#you want a rotator cuff injury?

[platypusisnotonfire]

Does it bother anyone else when people do crappy pushups on tv?

[codewitch]

Everyone, including doctors, will tell you swimming is good for your joints. They will even tell you this when you are injured. They will even tell you this when your shoulder is injured. It needs to be said that swimming is good for most of your joints but NOT for your shoulder. The human shoulder was not made to rotate 360 degrees 2000 times an hour against resistance as a form of locomotion.

[homelanderbutbig]

Your Heart Beats For Him (G/T Homelander x Reader)

2332 words. Hurt/comfort, and a bit of angst. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

Homelander doesn't know how to handle you getting hurt. Inspired by an ask from @chocolate-floof.

It all happened so fast. One moment Homelander was irritatedly pacing endless circles in the Seven's meeting room, waiting for you return his calls. You were supposed to be on your way to Vought Tower, but you were late. He expected you would tell him where you were. You always call him back when he phones, and yet you had all but disappeared from his radar. Not a word or trace of you, every minute with no response fueled his growing anger. His ego began to rip chunks out of its own flesh, torn apart by his unrestrained suspicions. You were leaving him, you had to be. You probably packed up all your belongings are were on your way to another state by now. Why else would you refuse to speak to him? You know how he is, you must be doing this on purpose. You were sending him a message. You must be upset at him, you must hate him.

But in the next moment, his assumptions were swiftly shattered when Ashley ran into the meeting room to inform him that you had been in a car accident.

What happened next is all a blur in his mind; he doesn't remember leaving the Tower. He doesn't even recall himself rocketing into the air to fly to the hospital. But he did, as currently everyone in the building scurries at the sight of this eight foot tall superhero barely managing to fit himself in the corridors. He is moving like a frantic bloodhound, desperately attempting to find you. However, once he's finally located you, he's refused entry into the operating room by a single nurse.

Homelander attempts to maintain an outer façade of nonchalance, despite having just plowed through the hospital doors minutes ago. He can see you in there with his X-ray vision, surrounded by doctors as they cut you open. The nurse's words barely register in his ears as she explains your condition, that the impact of the crash created a tear in your rotator cuff and you are being surgically treated by the best doctors in the city. He can sense her fear as he towers menacingly over her, having to bend over to avoid breaking through the ceiling. She is so miniscule to him, so pathetic. Like an ant beneath his feet. He wants to intimidate her further, force her to apologize for stopping him, maybe even laser her worthless mudperson head clean off. Regardless of his homicidal urges, he swallows his pride, acquiesces to her request and silently backs away.

Sitting down on the floor, he rests his arms on his bent-up knees and mindlessly fiddles with his fingers. He hasn't felt this level of helplessness his whole life. He is the Homelander, the strongest man in the world. There isn't anything anybody can do to stop him from getting what he wants. He has no vulnerabilities to break through his skin, no limitations to what his powers can achieve. Nothing can hurt him.

Except, now he has one weakness… it's you.

You are the only person whom he truly cares about, the only one who's ever loved him for his true self. Yet he was not there to save you, so your life is now entrusted to complete strangers. Meanwhile, he is forced to stand down like a useless mutt waiting for its master to release it. And even worse, he allows it. He can't save you from your injuries, logically he knows that. This isn't a situation that can be solved with his powers, as mighty as they may be. He has to put his faith into the hands of doctors… human doctors.

His anxiety begins to suffocate him as the world around him begins closing in. The sounds of scalpels slicing through body tissue, the sterile smell of the hospital, and the sight of doctors in white lab coats… it all invokes painful memories of his childhood in the lab. He was running on pure adrenaline when he barged into the hospital, so this traumatic association hadn't quite hit him yet. But it is now.

His eyes shut tight as he fights back tears, biting on his gloved index finger as he does his damndest to cast his nightmares aside. Flashbacks hit him in unrelenting waves, of the scared little boy in the 'Bad Room' crying out for someone to save him. Nobody ever did, nor did they give him any sort of care. That little boy was all alone, just like Homelander is currently.

He wishes you were here next to him right now, you'd know what to do. You always know just what to do to calm him down, to bring him back when he dissociates. Yet thankfully, a little voice in his head reminds him that you are here. Using his super hearing he easily pinpoints your heartbeat, still strong despite your condition.

You've soothed him so often by putting his head to your chest, letting him listen to your steady pulse while you guide him through some deep breaths. You've always told him that no matter where you are, if he hears your heart beat, then your heart beats for him.

Gradually, he feels his agitation drain as he fixates on the sounds of you, the sole thing on earth keeping him grounded. The agonizing experiences of his youth dematerialize from his psyche, replaced by the cherished memories he's gained since you've come into his life. Everything about you overtakes his senses, from the way you laugh to the way your skin feels when you caress his face.

