren't the only one to move into the farm? With nowhere else for your surprise, animatronic roommate to go, it seems like he'll be staying with you for the foreseeable future and he isn't as alone as he first appears. Hopefully, you'll be able to come to terms with your new roommates and maybe if you play your cards right you might just get them to open up to you.

———

(Please ignore how bad the pixel art is it was my first time ever trying it)

[thenewestxmen]

I’ve been thinking that Wade might have symptoms for his cancer but sometimes his healing factor will work a bit faster, so it’s like a flash of chronic pain or cold flashes.

Wade will be just walking around the apartment when he jumps like a full foot and a half off the ground screaming, “AH FUCK!” And then resume his day as if nothing had ever happened, then Logan is on the couch staring at Wade wondering what the fuck just happened. Or like Wade and Logan will be going on a date at a nice restaurant and Wade all of the sudden with just start shivering violently, then a second later he just continues to eat his spaghetti. 

[tumble-tv]

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

[lxvi-gloria]

Drabble Prompt: Post-canon Levi, struggling with chronic pain and mourning his dead loved ones, being visited by his still alive loved ones

Anon, you knew how to talk pretty to me <3

hihi requests are still open btw

I feel like I gotta put a disclaimer or something lmao. So, the length of my drabble requests is usually something between 100-400 words. This request is just an incredibly unexpected exception. it just happened to fit into this idea I already had been thinking of, which was how the remaining 104th would ask Levi to be part of important events in their lives because well, they like the dude lmao, so expect that sort of one-shot soon. Additionally, since I kept reminding myself that this was supposed to be a drabble, I might have glossed over the chronic pain and mourning bits so I'm sorry about that ;;

that being said, 2.4k words of Levi and Gabi be upon ye <3

Now on Ao3!

The angry hissing of the kettle makes him flinch. It brings a loud ringing to his right ear. Instinctively, he places his right hand over it, and gives his ear a couple of gentle taps; it's more of a grounding gesture, a distraction from the buzzing. He usually keeps watch over the kettle, so that he can lower the heat just right before it gets a chance to scream at him. 

He realises then that he must have spaced out while waiting. It’s alright, he thinks. It’s been like that a lot, recently. He’s been like that. Lost in thought-- lost in time, if he allowed himself to be precise. The last days, weeks even, as the temperatures started to drop, blended into each other. There’s a little calendar on his bedside table, it had been a birthday gift from Armin – or had that been Mikasa’s? He isn’t sure, he had received an absurd number of presents from the kids last year, it had been hard to keep track of who gave him what and now the fact escaped him. Turning the pages of the little calendar, with its delicate botanical illustrations on each day, quickly became part of his morning routine, and so he was sure that time was passing at all. The stillness of the routine, he guesses, made him like this.

His vision blurs momentarily while he scoops the tea leaves into the teapot. He squints, trying to will his good eye to focus, but all he gets in return is a throb in his right eye. After putting the tea canister away, he presses the inner sides of his wrists to both eyes, placing just enough pressure to relieve the discomfort. When he opens his eyes again, he is pleased to find he can read the small print on the canister an arm’s length away. 

There’s a loud slam coming from the front of the house, followed by footsteps coming further into the house.

He quickly recognizes the heavy stomping as Gabi’s gait. She’s always been so loud.

Gabi crosses the arch into the small kitchen and dining area. 

“Don’t slam my doors,” he says as a greeting, slowly turning his head to his left side, trying to catch a glimpse of her in his periphery.

“Aye, aye,” the kid waves her hand, shoots him a teasing grin, “someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Levi hums in response but doesn’t say anything else. He busies himself with placing everything they need for their morning tea and coffee on a metal tray on the counter, which Gabi takes from him as soon as it’s ready and sets it on the table.

He grabs his cane from where he had hooked it on one of the kitchen drawers. He has been leaning against the counter, his right leg supporting most of his weight all this time. He braces himself for the sharp pain that will surely surge from his bad knee, through his left hip and up his spine. Cold mornings like this one and being still in one place for long will do that to him. It’s not so bad. It could be worse.

It takes 4 steps to get from the stove to his chair, which Gabi has already pulled out for him. It sits at an angle that allows him to easily slide down on it and rest his right elbow on top of the table, leaning back and against his good side.

“I have something that will cheer you up,” she holds a couple of envelopes in her hand and waves them at him, “You’ve got mail!”

He nods at her in acknowledgement but does not take his attention away from preparing his first batch of tea of the day. There’s a ritual to it, it almost feels like, and he doesn’t want to mess it up. Not when the ringing in his ear is still there, the building pressure in the upper back part of his eyeballs, and the cold air seeping into his bones through his thick jumper. Oh, how he needs a good cup of tea right now.

