#malingering cw

[cartoonscientist]

[fates-theysband]

work stress will make you develop physical symptoms on a weirdly regular scale

[funguslesbian]

B A D D O G

[coulsonlives]

.

[humanitys-strongest-bamf]

what’s the worst part of the bpd for you?

bruh where do I start (cw: brief mention of SI under the cut)

maybe the need for constant validation but being accused of attention seeking

maybe being unable to trust your own judgment over if you’re “allowed” to be mad at or dislike someone and then being accused of gossiping

maybe constantly questioning if it’s just “bpd brain” or if someone is ACTUALLY acting different

maybe going from calm and fine all the way up to the point of SI and then back down to calm and fine within the span of 10 minutes

maybe people treating you different and calling you “a borderline” instead of an actual person

maybe the medical system refusing to believe a word you say after seeing the diagnosis and just assuming that you’re malingering

but on a positive note I can almost always tell when someone’s acting up and am very very sensitive about mood changes, so I call it my bpd superpower even if it’s a double edged sword

[snailstrailz]

Icon

[blackrosesandwhump]

Peter Pan AU--Part 10

Part 9

@twistedcaretaker @cupcakes-and-pain @thehopelessopus @dangertoozmanykids101 @fromtheo-withlove @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumping-out-of-time @whumping-to-conclusions @whumpblrful

CW: poison, minor whumpee(s), mind control, fear, captivity

Surrounded by the Shadow’s fae army, Ben could do nothing except wait helplessly at Peter’s side. Countless pairs of merciless gold eyes stared at them, brimming with—brimming with what, exactly? Ben couldn’t tell. Malice? Anger? He knew one thing though: they were prisoners again, and this time, their captors were far from human.

Peter dissolved in another fit of coughing, his chest spasming as he fought for breath. And his skin—his skin had turned grey. He looked sick. Horribly sick.

“Come on, Peter, breathe,” Ben muttered desperately, shoving an arm under the other boy’s back to help him up. Peter heaved a shuddering breath and lay still.

“Poor little thing.”

Ben jumped and whipped around, his heart suddenly pounding harder. A fae creature was standing right behind him, golden eyes slitted and watching. Ben cringed away. The creature’s nearness sent chills down his back, adding to the leaden weight of fear in his gut.

The creature continued, shifting its gaze to Peter’s prostrate body. “It seems poison doesn’t agree with him.”

Ben’s blood froze.

“What—what do you mean, poison? Peter can’t be—he’s not—not dying, is he?”

Well, he is, the Shadow cut in. But it will be a while before he actually reaches the brink of death. I need him alive for now.

Poison. So that was why Peter looked so bad. His forehead was beaded in sweat, his lips colorless, his skin clammy and cold. Ben let him slide gently from his lap and stood up, shaking.

Trying to be brave? said the Shadow. How selfless. I never expected a Lost Boy to act so nobly. But that is precisely why I—

“No!” Ben shouted, interrupting the Shadow’s voice in his head. The ranks of the fae army rippled, moving closer with their weapons drawn. But Ben kept talking. “No, I won’t let you hurt him any further! Make it stop! Make the poison stop!”

Peter shifted on the ground, delirious and shivering. How long did he have, really? Hours? Minutes?

I can heal him, said the Shadow. And in return, you can do something for me. For us.

A crack of thunder punctuated his final words and Ben realized the sky had grown dark. The fae army glimmered with unnatural light in the growing dimness, casting a faint glow around them. Ben felt a strange sense of belonging creep over him, coupled with a malingering dread. He shook it off, suddenly angry.

“Just tell me what it is! I’m not going to let him die!”

Then you will become our champion. The Shadow curled around him, grazing his cheek, brushing the top of his head. You will become our human champion, and Peter will live.

Ben could only watch, stunned and mute, as the earth claimed Peter’s body. Twisted vines sprung out of the ground, encircling the boy’s wrists and ankles, twining around his neck. In seconds, Peter was completely restrained, lashed to the ground itself.