As he relaxes, the cacophony of the hospital fades away. His mind is enveloped by his pleasant recollections of you, completely blocking out his otherwise highly-tuned senses. In fact, he doesn't even hear the nurse walking towards him, with an update on the status of your surgery.

~~~

Everything is still very hazy when you start to wake up. The last thing you can recall is driving on your way to Vought Tower, and then the rest is all just vague colours and sounds.

Your eyes slowly adjust to your surroundings. You realize that you're in Homelander's penthouse, snuggled comfortably in the silk sheets of his massive bed. You notice your right arm is in a shoulder sling, but not a normal one; there's a pillow attached to your waist, holding your arm out and away from your body. You start to piece together that something serious must have occurred.

Suddenly, you hear the all-too-familiar sounds of loud footsteps hurriedly approaching, followed by the immense stature of a supe in blue looming above. It takes a moment for your blurry vision to refocus, but you soon see your oversized boyfriend's face staring down at you. His expression is contorted with conflicting emotions, swaying from relief to what you assume is a mix of anger and anxiety.

"Hey you," you utter, your voice a bit hoarse. You still feel a little loopy from the painkillers you've been put on, but you're coming to pretty fast considering.

"Hey you? …Really? T-that's all you have to say?" he scoffs, eyes twitching from distress. He's in disbelief at how casual you sound about this whole situation.

"Sorry… still a little out of it," you smile groggily. "What… happened?"

"You were in a car accident," he retorts sharply, keeping his arms crossed behind his back as if he's scolding a teammate. "You required surgery."

"Oh," you say, the only word that comes to mind as you process everything. Which, of course, is not the answer Homelander was hoping for.

"Oh? That's it?! I-I can't believe how you aren't taking this seriously!" he exclaims in a huff, finally throwing his hands up into the air out of pure frustration. "You could have died! I should be the one taking you everywhere, you can't go out by yourself. There are too many… m-many villains out there who could hurt you!"

"But I'm not dead sweetie," you remark. "It was an accident, nobody did this on purpose. These things happen."

"No! Y-you don't understand! I-I need to keep you safe!!" he lashes out, pointing aggressively at you as he becomes overwhelmed. The heat is building in his eyes; he's never yelled at you out of anger before, never. But right now his thoughts are spiralling out of control from the stress of these recent events. In his mind he's already decided how this will be handled. You are weak, you are fragile, and he must protect you. From now on, you will not go anywhere without him by your side. He needs you to be subservient to his wishes. He needs to make you concede, to bend to his will, whether you want to or not. He will never come this close to losing you again.

And yet, as always, you must be the force of reason.

"John," you state bluntly, silencing him on the spot. One word has left him motionless, staring down at his shoes as the fire within him smolders away leaving nothing but a husk. The crimson red of his eyes is replaced by glistening tears dripping down his cheeks, reflecting back the melancholy of his blue irises. His arms are back down at his sides, clenched into fists so tight that he might rip through the leather of his gloves.

Hearing you say his birth name cuts through him like a knife, leaving him feeling vulnerable, exposed… human. You know he doesn't like being called 'John', but in moments like this you need to talk directly to his inner child, to the part of himself that he's scared to let out.

"John, it's okay baby. Come here," you coax him, gently patting on the side of your bed with your good arm. Although he's hesitant to give in, you know he's pretty much incapable of disobeying your orders, especially when there's the promise of affection on the line. Carefully, he kneels down beside the bed, keeping both of his hands on his thighs. He's afraid to touch you, now that he has to come to terms with your mortality.

"You can rest your head on my chest," you comment, lifting your left arm up to make room for him. "Don't worry, I won't break", you chuckle, seeing him tense at the mere suggestion.

As steady as he can, Homelander leans closer to rest his big head across your chest. At first he tries not to go down with his full weight, but he soon feels your dainty fingers running through his undercut. With a deep sigh, he feels himself slowly sinking into your body, made more placid by the sounds of your heart in his ears.

"There we go, all good," you console him calmly. "Now, can you tell me why you're upset?"

You already know the answer, you can read him like a book. But you want him to articulate it, and relieve him of the worries that plague his sensitive mind.

"Y-you…" he mumbles, struggling at first to find the right words. This isn't a conversation he'd think he'd have in a million years. "Y-you're human."

"And you're scared that I can get injured so easily?" you ask. Trembling, he nods, admitting to himself how weak you are compared to him. You are just a human, and he is a supe. The strongest one on earth at that. How could he ever think your relationship would work?

"Oh baby boy," you hum, stroking the side of his cheek, wet from his tears. "People get hurt all the time, that's just a fact of life. But that doesn't mean we can't live in fear, we live each day like it could be our last."

"S-s-sorry… I-I… I'm s-sorry…" he whispers, his voice sounding so small compared to moments ago when he was yelling at you.

"Why, because you weren't there to rescue me?" you question him. You sense him attempting to bury his face further into your chest out of shame. He feels that he failed you, not only as a superhero but as a boyfriend. "Sweetpea, you don't have to feel guilty. It wasn't your fault. It happened, but I'm fine now."

He angles his head up at you, his brows furrowed and red puffy eyes glaring at your last remark. You are far from fine, your shoulder is wounded. How can you even say that?

"Hey," you breathe, petting his hair. "It's going to be alright. I got hurt, but now it's over. I'm going to get better, and I love you very much, okay?"

Exhaling through his nose he nods, still not entirely convinced, but he can at least drop it for now. You're right, you are presently safe. All he wants right now is to be in your company. Softly purring at your genuine love, he lets himself melt into your tender scratches along his scalp. You whisper sweet affirmations into his ear, always babying him even through your injury.

After some time, he realizes that you've fallen back asleep. Your accident and surgery must have taken its toll on your body, so fragile and yet so perfect. You deserve the rest.

Homelander gets up from his kneeling position and meticulously lifts you up, moving your body to the other side of the bed so he can lie down beside you. Resting his head on your chest again, he removes his gloves to wrap his arms around your legs as delicately as he can muster. His long fingers caress your skin, the feeling of your soft features comforting him as he is lulled into slumber by your heart. He wonders how he will ever be able to separate himself from this beautiful sound once you wake up.

You may be human, but you are flawless, impeccable. You are a god. You are unspoiled by the cruelty of the rest of society, and you must stay that way. He will never let anything harm you ever again. Otherwise… the world will burn.

[hauntedhokage]

PART 11: Dance

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

SUMMARY:  Bakugou proves to be a good date for events where you’re the star. 

[series masterlist] | {ao3} | [tumblr masterlist] | {ko-fi} | [spotify playlist]

It was basically a date, and he wished that Kirishima hadn’t said it like that before hanging up on him. Now he couldn’t really focus on tying his tie correctly, so the knot looked like shit and he was going to light it on fire. He was going to blame his wrist, it’d been tweaked in a fight earlier that day so it wasn’t impossible that he’d have difficulty tying his tie with the dull ache in the joint. 

“Take good care of my babygirl on your date, babygirl,” had been what Kirishima had left him with before hanging up, and he knew the redhead was laughing after hanging up on him. As if he’d do anything intentionally that would risk ruining whatever he was building with you. 

It was basically a date, but he wanted to ask you out on a proper first one. Not some event that you were technically working at as a public figure, where there would be hundreds of people around watching and wanting to talk to you. He walked to take you out somewhere quiet, private, maybe a nice dinner? Or perhaps he’d cook? Either way, it had to be special. He wanted to show you that he was really trying to get some time with you. 

He just hoped you’d forgive him tonight for the undone tie as he comes to stand in front of your door. Three careful knocks with his non-injured hand and he’s stepping back, only to realize he was empty handed - meaning the flowers he’d gotten you were sitting on the dining table and that wasn’t ideal in the slightest. He didn’t want to show up empty handed, but that’s what he had done and he can’t go back to fix it because you’re opening the door and it takes everything in him to look at your face instead of staring too long at your figure in your dress. It was almost annoying how beautiful you were - it was extremely annoying how you made his brain short circuit. 

“Hey,” you greet with a smile, and he nods with his own uncertain one as you reach for your purse.

“You look pretty,” is the only thing he can say when you step out of your apartment, and he hates himself for it. There were other words, better words, and all he had was “pretty”? Embarrassing. But you’re still smiling as you lock your door, and take his hand when he offers it. “That wasn’t a great word. Beautiful is a better word.”

“Thank you, Katsuki. Do you want help with your tie?”

“Could you? I tried a few times but the knot kept looking shitty.” You nod at that, moving to stand in front of him properly and gently taking the two ends in your hands. “Hurt my wrist earlier, so rotating it hasn’t been easy.”

“How’d you hurt it? Landing on the ground?”

“Really hard punch.”

“Ah.” Your chuckle is breathy as your fingers nimbly work the fabric into a knot around his neck. You’re careful as you tighten it to his neck, then your hands carefully smooth it down as you look up at him through your lashes. “Want me to do what I do for Eiji when he’s got an ache? Says it makes him feel better.”

He can only nod, offering you the injured arm and watching with interest as your fingers carefully undo the button of his cuff before they probe and try to massage around the stressed joint and tendons. It does feel a bit better after a moment of massaging, but what he thinks blocks out the pain is the way you lean in and place the gentlest of kisses to the inside of his wrist. Residue from your lipstick is left behind, but he wants to keep it there forever while he watches you correct the cuff and smile up at him. 

“Better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“Can’t have my dance partner working with an injury, now can I?” And he’s relieved that you’re not nervous, that you don’t hesitate to take his offered arm and let him lead you away from your door and down to his car. “And I’m sorry you had to pick me up, I thought this dress was in Eiji’s closet but it wasn’t and-“

“Don’t worry about it, makes it feel like a date y’know?” You look up at him with a smile that eases his nerves, your confident nod of agreement at his suggestion bringing him to a new level of calm he’d not yet achieved in your presence. He was doing okay. 

But then he feels less than okay when he’s getting out of the car, sees how many people are there and how many of them want to talk to you. He knew you were popular, very well known in the community, but this was near pro hero status. If you revealed a quirk and started fighting villains you’d be number one hero instantly, you didn’t even need to fight for popularity or do any of the stupid shit other heroes did to look better on the rankings. That was just how incredible you were. 

“You’re not, like…working, are you?”

“You’re always working when you’re considered a public figure,” you respond, smirk on your face as he rolls his eyes. “But no, I’m not reporting or anything like that. That was this afternoon for the actual ribbon cutting and all of that.”

“And this is fundraising.”

“Correct. Deku was kind enough to offer himself up for a dinner date as a silent auction prize so you or Eiji wouldn’t have to.”

“How come you’re not an auction prize?” You’d be wonderful for it; beautiful and smart, well known, a dinner date with you would be any sane person’s dream. You’d generate a lot of money for something like that, but he was sure you knew that. 

“You’ve met our boyfriend. He’d end up watching from a distance to make sure I was safe.” 

“Or bankrupt himself to make sure he beat me for it.”

“You’d bid on me?”

“Who wouldn’t?” He asks, noticing the way you falter slightly at his statement. “You’re the whole package, without the fact that you’re Japan’s favorite newswoman. A date with you would be an honor.“

“You’ve been this charming all this time?” You tease, waving to some politician he recognized before looking back to him. “Maybe your quirk is actually hiding talents.”

“Don’t give me too much credit. It apparently only works on you and the hardhead.”

“Have you tried it on anyone else?”

“Not interested in the results.” He swears he felt your hand hold his arm tighter and gives you a small smile before giving the room a once over. Partly looking for Red Riot who would be shaking hands and kissing babies, but also mapping out entry and exit points should they be needed and taking note of anyone who looked like they’d be a threat. Eijirou’s red hair is spotted quickly and coming towards them just as fast, and the different entry points are noted accordingly just as the working hero makes his appearance. 

“You two look great together,” Eijirou compliments, leaning in to steal a kiss from you while opting for a simple handshake from his boyfriend. An exchange of squeezes happens during the shake, a covert way for the lovers to greet each other more fondly while out in public. “Of course those outfits would look better on the floor, but-“

“Eiji!” “Shut up!” You and Katsuki both hiss, faces warm as Eijirou laughs at your expense. 

“Had to get one in. You two have fun, I’ll check in later.”

“It’s like he’s our chaperone or something,” the blonde grumbles, something that has you smiling as you find your seats. He pulls your chair out for you and everything, and you don’t miss the way he scoots his chair closer to yours once he's seated at the table. 

“How nervous are you right now?” You ask, placing a gentle hand on his back when he sighs. “It’s okay to be nervous, I know this isn’t exactly your scene.”

“Who said anything about being nervous?” This was the pro hero face coming out to play, the confident smirk he flashed your way telling you as much. This was not the same guy who picked you up at your door, but if this was what he had to do to get comfortable then so be it. “How many pictures will we have to be in?”

“You can probably get away with none. You’re just Katsuki Bakugou tonight, right?”