While Levi waits for it to steep, he grabs the papers that she had shoved in his face, squints his eyes at the first envelope and finds that he is unable to make out much of the handwriting. He brings it closer to his face, squints harder, steals a quick glance across the table and hopes Gabi isn’t paying him any mind, too preoccupied with choosing from the bag of pastries she brought with her. It is with an impassive expression that he hands the stack of envelopes back. 

“Read it for me.” A beat and then he adds, a little reluctant: “Please.”

He knows Gabi prefers coffee in the mornings, and black tea in the evenings, so he makes sure to have a fresh brew of the former whenever he knows she’s coming over; so, with shaky hands, Levi gets to prepare her cup of coffee. While he enjoys the aroma of it, he remains faithful to tea; at first, he thought he didn’t like it because he had butchered his first attempts at brewing it. But even after Onyankopon had taught him how to do it properly and he had enjoyed his cup, it didn’t bring the same comfort as tea. It just never hit the spot.

She shoots him a mischievous grin, “Oh, you sure? What if I read something personal, hm?” 

Levi just shakes his head, scoffing at the idea of Gabi finding his junk mail fascinating.

“Is this how I find out you have a secret lover you’re exchanging raunchy love letters with?” Gabi teases, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

He lets out a tired sigh and rolls his eyes, “just wanna be done with it, ” he stirs the milk into Gabi’s coffee, which now has turned into a cup of milk with coffee. “We have a lot to prepare for tonight.”

She clicks her tongue at him, but still rips the first envelope open, “Mr. Levi, your reading won’t improve if you keep doing that,” she jokingly scolds him.

Although Levi mentally recognises handing her and Falco stuff he couldn’t be bothered reading before, that’s not the case this time. He’ll let her think that for now, though, because he doesn’t want to mention the pressure building in the back of his bad eye, it’s not important and she, a kid, doesn’t need to know his newly found ailment of the week. He can see just fine around him right now. He can see Gabi’s big eyes and playful smile at the other side of the table, and that’s good enough; smaller details, he doesn’t feel he can do them, not without making himself go dizzy with a migraine.

Levi slides the cup of coffee to her and is pleased with himself when she approves of the colour of her drink.

“It’s from Armin,” she announces as she scans the letter. 

From this angle, the soft morning light illuminating her face and thanks to his faulty vision, Gabi’s image stirs his memory. His heart faintly constricts as he is reminded of the many times Hange read their research reports to him during breakfast in the mess hall before presenting them to Erwin. Levi always wondered how they could read so fast, sometimes he even doubted they were actually reading at all, their words barely being able to catch up with her eyes; he never asked about it, maybe reading came easy to them as numbers did to him.

A high-pitched squeal from Gabi startles him, bringing him back to the here and now.

“Oh… ohh, Mr. Levi,” she starts, her smile widening by the second “This is good news!”

Gabi makes a show of clearing her throat and then starts reading “Dear Captain, I hope this letter finds you well and in good health.” 

Levi can’t help but let a sardonic huff at the irony of the greetings but doesn’t let himself be bothered by it. He has written only a handful of personal letters throughout his life, and by now he knows it’s just something you’re supposed to say because jumping straight to the point isn’t acceptable, or so that’s what he had been told. 

Gabi continues reading Armin’s words to him. For the most part, it’s a standard letter coming from him: he asks Levi how he’s dealing with the changing of the seasons, how Gabi and Falco are faring, if business at the tea shop has been good, if there’s anything Levi needs that he can’t get in town so that Armin or the others can get it for him. He tells him a little about the country he’s writing from, he even includes a photograph. Then, after the expected pleasantries, Gabi can barely hold her excitement and starts reading faster, trying so hard not to trip over her words.

“If I’m being sincere, we would prefer to ask you in person,” Gabi stops for a second to look up at him from the paper, gauging for a reaction and finding nothing, she continues. 

Armin apologises for not being able to visit him before the holidays, Annie included, and so it is implied that he won’t be attending tonight’s reunion. 

Sometime during the last five years, the Alliance brats had decided to make showing up at Levi’s doorstep together once a year a sort of custom; the first time it happened was during an early winter, a blizzard had stopped them from leaving Levi’s until the next morning. It had been a really nice evening despite the awful weather, Levi remembers, after everyone pitched in one way or another, they all shared a simple but hearty meal together. It was Connie who jokingly said they should do it every year. The following year, Onyankopon, Gabi and Falco joined them. 

This year would be their fourth, and the first someone wouldn’t make it. That fact sits heavily in Levi’s chest, stealing the spotlight from his throbbing eye.