“I…I will…I will become your champion.” The words that wormed their way out of Ben’s mouth didn’t belong to him. It wasn’t his voice. He didn’t want to do it, they weren’t going to take him—

It’s too late, whispered a tiny voice inside him, the last remnant of the real boy that was Ben.

And then the nightmare began.

[dietraumerei]

Femslash February 9: Nap

AO3 Collection | Thank you to @ineffable-wives-central for the prompt list!

Aziraphale wakes from a nap, and gets a little more used to being cared for.

Set right after the end of The Princess and the Librarian. Spoilers for the end of the story, although it won't exactly ruin it, I'm pretty predictable ;)

CW: mention of injury, stitches being (painlessly) removed.

Rated Teen

“Mmm. What time is it?” Aziraphale rubbed her eyes and yawned, sitting up a little. Of course Crowley was there; she'd hardly left Aziraphale's side since her riding accident.

“Time for tea and cakes,” Crowley said, moving to kneel by the narrow little bed and pet Aziraphale's hair. “Hullo, beautiful.”

Aziraphale giggled, feeling very cozy and also very lazy. What with her being off work before Christmas too, and being under firm but gentle orders to stop working lest she hurt or exhaust herself further, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had this many days with no work in a row.

She stretched, carefully, but her body was healing too. Of course her ankle and her head were the worst, but hitting the ground hadn't been any fun at all, and she'd ached from head to toe until...now, pretty much.

“Well, all right,” she said sleepily, and pushed herself into sitting up against her pillows, blushing when Crowley rearranged them and helped her settle more comfortably. “You fret too much!”

“I really don't,” Crowley said, and kissed her cheek. “And you will eat and drink, my lass. The physician's coming to take out your stitches soon.”

“Oh! I should dress, then --”

Crowley made a little tch sound. “He's seen a woman in her nightgown before, angel. Better you stay comfortable, and stay in bed. Do you feel better?” This called over her shoulder as she went to fetch said tea and cakes.

“Yes! I'd bloody better after two days in bed!” Aziraphale called after her. It was so silly! She couldn't put any weight on her foot yet, but she was quite good at crutching around by now, and it only hurt if she knocked against something, or accidentally stepped down. And with the splint back on, even a little bump was fine.

“Good, you'll feel even better after two more,” Crowley called back, irritatingly cheerful. One would think she didn't even mind having a girlfriend who could hardly do for herself! She was a princess! All right, a very unusual one, but still!

Aziraphale's protesting squawk was cut off by the appearance of delicious-looking little cakes, all covered with pretty coloured icing, and of course a cup of strong tea. Her nap had done her good; she was napping most days now, and had to admit that it felt rather better to have the extra rest. It would be Epiphany someday, and back to work truly after that, on two feet or one, and an end to these lush afternoon dreams, so she aimed to enjoy it while she could. Quietly, although if you asked her, Aziraphale might not have been able to tell whether it was that she didn't want to give Crowley the satisfaction of enjoying Aziraphale taking care of herself, or that she was afraid to be seen as lazy and malingering.

But now was a time to rest, and she ate her cakes and drank her tea and giggled when Crowley teased her and teased and flirted right back, such that they were in the middle of a kiss when the Maester Physician arrived. (Luckily he knocked, and anyway they were at least a bit hidden in Aziraphale's tiny, carved-out bedroom.)

Crowley went to fetch him while Aziraphale tucked her bosom back into her nightgown and added a shawl for propriety, and tried to sit up and look more or less like she could be taken out in polite society.

The Maester was nearly a friend at this point, she'd seen him so often, and he was always so kind to her. This was no exception, as he settled in a chair by her bedside and took her pulse and felt her forehead, and did all the little things to ensure she was still ticking over.

“Is your ankle better at all?” he asked.

Aziraphale shrugged. “A bit. It doesn't ache so much, though I can't put any weight on it. Staying in bed seems to help,” she said, a little shyly. “I can move about now, though – I go between here and Crowley's rooms, mostly.” Stairs were doable, but no fun for anyone.

“Resting is truly the best thing for you,” he agreed.

“What if it's worse than a sprain?” Crowley asked softly, from her seat in the window.