“Yeah, but a picture or two with you and maybe the loudmouth hero would be nice.”

“Well then,” you start, pulling your phone from your clutch purse and opening the front facing camera. “Let’s get the first one or two of the night.”

Three months ago you never would have considered taking selfies with Katsuki, but now you’re here and making faces with your head bumped against his as you snap away. You know Eijirou is watching, he was always watching, and you know he’s proud of both of you at how comfortable you’d grown around each other. This was huge. 

Three months ago you were dancing around Katsuki, trying to stay out of his way to keep things easy for Eijirou - keep the peace in your relationships. Now you’re in the middle of the dance floor with his hand on your hip and the other holding your hand and letting him lead you in a dance. You’re not nervous, despite having stepped on his foot twice already, and he’s as calm as ever which helps you relax more. For someone who hated these kinds of events, he truly blended in quite well and looked as though he was running the show. But you supposed that was just Katsuki, from what you’d been told by their friend group he was a natural leader even if he lacked tact.

“Didn’t take you for much of a dancer,” you comment, keeping your eyes fixed on Katsuki as he leads you in a simple waltz. “Did you take lessons with your mom?”

“No, lessons with Eijirou. Said grace would help with our hero work and I fell for it.”

“But you had fun?”

“Of course. Where’d you learn to dance?”

“Lessons with Eijirou in my living room. He said my attempt at a two step was a shame to anyone with eyes who had to witness it.” Your explanation has him shaking his head with a smile, seeming to be in disbelief. “What?”

“Hard to picture you being bad at anything, since everything looks so natural when you do it.” 

“I was bad at talking to you.”

“That doesn’t count since that’s my fault. Everyone is bad at talking to me.”

“By your design, no?” 

“You’re not wrong, but I’ve been trying to be better.” He leaves out the for you that rests on the tip of his tongue, since the middle of an impromptu dance floor doesn’t feel like the place for a statement like that. It was too loaded and there were too many ears around that could catch the admission of vulnerability.

“It shows, too. I know it’s not easy for you to let people in, but I appreciate that you’re trying.”

“You make it easy to try.”

You’d quickly disagree with that statement, but this isn’t the time or place to argue with him. Instead you only smile, gently giving his shoulder a squeeze as he continues to lead you on the dance floor. You also want to tell him that it’s nice to be so close to him, that he smells nice and his hands are soft and that you’d let him dance with you for hours if he wanted to. This isn’t the time or the place for any of that, you don’t think, but you’d tell him at some point. Maybe if you got him on a real date, one where you weren’t surrounded by a bunch of people you vaguely knew, you could tell him how much you liked being around him.

He excuses himself to use the restroom after a couple more dances, and you find yourself leaving the dance floor as well in favor of browsing the silent auction items. You’d been told that if you saw something you wanted in the auction lineup to make a bet that was ridiculously high in Eijirou’s name, something that made you tempted to bid on the lunch with Deku just for giggles. But instead there’s a custom kimono design and fitting session that is of great interest to you beside a hot spring retreat for two and you place bids on both, since you sometimes needed more traditional attire and knew that the guys needed a break if they could get the time off. But even if you lost, you’d treat the boys to a hot spring and Eijirou would want to know what you bid on to plan for your next birthday or Christmas. 

“Whatcha doin’, pretty lady?” 

Speak of the devil. 

“Browsing the auction items. Bid on a couple but really thinking about lunch with Deku.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, he’s my favorite hero.”

“Is he now?” You could feel him getting closer, the smile on your face growing as you know he’s working hard to contain himself. “Not this dashing and chivalrous hero?”

“Red Riot often asks me for nudes, so he’s not all that chivalrous.”

“You’re so mean, baby. What were you looking at though?”

“There’s a custom kimono design and fitting session, I haven’t looked at much else past that point though.” And you watch as he bends over to look at the clipboard better, then hastily pens Katsuki’s name and a bid only to put his name down once more with a much higher bid. It was too much, in your opinion, but you know better than to fight him on it. “But how are you?”

“If I have to take one more picture in the next ten minutes, I’m going to jump into moving traffic,” Eijirou whispers in your ear, his hand grazing your hip before he turns you so you’d face him properly. “But fuck if you don’t look gorgeous tonight. My inspiration to be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you, handsome,” you murmur, letting him lean in to steal a kiss as the song changes. “Can I steal you away from photo ops for a dance?”

“I’d turn myself in to the police if I didn’t get to dance with you at least once tonight.”

“What would your crime be?” You ask as he takes your hand to lead you back towards the dance floor. 

“Gross negligence of a beautiful woman. You deserve the best and if I didn’t dance with you, that wouldn’t be me.” These aren’t even chivalrous hero lines, this is just Eijirou at his corniest and most loving, and you love to bask in his attention. He always made you feel so warm inside when he spoke to you like that, and you didn’t think he knew exactly what that did to you. “Speaking of dancing, Bakugou leads you in some impressive numbers. Those dance lessons paid off for you both.”

“He’s a fun date, I’m having a great time with him.” You tell Eijirou, smiling when he carefully adjusts a stray lock of your hair. “Are you having fun watching us?”

“Watching you two like each other is very entertaining. Feel like a proud parent right now.”

“You’re awful.”

“But you love me.” He teases with a grin, leaning in and carefully nuzzling his nose against yours as he continues to dance with you. “Love me so much, don’t you baby?”

“Yeah, maybe I do,” you whisper, not at all phased when he kisses you around so many people. This was your man, after all, he was allowed to make displays like this - especially when he was in his costume. “You love me too, yeah?”

“With all I’ve got. You and him are my whole world, y’know?”

“Yeah, Eiji, I know. You guys are mine too.”

“Softie.”

“Keep it up and you won’t see this dress on the floor.”

He would, you both knew he’d get anything he wanted for doing this for you. The not-so-subtle way his hand moved from your hip to squeeze your ass told you that he knew just as well as you did that he’d get spoiled rotten.

“Hey baby?” You hum your acknowledgement, resting your head on his shoulder as he brings your feet to rest on his. “You guys are probably not staying for the whole thing, are you?”

“You don’t have to stay either. I said an hour or two, but duty can call at any time.”

“I think duty will call in about twenty minutes.”

“I’ll try to get us out of here in thirty.” You assure as the song ends, reluctantly stepping away from him so you could look up at him better and earning yourself a kiss on your forehead. “We’ll see you at home, babe.”

[sequinsmile-x]

Physical Touch

He usually loved when his wife touched him, but it was slowly driving him crazy.

Part of the Love Languages series

-x-

Hi friends!

Well...I should have expected that the smut fic would win the poll by a landslide and here we are haha

I really hope you enjoy this <3 it's soft, smutty and full of Aaron just...pining for his wife. What more could you want on a Thursday evening?

Please let me know what you think <3

-x-

Words: 3k

Warnings: Smut, 18+

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

He’d known she was tactile long before they got together. 

Aaron had watched her for years, always ready to place a comforting hand on someone’s shoulder or pull them into a hug. More than once he’d found himself wishing she’d do the same for him, the embargo they’d seemingly placed on physical contact between them a two-way thing, something they both upheld, as if they knew it was a line they could not cross. 

He’d held her hand once before they became them. It was when she was in hospital, before she was stable enough to be moved to Bethesda. She’d still mostly been out of it, pain and medication rolling through her in a way he was also familiar with. He’d held her hand, squeezing it tightly as he wore the suit he’d worn to her funeral, a bitter taste on his tongue as he apologised to her. She’d told him since that she thought she’d dreamt it, that she’d pulled him out of her imagination, the warmth of his hand around hers something she’d made up in some strange attempt to self-soothe. 

He’d always known she was tactile, but being in a relationship with her was a whole other level he hadn’t been anticipating. She touched him all the time, ranging from subtle moments, like her fingers trailing over his when she passed him a coffee or a case file, or squeezing his knee under the table when they were at Dave’s for dinner, to more obvious moments. She was a snuggler, something he would never have put money on before their first date. She would wrap herself around him like a vine whenever they were alone, her arm linked through his and her head on his shoulder as they sat on the couch, or she could lay half on top of him in bed, her hand sneaking under his t-shirt as she sought his warmth from the source, falling asleep to the comfort of his heartbeat. 

He loved it. He loved that his wife expressed her love that way, that she’d push his hair out of his face as she told him he needed a haircut, that she also loved their children in the same way. It’s one of the reasons he knew Jack and Violet always sought her out for comfort, her embrace was his place of safety too, something so calming about something as simple as her cheek against his shoulder that he wondered how he'd ever lived without it. 

He usually loved it, but it was slowly driving him crazy. 

He’d dislocated his shoulder in a takedown of an unsub two months ago. The injury had torn his rotator cuff and he’d needed surgery, a simple relocation of his shoulder joint not enough. He could still remember the fear in Emily’s eyes when he’d come round from surgery, how she was barely holding herself together, her grip on his wedding ring that he’d had to take off so tight the imprint lasted for hours. His shoulder had been immobilised with strict instructions on how to make sure he healed properly, and the only time his wife ever paid attention to medical advice to the letter was when it was for him or one of the kids, which had led to one, unfortunate, side effect. 

Aaron hadn’t had sex with his wife in two months. 

He missed her. She was right by his side, but he missed her. Missed the intimacy that had always been an important part of their relationship. Every tiny thing about her was getting to him the longer they went without having sex. Her beauty was bordering on obscene, as it always had, and his breath would catch in his chest whenever he looked at her, or if she walked by and he caught a sniff of her perfume, the scent he knew was simply her always following just afterwards. Even watching her with Jack and Violet, watching how good a mother she was filled his gut with want, with the desire to have more children with her as soon as possible. 

The touching was, however, by far the worst. Every time she touched him he felt his skin fizz, sparks set off just by the feel of her skin against his, and he was close to losing his mind. 

He hears a knock on his office door and he looks up, a smile immediately breaking out across his face when he sees Emily standing in the doorway, her arms crossed as she casually leans against the door frame. 

“Hey honey,” she says, stepping into the office, “Are you ready to go? We, and by we I mean you, promised Vi we’d pick up some dessert on the way home.” 

He chuckles as he thinks about his 2, almost 3, year old daughter. She was a mini Emily through and through, right down to the big dark brown eyes he couldn’t say no to. He stands up and starts to put some paperwork in his briefcase, and he raises his eyebrow at his wife as he looks up at her. 

“You say that like you can say no to her,” he quips, stepping out from behind his desk and walking over to her, quickly stamping his lips against hers.

She hums and kisses him again, her hand hooking around the back of his head, making him shiver as she scratches lightly at his scalp, “We both know I’m the bad cop at home, baby,” she says, kissing him once more before she pulls back, “One of us has to be.” 

He laughs, the sound dying in his throat when she reaches out and places her hand on his chest, rubbing gently at the lapel on his jacket. He can feel her touch through his clothes, her skin somehow burning him through his jacket and his shirt, and he tenses before he can control it. Emily frowns at him, her eyebrows pinching together as she pulls back. 

“You had some lint on you,” she explains, pressing her lips together as she looks him up and down, her eyes slightly narrowed as she tries to figure out what's wrong, “Aaron are you okay? Is your shoulder bothering you?” 

It’s not a lie, not really, because his shoulder was sore. A now familiar ache that got worse throughout the day, radiating outwards from the new scar he bore. It was easier than explaining to her how he was feeling, less embarrassing than admitting he wanted her so much he was thinking about pushing everything off his desk right here and now. 

There were still two weeks until the doctor’s initial advice would run out, and he knew it was going to be the longest two weeks of his life. 

“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly at her, rolling his shoulder slightly, “It just aches a bit.” 

She hums and places her hand on it, her concern deepening when he tenses again, “How about when the monsters are in bed I give you a massage?” 

He falters for a moment, sure that would be his undoing, but instead, he nods and decides to deflect as he places his hand on her lower back and guides her out of his office. 

“Why do you get to call them monsters, but I don’t?” He asks, knowing exactly what her answer is going to be. 

She scoffs playfully and looks up at him, her eyes narrowed, “Because one of them came out of me.” 

___

By the time they get the kids to bed, he thinks she’s forgotten. The evening had passed them by with homework, bath time, and bedtime stories, a wonderfully normal evening they both once thought they’d never get. 

He walks into their bedroom to find her kneeling on the bed, wearing one of his t-shirts and a tiny pair of shorts sticking out from underneath, with a bottle of lotion in hand.

She smiles at him, popping open the lid on the lotion as she beckons him over, “Come on, honey,” she says, “I promised you a massage.” She sees the slight hesitation before he walks over, and she hides a smirk by clearing her throat. He sits on the edge of the bed and she rolls her eyes, placing the lotion on the bed before she runs her hands over his shoulders, her fingers meeting at his neck as she starts to undo his shirt buttons, “This works better if you don’t wear your shirt.” 