“...Annie and I have decided to get married. The both of us would like you to officiate our ceremony!” unable to contain her excitement, she tears her eyes away from the paper and looks at Levi. “Huh?! This is good news! What’s with the constipated face?!”

That doesn’t sound right. It figures that Annie and Armin would be the first to marry; in a way, he is happy for them, they clearly care for each other. No, that part is easy to understand. Their union is logical to anyone who knows the couple. What Levi can’t figure out is why they are asking him such a thing.

He clears his throat, assumes it’s been 3 minutes and his tea is ready to be poured and so he distracts himself with that.

When he doesn’t answer Gabi, she picks up where she left off. 

He isn’t… well, he isn’t that close to either of them. He’s sure Annie must have other relatives that could step in his stead. Maybe a brother, a cousin. Even Jean or Reiner would be better options than Levi. He isn’t good with words or people like they are, he couldn’t possibly give them a speech about something foreign to him as it is that kind of love, that’s what people expect, right? His title of Captain is obsolete in this new world, so it can’t be that either. Hell, he has never been to a fucking wedding. 

Just… why him?

As expected, Armin doesn’t really go into the details of their choice but does let Levi know they do not expect a fast answer and that they do not want him to feel pressured to accept it, despite how much it would mean to them if he did. Armin asks if there’s anything in particular that he would like for his birthday, as it is a month away, and closes the letter by saying he looks forward to seeing him and everyone then.

When the letter is closed and put back into its envelope, silence falls around them. For a moment the only sound that can be heard is the clinking of tableware as Levi places the teacup back on its saucer.

It bothers him, that he knows he will be letting Armin down by refusing something that any other well-adapted person would consider an honour. But the thought of embarrassing him and himself, because he gave an awkward, most likely insensitive, speech, mortifies him. No, he can’t put them and their guests through that. He will find a way to make it up to the couple, maybe he can… he doesn’t know yet, but he will come up with something.

As he finishes his first cup, Levi realises that at some point while he was lost in thought, the ringing in his ear has subsided and now it’s back to that muffled, cotton-in-ear sensation he’s used to and he doesn’t feel his eyeball pulsating anymore. Glancing at Gabi, he notices she is trying really hard not to say something, her brow furrowed as she takes a sip of her own drink, followed by a big bite of her pastry. Flakes stick to the corner of her mouth and for once it doesn’t disgust him. Instead, it makes his lips twitch as if going into a smile.

“I can help you... if you want,” she says eventually, sounding uncharacteristically careful and small of her.

Levi quirks an eyebrow “Help? with what?” 

She shrugs, “How to… tell them you don’t want to,” she avoids looking at him for the first time, finding the flakes on her plate more interesting. She shrugs again and tilts her head to the side, a thin line of a smile appearing on her face. “...or prepare for the ceremony.”

Not unlike many times before, Gabi’s words render him speechless, if only for a moment. He spares his tea a glance and he thinks: it’s bold of her to be so upfront about offering her help to him, and had it been any other morning, one where he couldn’t think past the constant ache in his body, he would’ve chewed her head off for simply trying to help him because he himself doesn’t know how to accept that kindness.

This kid is trying her best and he can’t help but feel somewhat proud of that.

“You have shit on your face. Here,” he points to where the flakes would sit on his own face and picks his refilled teacup back up.

Gabi quickly wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, getting most of the flakes off. Levi gives her a thumbs-up with his free hand.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally concedes and tries to ignore the little happy dance she does in her seat.

This time, when the amber liquid touches his lips, it’s remarkably sweeter than before.

[thegreatdandilion]

What if Shin wasn't the only one in pain?

The Classroom

Saint sat in the back of the classroom, trying to sleep then moved so that his head was bowed over his notebook. He wasn’t taking notes. He wasn’t even pretending to. The pain in his leg had flared up again, so intense that he’d bitten the inside of his cheek just to keep from crying out.

Across the room, Shin was speaking to a few classmates, his voice loud and animated. He walked with confidence now, his leg as good as new. Sometimes, Saint found himself staring, tracing the movements Shin made without even a hint of discomfort.

“Saint!” The teacher’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts, making him flinch.

“Yes?” he stammered, his face heating.

“Can you solve the problem on the board, or are you too busy daydreaming?”

Shin turned to look at him, his expression unreadable, though there was always that undercurrent of something harsh in his eyes.

Saint swallowed hard and stood, his hands trembling as he walked to the board. The phantom pain worsened with each step. It was as if his body had decided to punish him again, sending invisible spikes through his thigh.

He stood there, frozen, staring at the problem. His brain refused to work.