“If she fractured a bone, it's about the same treatment, just longer, I'm afraid,” the Maester explained. “Nothing is out of place – I mean, if a bone was broken, it's all still aligned properly. Does that make sense?”

Crowley nodded, smiling a little. “It does. I broke my arm quite badly when I was young, and that was...I understand.”

“Good. And thank you for asking, Princess. I've had the same concern. But don't discount that sprains are funny things, and your body's working hard to heal a lot. It could be a few things, and the best thing you can do is rest and take care of yourself,” he told Aziraphale. “Don't push yourself where this is concerned; your body will know when it's healed enough to start bearing weight.” His smile grew. “Truly, though, you look so much better. How is the bruising?”

“Mostly gone,” Aziraphale said, mirroring his smile. The ugly bruise on her face had finally faded from faint yellow-green to nothing the day before. “The really big, deep ones on my hip and shoulder are still there, but they're not so sensitive to touch any longer. And I feel...better. Stronger. My body doesn't hurt like it did.”

She couldn't look directly at Crowley, the woman was smiling too hard. It was...overwhelming. Crowley really, really loved her, and sometimes Aziraphale had to just take a break so she could marshal her feelings, and get used to being beloved again. It was a little scary sometimes, and she was glad she had something else to focus on right now, to give herself time to breathe through the way Crowley made her feel. To remind herself that she deserved this; or, at least, that she didn't not deserve a girlfriend who was kind to her and loved her.

“Wonderful,” the Maester said. “And your head looks well-healed; I'll take out your stitches today. It shouldn't hurt, but might feel a little funny, kind of a tugging sensation?”

Aziraphale nodded. She was very still, and breathed very evenly while he bent close to her. The snip of his scissors was loud in the silent Library, and Aziraphale did spare a moment of sympathy – Crowley was watching like a hawk.

She stayed still and quiet while he gently drew out the sutures; she was good at that, and anyway he was right, it didn't hurt so much as just feel really weird. The cut was small, and she only had a few stitches anyway, such that it was all over in about a minute.

She touched the scar at her hairline and smiled. “Thank you, so much.”

“Of course, Maestra. I'll leave you to it now, but please call for me if the pain in your ankle gets worse, or you're worried about anything,” he said. “It's absolutely no trouble at all to come visit you here, or in the Princess' apartments.”

Aziraphale smiled shyly, eyes down on the bedclothes. Sure the whole castle knew they were together, but gosh! “I will, I promise. I'm sure I'm getting better, though, just a little slowly.”

“Your body's been through a lot in your life,” the Maester said kindly. “It's allowed to take an extra week or two. Are you eating a bit more than usual? You'll need the extra fuel.”

Aziraphale laughed out loud – she couldn't help it, for Crowley had basically been stuffing little treats and nibbles in her face every time she was awake. “I am, I promise. You have a good minion for that in that one, she thinks I'm a starving orphan or something.”

The Maester grinned and looked over his shoulder at Crowley. “Keep it up. All of it. You're a bloody good nurse, Princess.”

Crowley preened, and Aziraphale knew she was doomed in the best of ways.

Lucky for her one of those ways meant, once Crowley had seen the Maester out, she locked the door, came straight back to Aziraphale's bed, and crawled in with her, hand already reaching between her legs, her clever fingertips bringing Aziraphale to a moaning, sweet little orgasm as the sun set and Crowley peppered her face with kisses. There were advantages to spending the day in bed, wearing very few layers.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 4

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words:1717 CW: none Chapter summary: In a last-ditch effort to avoid civil war, Cailan sends a letter to his Queen. The reply he receives is less than encouraging. Chapter pairings: Cailan x Anora Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3

This letter has been folded and unfolded dozens of times over so that some words are barely legible, the corners ripped as if it has once or twice been shoved hastily into a pocket to keep it hidden.

Anora,

I must have started this letter a dozen times, and each time I scratch out my clumsy sentences all I can think about is how much better than me you are at this sort of thing. The easy charm with which I am credited in person falls flat when it comes to the written word – when it comes, my Dove, to you.