He nods and helps her get his shirt off, grateful that he’d slipped his tie off when he got home earlier, and he lets the shirt fall to the ground. She puts some of the lotion into her hands and rubs them together before she touches him, warming her palms and the lotion at the same time. 

It’s only when she starts spreading it on his skin, her touch firm but gentle as she pushes her thumbs into his bad shoulder, that he realises she’s using her lotion. One that had a slight spice to it, a scent of cinnamon that followed her everywhere that was now permeating into his skin. He groans, his teeth clenched as he breathes her in, widening his legs as his pants get tighter. 

She frowns, ready to pull away just in case she is hurting him, but then she looks over his shoulder, her lips pressed together as her cheeks flush when she sees the tenting of his pants. She makes a snap decision, wiping her palms on her shirt to get rid of the excess lotion before she climbs out from behind him. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, his eyebrow raised as she kneels on the floor in front of him, her hands already on his belt, undoing it quickly. 

“Come on, Aaron,” she says, unbuttoning his pants and moving them and his boxers just far enough to free him, “It hasn’t been that long,” she says, smiling in a way that seemed far too innocent for where her hand was, “I’ve seen how you’ve been looking at me,” she says, pumping him up and down, “Let me help.” 

He nods, not needing any convincing, and his eyes drift shut as she leans forward and takes him in her mouth. He wraps his fists around the sheets of the bed so tightly he thinks they might rip. 

“Fuck, Em. You’re so good at that,” he says, unable to stop himself from thrusting into her throat, the pressure that had been building him in for weeks threatening to blow, “So fucking good.” 

She leans forward until her nose briefly presses against his pubic bone before she pulls back, sucking in a breath before she moves in again, bobbing her head up and down, his chorus of groans her reward. She has to press her thighs together for some friction, so turned on by seeing and hearing him like this that she briefly forgets why it had been so long since they’d done this in the first place. She can feel him start to lose control, his thrusts getting messier, but he stops her, his hand on her shoulder as he encourages her backwards, a desperate look in his eyes. 

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, getting rid of the spit that had connected her lip to the tip of him and she tilts her head, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, pushing his hands through her hair that he’d clearly messed up, unaware that he’d even grasped it, “I just want to be with you.”

She smiles devilishly, her tongue pressed into her cheek, chasing the taste of him from it, “You are with me.” 

He rolls his eyes at her. He’d missed this too, the ease that came with being with her like this, the familiarity to it. It could be rough, passionate. Tearing each other’s clothes off. Or it could be soft. Full of love and hands pressed together as they showed each other how much they loved each other. 

“You know what I mean, sweetheart,” he says, and she smiles and nods, standing up from where she’d been kneeling. She pulls his pants off the rest of the way and then stands up, ready to straddle him, her desire making her dizzy. It’s only when she leans in to kiss him, her gaze briefly lingering on the new scar on his shoulder, and everything comes back into sharp focus.

“Wait,” she says breathlessly, pulling away from him, “We shouldn’t do this, your doctor-”

“Sweetheart,” he cuts her off, barely recognising his own voice because of how thick it is with desire, rough and gravelly as he stares at her, “You started this.” 

She scoffs, “I started this? You’re the one who got an erection when I just barely touched your shoulder.” 

In any other circumstance, he’s sure he’d laugh. It was so like her to try and start an argument in the middle of sex it made him fall in love with her even more, a feat that always seemed impossible until it happened. He pulls her closer, grateful not for the first time this evening that it wasn’t his dominant shoulder that had been injured, “Because you’re so fucking gorgeous I couldn’t take it anymore.” 

She swallows thickly and looks him up and down, desire sparking under her skin. It had been a long two months for her too, her frustration at not being able to have him so intense she’d yelled at Derek twice in the last week alone when he hadn’t deserved it. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly.  He smiles softly, the pent-up, overwhelming, need for her fading for a moment as he reaches out and cups her cheek, tucking some of her unruly hair behind her ear.

“You never could.” 

She thinks about it for a moment before she nods leaning forward to stamp her lips against his before she briefly gets off the bed, dropping her shorts to the ground, “Lean up against the headboard.” 

He does as he’s told, and she pulls a pillow from her side of the bed and slots it between his bad shoulder and the headboard, smiling softly when he stamps a grateful kiss against her lips. She sits on his lap, groaning as she notches over him, a noise he returns when he feels just how wet she is. 

“Fuck, Em,” he says, his hands on her hips as she pulls her t-shirt off, “I’ve barely even touched you.” 

“Yeah, well” she breathes out, rocking her hips over him, “You’re not the only one who’s been missing this,” she says as she wraps her hand around him to guide him into her. 

They both groan as she sinks onto him, the familiar stretch making them both breathless for a moment. 

“Oh fuck,” she says, her eyes rolling back as her head falls backwards for a moment, her hands on his thighs as she clenches around him, the breath stolen from her lungs as she adjusts to him, “God you feel so good.” 

“You do too, sweetheart,” he grunts out, encouraging her closer, tugging at her until they are chest to chest, bare skin pressed against each other as he rests his forehead against hers, “You feel so fucking good.” 

She cups his cheeks, her hands on either side of his face as she keeps her forehead against his and starts to rock her hips against his, a sound she could only call a relieved chuckle escaping her as he meets her thrust for thrust. 

They fall into a familiar rhythm, a sense of desperation woven through it, their eyes locked together as they both move, lost in the feel of each other. Eventually, he feels her hips start to stutter, and her thighs tremble around him. He reaches between them with his good hand and rubs circles on her clit, smiling as she mewls at him, the sound close to obscene as she buries her face in his neck, just about able to remember their children were sleeping down the hall.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says, increasing the pressure on her clit, feeling his own orgasm within reach, “Come for me. Let me feel it.” 

She clenches her teeth tightly as she comes, stopping herself from screaming out as her hips buck against him. A spark goes off in her belly and spreads through her entire body, every nerve ending on fire as it washes over her as she moans his name. He isn’t far behind her, the way she clenches around him as she comes the final push he needs, and he buries his face in the top of her hair, her name lost in the dark locks stuck to her with sweat. 

They fall into silence, just the sound of their heavy breathing surrounding them. She’s the first to pull back, smiling lazily at him as she kisses him quickly before she pulls back to look at him, checking him over as if she’s looking for damage. She looks at the scar, placing her hand over it as she still tries to catch her breath, “I hope we didn’t make it worse.” 

“It’s fine, baby,” he says, kissing her temple and then her cheek, encouraging her to turn her head so he can capture her lips in a kiss, “Besides, since when were you such a stickler for doctor’s orders?” 

She playfully narrows her eyes at him but doesn’t pull back, not wanting to put any space between them yet, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Right,” he says jokingly, stamping a kiss against her lower lip, stuck out in a pout she’d always deny, “So it wasn’t you who I caught trying to drive to the store less than two weeks after she had a c-section? My mistake.” 

She blows out a breath and shakes her head at him, her cheeks somehow flushing even though the blush from her orgasm had never gone away, “That was totally different.” 

He chuckles and kisses her, properly this time, and he smiles as he pulls back, “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.” 

-x-

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[gatheringbones]

[“I had been gloating internally about my ability to keep up with, and sometimes outwork, women twenty or thirty years younger than myself, but it turns out this comparative advantage says less about me than it does about them. Ours is a physical bond, to the extent that we bond at all. One person’s infirmity can be a teammate’s extra burden; there’s a constant traffic in herbal and over-the-counter solutions to pain.

If I don’t know how my coworkers survive on their wages or what they make of our hellish condition, I do know about their back pains and cramps and arthritic attacks. Lori and Pauline are excused from vacuuming on account of their backs, which means you dread being assigned to a team with them. Helen has a bum foot, which Ted, in explaining her absence one day, blames on the cheap, ill-fitting shoes that, he implies, she perversely chooses to wear. Marge’s arthritis makes scrubbing a torture; another woman has to see a physical therapist for her rotator cuff. When Rosalie tells me that she got her shoulder problem picking blueberries as a “kid”—she still is one in my eyes, of course—I flash on a scene from my own childhood, of wandering through fields on an intense July day, grabbing berries by the handful as I go. But when Rosalie was a kid she worked in the blueberry fields of northern Maine, and the damage to her shoulder is an occupational injury.

So ours is a world of pain—managed by Excedrin and Advil, compensated for with cigarettes and, in one or two cases and then only on weekends, with booze. Do the owners have any idea of the misery that goes into rendering their homes motel-perfect? Would they be bothered if they did know, or would they take a sadistic pride in what they have purchased—boasting to dinner guests, for example, that their floors are cleaned only with the purest of fresh human tears?

In one of my few exchanges with an owner, a pert muscular woman whose desk reveals that she works part-time as a personal trainer, I am vacuuming and she notices the sweat. “That’s a real workout, isn’t it?” she observes, not unkindly, and actually offers me a glass of water, the only such offer I ever encounter. Flouting the rule against the ingestion of anything while inside a house, I take it, leaving an inch undrunk to avoid the awkwardness of a possible refill offer. “I tell all my clients,” the trainer informs me, “‘If you want to be fit, just fire your cleaning lady and do it yourself.’” “Ho ho,” is all I say, since we’re not just chatting in the gym together and I can’t explain that this form of exercise is totally asymmetrical, brutally repetitive, and as likely to destroy the musculoskeletal structure as to strengthen it.”]

barbara ehrenreich, from nickel and dimed: on (not) getting by in america, 2002

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Helping Hand 7

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You sit in the sterile waiting room, slouched like a guilty dog as you stare at your scuffed work shoes and cradle your arm. It feels heavier by the moment, the tenderness only growing, and a regrettable crack sounds as you try to shift it. You grunt and teethe down on your pain. Jonathan looks at you but says nothing.

It feels surreal, sitting there beside him, waiting on a doctor. This isn't how you saw your day going. But when did anything in your life go to plan? Twenty years of marriage flushed away for a younger woman and a midlife crises. Working a job meant for college students in your forties. It's all going just so spectacularly.

Your name is called before you can sink any further into self-pity. You get up but Jonathan doesn't follow. You're happy for that at least. He at least is aware of some boundaries.

It's a small office with only a few doctors. You're put in the room to wait some more and when the physician enters, she introduces herself as Dr. Marguerite Garcia. You try to smile and return her basic niceties. It's hard to focus on anything but the agony. She checks your chart and verifies your history before asking questions about your injury.

She nods and sets down her clipboard. "Do you mind if I do some tests? I'll need to feel your shoulder and move your arm."

"Yeah, that's fine. I'm pretty sure it's just a pulled muscle," you explain.

"Sure, but we should make sure," she nears and you sit up.

She lifts your arm and you squeak. She moves it slowly at different angles, feeling around your shoulders and back, then along your neck. Your eyes fill with tears by the time she lets you put your arm down.

"It would appear like a torn rotator cuff. I could send you for imaging to be sure but I'm fairly certain," she grabs the chart again.

"Really? What does that mean?"

"We won't go straight to surgery. Right now, we'll start with the basics; rest, ice, and physical therapy. I will have some exercises printed out for you to do, along with a link where you can find videos. If you like, I can write a referral to a therapist." She continues as she scribbles with her pen, "I'll send you off with some painkillers as well. You seem like you need the relief."

"Oh, thank you," you smile.

"And I'll get you into a sling. Just for a few days to take some of the pressure off."

"A sling?"

"It shouldn't be too much and it'll be a reminder for you to not use that arm," she girds. "Let me just go get that script filled and I'll have the nurse come fit you."

"Sure," you accept as you look down. Great, a prescription, how much is that going to cost you? And you highly doubt they're giving the slings away for free. Just another expense, just another step backwards.

💙

You get the bottle of pills before the nurse sees you. You take one for good measure as the throbbing overwhelms every other sense. Finally with your arm confined and a pocket full of painkillers, you're free to leave the office.

As you come out into the waiting room, Jonathan stands at the counter. He tucks something into his jacket pocket as he faces you.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Um, I think I have to pay for--"

"Already done," he interjects, "better get you home so you can rest."

"You paid? You didn't have to--"

"Please, it is nothing," he waves you off, "come. I'm sure all you want to do is lay down."

He isn't wrong and you're all out of energy. You're not going to argue with another man that day. You're going to let the pills kick in and leave the world behind.

You let him lead you outside and he opens the car door for you. You're not sure it's any sort of gallant behaviour, rather practical as you are down to a single arm. You get in and awkwardly pull the seat belt across you.

He closes the door as you jam the buckle into place and sit back with a sigh. You shut your eyes. You just can't wait to be home. Alone.

You sense the shift of weight as he gets in on the driver's side. He starts the engine as you stifle a yawn behind your lips and open your eyes, a swimming wobbliness in your vision. The pills are hitting harder than you expected. Well, you hadn't eaten much, just coffee and maybe half a cracker.