“Well?” the teacher Sung prompted.

“I—I don’t know,” Saint mumbled, lowering the chalk.

“Figures,” Shin muttered from his seat, loud enough for Saint to hear.

The classroom erupted in muffled giggles, and Saint stumbled back to his seat, head bowed. He felt the pain spike again, white-hot and unbearable.

The Hallway Encounter

After class, Saint hurried down the hallway, hoping to avoid any more attention. But Shin was faster, cutting in front of him with a cold glare.

“Hey,” Shin said, his voice sharp. “What’s with you lately? You’re always acting weird.”

Saint stopped in his tracks, avoiding Shin’s gaze. “I’m fine.”

“Really? You look like you’re about to pass out half the time.”

Saint clenched his fists. The pain was surging again, but he forced himself to stand upright. “You care about me?”

Shin’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t. I just don’t want you dragging down the group if we’re ever stuck working together.”

Saint’s shoulders sagged. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

“Good.” Shin brushed past him, the brief contact making Saint wince as another wave of phantom pain rippled through his leg.

Breaking Down

That evening, Saint barely made it home. His father was sitting at the dining table, paperwork spread around him. He looked up as Saint entered, frowning.

“Saint? You’re pale. Did something happen at school?”

Saint shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.” His father stood, concern etched into his face.

Saint’s resolve crumbled. “It’s my leg,” he admitted quietly.

“Your leg?” His father’s brow furrowed. “But you haven’t injured it. What kind of pain are we talking about?”

“It’s… not normal pain,” Saint said, his voice breaking. “It feels like… like I’m being punished.”

His father’s expression softened, but his worry deepened. “Saint, this isn’t something you can ignore. You need help.”

Saint turned away, tears spilling down his cheeks. “It’s my fault. All of it. I deserve this.”

Confrontation and Revelation

The next day, Shin noticed Saint’s absence and, despite himself, felt a twinge of concern. After school, he found himself standing outside Saint’s house, unsure why he had come.

Saint’s father answered the door, his expression guarded.

“Is Saint here?” Shin asked.

The man hesitated, then nodded. “He’s upstairs, but he’s not in a good place.”

When Shin entered the room, he froze. Saint was lying on the bed, his face pale and drawn, his hands gripping his thigh.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Shin demanded, his tone harsher than he intended.

Saint looked up, his eyes hollow. “Why are you here?”

“You weren’t at school. What’s going on?” Shin asked, his voice softening slightly.

Saint hesitated, then sighed. “The pain… it’s getting worse.”

“What pain?”

Saint sat up slowly, wincing. “The pain in my leg. It’s been there ever since…” He trailed off, avoiding Shin’s gaze. “I think it’s because of what I did to you.”

Shin blinked, his confusion evident. “You mean my leg? That’s ancient history, Saint.”

“I wanted to see you,” Saint said, his voice trembling. “At the hospital. I tried every day. But your mom… she wouldn’t let me.”

Shin’s jaw clenched. “She never told me that.”

Saint’s voice broke. “I thought you hated me. And I deserved it. I still do.”

The room fell silent as Shin processed his words. Slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed, his anger ebbing away.

“You’ve been carrying this all by yourself?” Shin asked quietly.

Saint nodded, tears spilling over. “I’m sorry, Shin. For everything.”

Shin exhaled shakily, his voice softer than it had been in months. “Maybe… we’ve both been wrong.”

[tavyliasin]

A gift, from Tavylia and the Dear Abdirak fans who made this happen, and of course the star of the show himself~

Hello darlings, dear ones, and sinners all~ This cameo is our gift, for all of us who know pain a little too intimately. Written and joint funded by Abdirak fans and Lia, to provide some measure of comfort. Please, enjoy, know you are heard, you are loved, and you are never alone when enduring the most intense of Loviatar's affections. (And all my gratitude to Declan for making this so very swiftly right before going offline for his holiday)

--- The script, including content there was no space for, and some more notes from Lia, will follow after the cut~ This one is clean, no NSFW content, so feel free to proceed at your leisure. For those new here, please be aware that the majority of my content is around NSFW writing with a few art shares and essays on fandom things. Welcome, and I hope you enjoy your stay even if you're only here for this one video.

About The Script

Even with the additional payment, the maximum character limit in a request is 650. My original draft? 1117. We got out the knives, we cut it up, we boiled it down to the most pertinent line, and still had to defenestrate some of the punctuation. Far be it from me to ever know the meaning of brevity, loves, simply not in my extensive vocabulary. I also cannot thank Declan enough for the stunning performance, both in the game and in the cameo, and for giving us a character who we can relate to and adore in so many unexpected ways.