I miss you. There is no other way to say it. I miss hearing your laugh and holding you while you sleep. I even miss those long, tedious mornings in petty court where one problem comes after another and it seems we may never get a moment’s peace for ourselves. Your sound judgement and quiet warmth is sorely lamented on these cold winter nights, spent in exile from the one whose presence is dearer to me than sunlight to the first blushing petals of spring. This matter that has risen up between us has stained everything, not just our own lives but the whole of Ferelden, and it galls me to know that what should be private is, as ever, bared for the whole world to see. That pressure has always been with us, and harder on you, I know, with those busybodies and gossips discussing our affairs as if we were nothing more than horses put out to stud; and now the issue of an heir has once again come between us, but not for the reasons of which your father has accused me. I freely own to my mistakes; those times when the pressures of ruling became too much, when we could not find a way to talk and I sought comfort elsewhere; they were unworthy of you, but I cannot let it happen now. In this, at least, I may prove a proper Husband.

It is true that there has been communication between myself and Her Imperial Majesty Empress Celene of Orlais, but not on the subject your father fears; never once have I contemplated jilting you for another, and certainly not in favour of someone so connected to the Great Game, our sworn enemy of but a generation ago. I cannot speak of Her Majesty’s motives, but on my part it was a fostering of a trade agreement only, to make Ferelden seem more profitable as an ally than as a conquered province. Our fathers fought for this country in their own way, and now I must do no less, even if there happens to be less open bloodshed on this battlefield. I should have told you, my Dove, and my only excuse for not doing so is that I feared what would happen should your father find out.

Tell me that you, too, appreciate the irony of the result.

As for the other matter, that of my uncle’s letter, I did not tell you because I wanted to spare you. When our match was suggested, I agreed. At the time, though I did already admire you greatly, I thought it would be nothing more than a political union, designed to unite Ferelden in a time of uncertainty. King Maric’s loss was greatly felt by the people, and by all who followed his leadership, and I will always be grateful to your father for the advice he offered me during those weeks, when all I could feel was my own unreadiness to rule and every day was nothing more than a reminder that the man to whom I had always looked for guidance was no longer there. But it is not for a King to feel such things, and so for the sake of the future, I accepted his offer. It helped that we had grown up together, knowing the match was subtly intended all along, but I never expected how deeply I would come to feel for you. That I would come to love you as if you were part of my own flesh. You have always been the better part of me, and I would spare you any pain in the world, including this. My uncle’s attempts at persuasion were reprehensible, but I beg you to believe me when I say he has learned a hard lesson about repeating them.

By now you will know I say these things not only as a foolish husband, but as a King hoping to hold his country together before all we have worked for is lost. Dear Heart, darling Wife, you always were clever. Your father listens to nobody but you. Convince him of my words, of my sincerity, and we may yet avert this disaster before it can truly gain a foothold. Do not allow fear and the threat of war to undo the peace that has allowed Ferelden to prosper these past thirty years. Many of my advisors gave up hope of a diplomatic solution when the ravens brought news of the Golden Drake flying over the corpses of travellers in Gherlen’s Pass, but they lack the faith in you that I possess.

Please, Anora. If not for me but for the sake of all the lives that will be lost in this war, I beg you to sway your father’s resolve and stop this madness before it can begin. The people love you, and so do I, and it is my hope you will let that be a guiding light towards resolution.

I pray by Andraste’s Grace that this letter will reach you, and that it will not be intercepted by those whose desire for power would see Ferelden fall.

I remain, as ever, Your willing, devoted servant,

 Cailan Theirin

In my own hand, 9:32 ~ 6th Wintermarch

--

This letter looks as if it was scrunched in a fist, and then smoothed out again with care. There are splotches of ink on the page, nearly obscuring some of the words, as if they were written in a hurry.