"You alright?" He asks as the car rolls into motion and you open your eyes.

"Great," you grumble and let your eyelids droop as your head drifts towards the window. "Tired..."

You watch the buildings pass, other cars stopping and skimming by. You lose yourself in the lazy traffic and the dimming blueness of the sky. Your lashes sink further and further, until they meet, and that hot fuzziness coaxes them together. The pain in your shoulder dulls, barely tugging at your consciousness as it fades away.

[theghostofashton]

wip wednesday

thank you to @welcometololaland @strandnreyes @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @sanjuwrites @lemonlyman-dotcom @alrightbuckaroo @heartstringsduet for the tags <3

it occurred to me that i am planning an olympics au and this is an olympic year (aka the perfect time to post one) so i have picked this story back up as i wrap up the you saw the truth in me sequel. here's a bit of that:

“It’s not you,” Marjan says quietly. She beckons him closer so she can whisper in his ear, then continues, “He’s not really talking to any of us. We’re not sure why.” “Oh,” TK says, unsure if that makes him feel better or not. “He looks great, at least.” He’s only been back in the gym for a few months, TK knows. The recovery was long and Carlos took some time off afterward, but no one would ever know that from how comfortable he already looks. His transitions are fluid, as if he’s moving through water as he does his skills, and his handstands are perfect. TK’s never seen anyone do them better. Marjan shrugs. “He’s practically lived here for the past couple weeks. Dude doesn’t know when to quit.” That doesn’t feel particularly strange – TK’s had his own fair share of injuries, and after his last one, a strained rotator cuff, he was itching to get back into the gym. The only thing that kept him away was the doctor’s warning that reinjury would put him out of training for much longer than a few weeks. He knew he’d have his work cut out for him once he was cleared. Marjan adjusts the strap on one of her grips and nods over to the bars. “Could you spot me?” He smiles and nods, and then lets her lead him over to the chalk bucket sitting a few feet away from the bars. She starts chalking up her grips, and TK turns, as if an invisible force is pulling his focus, back to the high bar, where Carlos is swinging once again.

no pressure tagging @bonheur-cafe @lightningboltreader @reyesstrand @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @louis-ii-reyes-strand and anyone else who wants to share!

[fearecia]

Putting this in a pinned post to make it easy to find/share. We all know how Tumblr is about things (and to be fair, I'm terrible and inconsistent as hell with tags).

Link to the "shoulder release" document:

Notes about this guide:

This is a WIP, and still very much in the rough draft phase. Please forgive typos/errors. I literally haven't done a single edit yet.

The document focuses on releasing shoulders as a way to treat neck tension and migraines. Seriously, just trust me. It helps.

Carpal tunnel? Tennis elbow? Golfer's elbow? AC (acromioclavicular) joint injury? Rotator cuff problems? Tight upper back? Sporadic numbness in your arm? Seriously, just try the muscles already listed. You'll likely find at least some relief. Like, if it involves the upper body, release your shoulders.

I've done my best to make this able to be understood by people without massage training. So if it seems like it's covering really "obvious" info, that's intentional. Just skip the section if you already know things.

A lot of massage therapists may balk at me telling you to dig around in your own armpit. We're taught in school to avoid the area. Why? Because there's a crap ton of nerves and blood vessels there. *Which is precisely why releasing this area is so powerful.* There's also a ton of muscle (on yes, basically everybody) here that will protect all those structures. It's honestly really safe so long as you stick to "In pain, refrain!" And read the other rules too.

90% of the time, the culprit is one of the four muscles listed (or any combination of them). If you are someone who exercises a lot/does yoga/is otherwise pretty physically active, you are more likely to fall into the 10% of people who will have their issue somewhere else/it will just be really hard to find. So bear that in mind.

Sadly, this sort of thing will probably never be a "one and done" type of deal. Most of the things we do every day steadily build up to cause problems, and you have to constantly work to undo that entropy. So save these notes for future you.

And just in case you want to know what the hell qualifies me to make this sort of document, here are my "quals."

My first career attempt was nursing. While this did not go well (doctors don't really appreciate autistic students willing to question their authority) I learned a shit ton about the body. I became a student teacher for the anatomy and physiology class because I was so good at it (and that professor used to teach the pre-med students). A&P is now literally one of my special interests.

8 years as a licensed massage therapist focused exclusively on injury therapy. I studied Rolfing techniques, and primarily used trigger point therapy, structural integration, and myofascial release as my tools. Clients liked to joke that going to see me was like seeing the physical therapist (they weren't wrong).

Some of the stuff I share is literally self taught through "following the tension" in clients bodies. Like, I developed some of my protocols. And then practiced and refined them over 100s of bodies. The goal was always the most efficient and least painful way to achieve lasting release.

I eventually destroyed my shoulder doing massage (which was injured long before this career due to an AC joint sprain gotten when I was 20). Bonus, this means I'm *very* practiced at releasing my own shoulders.

I'm now a mechanical engineer, which just means I now have the engineering knowledge to understand to the force transferrence patterns I saw in clients all the time. Kinesiology is the same thing as statics and dynamics.

Hopefully that helps put perspective into things. I'll update this post as new versions of the document come out. I have a ton on my plate right now (who am I joking; I always have a ton on my plate), so please be patient waiting for updates.

[soranihimawari]

Fondly Yours

Delayed Sakusa x Reader (sorry Omi!)

Pairing: Sakusa x friend!reader

Word Count: TBA

Warnings: none? Mentions of injury (reader: head// Sakusa toe stub)

Reader is fem!presenting

The first time you met Sakusa Kiyoomi, you were out on a coffee shop delivery. The MSBY had asked for a coffee run early in the morning from your family ran shop. Regardless, you were on the morning delivery rotation and weren’t prepared to take a volleyball to the noggin.

“Oww,” you rub your head after you spilled the last coffee all over the court floor. Number 15, the outside hitter steadies you and he snaps at his setter who accidentally hit the ball to go astray.

Funnily enough, that’s how your absurd friendship began with the popular outside hitter began. You two hung out every other weekend and one hang out led to a party invitation which led you to a year later where you find yourself.

“Oh c’mon, Atsu,” you whine. You’re all gussied up in your dress blues (your military casual formal wear from when you were [and still] employed with) and you wait on the blonde setter comes out of his room.

“You look sharp,” you say.

“Was it yer idea to have a ‘formal’ for Omi’s 30th?” Atsumu says fiddling with his cuff link.

“Yes,” you laugh and roll your eyes. “Because you all wanted to see me in my old dress blues. Gotta remind youse guys I make a wonderful lady.”

“And who you trying to impress huh? Cause lord knows if Omi didn’t fall fer yer ass ya would be having his birthday party at his penthouse!”

Atsumu’s typically a loud mouth and an instigator of saying rumors that may or may not be true. You raise your eyebrow at him and play it off, but given the heavy hitters in your shared core memories with the man of the hour being told second hand by his closest confidant on the team, you realistically… freeze. Blushing three different shades of lock and peach color. You momentarily gain your motor skills back as you find yourself being escorted to the ride share with Atsumu holding your arm.

Hours later, at the private area of the speakeasy lihnge you’re in, you are all cozy nursing a whiskey smash cocktail next to a very socially drained Sakusa Kiyoomi. Surely there are snacks scattered on the table, gifts—intimate toys and other wise too are haphazardly littered as well—too are noticeable in the dim lights. Here is something not many people know about a tipsy now 30-year old broody volleyball player: he becomes very affectionate. Like a neighborhood feral cat become docile as he rests his head against your shoulder. You hold his hand and give it a squeeze whispering a birthday greeting on top of his curls and you see his lips curl into a small smile.

Yes, you may have an unconventional start to your friendship, but knowing how Atsumu was right, you push that aside the moment you enjoy your privacy away from the rest when said 6’3” volleyball player presses his lips against yours soberly at 5am. The rest of the party is a blur until you recall his team allows you to watch over their more than tipsy friend. You go home with Sakusa to his place, holding him upright as he limps due to stubbing his toe earlier at the speakeasy’s low table before leaving. You help him undress halfway, no belt, no silk button down in bed, and you decide after he falls asleep to go to sleep too right next to him.

That’s how you find yourself nose to nose with him in the dawning hour. His lips suddenly on yours calling you, “pretty” and his mumbling woke you slightly and you, garnering your senses to realize not all of Atsumu’s tale was a lie, you cup Sakusa’s face and kiss him back.

“Sakusa fuckin’ Kiyoomi,” you curse under your breath with a warm groan when he kisses your neck next. “You do that again and ‘m afraid you might need to show me what else that mouth can do.”

“Gladly,” is the last thing you hear before humming an acknowledgment of said dare.

[frownyalfred]

Hi, Res! Glad you're back! I love your writing (and your posting in general) and missed it. I hope everything good for you and your family!

I was wondering how you come up with fic ideas? That are so natural and realistic yet never came into my mind, like "let the light in" or "end of line" or "come morning light" or–

And also also!!! How you're able to write while you post (like post the first chapter and not have the rest completely planned) and not lose yourself on the plot/details?

Sorry if that's annoying in any way! I I just love love love your writing and I look up to you a lot!

Thanks 🥰🥰🥰

Hi! Not annoying at all, I appreciate you asking. For those fics, they kind of just came to me in slice of life moments? Maybe I can explain below a little better:

let the light in - this came to me while I was thinking about shoulder injuries (my parents both had rotator cuff injuries and PT afterward) and how it must feel very vulnerable for the human members of the League. Especially Ollie who would never want to appear weak because of his stubborn pride. Bruce as a foil/complement made sense as soon as I tried thinking it out. I knew I wanted to write a scene where Bruce inevitably confronts/witnesses Ollie's weakness, and the dialogue kind of spun out from there.

end of line - this fic bloomed into existence because I was pondering what would happen if you full-force punched Clark in the face. If you punch a normal person you can break bones, so what happens when you clock Superman? Again, this was another fic where the dialogue just kind of led the story forward. I knew I wanted it to be outsider!POV for added angst, and swiftly realized I could add in Bruce as Clark's "fixer" for even more hilarity.

come morning light - this one came from me pondering Clark's anxiety at his own near-immortality. I was trying to come up with the best scene to showcase that fear/anxiety, and the morning of his wedding made sense. It also allowed Bruce's careful adjustments and reassurance to shine through in contrast. I also wanted to challenge myself to write something with them both that was purely platonic, which I think I somewhat achieved (mixed reviews LOL).

so I guess a lot of these fics tend to come from "what if" moments, usually prompted by irl events.

As for being able to post a WIP and not know where the story is going, that might be because I am a "feel" writer. I don't think that's a good thing but I digress. I "feel" like I know where the story is going, but I don't know exactly what will happen between point A and point B until I'm writing dialogue. Usually it leads me to the right place, so I know if I post the first chapter without a solid plan for the next 3-4, I can still "feel" I'm on the right path.

Diving in to update is probably the easiest and hardest part of this method. I find that if I re-read the entire fic, my brain generally knows where it wants to go next and the story just naturally continues as I write. However, with borderline that meant I was rereading a 60k fic every few days and definitely wasn't efficient. Plotting the final act of stories generally requires me to abandon this method and reach out to my lovely beta, who is a mensch.

I'm not sure if that was very helpful, but that's kind of an overview of how my brain works while writing. It might not work for you, and that's okay! Try out some different methods and just keep writing! Do it as often as you can, even if it's stupid or never shared or only a few snippets here and there.

<3

[whumpy-bi]

I Got Him, Part 2

Words: 766

Warnings: blood, injury, medical attention, captivity, mentions of slavery, human trafficking, general implications of violence and torture

Tags: @whumperofworlds @whumpacabra @whumpberry-cookie

Senator Fisher was beginning to grow tired, now.

He had been beating Owen Jones for hours, now, even persisting long after the little shit had stopped talking. He’d taken his time rotating between methods…first he used his hands, then an old golf club he’d had lying around. He’d gotten a few good hits in with a stone paperweight, but Jones was beginning to go limp on him. His eyes were distant and fluttering closed, and his weight was now fully hanging on the metal cuffs locked around the pipe over his head.

Fisher turned to his assistant, watching as they gripped the camera with both hands.

“That’s good, that’ll do. I’ll take the camera, I can handle the footage myself.”

The small servant was immediately rushing over, frantically handing him the camera and returning to attention.

He nodded to Owen’s almost-unconscious form. “Patch him up a little, will you? Make sure he doesn’t die on us.”

Owen drifted back into consciousness, slowly. He felt hands on him—pulling his shirt up. He flinched harshly as something cold made contact and solid, sharp ice spreading across his skin.

A voice was coming from…somewhere, fast and frantic.

“Don’t move, please don’t move. Please don’t wake up. I have to get the swelling down…”

Owen’s eyes fluttered open of their own accord. He tried to move his hips away from the cold, his exposed torso feeling the full impact of the ice pack and the cold basement air. He stared up through his eyelashes at…whoever this was.