The Script We Sent

[greeting] Loviatar Maiden of Pain felt the echo of your pain singing through infinite realities. In her mercy, she has allowed us to speak. Agony is a cloak that you wear, armour you cannot remove, it is as bound to you as the guilt you feel for its very presence. I might envy you, but you did not choose this path. Your penitence is unnecessary. Let go, dear one, do not punish yourself further. The ebb and flow of exquisite torment, the rise & fall of the tides, you need not try so hard to swim. Breathe. Whether it is of the flesh or mind, your devotions have been heard. [reminder to share burdens/rely on each other/not alone/anything else]

The Original Draft Script

Greetings, Dear Ones, beloved of Loviatar - perhaps too beloved, in your case… Your pain sang through the fabric of the planes of infinite realities, catching and pulling at the Weave like a loose thread. My Goddess, the Maiden of Pain, she felt your echo through her web. Through her mercy, she has allowed me to speak with you. Agony is a cloak that you wear, an armour you cannot remove, it is as bound to you as the guilt you feel for its very presence. I might envy you…but you did not choose this path. Your penitence is not necessary. Let it go, dear one, do not punish yourself further. The ebb and flow of exquisite torment, the rise and fall of the tides, you need not try so hard to swim through them all. Breathe, keep your head above the water. Whether it is of the flesh or of the mind, your devotions have been heard by our most beloved Maiden of Pain. You endure it well, and you are not alone. There are other voices that sing her melody, listen for them, share your burdens and know you are all very dearly loved by the most gracious Loviatar. Even if her affections are a little excessive…

Lia's Notes And Thanks

First of all, a HUGE thank you to the dear ones who helped this happen, with encouragement, editing advice, and throwing some pennies in the pot to cover the cost I couldn't do alone. I shan't name names but you are already well aware of the endless affection I hold for you all. For everyone else, I really do hope this brings you some measure of comfort. It's important to recognise how much we tend to give of ourselves even when we suffer most, and how harsh we can be towards ourselves too.

You are not a burden, having needs is normal and natural, the people who matter most should be there to support you just as you would wish to be there to support them were your roles reversed.

We can rely on each other to a degree, even if it is just to listen, to say "I understand, it's alright to feel all of the things you are feeling. You do not have to be strong, you do not have to wear that mask of endurance with me." So do let go of that guilt, dear one, it does not serve you. If you would like to read more of a discussion on chronic pain, Abdirak, fandom, please see the main essay on the topic (click here) though be aware there is discussion of the more spicy topic of how pleasure and pain can be entwined, even for those of us who feel too much pain in our every day.

Tavylia's Offer

I'm going to round this one off with a simple offer to you all. Should you wish for words of comfort from a beloved character (probably BG3 but if I know the character well enough I can try others), send them to my ask box, or on Discord/Twitter/Anything on my Carrd. This is what I have worked on before, mostly SFW (only some light suggestive moments) as the focus is on comfort to the reader.

Abdirak - Migraine Comfort Yurgir - Migraine Comfort Tav - General Comfort, with Audio Multi-Character Comfort Drabbles (Including Abdirak)

If my little words can bring you any measure of comfort or relief, you need only ask.

Farewell for now, Dear Ones, darlings, loves, Pain Pals, - all of you. Please take care of yourselves - hydrate, nourish, and for the sake of the gods please allow yourself some rest and be kind to yourself for a change. And I do mean all of you. No exceptions, now. Love yourself with grace and forgiveness, care for yourself as if you were the most precious friend you have ever made. I hope to see you all very soon~

May Loviatar's blessings be more merciful. ~ Lia

[the-bar-sinister]

There was a certain level of pain that Karl Heisenberg was in every day of his life. It was his constant companion. As far as he knew, it was a simple fact of his being alive. It was a simple fact of what had been done to his body.

The pain waxed and waned but it never fully departed. There were herbs from Donna that helped but they dulled his mind and sent him to the land of the half dead.

Despite everything, Karl wanted to live. He wanted to live even though it hurt, even though it was hard.

He wanted to live, and he wanted to be in charge of his own life. And so he fought through the pain. He lived with the pain. He savored it. He trusted it.

Being in pain meant that he was still fighting. 

Karl Heisenberg dreamed of a body that didn't ache, and dreamed of a life where he wasn't a slave and a prisoner. But he would endure both. 

He would endure them as long as he had to. He would drink the joy in there was to be had from them, and he would come out the other side.

-

AO3 link

[newbornwhumperfly]

more bullets left to bite on…

so thrilled to be writing some sweet interludes before whumptober begins! 😈😍😈 so…as a special treat, here’s friends-with-benefits (and definitely-not-girlfriends) sarai and claudia…💖💖💖

title insp. by the song “leave the light on” by chris smither

~

“Pretty late to be doctoring, huh?”