My dearest Cailan,

You should have told me. Forgive these words if they sound like censure, but I have seen the letters between you and the Empress with my own eyes, and learned where my father found them. This is not just another illicit affair deserving of a hollow apology. We have been cautious in the past of promoting closer ties with Orlais precisely because of what resentments might be stirred on both sides of our borders, or worse, to provide an opportunity for those who would wish to see Ferelden conquered once more. How must it look now, with these accusations lingering to fog the air with doubt among your own lords? I cannot believe the worst of the accusations levelled against you, but nevertheless I am sure my father acted out of nothing more than a desire to protect me and to defend Ferelden, as he always has. And I will not desert him for doing only what he thought was best – who then would he have left to console him?

And yet, I cannot truly blame you, either. The irony of your intentions is certainly not lost on me, but I do not blame you. The matter that has stood between us has pulled at you, too, and all the more for trying to shield me from the worst of the malingering that has so plagued us over the years. It pains me to think of you alone, and it breaks my heart to think of the space driven between us by so old a wound. I grieve for the past, for everything that might have been and for this new cloud that looms like summer lightning to try and tear us apart, but do not believe for an instant I regret the life I chose to share with you. Perhaps it is fitting that what we could never say in person is bared now in the naked words on this page.

When I accepted your proposal, I believed I knew you and your feelings better than you knew them yourself. You spent so much of your time absent from yourself, and you grew in those few weeks into a man who was almost a stranger. I knew you felt our marriage a convenience, and I made peace with that, only hoping that I might be of some solace as you mourned. The years since, and the depth to which my regard has grown have surprised me as well, but pleasantly. If not for the matter of an heir, and the scrutiny our lack engendered, it would have been near perfect.

Please understand, therefore, why I cannot take sides in this matter. This quarrel between you and my father brings me great pain, but to be asked to choose to favour one over the other of the two dearest to me would wound me still further. I trust your words, but I cannot deny the evidence of my own eyes, and the knowledge that you would have kept from me if not for my father’s announcement to the Landsmeet. I confess I do not know what to think.

My father keeps his plans from me, though I know from the calling of his banns that he does mean to act. I beg you to send your reconciliations to him directly, in order to avert this course towards the destruction of everything we hold dear. He is changed from when you saw him last, withdrawn and quieter than is his wont, and you would pity to see the shadow of duty that hangs in his eyes. He struggles with what he has wrought as a man who is only doing what he sees is his duty as a father and a protector of the realm. Do not fault him for that. Do not hold his loyalty to Ferelden against him.

I must finish this quickly, before someone discovers my messenger. It would displease my father to know I have sent you this letter in secret. I pray by the time this reaches you, it will not be too late to stop this war. Know that I miss you, my Dearest, and that nothing will warm my heart until I am in your arms once more.

In my own hand,

 Anora Theirin Mac Tir

9:32 ~ 13th Guardian

[needacooljacketarchive]

it’s trauma cw

when i woke up today for the second time (already a mistake, i should’ve sacrificed those 90 minutes of sleep to keep on schedule) after weird sexual(?) dreams(? nightmares) i had such acute visceral pain in my chest. and i still do, right now. it hasn’t left me today in a meaningful way and all i’ve done is act like a tr*ggeured idiot; obsessively browsing subreddits(!!! of all things) about sexual assault and dysfunction, feeling like my hands are cut off from my body at the wrists (and a painful phantom tingling).they hurt now, i feel like they could come clean off my body!

even a lot of my tumblr habit is looking at, over and over, anything Related to w/e is sticking in my brain - the same themes often, over and over

definitely spent some time ruminating. feeling the weight of all the unvocalisable things. certain flashes of experiences - visual mostly, but sometimes just a feeling. a shadow of a feeling - have actually never been put into words, ever! interesting in contrast with my usual mental noisiness. there is an unrelenting process of narrativisation, recollection, rumination, rationalisation, back-and-forth back-and-forth - and then! a revealing silence. can’t even look at any word that may incidentally maybe be related, or if i did (i do) it is an accident, a coincidence! doesn’t mean anything! 

i mean it all comes back to the usual thing. i have experienced some things and that is why i am like this. i have not experienced anything, there is no reason for me to be like this. or, i am like this because i am a weak lying malingering person who wants attention, specialness, to lack accountability, to Play The Victim