The person was young and frail-looking, pale blonde hair neatly tied back with alarmingly dark circles under their eyes. They were entirely focused on Owen’s abdomen, attempting to secure the ice to his body. He felt…cleaner than he had before, which lined up with this person’s hand being stained with blood. Fuck, it was his.

Still out of it, Owen didn’t offer much in the way of protest as the small stranger began applying bandages. He settled into an…uneasy, if livable, silence as he watched, trying to discern what he’d missed.

Things seemed to change very suddenly. The stranger opened a box, and Owen made an attempt to open his mouth and argue.

“Is that a fucking syringe? No—no way, get that thing away from me—“

The stranger mumbled, tensely injecting Owen’s arm even in its awkward position. “It’s just a painkiller.”

He huffed, watching as they disposed of their supplies. “Listen—who are you? You—you work for Fisher, right?”

No answer. They hadn’t even looked at him again, carefully putting everything back in its place.

“Whatever he’s paying you can’t be worth this. We can work something out, right? You—“

“He’s not paying me.” Their voice was…painfully flat, their monotone feeling forced. “Do you want water?”

He stared in silence for a long moment. “I guess—sure, but—“ He squirmed again as they began digging around for a package of water bottles. “What do you mean, he’s not paying you?”

They didn’t answer again, opting for more silence as they held the bottle to Owen’s lips.

He took a few rushed sips, swallowing hard. “What do you—“

“Please, stop talking. He’ll punish me for it.”

All at once, the realization came crashing down on Owen like a hammer pounding a nail into place.

Fucking hell, they belong to him.

His mouth opened and closed a few times, his mind working slowly to try to find the right words. “Look…look. I don’t know you, I don’t know what these people did to you. But I want to stop them, you know? I want to put them away so they can’t do this to anyone else. That’s my job, to help people just like you.”

They hadn’t looked back at him as they continued cleaning up, but it was clear they were listening as they hesitated over the doorknob.

“I just need a little help from you, you understand? Then I can get us both out of here. You can get your life back—whatever it was they took from you. I promise.” He shut his eyes for a moment, feeling his muscles forcibly relaxing from the painkillers. “Please, you—“

“Alex. I’m Alex.”

“Okay…Alex, I need you to trust me and help me. Then I can help you. You can let me die down here, but—I might be your only way out. And you’re my only way. Why don’t we help each other?”

Alex gripped the doorknob for an agonizingly long time, before making the smallest, softest hum in reply.

Owen felt himself relax as they walked back up the stairs. That sounded like an agreement.

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

out of curiousity, what are some your favorite whump tropes/prompts?

Dude great question! Personally I like whump for the CARETAKING!!! The inherent tenderness of getting patched up by someone else (romantic or platonic), describing pain, characters collapsing into the arms of someone else, and of course, RECOVERY!!! The whole reason I started writing fanfiction is because I wanted to write Stick Of Truth Stan recovering from an injury. I write almost exclusively whump because I LOVE healing. Healing, physical, mental, whatever it is, is so incredibly important to me.

As for tropes, I’m a sucker for a character ignoring their illness/injury until they can’t anymore, especially if it’s gotten worse over time. The stubborn characters are my favorite to whump, hence why I enjoy Kyle as my South Park whumpee usually (Stan is a very close second). I LOVE chronic pain in fics. Especially with those stubborn characters, not letting themselves heal properly, getting pissed about a flare up (how obvious is it that I’m talking about Kyle lmfao), hating needing help.

I tend to prefer injury whump to emotional whump, because I’m an angst wimp, but I definitely have favorites for injuries lmao

BROKEN RIBS!!! I absolutely love that it’s a long, frustrating healing process, fucks you up in a lot of ways.

Shoulder injuries! That’s literally on the PCE bingo card because I go for the shoulder so much, especially for Stan. Dislocations, broken collarbone, torn rotator cuff, you name it. Especially with the dominant arm? Fuck yeah. The reason I’m so partial to shoulder injuries in particular (PCE Lore) is bc I dislocated mine in high school, didn’t let it heal right, and it still gives me problems sometimes ten years later. Hence OJV Kyle and his bad knee.

Speaking of, any injury that leaves the character unable to walk! I’m just such a sucker for someone getting taken care of, and being held by someone else just HITS!!! Y’all know the Style Carry™️ is one of my favorite things on the planet.

FAINTING!!! God I love a character passing out, or nearly passing out, and there’s huge injury potential there too, like getting hurt on the way down. The reaction of those around them especially. And if our whumpee gets caught as they collapse? Scooped up by their love interest? Even better.

That brings me to head injuries. I love me a good concussion moment. Concussed Stan Marsh. Good shit right there.

Also, anything that causes significant blood loss! A deep wound, etc. That can lead to so much potential, and the imagery is kickass. The injury itself, the trail of blood left behind, their collapse when they’ve lost more than their body can take, having to be stitched up, slowly regaining strength, just YES.

Like I said, I write what I write because I love the recovery process. I love the caretaking. I will put characters through HELL because I know I’m going to be writing the caretaking. One of my biggest disappointments when I’m reading is when a character gets hurt and there’s just a jump to them being better. Like dude c’mon show me the HEALING. anyway, that’s what I got. Whumpshot Wizard out (to terrorize the SP boys in my wip) ✌🏻

[writ-by-britt]

Old Wounds: Part 1

Masterlist

AO3

Summary: Gwyneth was Velaris University's star swimmer. . . emphasis on was. After a nasty rotator cuff injury, she's been ordered to take the rest of the season off and attend weekly physical therapy sessions, which is less than ideal considering her whole college education is funded by an athletic scholarship. It isn't all bad though. She has PT at the same time as a very intimidatingly attractive soccer player, and much to Gwyn's surprise, they've got quite a bit in common. But between work, school, her physical therapy, and continuing to support the swim team, Gwyn has no time to be crushing on anyone. Not to mention said hot soccer player is part of a rival friend group and he doesn't seem remotely interested in Gwyn at all. What's a girl to do.

~*~

Thanks so much for being here! This is my first ever fic for ACOTAR and I'm super excited to be participating in fandom for once. A bit of set-up with this first chapter but this might end up being a bit of a slow burn.

Future updates are currently scheduled for Tuesdays at 12:00pm CST here and on AO3.

I hope you enjoy!

"Take your mark."

Gwyneth Berdara exhaled the breath in her lungs. Her body bent over the podium, her feet tensed, ready to propel her forward.

Bzzzzt!

She inhaled as she pushed off.

Gwyn barely felt the water as it enveloped her, her form knifing through. She broke the surface, taking a deep but quick breath before submerging her head once again. It was only a few seconds before she saw the approaching wall. She tucked her chin towards her chest, her feet sailing over head before coming into contact with the concrete wall of the pool.

And then she was flying again.

At least that's what it felt like when Gwyn swam; like she was soaring, completely unencumbered by gravity as she flew through the water; like she was weightless.

But, Gwyn was competing right now, and as much as she loved taking her time and gliding through the water, she also loved winning. Her head broke the surface again, her arms reaching forward to pull her towards victory. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted splashing to her left, the swimmer from Adriata University must be only milliseconds behind her.

Gwyn tucked again, turning in the water, and pushed as hard as she could to propel herself for another lap, her arms and legs beginning to burn with the effort. It was a good burn, the kind of burn that told Gwyn she was pushing her body to its very limits, reaching beyond what she should be capable of, pushing herself towards a win.

"Come on Gwynnie, try to catch me," whispered a familiar voice in her head, and so Gwyn pushed on and pushed harder.

There were two laps left and she could feel her body begging her to stop, to rest, but she plowed through every mental block, focused only on how she could eek every last bit of speed and strength out of her muscles.

Then the pain hit.

It was a sudden and shooting pain that went screaming through her left shoulder as she tried to bring it over her head. Her arm hit the water with a dull thud, as though it had been sapped of all its strength.

The swimmer from Adriata in the lane next to her moved ahead, so Gwyn pushed on. She threw as much power as she could muster into every single stroke of her right arm and tried to get her left arm to cooperate as much as possible, but every little movement sent a new wave of pain coursing through her shoulder.

With each passing moment, she felt the other swimmers pass her as her momentum slowed to a crawl. Finally, what felt like a lifetime later, her right hand touched the concrete of the pool wall and the race was over.

Gwyn didn't even want to turn and look at the scoreboard or acknowledge the comically large number that no doubt followed her name. Her arm was hot and aching but the agony was being overtaken by an anger that was slowly consuming her. She wanted to scream and cry. She wanted to hit something; the water perhaps or one of the swimmers in the adjacent lanes.

Instead, she swallowed hard, bit back the emotions threatening to boil over, and turned to face the results. Just as she suspected, the scoreboard indicated a horrifically large number in bright red letters next to her name. It wasn't quite as bad as she thought, even with her injured arm she somehow managed fifth place, not podium-worthy but at least she wasn't dead last. The swimmer from Adriata had overtaken her and gotten first. In the name of good sportsmanship, Gwyn turned to the swimmer now beaming with pride. She swam up to their lane dividers and shook hands. She did the same with the swimmer to her right who had taken second.

She heard hurried footsteps approaching the edge of the pool and looked up to see the concerned faces of Velaris Valkyries Swim Team captain and co-captain; Nesta Archeron and Emerie Windhaven.

Nesta crouched down and asked quietly, "Is it your rotator cuff?"

"I think so."

Nesta extended an arm. "Let's get you out of there."

Gwyn took Nesta's arm with her good one, letting the left one dangle uselessly at her side. She planted her feet on the edge of the pool to gain some leverage and used Nesta to haul herself out of the water.

Once on solid ground Emerie threw a towel around her shoulders and gave her back a reassuring rub. "Come on, medics are waiting for you."

Nesta joined Emerie in ushering Gwyn away from the poolside, and she was glad for the excuse to leave. The thought of standing there and listening to the other swimmers receive their medals made her stomach churn.

~*~

Gwyn's check-in with the medic at the meet did not go as she had hoped, but the way her shoulder screamed at her every time she moved hadn't given her much to hope for in the first place. Nonetheless, the look on the medic's face as she examined Gwyn's shoulder and the recommendation that she see their University's sports medicine doctor as soon as possible hit her in the stomach like a ton of bricks.

Worries began to float around her like a tempest, a barrage of "what ifs."

She stayed quiet through the rest of the swim meet and for the entirety of the drive back to Velaris's campus. Nesta and Emerie didn't leave her side if they could help it, and while she didn't feel like talking, she appreciated their presence.

Once back on campus the three of them trekked across the dark and quiet quad to Gwyn and Emerie's dorm room. Upon entering the dorm Gwyn fell face-first into the futon she and Emerie had shoved under Gwyn's lofted bed.

Gwyn felt the futon shift as someone sat next to her, their gentle hands moving her feet aside. "Oh Gwynnie," Emerie sighed.

Across the room, Nesta turned on the lights. "Alright, I'm ordering pizza," she declared. "Gwyn, what kind do you want?"

With Gwyn's face buried in the pillows, her reply came out muffled. "I'm not hungry."

"You are too."

Still face down, Gwyn shook her head.

"Gwyneth Berdara, I've seen you devour whole pizzas after meets."

Gwyn turned on her side to face Nesta. "I don't feel like eating anything right now."

"Your stomach may not want to eat, but trust me, your soul does. And nothing heals a soul wound like pizza. You want veggie?"

Gwyn sighed, then admitted her defeat, "Yeah."

"Veggie it is. Em, meat lovers?"

"Gods, yes please. I'm starving. Don't worry Gwynnie if you can't eat your pizza, I will."

Gwyn cracked a small smile. If she couldn't swim, at least she had her friends.

When Nesta had finished placing their order, she walked over to the couch and crouched in front of Gwyn, bringing them eye level with each other.

"How you holding up Berdara? How does your shoulder feel?"

"My shoulder's fine." That wasn't entirely true, her shoulder hurt like a motherfucker, although it wasn't quite as bad as when she was trying to swim with it.

"Mhm. And what about you, how do you feel?"

Gwyn really couldn't answer that. She felt a lot of things; frustrated, angry, disappointed, sad, guilty. She couldn't get herself to verbalize any of the emotions swirling around in her brain or the millions of questions that had followed her home, so she just gave Nesta a half-shrug with her good shoulder.

"Do you wanna skip class tomorrow? We can play hooky, have a late breakfast. I'll walk you to your doctor's appointment."

"I can't, I have Professor Merrill's class tomorrow, she'll kill me if I skip." Honestly, Gwyn could use the distraction. Professor Merrill's classes were always tedious and having a class that required her full, undivided attention meant that Gwyn had at least two hours where she didn't have to think about what the campus doctor was going to say about her shoulder. She felt her whole college career hanging in the balance. She was both dreading that appointment and insanely anxious for its arrival.

"What about after the appointment?"

"I've got a shift at The Pegasus that afternoon."

"We'll come keep you company," Emerie chimed in.

"You can tell us all about what the Doctor said and we can come up with a game plan."

Gwyn smiled at that. Nesta was Captain of the Valkyries for a reason. She could always be counted on to come up with a plan, a battle strategy. Even when Gwyn felt like she was floundering, she could always rely on Nesta to figure something out.