Sarai scoffs, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if the glasses-dent would just disappear. Glances up through the glare of the lamp to see Claudia, doing her sideways lean into the doorframe, hands shoved in her pockets. 

She wasn’t wearing her usual tanks but the bright yellow tee that didn’t leave any arm muscle to the imagination was dotted with water and a bulky gym bag was slung over her shoulder. 

Jesus, what time is it? A glance at the clock makes Sarai wince. 0316. Ugh, fuck her life. Okay, not fair, labs aren’t gonna file themselves. She meant to close shop earlier today but, well, hindsight is always perfect. As is the foresight you had before the bad decision but oh well.

“Pretty late for boxing practice.” 

Claud shrugs, sling the bag off her broad shoulder to the floor, stepping all the way in. 

“Had too much caffeine, had to hit the gym to get sleepy. Side bins, sit ups…”

“Oh, I hope you didn’t lose that butt?” 

“You know, I hate that Cobi’s infected my wordbank? Stupid.”

“Yeah, I can tell you hate it and think it’s stupid.”

Claudia cracks a grin at that and she pokes her tongue against the gap between her teeth. That’s impossibly cute. Claud’s not cute, she’d insist, but Sarai can think that to herself. She wonders if Claud knows she does that? Wonders if anyone’s told her?

“Yeah, well…” Claud shrugs again and glances up somewhere at the ceiling. “Not gonna be up much later. You?” 

Sarai thinks about lying. About saying yeah, totally, just finishing up here and then going back to work when Claudia leaves. Leans back in her chair and winces at the stretch to her neck when she cranes it back, drawing the flicker of Claudia’s eyes to her. It’s a long, hard stare and suddenly, Sarai is very still. Not…bad, not at all, just, a little pinned in place. How does she do that?

She catches her breath. 

“Shit. I think we’ve both run out of, uh, midnight oil to burn.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Sarai swallows hard and definitely doesn’t bite her lip. Nope. The lamplight makes a halo of the beads of condensation on Claud’s fro and the shimmer entrances her as Claud strolls to the little rolly-chair and leans her hip against the edge of the cabinet. 

She looks down, making Sarai glance up, and the gesture makes her wince again from the strain on her muscles. Claudia frowns softly but the little stab of scolding that spikes through Sarai’s head, the why did you make her worry?, melts when Claud says - “These chairs aren’t good for your back.” In a quiet, soft way that makes Sarai’s prickly instincts calm. 

“Ugh, yeah, they really suck.” Sarai wiggles her butt to no effect, for emphasis, the chair barely creaking side-to-side for the effort. It won’t move at all unless she drags herself by her heels over the floor and yeah, the sound is as pleasant as you’d imagine. She really tries not to bitch her workplace out, well, at work, but the gentle quiet, and the single added straw on her aching back, prompts her to grumble, filling the silence. “Orthopedic rolly chairs aren’t in the budget, I suppose. Obviously the Legion is too strapped for cash to afford them.”

It’s worth it to look up at Claud though. She’s so short but she should be looked up at, all five-foot-two. Not for the first time, Sarai really fucking wishes she could get on her knees more often. But there’s lots of ways to look up at a person. It’s been a bit and she’s so tired but, fuck, maybe- 

“Can I?”

Claud holds up a hand, flexes her fingers, and a soft heat ripples through Sarai’s chest, down to her stomach, and something in her sinks further into the chair as she nods. 

Claudia bridges the space between them, easily and calmly, reaching for her glasses. At Sarai’s second, small nod, Claudia deftly pulls them away from her face, looping the beaded string of the cord over her head and folding them, efficient and careful as ever, putting the string around her neck with a little smirk. God. 

She is so careful as she guides Sarai to rest her forehead against Claudia’s belly. It’s soft under the shirt, warm from the gym-shower, solid muscle under a pouch of flesh, and it’s divine actually. Sarai breathes in hard and fast when those firm calluses find the nape of her neck and she gets a noseful of Claud’s smell. The simple, minty deodorant, a trace of talcum power, a touch of sweat lingering. 

Shamefully, but too far gone for shame, she shakily breathes oh when Claud’s fingers rub, seek, find, and the throb starts to unspool with hard, perfect pressure. 

“There it is.” Claud says and it’s so assured and confident and pleased and Sarai really wants to kiss her hipbone, but, frankly, she’s too busy becoming a melted ice cube in this chair. Claudia, of course, holds her up, keeps her braced as the knots get all untied, one by one. Patient and slow and warm. “Better?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Do you promise to work in your couch and not this stupid-ass chair?”