Emerie pulled up one of their favorite rom coms and Nesta jogged down to the dorm lobby to retrieve their food. After a bit of coaxing from the others, Gwyn took a large bite of the extra cheesy veggie pizza warming her lap. She wasn't sure that Nesta was right about the pizza healing her soul, but she realized just how hungry she was when hot, delicious cheese hit her tongue. She spent the rest of the movie devouring her slices and bantering with Emerie and Nesta. Usually, they'd spend the evening after a competition doing all the shit-talking they were too professional to do during the meet, but tonight Emerie and Nesta steered the conversation around the movie playing in front of them. Gwyn was happy to play along and forget the whole day for a bit, forget that her whole world was hanging in the balance, hinging on the well-being of her damn left shoulder. But when Nesta left for her own room, and she and Emerie crawled into their beds, the thoughts began to swarm her again. Gwyn lay on her back, staring at the little glow-in-the-dark stars she and Emerie had stuck all over their ceiling. Tracing the shapes and lines of the constellations they'd so carefully arranged wasn't enough of a distraction from the symphony of worry threatening to drown every other thought out as the "what ifs," flooded back in.

"What if my shoulder doesn't heal in time for next season?"

"What if I can't continue to compete?"

"What if I lose my athletic scholarship?'

"What if Nesta, Emerie, and I stop hanging out because I'm not on the team?"

"What if my shoulder never recovers?"

"What if. . ."

"What if. . . "

"What if. . . "

"What if I never swim again?"

That last thought broke through the symphony, like the loud tolling of a death knell. A knot of fear tightened in her stomach, hard as stone.

A memory floated through the anxiety and breaking through the surface was a six-year-old Gwyn and her twin sister, Catrin. They were fraternal, not identical, and most people could never tell they were twins anyway, especially not when they appeared so different. Catrin was all stoic seriousness, her short-cropped brown hair did nothing to hide the sharp angles of her face or the near-constant frown she wore. Gwyn on the other hand was all laughter and giggles, her wild coppery hair hung long, often trailing behind her like a banner as she ran wild. Most people assumed Catrin was older the way she took care of them. Technically, they weren't wrong. Catrin had preceded Gwyn's birth by mere minutes. And the way Catrin mothered them when their own mother was too absent or inattentive to do it herself, she could see why people thought that.

This particular memory found Gwyn bolting out of the house the second their mother had opened the back door. It wasn't the first time they had been allowed to swim in the river behind their house, but it was the earliest memory Gwyn had of it.

"Gwyn, wait!" Catrin called after her.

Gwyn's laughter peeled through the air as she tore through the grass in the backyard. She barely slowed down as the river bank approached and when she entered the water her feet made loud plunking noises that echoed off the trees surrounding her. Catrin appeared a few moments later, stepping carefully through a break in the foliage.

"You're going to twist an ankle," Catrin commented.

"Just come in already!" Gwyn shouted back.

Catrin grinned, any trace of seriousness gone from her face, which often happened when it was just the two of them. Her smile widened as she waded into the river to join her sister.

The rest of that day had been filled with races up and down the river and pretending to be mermaids with magic powers. Gwyn always made herself a siren. She would sun herself on a large boulder that broke the river's surface and sing all of her favorite songs. In her fantasies she was powerful enough to lure twin princes to her and her sister's domain, they would be handsome and rich and immediately fall in love with the girls. Then, their princes would take them back to their kingdom, make them princesses, and Gwyn would never have to see the house that was hidden just beyond the tree line again.

That's how most of their days were spent, especially during the hot, humid summers when there was little else to do. While Gwyn was an excellent swimmer, some might say the best on the Valkyries, Catrin had always been just a little bit stronger, braver, always a little bit faster. It never bothered Gwyn though, it felt right. She followed Catrin doing laps in the river just as she had followed her out of the womb. Gwyn would have followed her sister anywhere, but in high school, Catrin had left, and Gwyn couldn't follow. Swimming was one of the few things that made Gwyn feel truly connected to her sister anymore. When Gwyn swam, she felt her sister's spirit beside her, soaring through the water, always just out of Gwyn's reach. She suspected that was the reason she was the fastest swimmer on The Valkyries, she was still trying to catch Catrin. Maybe if she swam fast enough, caught up to her, Catrin would stay this time. If Gwyn couldn't swim anymore she worried she'd lose that connection to her sister. Five years after Catrin's death and there were already bits and pieces she was starting to forget; her sister's distinct smell and the reassuring feeling of Catrin's hand in hers. If she couldn't do the one thing that kept her sister's memory alive, Gwyn worried she'd begin to lose more; the sound of Catrin's laugh or the shape of her face. She worried that even her memories of Catrin would begin to fade. Gwyn didn't want to stop swimming, and she didn't want to forget her twin.

Fears, worries, and more memories continued to plague Gwyn through the night, robbing her of sleep. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion dragged her under into blissful, dreamless unconsciousness.

~*~

Gwyn hated the way the stupid, thin paper felt scratchy against her bare legs. Every shift of her body against the examining table made an irritating crinkling noise, but even such a grating sound wasn't enough for her to stop the nervous bounce of her foot. She'd spent the last half an hour letting the head of sports medicine poke and prod at her aching shoulder and hoping she wasn't going to up-chuck the minimal breakfast she'd been able to choke down before class.

She'd managed to stave off most of the "what-ifs" this morning mainly thanks to Professor Merrill who was extremely unhappy with the research assignments everyone had turned in last week. Most of their class time was spent on a lecture entailing the proper procedures for MLA formatting and citations. She later learned from her classmates that the inciting incident for this lecture was one student who had accidentally listed an author with a last name starting with "Ap" after an author whose last name started with "At."

As refreshing a break as Professor Merrill's anger was, the gut-turning anxiety that kept her up all last night returned full force as soon as she stepped out of the classroom.

"Alright Gwyneth, I have good news and I have bad news." The doctor was furiously typing something into the computer in front of him as he spoke, his back to Gwyn. She wanted him to turn around, so she could try and read her fate on his face.

Instead, she settled for a rather shaky reply, "O-okay."

He turned around with a small smile on his face, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Let's start with the bad news. I can't let you compete for the rest of the season." Gwyn felt her heart drop into her stomach. "The good news," he continued, "Is that the tear is fairly small, and with enough rest, ice, and a diligent physical therapy regimen, you should be clear to return to competition next season." Gwyn felt her whole body relax, if she hadn't been sitting already, she was pretty sure that her legs would have given out from under her. She would swim again. She would compete again. Her life as she knew it wasn't over. The situation wasn't ideal, (ideally, Gwyn wouldn't have fucked up her shoulder in the first place) but compared to the doom and gloom scenarios her brain had been running through the past few days, this prognosis was manageable.

The appointment ended with the doctor running through a list of things Gwyn couldn't do so she didn't injure her shoulder further, a few things she should do to help with the healing, and a prescription for meds to help keep swelling and pain down. Finally, there was the business card for the school's physical therapist and the caveat that she should contact them and make an appointment as soon as possible.

When Gwyn walked out of the appointment, she by no means felt light or happy, but her brain felt quiet. And that was more than enough for her.

~*~

Right after her appointment, Gwyn had a shift at The Pegasus, the University's combo cafe and bookstore. Gwyn worked the bookstore part of the cafe, which usually meant hanging out behind the counter and waiting for students to decide to buy one of the overpriced textbooks that filled the majority of the shelves.

Today was slow. Slower than slow. Every student that walked through the doors beelined for the cafe and promptly left once they got their order. Normally, Gwyn loved it when the store was slow. She would browse the book selections, trying to find something she hadn't read yet, or she'd use the computer behind the counter to work on homework, usually for Professor Merrill's class. Today, all Gwyn could think about was getting to work on healing her shoulder. That wasn't something she could actively do until her first physical therapy appointment tomorrow, which she'd set up the second she left the doctor's office.

She instead passed the time reading and re-reading the shoulder care instructions the doctor had given her. When Nesta and Emerie walked in twenty minutes later she had the instructions committed to memory.

"So, what's the news?" Nesta asked, leaning forward on the counter.

"I'm out for the rest of the season, but with rest and PT I should be back next year."

"That's not so bad," Emerie chimed in.

"No, definitely not as bad as it could have been. I am bummed I won't be able to finish the season though."

"You're still gonna come to all the competitions, right?"

"You think Coach'll let me?"

"Of course she will! And if she doesn't, well we are her Captain and Co-Captain, I'm sure we could wear her down."

"Thanks guys."

Emerie slipped around the corner and pulled Gwyn into a side hug. "Of course Gwynnie, it's not the team without you."

"Okay, now that we know Gwyn's career isn't dead in the water. No pun intended." Nesta began. "I was thinking that we need a little girls' time this weekend, and I mean a full-on weekend. Dinner, dancing, drinks."

"Here, here!" Emerie agreed.

"I don't know," Gwyn pondered. "I'm starting physical therapy tomorrow and I just. . . I don't know if I'll be in the mood."

"Fair enough, but we have spent the past four weekends in track pants, swim caps, and bathing suits. I think, at the very least, we owe it to ourselves to get pampered and get at least one drink. If we aren't feeling it, we can leave after that."

Gwyn chewed her lip, pondering the proposition. Going out was already a bit of a chore for Gwyn who was a self-styled homebody. With all the stress of the last twenty-four hours, she couldn't imagine mustering the energy for a night out anytime soon.

"I think it'll be a lot of fun and I think we could use it, you especially," said Emerie.

It was only Monday. It was entirely feasible that she'd have more energy by Friday. How could she say no when her friends were looking at her so expectantly? And Nesta was right. They had all been working so hard the past month. Gwyn's injury shouldn't keep her friends from enjoying a weekend of freedom, so she caved. "Okay, but just one drink."

"Yes!" Emerie fist-punched the air.

At that moment the chime on the bookshop door chimed and all three Valkyries looked up to see who was walking in.

Nesta groaned.

Striding through the doors of The Pegasus like they owned the place was The Bat Pack, a group of primarily soccer players from the University of Illyria at Velaris. Their team captain, Rhysand, was the one currently leading their little group through the door. Rhys's prowess on the soccer field and unquestionable good looks made him a semi-celebrity around campus. Girls had been throwing themselves at him since his freshman year and up until very recently he had graciously accepted their offers. The reason he had abandoned his playboy ways was currently hanging on his arm and giggling. Her name was Feyre Archeron and she was Nesta's little sister.

Gwyn knew that it bothered Nesta that her sister was dating Rhys. For what reason, Gwyn wasn't sure. There was kind of an age gap with Rhys being a Junior and Feyre being a Freshman, but Gwyn didn't think Nesta's displeasure stemmed from any sort of sisterly protectiveness. Their relationship wasn't very. . . affectionate. Watching Nesta and Feyre interact was like watching two coworkers attempt polite small talk at the water cooler. Their middle sister, Elain, was often the buffer between them. Elain, however, was studying abroad in Montesere this year leaving the other two Archerons, and all of their friends, to deal with the awkwardness themselves. Gwyn speculated that the animosity may have stemmed from some type of sisterly jealousy, but she couldn't be sure, and she definitely wasn't qualified to psychoanalyze Nesta, or any of the Archerons for that matter. They were their own special breed of traumatized.

The rest of The Bat Pack weren't much better. Mor was Rhysand's cousin and probably one of the most stunning women Gwyn had ever seen. Tall and leggy with golden blonde hair, she strutted around campus with the same sort of easy arrogance that Rhys had; as though the world belonged to them and them alone. Their attitude must have run in the family. Mor didn't appear to be with them at the moment and neither was her best friend, Amren, an intimidating linguistics major with an indifferent glare that could give Professor Merrill's stern looks a run for their money.

The other two men that made up Rhys's little group, both soccer players, were currently flanking him and Feyre. The largest and most obvious was the team's co-captain, Cassian. Tall and muscular, he cut an imposing figure against the small door frame of the bookstore. On the soccer field, he could be downright terrifying, but right now with a wide smile plastered across his face and a booming laugh emitting from his chest, he seemed as scary as a puppy. Gwyn was pretty sure his presence annoyed Nesta even more than Rhys or Feyre. Cassian was flirty and he particularly loved flirting with Nesta. She wouldn't tolerate any of it which only seemed to egg Cassian on more. Gwyn and Emerie had a pool going on when the two of them were going to hook up. Emerie's money was on the end of this semester. Gwyn thought Nesta's stubbornness would hold out until at least the end of their Senior year.

The final member of their little posse was easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. Azriel was much quieter than the rest of the group and he didn't seem to possess the same arrogance or boisterous nature as his compatriots. Sometimes, Gwyn would catch him looking detached from it all, as though he were just observing his friends. Gwyn herself had observed him on a number of occasions. Freshman year they'd had an English class together. He was usually quiet but when he had something to say it was always thoughtful and intelligent. Gwyn had always admired that about him. Her nervous freshman self always seemed to stutter and stumble her way through her answers, no matter how confident in them she was. A few times she wondered if the stuttering was sometimes caused by Azriel. He was just as handsome as the others—warm hazel eyes, dark hair, and a brooding presence that Gwyn found magnetic. Of course, any attraction to him fizzled out the second she remembered who his friends were.

It wasn't that The Valkyries hated The Bat Pack by any means, it was just that they always seemed to be wherever The Valkyries were. Their volume was never respectable and interrupted whatever The Valkyries were trying to concentrate on, and Feyre and Rhys' presence always soured Nesta's mood. Really, they were just a nuisance.

Today, The Bat Pack's laughter came to a crashing halt when they realized they were being glared at by the three Valkyries.

Feyre was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. She smiled cordially and then acknowledged her sister. "Nesta."

Nesta didn't return the smile. "Feyre."

"We're just going to be over here." Feyre gestured towards a small grouping of sofas and cushy armchairs tucked between a few bookshelves.

"Okay."

The Bat Pack began moving towards the seats, a small laugh broke out from one of the group, Gwyn was pretty sure it was Cassian. Nesta rolled her eyes and the Valkyries went back to their conversation.

"So, as we were saying," Emerie started. "Drinks at Rita's on Friday after classes?"

"Why Rita's?" Nesta practically whined the question. "That's where they hang out." She jerked her head sharply at the group whose volume had returned to its usual annoying level.

"Exactly. They infringe on our sanctum all the time, we should return the favor."

"Oh, that's petty. I like that." Nesta purred.

"I thought you might." Emerie grinned. "Gwynnie? Thoughts?"

Gwyn pondered for a moment before she broke out in a smile. "I'm always down to be petty."

[thenationaltreasuregazette]

I think there's also the possibility of invisible injuries for the trio. Ben and Riley could have ear damage from being inside The Charlotte when it exploded, though we don't see it.

Hi @emmi-kat,

Thanks so much for your ask!

I agree, there’s definitely the possibility of invisible injuries, and I didn’t start my running tally until after they return to D.C., which left out some good possibilities.

I love the idea of ear damage from the Charlotte explosion. I mean I don’t love it, but I love the idea of subjecting the characters to it and watching the fallout. You know what I mean.

Ears

I like the idea that Ben especially is so fixated on the treasure that he doesn’t notice until after it’s found. For the week-ish between finding the Charlotte and finding the treasure he’s in his own little world where everything other than the hunt is just noise.

Another favorite of mine, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, used this device really well. Throughout season 2 we’re shown occasional moments from main character Gil Grissom’s perspective where the audio is muted/“underwater”/out of focus. It’s left for the viewer to decide if this represents Grissom being lost in his thoughts or something more, until the end of the season when we learn he’s facing hereditary hearing loss. I imagine a similar reveal with Ben.

Maybe he keeps asking Riley to turn the volume on his earpiece up, but chocks it up to the adrenaline and the fact that he can hear his heartbeat in his teeth during the heist.

Maybe he’s losing what Abigail says whenever she turns away during the car ride to Philadelphia, but he figures she’s trying not to wake Riley.

Maybe with every part of his body and mind buzzing with the possibility of finding the treasure, he doesn’t even notice that his ears are ringing.

Concussions, emotional trauma, and more below!

It’s only after the high of finding the treasure finally subsides that Ben realizes the ringing hasn’t gone away. Once he’s back in his usual environment he’d have a better metric for whether the TV or stereo is set to a louder volume, or that the doorbell and phone seem farther away.

Riley might have a similar experience, though I get the impression that Riley might be a bit less in tune with his senses to begin with. Whereas Ben has always noticed the faint crinkle of old paper or the drip of water in an old stone basement, most of Riley’s sensory input is digital anyway.

So they both need to have their hearing checked out, but Riley might feel less of an effect on his daily routine.

I also want to raise the possibility that Riley had a heavy metal phase? So maybe his hearing was shot already.

Respiratory

The boys could also be at risk for airway or lung damage due to the smoke from the explosion. Who knows what tar, pitch, lead, or other chemicals the ship contained, not to mention several tons of c. 1700s gunpowder.

Luckily they weren’t exposed for very long so hopefully the risk is minimal. Though if, say, Riley had asthma as a child, the exposure could trigger a reappearance of symptoms.

Infection

If Riley's splinter really has been "festering for three months" then he almost certainly has some kind of infection and needs antibiotics. It might even be an antibiotic resistant variety if it's lasting that long. Who knows what was growing on that wood.

Musculoskeletal

I’m becoming more invested in the idea that Abigail suffered a more significant shoulder injury that a simple bruise or strain. In fact, I think she’s a candidate for a torn rotator cuff.

This common shoulder injury can happen in two ways. It is most often caused by repetitive stress, such as typing, manual labor, etc. However, it can also happen suddenly as the result of an injury.

Acute causes include “falling on an outstretched arm or lifting something heavy.”

Check, check, and check.

If this were the case, Abigail might experience pain when lying down, lifting her arm up, or reaching behind her back, as well as weakness in her arm or a popping or clicking sound when trying to move it.

Based on our findings from the injuries article I think this would line up with what we see in the film, since we don’t see her attempting most of these movements after the stairs sequence. All she does is hold a torch, and both times she has it in her left hand, she quickly moves it to her right.

In the short term she’d need rest, ice, and pain relievers. Later she might need physical therapy.

She might even be a candidate for surgery. A tear resulting from a recent in jury is one of the few scenarios were surgery might be necessary. (The others being if the tear is particularly large or symptoms last for 6 to 12 months.)

This is less than stellar news for Abigail, but great news for us! These all seem like excellent ingredients for a Maximum Angst Scenario™, at least as far as fallout from the treasure hunt would go. Ben would never forgive himself for dragging her into something that got her that significantly injured, and he’d had plenty of unavoidable reminders as Abigail went through the process of recovery.

We know from the film that they’re dating and Abigail’s arm is fine three months after the hunt, but my personal headcanon is that it was not a straight line to get there.

Head

A concussion can result from “a bump, blow, or jolt to the head or body.” While we don’t see any of Team Treasure get hit directly in the head (such as being thrown against a wall, etc) it’d be hard to argue that all of them don’t qualify for a bump or jolt to the head or body.

That’s something I imagine the paramedics who examine them after the hunt are checking for. If any of the gang did suffer a concussion, paramedics (or FBI agents accompanying them) might notice that they appear dazed or stunned, forget instructions, or are slow to answer questions. The treasure hunter in question might also report a headache, nausea or vomiting, balance problems, dizziness, blurred vision, feeling sluggish, groggy, or confused, being bothered by light or noise, or just “not feeling right.”

These symptoms may also not appear until hours or days after the concussion. In any case, they’d be looking at several weeks of recovery mostly consisting of rest and limiting physical and mental activity. Again, fruitful space to play.

✨Trauma✨

Lastly, if we’re talking about invisible injuries, I think it’s fair to ask if Team Treasure racked up any emotional trauma in the course of the quest.

According to the Jed Foundation, trauma is “end result of events or experiences that leave us feeling deeply unsafe and often helpless. It can result from a single event or be part of an ongoing experience.”

It is perfectly believable to argue that everybody involved had a fun, exciting treasure hunt and—other than a few scrapes and bruises—came away with only fulfillment of life missions, renewed family bonds, new significant others, and validation in the eyes of the historical community. (Oh, and 100 million dollars.)

But. If you did want to take things in a darker direction, could you? Of course! The gang’s collectively

been shot at

been kidnapped

hung from a speeding vehicle

almost been run over

been arrested

jumped off an aircraft carrier

nearly fallen into and endless pit

been left for dead five stories underground

I think anyone so inclined could easily make the argument that any or all of them experience lasting psychological effects. I’m no psychologist, so have some lists!

Emotional/behavioral responses include:

Shock, denial, or disbelief

Confusion, difficulty concentrating

Anger, irritability, mood swings

Anxiety and fear

Guilt, shame, self-blame

Withdrawing from others

Feeling sad or hopeless

Feeling disconnected or numb

Physical symptoms include:

Insomnia or nightmares

Fatigue

Being startled easily

Difficulty concentrating

Racing heartbeat

Edginess and agitation

Aches and pains

Muscle tension

According to helpguide.org, “Trauma symptoms typically last from a few days to a few months, gradually fading as you process the unsettling event.”

So.

Maybe Abigail’s coworkers notice that she’s jumpy and easily startled in the weeks after the hunt. She can’t concentrate. Ben worries that she’s ignoring him, but she’s actually been pulling away from everyone in her life.

Maybe Riley can’t sleep, and when he does it’s all endless pits and falling rock and enemies blending into a crowd. When he’s awake his heart races and he’s flooded with anxiety about where the floor will fall out from under his life next.

Maybe Ben feels angry and empty and he doesn’t know why. He did it—he found the Templar treasure; he fulfilled all those years of hopes and promises. He should be happy. He should be ecstatic. But he isn't. He’s afraid to tell anyone that all he feels is numb.

Conclusion

Okay, I have made myself sad! Thought experiment: successful.

This topic pushed me to think more about the aftermath, and about what effects would linger with them long after the treasure hunt and the film was over. I love these angles that invite me to see the humanity behind the story.

What trauma do you think the gang might have experienced? What other invisible injuries did I miss?

Let me know!

Thanks for your suggestion! Feel free to send another any time!

[abubblingcandle]

Personal life bitch so putting it under the cut

I adore playing flag football. It's the perfect sport for me. It's quick bursts of pace not endurance, it's cerebral and being athletic helps but you can make up for not being athletic with strategy, it's also relatively unknown so I can legitimately say I play for the 4th best team in the country and have tried out to represent my country. It keeps me fit, it gives me friends I actually see in real life. This is my 6th year playing women's, and I am on a break from playing in the mixed 2nd tier.

However I am now 80% sure the women's captain is fatphobic (the 20% doubt might just be that she hates me personally as I am the only overweight person on the team). She refuses to play me consistently and will not (or can not) justify why not and if there was another nearby women's team I would quit.

Evidence:

She won't play me in the position I like playing even if there is literally no one else - For those of you who know American Football, for three years I played QB. The starting QB on this team is better than me I will freely admit that. But even when the usual starter isn't there it's like I'm not in contention. And her excuse was "you perform better without stress and I thought QB stressed you out". I wouldn't have kept asking to play it if it stressed me out. The reason why she thought it stressed me out was because I had a panic attack at a game day because one of my own players shouted at me that I was shit and I would cost the team games if I was that shit, during a warm up when I had not thrown a football in 8 months and I slightly over threw her 🤷 Today starting QB, back up QB, rookie QB all not at training. Coach asked who wanted to throw, I said me. I threw in the drills. Game time - she picked someone who didn't want to play QB with a fucking rotator cuff injury over me, citing that she needed me to get some practice at receiver. I then played 15 plays at most (12 or so minutes out of 1hr playing). Last game day the only QB went down injured m, I lept in saying I'll do it! Gave the ball to someone who hadn't played the position before.

When I ask why she isn't playing me she gives bullshit excuses - "you need to practice at that position" I've been playing it for a year, "you haven't been at training" I've been at training more than you have even though it takes me an hour and a bit to get there over it taking her 5 minutes, "be confident and understand all positions" I have played all positions in competitive matches and am a qualified coach, "it's a tactical decision" so what's the point of me being here then

She can't ever come up with anything I can do to improve - every time I ask for advice to improve the response is either "you did well" or "don't worry about it". Which makes me think she can't see a way for me to be better or she doesn't want to say lose weight and get faster because she knows that is a shit thing. Like if you think I'm a weak link and the only thing I can do is be faster then fucking tell me and I'll fuck off

The problem is that she is a coach and is the long term partner of the head coach. So I can't bitch to him about it.

I really don't want to quit but I think if it's the same this season (likely going to be worse as we have more players) then this might be my last season as a flag player which breaks my heart

EDIT - Can't believe I forgot about this. We're installing a new defence and this was my first play in that defence. Fact that you need for this to make sense we have a player called Laura and a player called Lauren, it'll be relevant later. I asked for clarification on what I should do and she said "stay in the middle and get in the way", sure I can do that. That is actually my fave place to be on defence. Play starts, Lauren cuts and runs into the middle. I drop back to get in the throwing lane and get in the way of Lauren. As I do that Person Who Hates Me shouts "cover Laura" who was going late out wide. I had already committed to Lauren and was so confused as I couldn't tell if she said Laura or Lauren and so stuck with Lauren in the middle. Ball went to someone who was open deep. Soon as the play is over she comes over and shouts "in that sort of play you should have stayed and then gone wide with Laura". My response, "ok, my bad next time I'll go with the runner across late". Another player comes in to debrief about why the player that caught was open and Person Who Hates Me just kept repeating, "I should have been on her but I had to go with Laura because Candle was in the wrong place!" over and over and it made me feel so shit. Like I acknowledged that at my first time of doing something I did the wrong thing (despite it being clearly the right option based on what I was told to do) so there's no need to be such a bitch about it

Ok I'm done now