“…Uh-huh.”

“Liar.”

“Dad.”

“That’s Daddy to you, thank you.”

Sarai giggles and the gruffness of it is a burst of freedom in the quiet sanctum of Claud’s pelvis. God, she needs to shave and she needs to get into pajamas and she needs to take off all her makeup and she doesn’t really feel like being bare right now but there’s just a lot to do. Even just inside the incredibly small sphere of having a fucking body there’s a lot to do. There’s always a lot to do and with resource requests and clinic appointments and talking to smug fucking refugee approval trustees at the shelter and doesn’t one person’s body go at the bottom of the list? 

Sarai gasps when fingertips press hard into the crook of her jaw where she didn’t know she was clenching. 

“Ugh.” Sarai huffs. “Thanks.”

Claud hums and shifts a little, parting Sarai’s curls to get to her shoulder blades, drawing out another groan when her palm digs into another sore spot. 

“Still don’t have the chair?”

“No. Approval’s still pending. I got pushed down the list again cause I wasn’t- doesn’t matter.”

Claudia’s body goes still for a moment. Presses the heel of her palm against Sarai’s neck in a way that’s more…rubbing than massaging. Stroking. It pushes words out of the angry well in Sarai’s throat. 

“Guess when you, uh, don’t work consecutively in the industry for a blip, it breaks your streak and, whoops, now you’re a short-term healthcare worker now. Again.”

Claudia’s quiet again but this time both hands cup Sarai’s head, one hand still stroking her neck, the other sort of soft atop her scalp. Tiny circling rubs. Claudia’s voice is tense and hushed. 

“Want me to fight ‘em?”

“Just keep doing your magic-hands thing.”

Sarai lifts a hand to pat Claud’s thigh. Thinks better of it. Claudia and touch…she might find it weird. Privacy and autonomy and all that good stuff. Better to be safe and save the really spontaneous touch for bed-times, casual-times, chill-benefits-banging-times. 

As she lowers her hand back to her lap, Claud speaks as if fucking psychic. 

“If you wanna…you can sleep with me? My room’s closer than yours.”

God, if only. Sarai’s too sore to so much as jack off, let alone hook up. Regretfully. Claudia smells so good and her stomach is so soft and her hands are so strong. 

“Wish, Claud, but there’s pillow princess and then there’s corpse.” She doesn’t mean to sound whiny, really, but it’s- it’s fine, it is, just a shame is all. It’s just…it all sucks. “I can’t really offer you shit right now.”

“Oh. Nah, I meant…” Claud’s fingers cup over the fine wispy hair on the back of her neck and tingles rush up and down Sarai’s spine. “I meant…sleep. Like…stay over to rest?”

Now it’s Sarai’s turn to be dumbstruck. 

Stay over. Sleep over. Just to sleep. 

What about…rules? Bang it out when stress is high, be chill the rest of the time. What if- she’s definitely gonna be too exhausted to shower, she’s not ready? Not that Claud is- Sarai doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of but what if Claud looks at her differently? She’s sweat-soaked, stubbly and prickly, what if she can’t stand up? What if she overstays her welcome? And why did she offer, just because her room is closer? She doesn’t need a caretaker, she shouldn’t ask for one, she doesn’t want to put that on her, Claud didn’t sign up for this? 

The petting has stopped. 

The warm cup of Claud’s hand pulls away and the cold air on her bare skin makes Sarai shiver, stomach sinking with a cold drop. 

“Nevermind. Sorry. Dunno why I asked.” 

“Claud-”

“Overstepped.”

Claud steps back and away and the absence sends Sarai’s insides plummeting even deeper into the fucking basement, churning, cold, even as she straightens her back, jaw throbbing as she squeezes her teeth together. Her cheeks feel hot and her eyes burn as she glances away pretending to fuss with her hair, pretends to fumble for a tie to bind some of it back. 

Glances up and Claud is scooping her gym back over her shoulder, slung at her front instead of her back, covering that soft belly from sight, and her hands are tight on the straps. 

If Sarai weren’t so prickly, she’d be more worried about the way Claudia’s scowl was so downturned, the way her eyes were so narrowed and fixed on adjusting the straps of her bag. 

But as it is, Sarai’s chest is full of nettles, breathing out porcupine quills, her exhaustion rearing up again to cross her arms over her chest, to press herself back into the chair, to pretend to be calm. 

She breathes out deliberately and manages - “Sorry, just, I’m tired, Claud.” 

The long beat of silence stretches between them and the clock thumps out the seconds and the vent hums so fucking loud and Claud huffs through her nose in a whoosh that’s the kind she does before she steps up to the mat and when she lifts her eyes, they’re dark and pointy and beautiful and Sarai is struck by a shininess there. 

“Was just offering. Like a-…a friend, you know.”

The words don’t hurt anywhere near as much as how softly she says them, jaw all screwed up, mouth softer than it has any right to be, and then she’s turned on her heel and gone. 

Like a friend. 

It’s only when Sarai buries her face in her hands to press against the blur in her own eyes that she realizes Claud took the glasses with her. 

Shit.

~

i hope you enjoyed this little sliver of my girls!!! 🙈💖🥰 they’re both so silly, i knowwww. (don’t worry, they’re just having a panic-feelings-blurb.) 🥺🥺🥺

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

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

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

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

[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)

[fiveandknives]

When I sleep, I sleep on my side and I put a pillow between my legs to align them. Its one of the ways to help some of the hip pain I get.

Now I’m thinking Jayvik spooning with Jayce putting one of his legs between Viktor’s to help with strain. Keeping the muscle extended —Jayce’s thighs are much larger than Viktor’s— helps with muscle aching for me.

[inseparabiles]

google search history:

how do you tell if it's fibromyalgia again, can you die of muscle pain, ms, als, heart attack in women, trapezius pain, why can't I lift my arms, how long does a fibro flare last, how do I stop hurting everywhere, things that aren't drugs that clear your brain fog, what to do when your hands hurt, joint pain that isn't arthritis, ginger health benefits, ginger inflammation, what to do when painkillers don't work, how to sue god

[brumeraven]

🍂: On Perseverance || dolls, witches, pain, chronic illness, burnout, self-abandonment, self-harm, scribes, mutilation

Dolls are curious things.

Construe that as you will; it's true in both interpretations. For all that we have made them for countless years, we've never much stopped to ask why they are the way they are.

Though, to be fair, it's a blind spot for them as well.

For all their seeming simplicity and innocence, dolls are walking contradictions.

A thing of absolutely no intrinsic drive that is somehow nevertheless utterly, inexorably inerrant in carrying out its assigned purpose, never asking why or how.

Dolls do not wish nor want nor will, and yet they are creatures of nothing else. Pure will, distilled and made animate.

It just isn't their own.

And so it is this, I've come to believe, from which that seemingly necessary contradiction arises.

Within the Cardinalities, there are no mutually-extinguishing forces, only cycles of generation and overcoming.

Flame and Void do not annihilate on contact but rather feed into each other in endless ages of emptiness and ire.

So too the juxtaposition of Light and Shadow is not one of diminution nor of admixing to a uniform grey, but rather a clash of primordial, fundamental forces, the lightning in Miller's flask, a knife's edge on which the only truly living creatures must walk.

The term "Flux," it turns out, was not chosen at random by my predecessors. Change, growth, evolution...they always stem only from hardship and opposition.

Stagnation, I have learned, is death, as slow and comfortable as any opiate.

So, what happens then, when a Witch sees fit to fill a vacant vessel full of her will, to grant it anima yet never spiritus?

Perpetual motion, or as close to it as we can come without severely disappointing thermodynamics.

I have done my best to interrogate these bounds, since none else seem interested, with results somehow simultaneously both unexpected and utterly predictable.

Dolls do not get tired. After all, their Witch isn't doing the work, so why would her will waver?

In fact, it is nearly impossible to dissuade a doll from its assigned task shy of completion.

I took a scrivener once and set it to writing.

A simple enough task, one it took to with a sort of quiet delight, as if finding meaning in the trivial motions.

I took a hammer to its shoulder, shattering the delicate tracery of filigree that held the joint together.

The doll hardly seemed to notice the arm dangling uselessly at its side, only picked up the pencil in its other hand, neat script becoming crude block letters mid-sentence.

I took the pencil. It resorted to scratching letters into the writing desk, fingertip chewed to a sharp point.

You could call this determination, but it is mere constraint. There was a pen ready to hand, but pens were for Witches; using it was never an option, nor was quitting.

I let the thing write for years without rest, wearing every part of its arm down to the frame without comment or complaint.

Honestly, I all but forgot about the experiment...

Until the day I found it stopped, inanimate and halted with greater finality than death could manage.

At first, I began to doubt my thesis. Perhaps there were limits on the perseverance of dolls.

That is, until I went to check on the Witch who'd made the thing. Found her a guttering wreck of Void, babbling on and on about the horrible things the poor scribe had suffered through.

Turns out my suspicions had been correct from the start.

Dolls weren't human, and so it was that we would always fail and give up before they would.

I'd just have to find a Witch with less humanity left in her.

~🍂